Horace, Satires: I.iv 33-44
Of the great Latin poets, I find the most humanity in Horace. Virgil is too grand, Ovid too metamorphosing, Juvenal too savage. Here he is at his best, in words that are as true today as they were 2000 years ago.1
They dread our verse and hate the poets. “Flee,
far! For there's hay tied to his horns. He won’t
spare any friend to raise a laugh. Whatever
he scribbles down on paper, everyone
must know about it.” Listen, let me say
that first, I’d cut my name from lists of poets -
just churning out a verse is not enough.
Someone like me, who writes the common tongue,
doesn't deserve it. Give that name to one
whose soul is honoured song divine of power!
omnes hi metuunt versus, odere poetas.
'faenum habet in cornu, longe fuge; dummodo risum
excutiat sibi, non hic cuiquam parcet amico
et quodcumque semel chartis inleverit, omnis
gestiet a furno redeuntis scire lacuque
et pueros et anus.' agedum pauca accipe contra.
primum ego me illorum, dederim quibus esse poetis,
excerpam numero: neque enim concludere versum
dixeris esse satis neque, siqui scribat uti nos
sermoni propiora, putes hunc esse poetam.
ingenium cui sit, cui mens divinior atque os
magna sonaturum, des nominis huius honorem.