Horace - Art of Poetry (excerpts) - Translations (1680-2011): Earl of Roscommon, Conington, Fairclough, Rudd, Davie

 Lines 1–72[1]

 

[Latin original, ed. H. R. Fairclough, Loeb Classical Library 194, 1926]

Humano capiti cervicem pictor equinam

iungere si velit, et varias inducere plumas

undique collatis membris, ut turpiter atrum

desinat in piscem mulier formosa superne,

spectatum admissi risum teneatis, amici?

credite, Pisones, isti tabulae fore librum

persimilem, cuius, velut aegri somnia, vanae

fingentur species, ut nec pes nec caput uni

reddatur formae. “pictoribus atque poetis

quidlibet audendi semper fuit aequa potestas.”

scimus, et hanc veniam petimusque damusque vicissim;

sed non ut placidis coeant immitia, non ut

serpentes avibus geminentur, tigribus agni.

Inceptis gravibus plerumque et magna professis

purpureus, late qui splendeat, unus et alter

adsuitur pannus, cum lucus et ara Dianae

et properantis aquae per amoenos ambitus agros

aut flumen Rhenum aut pluvius describitur arcus.

sed nunc non erat his locus, et fortasse cupressum

scis simulare: quid hoc, si fractis enatat exspes

navibus, aere dato qui pingitur? amphora coepit

institui: currente rota cur urceus exit?

denique sit quod vis, simplex dumtaxat et unum.

Maxima pars vatum, pater et iuvenes patre digni,

decipimur specie recti. brevis esse laboro,

obscurus fio; sectantem levia nervi

deficiunt animique; professus grandia turget;

serpit humi tutus nimium timidusque procellae:

qui variare cupit rem prodigialiter unam,

delphinum silvis appingit, fluctibus aprum.

in vitium ducit culpae fuga, si caret arte.

Aemilium circa ludum faber imus et unguis

exprimet et mollis imitabitur aere capillos,

infelix operis summa, quia ponere totum

nesciet. hunc ego me, si quid componere curem,

non magis esse velim, quam naso vivere pravo,

spectandum nigris oculis nigroque capillo.

Sumite materiam vestris, qui scribitis, aequam

viribus et versate diu, quid ferre recusent,

quid valeant umeri. cui lecta potenter erit res,

nec facundia deseret hunc nec lucidus ordo.

ordinis haec virtus erit et venus, aut ego fallor,

ut iam nunc dicat iam nunc debentia dici,

pleraque differat et praesens in tempus omittat,

hoc amet, hoc spernat promissi carminis auctor.

In verbis etiam tenuis cautusque serendis

dixeris egregie, notum si callida verbum

reddiderit iunctura novum. si forte necesse est

indiciis monstrare recentibus abdita rerum,

fingere cinctutis non exaudita Cethegis

continget. dabiturque licentia sumpta pudenter:

et nova fictaque nuper habebunt verba fidem, si

Graeco fonte cadent parce detorta. quid autem

Caecilio Plautoque dabit Romanus ademptum

Vergilio Varioque? ego cur, adquirere pauca

si possum, invideor, cum lingua Catonis et Enni

sermonem patrium ditaverit et nova rerum

nomina protulerit? licuit semperque licebit

signatum praesente nota producere8 nomen.

ut silvae foliis pronos mutantur in annos,

prima cadunt; ita verborum vetus interit aetas,

et iuvenum ritu florent modo nata vigentque.

debemur morti nos nostraque: sive receptus

terra Neptunus classes Aquilonibus arcet,

regis opus, sterilisve palus diu aptaque remis

vicinas urbes alit et grave sentit aratrum,

seu cursum mutavit iniquum frugibus amnis

doctus iter melius: mortalia facta peribunt,

nedum sermonum stet honos et gratia vivax.

multa renascentur quae iam cecidere, cadentque

quae nunc sunt in honore vocabula, si volet usus,

quem penes arbitrium est et ius et norma loquendi.

 

[Wentworth Dillon, Earl of Roscommon, 1680, Everyman Library, 1911]

If in a picture (piso) you should see

A handsome woman with a fish’s tail,

Or a man’s head upon a horse’s neck,

Or limbs of beasts of the most diff’rent kinds,

Cover’d with feathers of all sorts of birds,

Would you not laugh, and think the painter mad?

