Chapter 6 QUINTUS HORATIUS FLACCUS

Horace well sustains the character of preacher whose function it has already been said that satire performs. He found in his world the same frail human nature which had aroused the righteous scorn of Lucilius, and had led him to those bitter attacks upon the follies of his time for which his satire was justly dreaded. But Horace is cast in a different mold from Lucilius. While he sees just as clearly the shortcomings of society, he has a realizing sense that he himself is a part of that same society, guilty of the same sins, subject to the same criticism.

This consciousness of common frailty leads to moderation on the part of the preacher. He manifests a kindly sense of human brotherhood for better or for worse, which forms one of his most charming characteristics, and differentiates him from his great predecessor as well as from those who followed in the field of satire. It is true that Horace is sufficiently strenuous and severe in his polemics against the prevalent frailties of society as he saw them; but he has a habit of taking his hearers into his confidence at the end of his lecture, and reassuring them by some whimsical jest or the information that the sermon was meant as much for himself as for them. He had no idea of reforming society from the outside as from a separate world; but he proceeded upon the principle that, as real reformation and progress must be the result of reformed internal conditions, so the reformer himself must be a sympathetic part of his world.

It was in a homely and wholesome school that our poet learned his moral philosophy. In a glowing tribute of filial affection for his father, he tells us how that worthy man, who was himself only a freedman-a humble collector of debts by trade, or possibly a fishmonger, away down in his provincial home in Apulia-decided that his son should have a better chance in life than had fallen to his own lot. The local school in the boy's native village of Venusia, where the big-boned sons of retired centurions gained their meager education, was not good enough for our young man. He must to Rome and afterward to Athens, and have all the chances which were open to the sons of the noblest families of the land. And so we have the pleasing picture of the sensible old father, not sending but taking his boy to Rome, where he was the young student's constant companion, his "guide, philosopher, and friend," attending him in all his ways, both in school and out.

Horace tells us how this practical old father taught him to avoid the vices of the day. No fine-spun, theoretical philosophy for him; but practical illustration drove every lesson home. The poet dwells with pleasure upon this element in his education.

That Horace was a worthy son of a worthy father is proved in many ways, but in none more clearly than when, in after years, as a welcome member of the most exclusive social set in Rome, he affectionately recalls his father's training, and tells his high-born friends that, if he had the chance to choose his ancestry, he would not change one circumstance of his birth.

The practice of personal observations of the life around him, which he learned from his father, the poet carried with him through life, and is the explanation of the intensely practical and realistic character of his satire. See him as he comes home at night and sits alone recalling the varied happenings of the day. These are some of the thoughts, as he himself tells us, which come to him at such times, and find half-unconscious audible expression:

Now that's the better course.-I should live better if I acted along that line.-So-and-so didn't do the right thing that time.-I wonder if I shall ever be foolish enough to do the like.

It is after such meditations as these that he takes up his tablets and outlines his satires. We are reminded in this of the practice of the great C?sar, who is said to have recalled, as he rested in his tent at night, the stirring events of each day, and to have noted these for his history.

This method of composition from practical observation explains many peculiarities of the style of Horace's satires. They are absolutely unpretentious, prevailingly conversational in tone, abounding in homely similes and colloquialisms, pithy anecdotes, familiar proverbs, and references to current people and events which make up the popular gossip of the day. He also has an embarrassing habit of suddenly turning his "thou-art-the-man" search-light upon us just when we are most enjoying his castigation of our neighbors. He employs burlesque and irony also among his assortment of satiric weapons. He is, above all, personal, rarely allowing the discourse to stray from the personality of himself and his audience.

The following outline of one of his "sermons" will afford a good illustration of his style and method of handling a discourse. Its subject is the sin and folly of discontent and greed for gain, a sin which he frequently denounces, not alone in his satires, but in his odes as well. This satire is addressed by way of compliment to his patron M?cenas, and is placed at the beginning of his two books of satires.

How strange it is that no one lives content with his lot, but must always be envying his neighbor! The soldier would be a merchant, the merchant a soldier; the lawyer would be a farmer, the farmer a lawyer. But these malcontents are not in earnest in this prayer for a change; should some god grant their petition, they would one and all refuse to accept the boon.

