Caesar, who could have forced him to obey,
By his sire's friendship and his own might pray,
Yet not draw forth a note: then, if the whim
Took him, he'd troll a Bacchanalian hymn,
From top to bottom of the tetrachord,
Till the last course was set upon the board.
One mass of inconsistence, oft he'd fly
As if the foe were following in full cry,
While oft he'd stalk with a majestic gait,
Like Juno's priest in ceremonial-state.
Now, he would keep two hundred serving-men,
And now, a bare establishment of ten.
Of kings and tetrarchs with an equal's air
He'd talk: next day he'd breathe the hermit's prayer:
"A table with three legs, a shell to hold
My salt, and clothes, though coarse, to keep out cold."
Yet give this man, so frugal, so content,
A thousand, in a week 'twould all be spent.
All night he would sit up, all day would snore:
So strange a jumble ne'er was seen before.

"Hold!" some one cries, "have you no failings?" Yes;
Failings enough, but different, maybe less.
One day when Maenius happened to attack
Novius the usurer behind his back,
"Do you not know yourself?" said one, "or think
That if you play the stranger, we shall wink?"
"Not know myself!" he answered, "you say true:
I do not: so I take a stranger's due."
Self-love like this is knavish and absurd,