Horace (Quintus Horatius Flaccus)
1.4.1.
Whenever anyone deserved to be shown as a crook
A thief, a libertine, a murderer, or merely notorious
In some other way, the true poets, those who powered
The Old Comedy: Eupolis, Aristophanes,
Cratinus, used to mark such a man out quite freely.
Lucilius derives from them, as a follower
Who only changed rhythm and metre: witty
With a sharp nose, true, but the verse he wrote was rough.
That’s where the fault lay: often, epically, he’d dictate
Two hundred lines, do it standing on one foot even!
A lot should have been dredged from his murky stream.
He was garrulous, hated the labour involved in writing,
Writing well, I mean: I don’t care for mere quantity.
Watch Crispinus offer me long odds: ‘Now, if you please,
Take your tablets and I’ll take mine: pick a time, a place,
The judges: let’s see which of us can scribble the most.’
Thank the gods I’m a man of few ideas, with no spirit,
One who speaks only rarely, and then says little.
But if it’s what you prefer, then you imitate air shut
In a goat-skin bellows, labouring away till the fire
Makes the iron melt. Blessed be Fannius who offers
His books and a bust unasked, while no one reads
What I write, and I’m afraid to recite it aloud
Since some care little for that sort of thing, and most
Men deserve censure. Choose any man from the crowd:
He’ll be bothered by avarice or some wretched ambition.