The excuse of those who toil early and late is, that when they have "made their pile" and have a modest competency for a peaceful old age, they will retire. They say that they seek gold only as a means to an end, and cite the example of the thrifty ant. But herein they show their insincerity; for, while the ant lives upon its hoarded wealth in winter, and stops its active life, the gain-getter never stops so long as there is more to be gotten.

"But," you say, "it is so delightful to have a whole river to drink from." Why so? You can't possibly drink it all, and besides, the river water is apt to be muddy. I prefer to drink from a clear little spring myself. And then, too, you are liable to be drowned in your attempt to drink from the river.

"But one must have money. A man's social standing depends upon his bank account." It's useless to argue with such a man. He can see nothing but the almighty dollar. If he did but know it, he is simply another Tantalus, surrounded by riches which he cannot, or, in his case, will not enjoy. And besides he does not really care for popular opinion as he professes to do. Poor wretch! he has all the care and none of the pleasures of his wealth. Heaven keep me poor in such possessions!

You say that money secures help in sickness? But such help! Your greed has alienated all who would naturally love and care for you; and you must not be surprised if you do not keep the love which you are doing nothing to preserve.

No, no! away with your greed; cease to think that lack of money is necessarily an evil; and beware lest your fate at last be miserably to lose your all by a violent death. No, I am not asking you to be a spendthrift. Only seek a proper mean between this and the miser's character.

But, to get back to the original proposition, no one is content with his lot, but is constantly trying to surpass his fellows. And so the jostling struggle for existence goes on, and rare indeed is it to find a man who leaves this life satisfied that he has had his share of its blessings.

With this conclusion another man would have been content. But Horace somehow feels that he has been a little hard upon his kind, and by way of softening down the seriousness of the lecture, and at the same time saving himself from the fault of verbosity, which he detests, he ends with a characteristic jibe at the wordy Stoic philosophers:

But enough of this. Lest you think that I have stolen the notes of the blear-eyed Crispinus, I'll say no more.

In another satire, Horace rebukes the fault of censoriousness. His text practically is: "Judge not that ye be not judged." With characteristic indirect approach to his subject, he begins with a tirade against one Tigellius, until we begin to be indignant with this censorious preacher; when suddenly he whips around to the other side, assumes the r?le of one of his hearers, and puts the question to himself: "Have you no faults of your own?" And then we see that he has only been playing a part, and giving us an objective illustration of how it sounds when the other man finds fault, thus exposing to themselves those who, habitually blind to their own faults, are quick to discover those of other men.

The dramatic element, which seems to have been inherent in satire from the beginning, is one of the most noticeable characteristics of style in the satires of Horace. Indeed, his favorite method of expression is the dialogue, carried on either between himself and some other person, real or imaginary, or between two characters of his creation, whom he introduces as best fitted to conduct the discussion of a theme.

The most dramatic of his satires is that in which he introduces the bore. In this, the poem consists solely of dialogue and descriptions of action which may be taken as stage direction. It therefore needs but slight change to give it perfect dramatic form. The problem of the episode is how to get rid of the bore and at the same time keep within the bounds of gentlemanly conduct. This famous satire is given below in full.

THE BORE: A DRAMATIC SATIRE IN ONE ACT

The persons of the drama: Horace; the Bore; Aristius Fuscus, a friend of Horace; an adversary of the Bore; Horace's slave-boy; a street mob.

Scene: The Sacred Way in Rome, extending on during the action into the Forum.

[Enter Horace, walking along the street in deep thought. To him enters Bore, who grasps his hand with great show of affection and slaps him familiarly on the shoulder.]

