Horace (Quintus Horatius Flaccus) - 1.6.1. lyrics

Maecenas, though none of the Lydians settled In Tuscany is of nobler birth than yours, And though your maternal and paternal grandfathers Commanded mighty legions in days of old, You don't turn your nose up as most men do At men of unknown birth, sons of freedmen like me. When you say it's irrelevant who a man's father is If he's free born, you're persuaded correctly By the fact that before low-born Tullius ruled, Many men born of insignificant ancestors often Lived virtuous lives and were blessed with high office: While Laevinus, scion of that Valerius from whom Tarquin the Proud fled, driven from his throne, was never Rated a penny higher, even in the crowd's judgement, Who, you know well, often grant honours stupidly To the unworthy, and are sadly enthralled by fame, Dazzled by titles, and ancestral busts. What about us Then, being far, far removed from the vulgar ma**es? Let us accept the people would rather put Laevinus In office, than unknown Decius, and a censor like Appius Would strike out my name if I weren't the son of a freeborn Father: rightly, for not having stuck to my own a**'s skin, Yet Ambition drags all along bound to her glittering Chariot, noble and lowly. What use was it Tillius for you To resume the broad stripe you lost, becoming a tribune? Envy grew, that of a private person would have been less, For as soon as anyone's crazy enough to bind black Senatorial thongs to his legs and wear the broad stripe On his chest, it's: ‘Who's this fellow? Who was his dad?' It's just like suffering from Barrus' sickness, longing To be deemed handsome, so that wherever he went He'd incite girls' interest in personal details, what of His face, his ankles, his feet, his teeth, and his hair: Well he who promises to care for the city and people, The Empire, and Italy, and all the gods' temples, Forces the whole mortal world to show interest In who was his father, and whether his mother's low-born. ‘Do you the son of a slave, a Syrus, a Dama, a Dionysius, Dare to hand us over to Cadmus or hurl us from the Rock?' ‘But, Novius, my colleague' he cries, ‘is only a row behind In the theatre, he's what my father was.' ‘And does that Make you Messalla or Paulus? If two hundred carts In the Forum meet three big funerals, this Novius at least Shouts loud enough to drown out the horns and trumpets.'