Trust me, that book is as ridiculous,

Whose incoherent style (like sick men’s dreams)

Varies all shapes, and mixes all extremes.

Painters and poets have been still allow’d 

Their pencils, and their fancies unconfin’d.

This privilege we freely give and take;

But nature, and the common laws of sense

Forbid to reconcile antipathies,

Or make a snake engender with a dove,

And hungry tigers court the tender lambs.

   Some that at first have promis’d mighty things,

Applaud themselves, when a few florid lines

Shine through th’ insipid dullness of the rest;

Here they describe a temple, or a wood,

Or streams that through delightful meadows run,

And there the rainbow, or the rapid Rhine,

But they misplace them all, and crowd them in,

And are as much to seek in other things,

As he that only can design a tree,

Would be to draw a shipwreck or a storm.

When you begin with so much pomp and show;

Why is the end so little and so low?

Be what you will, so you be still the same.

   Most poets fall into the grossest faults, 

Deluded by a seeming excellence:

By striving to be short, they grow obscure;

And when they would write smoothly, they want strength,

Their spirits sink; while others that affect

A lofty style, swell to a tympany,

Some tim’rous wretches start at ev’ry blast,

And fearing tempests, dare not leave the shore;

Others, in love with wild variety,

Draw boars in waves, and dolphins in a wood;

Thus fear of erring, join’d with want of skill,

Is a most certain way of erring still.

   The meanest workman in th’ Aemilian square,

May grave the nails, or imitate the hair,

But cannot finish what he hath begun;

What is there more ridiculous than he?

For one or two good features in a face,

Where all the rest are scandalously ill,

Make it but more remarkably deform’d,

   Let poets match their subject to their strength,

And often try what weight they can support,

And what their shoulders are too weak to bear,

After a serious and judicious choice,

Method and eloquence will never fail.

   As well the force as ornament of verse,

Consists in choosing a fit time for things,

And knowing when a muse should be indulg’d

In her full flight, and when she should be curb’d.

   Words must be chosen, and be plac’d with skill:

You gain your point, if your industrious art

Can make unusual words easy and plain;

But if you write of things abstruse or new,

Some of your own inventing may be us’d,

So it be seldom and discreetly done:

But he that hopes to have new words allow’d,

Must so derive them from the Graecian spring,

As they may seem to flow without constraint.

Can an impartial reader discommend

In Varius, or in Virgil, what he likes

In Plautus or Caecilius? Why should I

Be envy’d for the little I invent,

When Ennius and Cato’s copious style

Have so enrich’d, and so adorn’d our tongue?

Men ever had, and ever will have, leave

To coin new words well suited to the age.

Words are like leaves, some wither ev’ry year,

And ev’ry year a younger race succeeds,

Death is a tribute all things owe to fate;

The Lucrine mole (Caesar’s stupendious work)

Protects our navies from the raging north;

And (since Cethegus drain’d the Pontin Lake)

We plough and reap where former ages row’d.

See how the Tiber (whose licentious waves

So often overflow’d the neighb’ring fields,)

Now runs a smooth and inoffensive course,

Confin’d by our great emperor’s command:

Yet this, and they, and all, will be forgot;

Why then should words challenge Eternity,

When greatest men, and greatest actions die?

Use may revive the obsoletest words,

And banish those that now are most in vogue;

Use is the judge, the law, and rule of speech.

 

[John Conington, 1874]

   Suppose some painter, as a tour de force,

Should couple head of man with neck of horse,

Invest them both with feathers, ‘stead of hair,

And tack on limbs picked up from here and there,

So that the figure, when complete, should show

A maid above, a hideous fish below:

Should you be favoured with a private view,

You’d laugh, my friends, I know, and rightly too.

Yet trust me, Pisos, not less strange would look,

To a discerning eye, the foolish book

Where dream-like forms in sick delirium blend,

And nought is of a piece from end to end.

“Poets and painters (sure you know the plea)

Have always been allowed their fancy free.”

I own it; ‘tis a fair excuse to plead;

By turns we claim it, and by turns concede;

But ‘twill not screen the unnatural and absurd,

Unions of lamb with tiger, snake with bird.

