Horace (Quintus Horatius Flaccus) - 2.3.1. lyrics

‘You write so little, Horace, you barely trouble The copyist four times a year, always unravelling The web you've woven, angered with yourself because, Despite lots of wine and sleep, nothing's done to speak of. Where will it end? Yet you left the Saturnalia To come here, well then utter something worthy of your Promise, start now! Nothing? No use blaming your pen, Or thumping the innocent wall as insulting to gods And poets. Yet you'd the look of one who promised Great and splendid things, once free, in your warm villa. Why pack Plato and Menander, and bring old friends Like Eupolis and Archilochus along? Do you think You can stifle envy by neglecting your powers? You'll be despised, wretch! You must shun the evil Siren Indolence, or be ready to relinquish calmly Whatever you've won in better days.' Damasippus, May the gods shave your beard for your good advice! How Do you know me so well? ‘Ever since all my holdings Crashed on Jan*s' exchange, and ruined my business, I've dealt for others. I used to love to search for bronze In which wily Sisyphus once washed his feet, and spot The works that were crudely carved or roughly cast: I'd price some statue expertly at a hundred thousand: I was the one who knew how to buy up gardens, fine Houses, and turn a profit: so that at crowded auctions They nicknamed me Mercury's friend.' I know, and so I'm amazed you've been purged of that disorder. ‘Yes, Amazing, a new obsession drove out the old, just as A pain in the head or side's replaced by a heart-ache, or as Here, comatose patient turns boxer, and strikes the doctor.'