Through the constraints that hold me back from returning.
I
call that man blessed who lives in the country;
And
you
call blessed the one who lives in town.
Naturally someone who envies the situation
Of someone else is going to hate his own.
Each of the two is foolish to blame the place.
It
doesn't deserve it; the trouble is in the mind,
Which cannot ever get away from itself.
When you were slaving in Rome at dreary work,
You longed to be down in the country, and now you're there,
Steward of my estate, you long for the city,
The baths, the games, and all that; and as for me,
As you well know, I'm always the same about this:
I'm always sad when I have to set off to do
Some hateful business or other in the city.
We just don't like the same things. What you think of
As dreary inhospitable wilderness,
People like me call lovely, and we all hate
The things that you consider beautiful.
It's the brothels, I see, and the smoky little cafes
That arouse your desire to be in the city, not here
Where the earth yields nothing better than some meager
Pepper and spice, no wine, and where there's no tavern
For you to have a drink in, and no whore
Playing the flute for you to cavort to the tune of.
What's more, you have to sweat and strain to plow
The field no hoe has touched for years, and then
Unyoke the ox and fill him up with the fodder
You had to strip the leaves for, and after that,
When you're worn out, maybe it's rained, and so
You have to build up dams to keep the brook
From running over into the nearby meadow.
Here's what keeps us from singing the same tune:
He who once looked good, with his shining hair
And his spiffy city clothes, and who, although
He hadn't a sou, still somehow managed to please
His avaricious Cinara, and enjoyed
His cup of the best Falernum at lunch each day,