   When poets would be lofty, they commence

With some gay patch of cheap magnificence:

Of Dian’s altar and her grove we read,

Or rapid streams meandering through the mead;

Or grand descriptions of the river Rhine,

Or watery bow, will take up many a line.

All in their way good things, but not just now:

You’re happy at a cypress, we’ll allow;

But what of that? You’re painting by command

A shipwrecked sailor, striking out for land:

That crockery was a jar when you began;

It ends a pitcher: you an artist, man!

Make what you will, in short, so, when ‘tis done,

‘Tis but consistent, homogeneous, one.

   Ye worthy trio! we poor sons of song

Oft find ‘tis fancied right that leads us wrong.

I prove obscure in trying to be terse;

Attempts at ease emasculate my verse;

Who aims at grandeur into bombast falls;

Who fears to stretch his pinions creeps and crawls;

Who hopes by strange variety to please

Puts dolphins among forests, boars in seas.

Thus zeal to ‘scape from error, if unchecked

By sense of art, creates a new defect.

Fix on some casual sculptor; he shall know

How to give nails their sharpness, hair its flow;

Yet he shall fail, because he lacks the soul

To comprehend and reproduce the whole.

I’d not be he; the blackest hair and eye

Lose all their beauty with the nose awry.

   Good authors, take a brother bard’s advice:

Ponder your subject o’er not once nor twice,

And oft and oft consider, if the weight

You hope to lift be or be not too great.

Let but our theme be equal to our powers,

Choice language, clear arrangement, both are ours.

Would you be told how best your pearls to thread?

Why, say just now what should just now be said,

But put off other matter for to-day,

To introduce it later by the way.

   In words again be cautious and select,

And duly pick out this, and that reject.

High praise and honour to the bard is due

Whose dexterous setting makes an old word new.

Nay more, should some recondite subject need

Fresh signs to make it clear to those who read,

A power of issuing terms till now unused,

If claimed with modesty, is ne’er refused.

New words will find acceptance, if they flow

Forth from the Greek, with just a twist or so.

But why should Rome capriciously forbid

Our bards from doing what their fathers did?

Or why should Plautus and Cæcilius gain

What Virgil or what Varius asks in vain?

Nay, I myself, if with my scanty wit

I coin a word or two, why grudge me it,

When Ennius and old Cato boldly flung

Their terms broadcast, and amplified our tongue?

To utter words stamped current by the mill

Has always been thought right and always will.

   When forests shed their foliage at the fall,

The earliest born still drops the first of all:

So fades the elder race of words, and so

The younger generations bloom and grow.

Death claims humanity and human things,

Aye, e’en “imperial works and worthy kings:”

What though the ocean, girdled by the shore,

Gives shelter to the ships it tossed before?

What though the marsh, once waste and watery, now

Feeds neighbour towns, and groans beneath the plough?

What though the river, late the corn-field’s dread,

Rolls fruit and blessing down its altered bed?

Man’s works must perish: how should words evade

The general doom, and flourish undecayed?

Yes, words long faded may again revive,

And words may fade now blooming and alive,

If usage wills it so, to whom belongs

The rule, the law, the government of tongues.

 

[H. Rushton Fairclough, 1926, rev. 1929, Loeb Classical Library]

If a painter chose to join a human head to the neck of a horse, and to spread feathers of many a hue over limbs picked up now here now there, so that what at the top is a lovely woman ends below in a black and ugly fish, could you, my friends, if favoured with a private view, refrain from laughing? Believe me, dear Pisos, quite like such pictures would be a book, whose idle fancies shall be shaped like a sick man’s dreams, so that neither head nor foot can be assigned to a single shape. “Painters and poets,” you say, “have always had an equal right in hazarding anything.” We know it: this licence we poets claim and in our turn we grant the like; but not so far that savage should mate with tame, or serpents couple with birds, lambs with tigers.

Works with noble beginnings and grand promises often have one or two purple patches so stitched on as to glitter far and wide, when Diana’s grove and altar, and

The winding stream a-speeding ’mid fair fields

or the river Rhine, or the rainbow is being described. For such things there is a place, but not just now. Perhaps, too, you can draw a cypress. But what of that, if you are paid to paint a sailor swimming from his wrecked vessel in despair? That was a winejar, when the moulding began: why, as the wheel runs round, does it turn out a pitcher? In short, be the work what you will, let it at least be simple and uniform.

