Horace (Quintus Horatius Flaccus) - 2.7.2. lyrics

Does it take you all day you gallows-bird, to tell me Where such rot leads? ‘To you, say I.' How so, you wretch? ‘You praise the good luck and manners of men of old, But if some god suddenly urged you to visit that era, You'd refuse every time, ‘cos you don't really believe What you praise was better, or else ‘cos you're not firm In defence of what's true, sticking fast in the mud while Vainly struggling to get free. In Rome you yearn for the fields: Once there, waverer, you laud the far town to the skies. If by chance you're not asked out to dinner you praise Cabbage in peace, call yourself happy and hug yourself For not partying, as if you'd have to be forced to go. But Maecenas sends you a late invitation at twilight, And you scream: “Where's the lamp-oil? Quick, are you Deaf?” at the top of your voice, then off you scurry. Mulvius and your other hangers-on disperse, With unmentionable curses aimed your way. He says, “I'm easily goaded on by my belly, it's true, nostrils Twitching at savoury smells, weak, spineless, a glutton Too, if you wish, but since he's just the same or worse, What cause has he to criticise me, and cloak his vices In decorous words” What if you're more foolish than me, Who cost you five hundred! Don't try and scare me pulling Faces: control your hands and your spleen, while I preach The lessons I learned from Crispinus' door-keeper.'