Lucilius: A Riposte

Do not speak to me, Lucilius, of your love for a woman:
I have, of late, heard too many a love lyric,
                       read too many an epigram of a similar kind
                              to desire to hear much of your own.
At the baths of Caracalla, wreathed in steam; by
    the walks of the Forum Augustum, writ in marble; by
    the antique Servian Walls, girdled by houses; and
    the even steps of the stoae, where
    the day’s idle folk consume foodstuffs from stalls;–
wagging tongues are all aflutter with this matter of a girl,
     with the flavour of the hour:
                                           this small matter of a girl.
I have not heard much talk of her beauty
          nor heard a word to arouse my Latin curiosity,–
                                   or me from affected apathy,–
  save that the woman is blessed
                     with a masterful mind that belies
          her otherwise agreeable manner… and?–
                     what of it, Lucilius?
I rather the challenging constancy of an intelligent Cornelia
           than dumb livestock obsessed with my wedding bed,–
after all, the house is a dominion to be shared
regardless of what those dolts in the forum may have said.

Let us speak then of this girl:
     unmarriageable, you have heard it said
     of her, Lucilius?
               Be not absurd. I too have heard
that she is yet young, as much
            a girl as she is a woman to whom
all of a heaven-allotted life lies yet open,
                     yielding of the pearl
enclosed within the folds of all her days to come,– this girl…
and is it not premature, preternatural
                                 in this modern, Roman age,
                 to speak so soon of marriage?
Why must she be fettered so soon,– I ask you, Lucilius,–
                        bettered and beggared by a husband,
                        before her life has come into its own?

There will always be a place for muses in the world;–
and young muses must grow into their genius
               before they gain Parnassian immortality;
heroes must learn their heroism
                          through trial and time, mayhap
                          through a stint in that ten years’ war at Troy;–
even eternal Rome, superbly wrought
                  in all-enduring marble from Brundisium,
must once have been a settlement of the least of humankind
                      before it came into the greatness of its age;–
so too must all mankind;
       so also womankind;–
and there is much time unto this girl yet and to spare.
Fine Calabrian wines grow e’er finer
with the passing of the years
    and dear thoughts grow e’er tender
in a care-worn mind, and with age…
        and believe me when I say a woman of intelligence
                    grown into the radiance of her intelligence
                                     and the fullness of experience
           is more formidable than the legions in Germania
and worth more than all the cloying platitudes
                     and fickle Phoenician attitudes
of all the painted meretrices of Pompeii.

There is too much talk nowadays of the glories of men,
         and those who speak the most
                                      are most forgetful,
neglectful of what they name unlike achievement:
were not Britannic shores wrenched from Roman hands
         by Boudicca’s brazen brand?–
were not the desert kingdoms of sand
and the ageless spires of the Nile set all ablaze
         by swift Zenobia’s indignant fury magnificent?–
              Do not look at me in such a way, Lucilius:
such foes of Rome are to be lauded, not scorned;–
indeed, their daring is enough to fix them in the mind…
and we must be open-minded today, Lucilius,
             for it is only through the acceptance of change
                   that our Roman kind may grow to fullness.

For was it not that melancholy Greek who said
             τὰ ὄντα ἰέναι τε πάντα καὶ μένειν οὐδέν?
I can assure you, having lived howe’er many a summer,
                        that he was not wrong:–
I know of men who enjoy the pleasures
         ‘of the left’,– as I have heard them say,–
and I know of women who, too, enjoy the pleasures
                of their left;– os opprime Lucilie!–
      for why should humankind not seek for joy?
Even the most blockheaded of our Stoics
have long since succumbed to desire,–
              and I refuse the crown of a hypocritical hedonist…
My house rests beside a golden way,
     on a humble imprint of the Via Aurelia,–
     but fore’er in a hostile camp; I live
          yet mindful of the wars from which we came.
And what do those petty tyrants know
of equal valour and the bravery of the heart
when they themselves oppress with wagging tongues
               and idle brains?

Ecce! Better to have them in shackles:
        their tongues have grown o’er bold.
It is best that the matter wait, this matter of a girl…
      Fine Calabrian wine grows finer
      with the passing of the years
and I would not have it any other way;
                 nor would I have what I have heard of this girl
                                 any other way, Lucilius.
Alone, she is masterful, most admirable to behold,
                                 and marriage at her age
would stunt her like noble laurels shut in a cave
         with shadows and the merest imprint of light.
Speak to me instead of fortitude,
             nobility, the strength to bear the will
into the world,–
                      nē!–
speak to me only of such a sort, Lucilius,–
             for only a woman of such a sort will go far.