Fur es, ait Pedio. Pedius quid? crimina rasis
Librat in antithetis, doctas posuisse figuras
Laudatur, bellum hoc, hoc bellum? an Romule ceves?
Men' moveat quippe, et cantet si naufragus, assem
Protulerim cantas cum fracta te in trabe pictum
Ex humero portes? verum, nec nocte paratum
Plorabit, qui me volet incurvasse querela.
Sed numeris decor est, et junctura addita crudis.
Claudere sic versum didicit, Berecynthius Attin,
Et qui cæruleum dirimebat Nerea delphin,
Sic costam longo subduximus Apennino.
ARMA VIRUM, nonne hoc spumosum et cortice pingui?
Ut ramale vetus prægrandi subere coctum.
Quidnam igitur tenerum, et laxa cervice legendum?
Torva Mimalloneis implerunt cornua bombis,
Et raptum vitulo caput ablatura superbo
Bassaris, et lyncem Mænas flexura corymbis
Evion ingeminat: reparabilis adsonat Echo.
Hæc fierent, si testiculi vena ulla paterni
Is Pedius charged? his own vile cause he pleads!
For pardon sues, and skill'd in tropes, succeeds;
Vices with figures weighs in well-poised scales,
And shines in metaphor, where logic fails.
What should we give? what alms? if on the shore,
While round his neck the pictured storm he wore,
The shipwreck'd sailor, destitute of aid,
Sung as he begg'd, and jested as he pray'd
'Tis not enough that wit and skill be proved;
Who means to move me, must himself be moved.
1 Poet. But if you blame what orators compose,
Their flowery diction, and their measured prose,
You must at least confess that song divine,
Where Berecynthian Atyn swells the line;
Where famed Arion swims on glassy waves,
And daring dolphin azure Nereus cleaves ;
Where from the broad-back'd mountain's monstrous chine
The hero carves a rib of Apennine.
P. Compared with this, what could poor Virgil write?
His style is turgid, and his sense is trite:
His wither'd laurel, faded, shrivell'd, shrunk,
Stands on the blasted wild a leafless trunk.
But when descending from this lofty strain,
How sing our poets in their tender vein?
2 Poet. To Mimallonean measures blow the horn ;
The victim's head let Bassaris adorn;
Let Manas lead the lynx with ivy bound,
Evoe cry, while echo helps the sound.
P. Enough, enough. I can no more endure
This pompous stuff, affected and obscure.
Viveret in nobis? summa delumbe saliva
Hoc natat in labris: et in udo est Mænas, et Attin:
Nec pluteum cædit, nec demorsos sapit ungues.
Sed quid opus teneras mordaci radere vero
Auriculas vide sis, ne majorum tibi fortè
Limina frigescant: sonat heic de nare canina
Littera. Per me equidem sint omnia protinus alba.
Nil moror: euge, omnes, omnes bene miræ eritis res.
Hoc juvat: heic, inquis, veto quisquam faxit oletum.
Pinge duos angues: pueri, sacer est locus: extra
Meiite, discedo. Secuit Lucilius urbem,
Te Lupe, te Muti, et genuinum fregit in illis.
Omne vafer vitium ridenti Flaccus amico
Tangit, et admissus circum præcordia ludit,
Callidus excusso populum suspendere naso.
Where is the spirit of our fathers fled,
Where the stern virtue by our country bred;
Where the exalted genius which inspired,
The force which nerved it, or the pride which fired?
Are these all gone? Does nature give offence,
Or chaste simplicity, or manly sense,
That themes like these, by poetasters sung,
Charm every ear, and hang on every tongue?
M. Do you not tremble, my unguarded friend,
Lest some Patrician poet you offend ?
Still will you wear that most uncourtly scowl,
Still snarl a critic, still a Cynic growl?
P. 'Tis well, 'tis well. Be all their doggerel read;
Let courts applaud, and princes nod the head;
The same dead colour runs through all they write,
A trackless waste of snow, where all is white.
But I no more their faults and failings blame,
Admired their works, immortal be their fame;
Be it resolved, that this be sacred ground,
That babbling critics be to silence bound;
Be it resolved, that when occasion calls,
Unlucky boys do not pollute these walls.
Yet let me say, when old Lucilius sung,
Invectives fell not garbled from his tongue.
With greater art sly Horace gain'd his end,
But spared no failing of his smiling friend;
Sportive and pleasant round the heart he play'd,
And wrapt in jests the censure he convey'd ;
With such address his willing victims seized,
That tickled fools were rallied, and were pleased.
Men' mutire nefas,nec clam,nec cum scrobe? nusquam.
Heic tamen infodiam. Vidi, vidi ipse, libelle:
Auriculas asini Mida rex habet. Hoc ego opertum,
Hoc ridere meum tam nil, nulla tibi vendo
Iliade. Audaci quicunque afflate Cratino,
Iratum Eupolidem prægrandi cum sene palles,
Aspice et hæc, si fortè aliquid decoctius audis ;
Inde vaporata lector mihi ferveat aure.
Non hic, qui in crepidas Graiorum ludere gestit
Sordidus, et lusco qui poscit dicere, lusce;
Sese aliquem credens, Italo quod honore supinus
Fregerit heminas Areti ædilis iniquas:
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