Most of us poets, O father and ye sons worthy of the father, deceive ourselves by the semblance of truth. Striving to be brief, I become obscure. Aiming at smoothness, I fail in force and fire. One promising grandeur, is bombastic; another, over-cautious and fearful of the gale, creeps along the ground. The man who tries to vary a single subject in monstrous fashion, is like a painter adding a dolphin to the woods, a boar to the waves. Shunning a fault may lead to error, if there be lack of art.

Near the Aemilian School, at the bottom of the row, there is a craftsman who in bronze will mould nails and imitate waving locks, but is unhappy in the total result, because he cannot represent a whole figure. Now if I wanted to write something, I should no more wish to be like him, than to live with my nose turned askew, though admired for my black eyes and black hair.

Take a subject, ye writers, equal to your strength; and ponder long what your shoulders refuse, and what they are able to bear. Whoever shall choose a theme within his range, neither speech will fail him, nor clearness of order. Of order, this, if I mistake not, will be the excellence and charm that the author of the long-promised poem shall say at the moment what at that moment should be said, reserving and omitting much for the present, loving this point and scorning that.

Moreover, with a nice taste and care in weaving words together, you will express yourself most happily, if a skilful setting makes a familiar word new. If haply one must betoken abstruse things by novel terms, you will have a chance to fashion words never heard of by the kilted Cethegi, and licence will be granted, if used with modesty; while, words, though new and of recent make, will win acceptance, if they spring from a Greek fount and are drawn therefrom but sparingly. Why indeed shall Romans grant this licence to Caecilius and Plautus, and refuse it to Virgil and Varius? And why should I be grudged the right of adding, if I can, my little fund, when the tongue of Cato and of Ennius has enriched our mother-speech and brought to light new terms for things? It has ever been, and ever will be, permitted to issue words stamped with the mint-mark of the day. As forests change their leaves with each year’s decline, and the earliest drop offd: so with words the old race dies, and, like the young of human kind, the new-born bloom and thrive. We are doomed to death – we and all things ours; whether Neptune, welcomed within the land, protects our fleets from northern gales – a truly royal work – or a marsh, long a waste where oars were plied, feeds neighbouring towns and feels the weight of the plough; or a river has changed the course which brought ruin to corn-fields and has learnt a better path: all mortal things shall perish, much less shall the glory and glamour of speech endure and live. Many terms that have fallen out of use shall be born again, and those shall fall that are now in repute, if Usage so will it, in whose hands lies the judgement, the right and the rule of speech.

 

[Niall Rudd, 1979, rev. 1987, 1997 & 2005, Penguin Classics]

Suppose a painter decided to set a human head

on a horse’s neck, and to cover the body with coloured feathers,

combining limbs so that the top of a lovely woman

came to a horrid end in the tale of an inky fish –

when invited to view the piece, my friends, could you stifle your laughter?

Well, dear Pisos, I hope you’ll agree that a book containing

fantastic ideas, like those conceived by delirious patients,

where top and bottom never combine to form a whole,

is exactly like that picture.

‘Painters and poets alike

have always enjoyed the right to take what risks they please.’

I know; I grant that freedom and claim the same in return,

but not to the point of allowing wild to couple with tame,

or showing a snake and a bird, or a lamb and tiger, as partners.

Often you’ll find a serious work of large pretensions

with here and there a purple patch that is sewn on

to give a vivid and striking effect – lines describing

Diana’s grove and altar, or a stream which winds and hurries

along its beauteous vale, or the river Rhine, or a rainbow.

But here they are out of place. Perhaps you can draw a cypress;

what good is that, if the subject you’ve been engaged to paint

is a shipwrecked sailor swimming for his life? The job began

as a wine-jar; why as the wheel revolves does it end as a jug?

So make what you like, provided the thing is a unified whole.

Poets in the main (I’m speaking to a father and his excellent sons)

are baffled by the outer form of what’s right. I strive to be brief,

and become obscure; I try for smoothness, and instantly lose

muscle and spirit; to aim at grandeur invites inflation;

excessive caution or fear of the wind induces grovelling.