Bore. How are you, my dear old fellow? Horace [stiffly]. Fairly well, as times go. I trust all is well with you? [As the Bore follows him up, Horace attempts to forestall conversation, and to dismiss his companion with the question of formal leave:] There's nothing I can do for you is there? Bore. Yes, make my acquaintance. I am really worth knowing; I'm a scholar. Horace. Really? You will be more interesting to me on that account, I am sure. [He tries desperately to get rid of the Bore, goes faster, stops, whispers in the slave-boy's ear; while the sweat pours down his face, which he mops desperately. He exclaims aside:] O Bolanus, how I wish I had your hot temper! Bore [chatters empty nothings, praises the scenery, the buildings, etc. As Horace continues silent, he says:] You're terribly anxious to get rid of me; I've seen that all along. But it's no use, I'll stay by you, I'll follow you. Where are you going from here? Horace [trying to discourage him]. There's no need of your going out of your way. I'm going to visit a man-an entire stranger to you. He lies sick at his house away over beyond the Tiber, near C?sar's gardens. Bore. O, I have nothing else to do, and I'm a good walker. I'll just go along with you. [As Horace keeps on doggedly in sullen silence, he continues:] Unless I am much mistaken in myself, you will find me a more valuable friend than Viscus or Varius. There's no one can write more poetry in a given time than I, or dance more gracefully; and as for singing, Hermogenes himself would envy me. Horace [interrupting, tries to frighten him off by suggesting that the sick man whom he is going to visit may be suffering from some contagious disease]. Have you a mother or other relative dependent on you? Bore. No, I have no one at all. I've buried every one of them. Horace [aside]. Lucky dogs! Now I'm the only victim left. Finish me up; for a dreadful fate is dogging my steps, which an old Sabine fortune-teller once warned me of when I was a boy. She said: "No poisonous drug shall carry this boy off, nor deadly sword, nor wasting consumption, nor crippling gout; in the fulness of time some chatterbox will talk him to death. So then, if he be wise, when he shall come to man's estate, let him beware of all chatterboxes." [They have now come opposite the Temple of Vesta in the south end of the Forum, near which the courts of justice were held. The hour for opening court has arrived.] Bore [suddenly remembering that he has given bond to appear in a certain suit, and that if he fails to appear this suit will go against him by default]. Won't you kindly attend me here in court a little while? Horace. I can't help you any. Hang it, I'm too tired to stand around here; and I don't know anything about law, anyhow. Besides, I'm in a hurry to get-you know where. Bore. I'm in doubt what to do, whether to leave you or my case. Horace. Leave me, by all means. Bore [after a brief meditation]. No, I don't believe I will. [He takes the lead, and Horace helplessly follows. The Bore starts in on the subject which is uppermost in his mind.] How do you and M?cenas get on? He's a very exclusive and level-headed fellow, now, isn't he? No one has made a better use of his chances. You would have an excellent assistant in that quarter, one who could ably support you, if only you would introduce yours truly. Strike me dead, if you wouldn't show your heels to all competitors in no time. Horace. Why, we don't live there on any such basis as you seem to think. There is no circle in Rome more free from self-seeking on the part of its members, or more at variance with such a feeling. It makes no difference to me if another man is richer or more learned than I. Every man has his own place there. Bore. You don't really mean that? I can scarcely believe it. Horace. And yet such is the case. Bore. You only make me more eager to be admitted. Horace [with contemptuous sarcasm]. O, you have only to wish it: such is your excellence, you'll be sure to gain your point. To tell the truth, M?cenas is a soft-hearted fellow, and for this very reason guards the first approach to his friendship more carefully. Bore [taking Horace's suggestion in earnest]. O, I shall keep my eyes open. I'll bribe his servants. And if I don't get in to-day, I'll try again. I'll lie in wait for chances, I'll meet him on the street corners, and walk down town with him. You can't get anything in this life without working for it. [Enter Aristius Fuscus, an intimate friend of Horace. They meet and exchange greetings]. Horace [to Fuscus]. Hello! where do you come from? Fuscus. Where are you going? [Horace slyly plucks his friend's toga, pinches his arm, and tries by nods and winks to get Fuscus to rescue him from the Bore. But Fuscus pretends not to understand.] Horace [to Fuscus]. Didn't you say that you had something to say to me in private? Fuscus. Yes, but I'll tell you some other time. To-day is a Jewish festival. You wouldn't have me insult the Jews, would you? Horace. O, I have no such scruples myself. Fuscus. But I have. I'm just one of the plain people-not as strong-minded as you are. You really must excuse me; I'll tell you some other time. [Fuscus hurries away, with a wicked wink, leaving his friend in the lurch.] Horace [in a despairing aside]. O, to think that so dark a day as this should ever have dawned for me! [At this juncture the Bore's adversary at law comes running up.] The Adversary [to Bore, in a loud voice.] Where are you going, you bail-breaking rascal? [To Horace.] Will you come witness against him? [Horace gives him his ear to touch in token of his assent, and the Bore is hurried off to court, with loud expostulations on both sides, and with the inevitable jeering street crowd following after.] Horace [left alone]. Saved, by the grace of Apollo!

