Classic Poem

If from the circus thou couldst once refrain
Who would not rather choose the verdant plain?
Fix his retreat where Liris gently flows
And seek in Latium elegant repose?
There couldst thou purchase (and not rent as here
At greater price a dungeon by the year)
Some decent villa, where the bubbling stream
Refreshes plants and soothes the poet's dream;
There might'st thou live, despising useless wealth,
Blest with contentment, innocence and health,
Thy little garden plant with nicest care,
And treat thy numerous friends with rustic fare.
Such in all ranks is human nature known,
We long for something that we call our own.
Here must the sick expire for want of rest,
Whose bloated stomachs heave with food opprest.
For who in lodgings e'er expects to sleep?
The rich alone can a safe distance keep.
Here Death his quiver fills. What crowds we meet!
Chariots and horsemen throng each narrow street;
The clamorous coachman, cursing dull delay,
Would Drusus wake, or rouse sea-calves to play.
Should business call the wealthy — at their ease,
Seated aloft, they travel as they please;
Can read or write, or if they need repose,
Soft slumbers court them when the curtains close.
Still they proceed; but should we press too near,
Dangers assault us both in front and rear.
One saucy fellow elbows us aside;
The chairman's pole with vigour is applied;
Here rafters bruise the head, and there a sot
Drives all before him, brandishing his pot:
Plastered with mud, and squeezed to death,
With bleeding heels, we pant and gasp for breath.