Satyricon Page #3

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He grows lemons, pepper, wool.

Suppose you took a fancy to a glass

of hen's milk. He'd give you a gallon.

And he's dirt, no better!

Come up from nothing.

No breeding whatever! And the agony

of it is, he thinks he's a poet!

Puerile verses.

No trace of soul, grace, poetry.

And what does the bastard call me?

''Colleague''. ''Fellow poet''.

''Soul of mine''. Cheek!

Still, always sit at his table

and drink his best wine. His invitation...

You only escape torture

because you're a citizen of Rome!

But that leaves my slaves free

to cudgel you!

Bollocks for starters! Bollocks, you cyst.

Your back should be whipped

until it's broken!

lt was broken by that ruffian your son!

- l'll prison you in the galleries!

- Pendulous fart!

(trilling)

(chanting)

(trilling)

Hey, never mind.

Even Venus was cross-eyed.

(girls titter)

(bell tolls)

(man shouts)

(shouting)

Eumolpo, it's so very good

of you to turn up.

Because you're a friend, your presence

is always commodious. You're like me.

- Too much honour.

- Bursting with genius.

Between us poets, there's real love.

(band plays)

(proposes a toast)

Friends, l beg of you,

sample my wine. Do it honour.

lt costs me nothing.

Fish have to swim. Cows graze all day.

l merely cook 'em up, and sell them.

All comes from me own property,

wherever that is.

Taranto and Terracina.

My dream is owning the whole of Sicily,

so l might perambulate

or equitate or marinate by sea

all the way to Africa

and never once leave my own estates.

Similar to the questing Ulysses,

l should level.

You catch the comparison?

A little culture at table

never does no harm.

Here is the very first beard

that l ever grew.

l was fully grown at 1 4!

And these are my household gods,

protect all our property.

Good for fortune, for business, for profit.

Praise them, thank you very much.

- Who the hell are you?

- Work in the kitchen.

- Were you born here or did l buy you?

- Not the one or the other.

l was left to you in a testament of Pansa.

Right, then. You cook sublime and big

or l shall have you cooking slops

with the other swine minders.

Heard the one about

the rich man and the poor man...

- What is a poor man?

- (laughter)

Bravo. Quite a good one.

(groans)

l'm going off to be sick.

How time do fly. Day slips and

night's on you before you're ready.

The only way is to run out

of bed straight to dinner.

So cold. Not warm. Chilly.

Not even warm in the bath, is it?

Men are less than flies, much less.

They have a certain resistance, flies.

No doubt we're bubbles is all.

Here today, gone tomorrow. Bit of this,

bit of that, as the peasant said to the pig.

This man could turn lead to gold.

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