The fourth and tenth satires of the first book are of especial value to us, because they contain Horace's own estimate of his predecessor, Lucilius; answers to popular criticism against the spirit and form of satire; much general literary criticism; and many personal comments by the poet upon his own method and spirit as a satirist. Following is an abstract of the tenth:

Yes, Lucilius is rough-anybody will admit that. I also admit that he is to be praised for his great wit. But wit of itself does not constitute great poetry. There must also be polish, variety of style, sprightliness and versatility. This is what caused the success of the old Greek comedy. "But," you say, "Lucilius was so skilled in mingling Latin and Greek." That, I reply, neither requires any great skill, nor is it a thing to be desired. This last assertion is at once apparent if you take the discussion into other fields of literature than poetry. I myself have been warned by Quirinus not to attempt Greek verse.

I have looked over the literary field and found it occupied by men who could write better than I in each department-comedy, tragedy, epic, pastoral. Satire alone promised success to me; but still I do not profess to excel Lucilius. I freely leave the crown to him.

But for all that I cannot help seeing his faults which I mentioned in my former satire-his extreme verbosity and roughness. In criticizing him I take the same license which he himself used toward his predecessors, and which he would use now toward his own extant works were he alive to-day. He surely would be more careful, and take more pains with his work, if he were now among us.

And that is just the point. One must write and rewrite, and polish to the utmost, if he would produce anything worth reading. He must not be eager to rush into print and cater to the public taste. Let him be content with the applause of men of culture, and strive to win that; and let him leave popular favor to men who are themselves no better than the rabble whom they court.

Few Roman writers are more frankly autobiographical than Horace. His odes, epodes, satires, and epistles are full of his own personality and history. From various references in these poems, we learn that he was born in 65 B. C., in Venusia, a municipal town in Apulia; that his father was a freedman, a small farmer, and debt collector by trade; that he was educated in Rome under his father's personal care; that he finished his education in Athens, where he eagerly imbibed Greek philosophy and literature. But now the long storm of civil war, which had attended the rise of Julius C?sar and the struggle between that leader and Pompey for supremacy, and which had been temporarily allayed by the complete ascendency of C?sar, broke out afresh with renewed violence upon the assassination of the great dictator. The verse of Horace, especially in his odes, is full of the consciousness of this civil strife, and of deep and sincere regret for its consequence to the state.

The young student was just twenty-one years of age when the fall of C?sar startled the world. And when Brutus reached Athens on his way to Macedonia, and called upon the young Romans there to rally to the republic and liberty, the ardent heart of the youthful Horace responded to the summons. He joined the ill-fated army of the liberators, was made a military tribune, and served as such until the disastrous day of Philippi, when Horace's military and political ambition left him forever, together with all hope which he may have cherished of the lost cause. He made his way back to Rome under shelter of the amnesty which the merciful conqueror had granted, and there found himself in an unfortunate plight indeed; for his father was now dead, his modest estate lost, probably swallowed up in the general confiscations, and he himself with neither money, friends, nor occupation. He managed in some way, however, to secure a small clerkship, the income from which served to keep the wolf from his humble door.

But in this obscure, unfriended clerk one was now walking the streets of Rome to whom Rome's proudest and most princely mansions were before many years to open as to a welcome guest. For he carried within him, concealed in a most unpretentious personality, a rich store of education, experience, and genius, which was to prove the open sesame for him to the world's best gifts. To the exercise of this genius he now turned; and the appearance of the earliest of his satires, with perhaps some of his odes and epodes as well, was the result. All these things and much more the poet tells us, frankly giving the whole of his story with neither boasting on the one hand nor false pride on the other.

And now the event occurred which was the first link that bound Horace tangibly to his future greatness-his meeting with the poet Vergil, who was at this time famous and powerful in the friendship of M?cenas, Pollio, and even the emperor himself. This sweet and generous-souled poet, recognizing the kindred spirit of genius in the youthful Horace, straightway admitted him to his own friendship, a friendship which is one of the most charming pictures of that brilliant age, and which was destined to endure unbroken until parted by the death of Vergil himself. It was Vergil who in due time introduced Horace to another friend, a man who was one of the great personages of that age, a leading statesman, a man of letters himself, and a generous patron of letters-M?cenas, under whose sheltering patronage our poet grew and expanded to the full development of those poetic powers which first had brought him recognition.