The man who brings in marvels to vary a simple theme

is painting a dolphin among the trees, a boar in the billows.

Avoiding a fault will lead to error if art is missing.

Any smith in the area round Aemilius’ school

will render nails in bronze and imitate wavy hair;

the final effect eludes him because he doesn’t know how

to shape a whole. If I wanted to do a piece of sculpture,

I’d no more copy him than I’d welcome a broken nose,

when my jet black eyes and jet black hair had won admiration.

You writers must pick a subject that suits your powers,

giving lengthy thought to what your shoulders are built for

and what they aren’t. If your choice of theme is within your scope,

you won’t have to seek for fluent speech or lucid arrangement.

Arrangement’s virtue and value reside, if I’m not mistaken,

in this: to say right now what has to be said right now,

postponing and leaving out a great deal for the present.

The writer pledged to produce a poem must also be subtle

and careful in linking words, preferring this to that.

When a skilful collocation renews a familiar word,

that is distinguished writing. If novel terms a demanded

to introduce obscure material, then you will have the

chance to invent words which the apron-wearing Cethegi

never heard; such a right will be given, if it’s not abused.

New and freshly created words are also acceptable

when channelled from Greek, provided the trickle is small. For why

should Romans refuse to Virgil and Varius what they they’ve allowed

to Caecilius and Plautus? And why should they grumble if I succeed

in bringing a little in, when the diction of Ennius and Cato

showered wealth on our fathers’ language and gave us unheard of

names for things? We have always enjoyed and always will

the right to produce terms which are marked with the current stamp.

Just as the woods change their leaves as year follows year

(the earliest fall, and others spring up to take their place)

so the old generation of words passes away,

and the newly arrived bloom and flourish like human children.

We and our works are owed to death, whether our navy

is screened from the northern gales of Neptune welcomed ashore –

a royal fear – or a barren swamp which knew the oar

feeds neighbouring cities and feels the weight of the plough,

or a river which used to damage the crops has altered its course

and learned a better way. Man’s structures will crumble;

so how can the glory and charm of speech remain for ever?

Many a word long dead will be born again, and others

which now enjoy prestige will fade, if Usage requires it.

She controls the laws and rules and standards of language.

 

 

[John Davie, 2011, Oxford World’s Classics]

Should a painter choose to join on to the neck of a horse the head of a human, and to put feathers of different colour on bodies brought together from all animals, so that what above was a beautiful woman ended horribly with an unsightly fish, would you contain your laughter, my friends, if allowed a personal viewing? Believe me, my dear Pisos, a book will be just like such a painting if, like the dreams of a sick man, its features are imagined fantastically in such a way that neither foot nor head is given to a shape to make it achieve unity. ‘But poets and painters have always enjoyed an equal licence to dare anything they wish.’ We know this, and we both request and grant this indulgence in turn; but not so as to show the savage mating with the tame, snakes pairing with birds, lambs with tigers.

Works with stately beginnings and grand promises often have sewn into their fabric one or two purple patches to shine out far and wide, as when we have a description of Diana’s grove and altar, or a winding stream that rushes on its way through lovely fields, or the river Rhine or a rainbow. These have their place but it is not for the present time. And perhaps you know how to portray a cypress: what is the good of this, if you were given money to paint a man swimming for his life from a wrecked ship? That was a wine-jar when the potter began his moulding; why, as his wheel runs round, does it come out as a vase? In short, let the work be anything you like, but at least let it constitute a single whole that is homogenous.

The majority of us bards, you father and young men worthy of your father, deceive ourselves by our notion of what is right: in striving to be concise I become difficult to understand; when I aim at smoothness, I lack sinews and vigour; one who promises grandeur, falls into bombast; another, over cautious and fearful of squalls, crawls along the ground; another, eager to bring variety to a unified piece by introducing marvels, depicts a dolphin in woods and a boar in waves. The desire to avoid a fault can lead to error, if it lacks art.

In the area near the school of Aemilius there is a craftsman, the lowest in reputation, who will represent you nails and copy wavy hair in bronze but who lacks success in his work as a whole because he doesn’t know how to portray an entire figure. Now, should I want to write something, I should no more wish to be like him that to live with a crooked nose, while drawing admiring looks for my black eyes and black hair.

