The Art of Poetry: an Epistle to the Pisos

Laetitiae; clamabit enim, Pulchrè, bene, rectè!
Pallescet; super his etiam stillabit amicis
Ex oculis rorem; saliet; tundet pede terram.
Ut qui conducti plorant in funere, dicunt
Et faciunt prope plura dolentibus ex animo: sic
Derisor vero plus laudatore movetur.
Reges dicuntur multis urgere culullis,
Et torquere mero quem perspexisse laborant
An sit amicitia dignus: si carmina condes,
Nunquam te fallant animi sub vulpe latentes.
Quintilio si quid recitares: Corrige sodes
Hoc, aiebat, et hoc: melius te posse negares
Is there a man to whom you've given aught?
Or mean to give? let no such man be brought
To hear your verses! for at every line,
Bursting with joy, he'll cry, "Good! rare! divine!"
The blood will leave his cheek; his eyes will fill
With tears, and soon the friendly dew distill:
He'll leap with extacy, with rapture bound;
Clap with both hands; with both feet beat the ground.
As mummers, at a funeral hir'd to weep,
More coil of woe than real mourners keep,
More mov'd appears the laugher in his sleeve,
Than those who truly praise, or smile, or grieve.
Kings have been said to ply repeated bowls,
Urge deep carousals, to unlock the souls
Of those, whose loyalty they wish'd to prove,
And know, if false, or worthy of their love:
You then, to writing verse if you're inclin'd,
Beware the Spaniel with the Fox's mind!

Quintilius, when he heard you ought recite,
Cried, "prithee, alter this! and make _that _right!"
Bis terque expertum frustra? delere jubebat,
Et male ter natos incudi reddere versus.
Si defendere delictum, quam vortere, malles;
Nullum ultra verbum, aut operam insumebat inanem,
Quin sine rivali teque et tua folus amares.

Vir bonus et prudens versus reprehendet inertes;
Culpabit duros; incomptis allinet atrum
Transverso calamo signum; ambitiosa recidet
Ornamenta; parum claris lucem dare coget;
Arguet ambiguè dictum; mutanda notabit;
Fiet Aristarchus; non dicet, Cur ego amicum
Offendam in nugis? Hae migae feria ducent
But if your pow'r to mend it you denied,
Swearing that twice and thrice in vain you tried;
"Then blot it out! (he cried) it must be terse:
Back to the anvil with your ill-turn'd verse!"
Still if you chose the error to defend,
Rather than own, or take the pains to mend,
He said no more; no more vain trouble took;
But left you to admire yourself and book.

The Man, in whom Good Sense and Honour join,
Will blame the harsh, reprove the idle line;
The rude, all grace neglected or forgot,
Eras'd at once, will vanish at his blot;
Ambitious ornaments he'll lop away;
On things obscure he'll make you let in day,
Loose and ambiguous terms he'll not admit,
And take due note of ev'ry change that's fit,
A very ARISTARCHUS he'll commence;
Not coolly say—"Why give my friend offence?
These are but trifles!"—No; these trifles lead
To serious mischiefs, if he don't succeed;
In mala derisum semel, exceptumque sinistre,
Ut mala quem scabies aut morbus regius urget,
Aut fanaticus error, et iracunda Diana;
Vesanum tetigisse timent fugiuntque poetam,
Qui sapiunt: agitant pueri, incautique sequuntur.
Hic, dum sublimis versus ructatur, et errat,
Si veluti menilis intentus decidit auceps
In puteum, soveamve; licet, Succurrite, longum
Clamet, in cives: non sit qui tollere curet.
Si curet quis opem serre, et demittere sunem;
Qui scis, an prudens huc se projecerit, atque
Servari nolet? dicam: Siculique poetae
Narrabo interitum.

While the poor friend in dark disgrace sits down,
The butt and laughing-stock of all the town,
As one, eat up by Leprosy and Itch,
Moonstruck, Posses'd, or hag-rid by a Witch,
A Frantick Bard puts men of sense to flight;
His slaver they detest, and dread his bite:
All shun his touch; except the giddy boys,
Close at his heels, who hunt him down with noise,
While with his head erect he threats the skies,
Spouts verse, and walks without the help of eyes;
Lost as a blackbird-catcher, should he pitch
Into some open well, or gaping ditch;
Tho' he call lustily "help, neighbours, help!"
No soul regards him, or attends his yelp.
Should one, too kind, to give him succour hope,
Wish to relieve him, and let down a rope;
Forbear! (I'll cry for aught that you can tell)
By sheer design he jump'd into the well.
He wishes not you should preserve him, Friend!