From this shelter Horace writes a satire addressed to M?cenas, in which he recounts, among other circumstances of his life, the occasion of his introduction to his patron; and takes occasion to answer the envious criticisms which were aimed against him, that he, a mere freedman's son, should be elevated above his betters to this high social position. The theme of this satire, which he sturdily maintains, is, that in social, even if not in political matters, character, not family, should be the standard; or, in the language of another gifted son of poverty:

The rank is but the guinea's stamp;

The man's the gowd for a' that.

We give quotations from this satire in the translation of Francis.

The poet feels justified in addressing it to his patron, because, though M?cenas is of noble birth himself, he does not hold in contempt the worthy of lowly descent. Horace says that it is all very well to deny a man political advancement on the score of low birth; but when it comes to denying social advancement upon this score to a man of worth, that is quite unbearable. Horace cannot rightly be envied or criticized for his friendship with M?cenas, for this came to him purely on his merits and not by chance. A pleasing picture is given of his first introduction to M?cenas, and his final admission to that nobleman's charmed circle of friends.

As for myself, a freedman's son confessed;

A freedman's son, the public scorn and jest,

That now with you I joy the social hour,-

That once a Roman legion owned my power;

But though they envied my command in war

Justly, perhaps, yet sure 'tis different far

To gain your friendship, where no servile art

Where only men of merit claim a part.

Nor yet to chance this happiness I owe;

Friendship like yours it had not to bestow.

First my best Vergil, then my Varius, told

Among my friends what character I hold;

When introduced, in few and faltering words

(Such as an infant modesty affords),

I did not tell you my descent was great,

Or that I wandered round my country seat

On a proud steed in richer pastures bred;

But what I really was I frankly said.

Short was your answer, in your usual strain;

I take my leave, nor wait on you again,

Till, nine months past, engaged and bid to hold

A place among your nearer friends enrolled.

An honor this, methinks, of nobler kind,

That, innocent of heart and pure of mind,

Though with no titled birth, I gained his love,

Whose judgment can discern, whose choice approve.

The poet here pays a glowing tribute of filial affection to his father, to whose faithful care and instruction he owes it that he has been shielded from the grosser sins and defects of character.

If some few venial faults deform my soul

(Like a fair face when spotted with a mole),

If none with avarice justly brand my fame,

With sordidness, or deeds too vile to name;

If pure and innocent, if dear (forgive

These little praises) to my friends I live,

My father was the cause, who, though maintained

By a lean farm but poorly, yet disdained

The country schoolmaster, to whose low care

The mighty captain sent his high-born heir,

With satchel, copy-book, and pelf to pay

The wretched teacher on th' appointed day.

To Rome by this bold father was I brought,

To learn those arts which well-born youth are taught;

So dressed and so attended, you would swear

I was some senator's expensive heir;

Himself my guardian, of unblemished truth,

Among my tutors would attend my youth,

And thus preserved my chastity of mind

(That prime of virtue in its highest kind)

Not only pure from guilt, but even the shame

That might with vile suspicion hurt my fame;

Nor feared to be reproached, although my fate

Should fix my fortune in some meaner state,

From which some trivial perquisites arise,

Or make me, like himself, collector of excise.

For this my heart, far from complaining, pays

A larger debt of gratitude and praise;

Nor, while my senses hold, shall I repent

Of such a father, nor with pride resent,

As many do, th' involuntary disgrace

Not to be born of an illustrious race.

But not with theirs my sentiments agree,

Or language; for if Nature should decree

That we from any stated point might live

Our former years, and to our choice should give

The sires to whom we wished to be allied,

Let others choose to gratify their pride;

While I, contented with my own, resign

The titled honors of an ancient line.

Horace proceeds to draw a strong contrast between the very onerous duties and social obligations which fall to the lot of the high-born, and his own simple, quiet, independent life.

This friendship with M?cenas, of which the preceding satire relates the foundation, began in the year 38 B. C., when Horace was twenty-seven years of age. From this time on the poet received many substantial proofs of his patron's regard for him, the most notable of which was the gift of a farm among the Sabine hills about thirty miles from Rome.

Such a gift meant to Horace freedom from the drudgery of the workaday world, consequent leisure for the development of his literary powers, a proper setting and atmosphere for the rustic moods of his muse; while his intimacy in the palace of M?cenas on the Esquiline gave him standing in the city and ample opportunity for indulging his urban tastes.

