For
your own part, poor fellow, now you run at his side,
and now you forge about at a foot’s pace, over many
ups and downs (the city is like that, you know),
until you are sweaty and out of breath, and then,
while he is indoors talking to a friend whom he
came to see, as you have no place to sit down, you
stand up, and for lack of employment read the
book with which you armed yourself. 
When night overtakes you hungry and thirsty, after
a wretched bath you go to your dinner at an unseasonable hour, in the very middle of the night; but you
are no longer held in the same esteem and admiration
by the company. If anyone arrives who is more of a
novelty, for you it is “Get back!” In this way
you are pushed off into the most unregarded corner
and take your place merely to witness the dishes
that are passed, gnawing the bones like a dog if
they get as far as you, or regaling yourself with
gratification, thanks to your hunger, on the tough
mallow leaves with which the other food is garnished,
if they should be disdained by those nearer the head
of the table. 
Moreover, you are not spared other forms of rudeness. You are the only one that does not have an egg.
There is no necessity that you should always expect
the same treatment as foreigners and strangers:
that would be unreasonable! Your bird, too, is
not like the others; your neighbour's is fat and
plump, and yours is half a tiny chick, or a tough
pigeon—out-and-out rudeness and contumely! Often,
if there is a shortage when another guest appears of

 

a sudden, the waiter takes up what you have before
you and quickly puts it before him, muttering:
“You are one of us, you know.” Of course when a
side of pork or venison is cut at table, you must by
all means have especial favour with the carver or
else get a Prometheus-portion, bones hidden in fat.
That the platter should stop beside the man above
you until he gets tired of stuffing himself, but speed
past you so rapidly—what free man could endure it
if he had even as much resentment as a deer? And
I have not yet mentioned the fact that while the
others drink the most delectable and oldest of wines,
you alone drink one that is vile and thick, taking good
care always to drink out of a gold or silver cup so
that the colour may not convict you of being such
an unhonoured guest. If only you might have your
fill, even of that! But as things are, though you ask
for it repeatedly, the page “hath not even the
semblance of hearing”! Iliad23, 430. 
 
You are annoyed, indeed, by many things, a great
many, almost everything; most of all when your
favour is rivalled by a cinaedus or a dancing-master
or an Alexandrian dwarf who recites Ionics. Anacreontics, Sotadeans, and in general, the “erotic ditties” mentioned below. , How
could you be on a par, though, with those who
render these services to passion and carry notes
about in their clothing? So, couched in a far corner
of the dining-room and shrinking out of sight for
shame, you groan, naturally, and commiserate yourself and carp at Fortune for not besprinkling you
with at least a few drops of the amenities. You
would be glad, I think, to become a composer of



 

erotic ditties, or at all events to be able to sing
them properly when somebody else had composed
them: for you see where precedence and favour go!
You would put up with it if you had to act the part
of a magician or a soothsayer, one of those fellows
who promise legacies amounting to many thousands,
governorships, and tremendous riches; you see that
they too get on well in their friendships and are
highly valued. So you would be glad to adopt one
of those réles in order not to be entirely despicable
and useless; but even in them, worse luck, you are
not convincing. Therefore you must needs be
humble and suffer in silence, with stifled groans and
amid neglect.

 
If a whispering servant accuse you of being the
only one who did not praise the mistress’s page when
he danced or played, there is no little risk in the
thing. So you must raise your thirsty voice like a
stranded frog, taking pains to be conspicuous among
the claque and to lead the chorus; and often when
the others are silent you must independently let
drop a well-considered word of praise that will convey
great flattery. 
That a man who is famished, yes, and athirst,
should be perfumed with myrrh and have a wreath
on his head is really rather laughable, for then you
are like the gravestone of an ancient corpse that is
getting a feast to his memory. They drench the
stones with myrrh and crown them with wreaths,
and then they themselves enjoy the food and drink
that has been prepared!
 
If the master is of a jealous disposition and has
handsome sons or a young wife, and you are not
wholly estranged from Aphrodite and the Graces,

 

your situation is not peaceful or your danger to be
taken lightly. The king has many ears and eyes,
which not only see the truth but always add something more for good measure, so that they may not
be considered heavy-lidded. You must therefore
keep your head down while you are at table, as at a
Persian dinner, for fear that an eunuch may see
that you looked at one of the concubines; for another
eunuch, who has had his bow bent this long time, is
ready to punish you for eyeing what you should not,
driving his arrow through your. cheek just as you are
taking a drink.

 .
Then, after you have left the dinner-party, you
get a little bit of sleep, but towards cock-crow you
wake up and say: “Oh, how miserable and wretched
Iam! To think what I left—the occupations of
former days, the comrades, the easy life, the sleep
limited only by my inclination, and the strolls in
freedom—and what a pit I have impetuously flung
myself into! Why, in heaven’s name? What does
this splendid salary amount to? Was there no other
way in which I could have earned more than this
and could have kept my freedom and full independence? As the case stands now, I am pulled about
like a lion leashed with a thread, as the saying is, up
hill and down dale; and the most pitiful part of it
all is that I do not know how to be a success and
cannot be a favourite. I am an outsider in such
matters and have not the knack of it, especially
when I am put in comparison with men who have
‘made an art of the business. Consequently I am
unentertaining and not a bit convivial; I cannot
even raise a laugh. I am aware, too, that it often
actually annoys him to look at me, above all when he

 

wishes to be merrier than his wont, for Iseem to him
gloomy. I cannot suit him at all. If I keep to
gravity, I seem disagreeable and almost a person to
run away from; and if I smile and make my features
as pleasant as I can, he despises me outright and
abominates me. The thing makes no better impression than as if one were to play a comedy in a
tragic mask! All in all, what other life shall I live
for myself, poor fool, after having lived this one for
another?”