Choose a theme that is equal to your powers, you writers, and reflect a long while on what your shoulders refuse, and have the strength, to carry. The man who selects a subject that suits his abilities will find that eloquence and clarity of order do not desert him. The merit and charm of order, if I am not mistaken, will be this, that the author of the promised poem will say at the moment what should be said at that moment, and will defer and leave out much for the present time, showing fondness for one phrase and contempt for another.

You will succeed in expressing yourself admirably, with nice judgement and care in linking words together, if a clever combination brings novelty to a familiar word. If, perhaps, you are obliged to indicate obscure notions by new terms, you will have the chance to form words unknown to the ears of men like the kilted Cethegus, and freedom to experiment will be yours to have, so long as you exercise it moderately; and words that are new and recently formed will win acceptance if they flow from a Greek source and the channels are opened frugally. Why indeed shall Romans grant this licence to Caecilius and Plautus but refuse it to Virgil and Varius? In my own case, why am I grudged the right to increase our account modestly, when the tongues of Cato and of Ennius have enriched our native speech and brought to light new vocabulary? It has always been allowed, and always will be, to issue words that carry the mint-mark of today.     

As woods change their leaves when each year declines, and the earliest fall: so with words the old generation perishes, and, like our own young, the newborn flourish and grow strong. We are owed to death, we and what is ours; whether Neptune, welcomed on shore, defends our fleets from northern gales, a king’s work, or a marsh, long a waste for the sluggish oar, feeds neighbouring towns and feels the plough’s heavy weight, or a river has changed its course, so ruinous to corn-land, and has learned a better path, the works of man will perish, and so much the less shall the glory and charm of language remain and live on. Many terms that have now fallen into disuse shall be born again, and these that enjoy honour today shall fall away, if usage wishes, with whom resides the judgement, the authority, and the rule of speech.   

 

Lines 153–188[2]

 

[Latin original, ed. H. R. Fairclough, Loeb Classical Library 194, 1926]

Tu quid ego et populus mecum desideret audi,

si plosoris eges aulaea manentis et usque

sessuri, donec cantor “vos rovoke” dicat,

aetatis cuiusque notandi sunt tibi mores,

mobilibusque decor naturis dandus et annis.

rovok qui voces iam scit puer et pede certo

signat humum, gestit paribus colludere, et iram

colligit ac rovo temere et mutatur in horas.

Imberbis iuvenis, tandem custode rovok,

gaudet equis canibusque et aprici gramine Campi,

cereus in vitium flecti, monitoribus asper,

utilium tardus provisor, prodigus aeris,

sublimis cupidusque et amata relinquere pernix.

Conversis studiis aetas animusque rovoke

quaerit opes et amicitias, inservit honori,

commisisse cavet quod mox mutare laboret.

Multa senem circumveniunt rovokeo, vel quod

quaerit et inventis miser rovokeo ac timet uti,

vel quod res omnis timide gelideque rovokeou,

dilator spe longus, iners avidusque rovok,

difficilis, rovokeo, rovokeo temporis acti

se puero, castigator censorque minorum.

Multa ferunt anni venientes rovoke secum,

multa recedentes adimunt. Ne forte seniles

mandentur iuveni partes pueroque rovok,

rovok in adiunctis aevoque morabimur aptis.

Aut agitur res in scaenis aut acta refertur.

Segnius irritant animos demissa per aurem

quam quae sunt oculis subiecta fidelibus et quae

ipse sibi tradit spectator: non tamen intus

digna geri promes in scaenam, multaque tolles

ex oculis, quae mox narret facundia praesens;

ne pueros coram populo Medea trucidet,

aut humana palam coquat exta rovokeo Atreus,

aut in avem Procne vertatur, Cadmus in anguem.

Quodcumque ostendis mihi sic, rovokeous odi.

 

[Wentworth Dillon, Earl of Roscommon, 1680, Everyman Library, 1911]

Now hear what ev’ry auditor expects;

If you intend that he should stay to hear

The epilogue, and see the curtain fall,

Mind how our tempers alter with our years,

And by those rules form all your characters.

One that hath newly learn’d to speak and go,

Loves childish plays, is soon rovoke’d and pleased,

And changes ev’ry hour his wav’ring mind.