Although this gift of the farm and other favors derived from the friendship of M?cenas were so important to Horace as to color all his after life and work, he nowhere manifests the slightest spirit of sycophancy toward his patron. While always grateful, he makes it very clear that the favors of M?cenas cannot be accepted at the price of his own personal independence. Rather than lose this, he would willingly resign all that he has received.

The following satire expresses that deep content which the poet experiences upon his farm, the simple delights which he enjoys there, and, by contrast, some of the amusing as well as annoying incidents of his life in Rome as the favorite of the great minister M?cenas. The satire is in the translation of Sir Theodore Martin.

My prayers with this I used to charge,-

A piece of land not over large,

Wherein there should a garden be,

A clear spring flowing ceaselessly,

And where, to crown the whole, there should

A patch be found of growing wood.

All this and more the gods have sent,

And I am heartily content.

O son of Maia,[B] that I may

These bounties keep is all I pray.

If ne'er by craft or base design

I've swelled what little store is mine,

Nor mean it ever shall be wrecked

By profligacy or neglect;

If never from my lips a word

Shall drop of wishes so absurd

As, "Had I but that little nook,

Next to my land, that spoils its look!"

Or, "Would some lucky chance unfold

A crock to me of hidden gold,

As to the man whom Hercules

Enriched and settled at his ease,

Who, with the treasure he had found,

Bought for himself the very ground

Which he before for hire had tilled!"

If I with gratitude am filled

For what I have-by this I dare

Adjure you to fulfil my prayer,

That you with fatness will endow

My little herd of cattle now,

And all things else their lord may own

Except what wits he has, alone,

And be, as heretofore, my chief

Protector, guardian, and relief!

So, when from town and all its ills

I to my perch among the hills

Retreat, what better theme to choose

Than Satire for my homely muse?

No fell ambition wastes me there,

No, nor the south wind's leaden air,

Nor Autumn's pestilential breath,

With victims feeding hungry death.

[B]Mercury, the god of gain, and protector of poets.

The poet proceeds to contrast with his restful country life the vexatious bustle of the city, and the officious attentions which people thrust upon him because of his supposed influence with M?cenas.

Some chilling news through lane and street

Spreads from the Forum. All I meet

Accost me thus-"Dear friend, you're so

Close to the gods, that you must know;

About the Dacians have you heard

Any fresh tidings?" "Not a word."

"You're always jesting!" "Now may all

The gods confound me, great and small,

If I have heard one word!" "Well, well

But you at any rate can tell

If C?sar means the lands which he

Has promised to his troops shall be

Selected from Italian ground,

Or in Trinacria be found?"

And when I swear, as well I can,

That I know nothing, for a man

Of silence rare and most discreet

They cry me up to all the street.

Thus do my wasted days slip by,

Not without many a wish and sigh:

Oh, when shall I the country see,

Its woodlands green? Oh, when be free,

With books of great old men, and sleep,

And hours of dreamy ease, to creep

Into oblivion sweet of life,

Its agitations and its strife?

When on my table shall be seen

Pythagoras' kinsman bean,

And bacon, not too fat, embellish

My dish of greens, and give it relish?

Oh happy nights, oh feasts divine,

When, with the friends I love, I dine

At mine own hearth-fire, and the meat

We leave gives my bluff hinds a treat!

No stupid laws our feasts control,

But each guest drains or leaves the bowl,

Precisely as he feels inclined.

If he be strong, and have a mind

For bumpers, good! If not, he's free

To sip his liquor leisurely.

And then the talk our banquet rouses!

Not gossip 'bout our neighbors' houses,

But what concerns us nearer, and

Is harmful not to understand;

Whether by wealth or worth, 'tis plain

That men to happiness attain;

By what we're led to choose our friends,-

Regard for them, or our own ends;

In what does good consist, and what

Is the supremest form of that.

At some such informal gathering of neighbors as this the story of the city mouse and the country mouse would be told. The poet's own moral of this homely tale is gathered from the farewell words of the country mouse as he escapes from the splendors-and terrors of the city:

"Ho!" cries the country mouse. "This kind

Of life is not for me, I find.

Give me my woods and cavern. There

At least I'm safe! And though both spare

And poor my food may be, rebel

I never will; so, fare ye well!"