Horace (Quintus Horatius Flaccus) - 2.6.4. lyrics

Now and then Cervius my neighbour spins us a yarn, Some apt old woman's tale. So, if anyone praised Arellius' wealth but ignored his cares, he'd begin: ‘It's said a country mouse welcomed a town mouse once To his humble hole, the guest and the host were old friends: He lived frugally, and was careful, but his spirit Was still open to the art of being hospitable. In short, he never grudged vetch or oats from his store, And he'd bring raisins or pieces of nibbled bacon In his mouth, eager by varying the fare to please His guest, whose fastidious tooth barely sampled it. At last the town mouse asks: ‘Where's the pleasure, my friend, In barely surviving, in this glade on a steep ridge? Wouldn't you prefer the crowded city to these wild woods? Come with me, I mean it. Since all terrestrial creatures Are mortal, and there's no escape from d**h for great Or small, then live happily, good friend, while you may Surrounded by joyful things: mindful while you live How brief existence is.' His words stirred the country mouse, Who scrambled lightly from his house: then the two Took their way together as proposed, eager to scurry Beneath the city walls in darkness. And now night Occupied the zenith, as the pair of them made tracks Through a wealthy house, where covers dyed scarlet Glowed on ivory couches, and baskets piled nearby Held the remains of all the courses of a magnificent Feast, that had been celebrated the previous evening. Once the town mouse had seated the country mouse Amongst the purple, he rushed about like a waiter, The host serving course after course, performing the role Himself, and not unlike a slave first tasting what he served. The country-mouse at ease enjoyed the change of style, Playing the contented guest amongst all the good things, When suddenly a great crashing of doors, shakes them From their places. They run through the hall in fear, stricken By greater panic when the high hall rings to the barking Of Molossian hounds. Then says the country-mouse: ‘This Life's no use to me: and so, farewell: my woodland hole, And simple vetch, safe from such scares, they'll do for me.'