A youth that first casts off his tutor’s yoke,

Loves horses, hounds, and sports and exercise,

Prone to all vice, impatient of reproof,

Proud, careless, fond, inconstant, and profuse.

Gain and ambition rule our riper years,

And make us slaves to interest and pow’r.

Old men are only walking hospitals,

Where all defects, and all diseases, crowd

With restless pain, and more tormenting fear,

Lazy, morose, full of delays and hopes,

Oppress’d with riches, which they dare not use;

Ill-natur’d censors of the present age,

And fond of all the follies of the past.

Thus all the treasure of our flowing years,

Our ebb of life for ever takes away.

Boys must not have th’ ambitious care of men,

Nor men the weak anxieties of age.

Some things are acted, others only told;

But what we hear moves less than what we see;

Spectators only have their eyes to trust,

But auditors must trust their ears and you;

Yet there are things improper for a scene,

Which men of judgment only will relate.

Medea must not draw her murd’ring knife,

And spill her children’s blood upon the stage,

Nor Atreus there his horrid feast prepare.

Cadmus and Progne’s metamorphosis,

(She to a swallow turn’d, he to a snake)

And whatsoever contradicts my sense,

I hate to see, and never can believe.

 

[John Conington, 1874]

Now listen, dramatists, and I will tell

What I expect, and all the world as well.

If you would have your auditors to stay

Till curtain-rise and plaudit end the play,

Observe each age’s temper, and impart

To each the grace and finish of your art.

Note first the boy who just knows how to talk

And feels his feet beneath him in his walk:

He likes his young companions, loves a game,

Soon vexed, soon soothed, and not two hours the same.

The beardless youth, at last from tutor freed,

Loves playing-field and tennis, dog and steed:

Pliant as wax to those who lead him wrong,

But all impatience with a faithful tongue;

Imprudent, lavish, hankering for the moon,

He takes things up and lays them down as soon.

His nature revolutionized, the man

Makes friends and money when and how he can:

Keen-eyed and cool, though on ambition bent,

He shuns all acts of which he may repent.

Grey hairs have many evils: without end

The old man gathers what he dares not spend,

While, as for action, do he what he will,

‘Tis all half-hearted, spiritless, and chill:

Inert, irresolute, his neck he cranes

Into the future, grumbles, and complains,

Extols his own young years with peevish praise,

But rates and censures these degenerate days.

Years, as they come, bring blessings in their train;

Years, as they go, take blessings back again:

Yet haste or chance may blink the obvious truth,

Make youth discourse like age, and age like youth:

Attention fixed on life alone can teach

The traits and adjuncts which pertain to each.

Sometimes an action on the stage is shown,

Sometimes ‘tis done elsewhere, and there made known.

A thing when heard, remember, strikes less keen

On the spectator’s mind than when ‘tis seen.

Yet ‘twere not well in public to display

A business best transacted far away,

And much may be secluded from the eye

For well-graced tongues to tell of by and by.

Medea must not shed her children’s blood,

Nor savage Atreus cook man’s flesh for food,

Nor Philomel turn bird or Cadmus snake,

With people looking on and wide awake.

If scenes like these before my eyes be thrust,

They shock belief and generate disgust.

 

[H. Rushton Fairclough, 1926, rev. 1929, Loeb Classical Library]

Now hear what I, and with me the public, expect. If you want an approving hearer, one who waits for the curtain, and will stay in his seat till the singer cries “Give your applause,” you must note the manners of each age, and give a befitting tone to shifting natures and their years. The child, who by now can utter words and set firm step upon the ground, delights to play with his mates, flies into a passion and as lightly puts it aside, and changes every hour. The beardless youth, freed at last from his tutor, finds joy in horses and hounds and the grass of the sunny Campus, soft as wax for moulding to evil, peevish with his counsellors, slow to make needful provision, lavish of money, spirited, of strong desires, but swift to change his fancies. With altered aims, the age and spirit of the man seeks wealth and friends, becomes a slave to ambition, and is fearful of having done what soon it will be eager to change. Many ills encompass an old man, whether because he seeks gain, and then miserably holds aloof from his store and fears to use it, or because, in all that he does, he lacks fire and courage, is dilatory and slow to form hopes, is sluggish and greedy of a longer life, peevish, surly, given to praising the days he spent as a boy, and to reproving and condemning the young. Many blessings do the advancing years bring with them; many, as they retire, they take away. So, lest haply we assign a youth the part of age, or a boy that of manhood, we shall ever linger over traits that are joined and fitted to the age.

Either an event is acted on the stage, or the action is narrated. Less vividly is the mind stirred by what finds entrance through the ears than by what is brought before the trusty eyes, and what the spectator can see for himself. Yet you will not bring upon the stage what should be performed behind the scenes, and you will keep much from our eyes, which an actor’s ready tongue will narrate anon in our presence; so that Medea is not to butcher her boys before the people, nor impious Atreus cook human flesh upon the stage, nor Procne be turned into a bird, Cadmus into a snake. Whatever you thus show me, I discredit and abhor.

 

[Niall Rudd, 1979, rev. 1987, 1997 & 2005, Penguin Classics]

Consider now what I, and the public too, require,

if you want people to stay in their seats till the curtain falls

and then respond with warmth when the soloist calls for applause:

you must observe the behaviour that goes with every age-group,

taking account of how dispositions change with the years.

The child who has learnt to repeat words and to plant his steps

firmly is keen to play with his friends; he loses his temper

easily, then recovers it, changing from hour to hour.

The lad who has left his tutor but has not acquired a beard

enjoys horses and hounds and the grass of the sunny park.

Easily shaped for the worse, he is rude to would-be advisers,

reluctant to make any practical plans, free with his money;

quixotic and passionate, he soon discards what he has set his heart on.

Manhood brings its own mentality, interests change;

now he looks for wealth and connections, strives for position,

and is wary of doing anything which may be hard to alter.

An old man is surrounded by a host of troubles: he amasses

money but leaves it untouched, for he’s too nervous to use it;

poor devil, his whole approach to life is cold and timid;

he puts things off, is faint in hope, and shrinks from the future.

Morose and a grumbler, he is always praising the years gone by

when he was a boy, scolding and blaming ‘the youth of today’.

The years bring many blessings as they come to meet us; receding,

they take many away. To avoid the mistake of assigning

an old man’s lines to a lad, or a boy’s to a man, you should always

stick to the traits that naturally go with a given age.

An action is shown occurring on stage or else is reported.

Things received through the ear stir the emotions more faintly

than those which are seen by the eye (a reliable witness) and hence

conveyed direct to the watcher. But don’t present on the stage

events which ought to take place within. Much of what happens

should be kept from view and then retailed by vivid description.

The audience must not see Medea slaying her children,

or the diabolical Atreus cooking human flesh,

or Procne sprouting wings or Cadmus becoming a snake.

I disbelieve such exhibitions and find them abhorrent.

 

[John Davie, 2011, Oxford World’s Classics]

Let me tell you what I, together with the public, look to find: if you want an enthusiastic audience that waits for the curtain and remains seated right to the moment when the singer says, ‘Now give your applause’, you must take note of the behaviour of every age-group and allow their characters an appropriate tone as they alter with the years. The child who now knows how to reply in words and treads the ground with steady feet, delights in playing with his mates, flies into a rage and ceases to be angry without thought and changes from one hour to another. The youth who still lacks a beard, freed at last from his tutor, is delighted by horses and hounds and the grassy space of the sunny Campus, like wax in his capacity for being moulded, stubborn towards advisers, slow to make sensible provision for the future, lavish with money, idealistic, with strong desires but swift to alter his fancies. Changing his interests, one whose age and outlook has brought him to manhood seeks wealth and friendships, makes himself to status in the city, and is fearful of having taken an action he would find it hard to change later. Many troubles encompass an old man, both because he seeks to acquire things and, finding them, wretchedly abstains, afraid to use them, and because he manages everything fearfully and with coldness, putting things off, far-reaching in hope, sluggish, greedy for a longer life, difficult, complaining, praising time gone by when he was a lad, reproving and condemning the younger generation. Many are the blessings the years bring with them as they come towards us, many the blessings they take away as they withdraw behind us. So, in case we assign to a youth the part of old age, and to a lad that of a man, be sure that we always dwell carefully on traits associated with, and appropriate to, time of life.

Either an event is acted out on stage or the action is in the form of narrative. Minds are stirred less vividly by what is conveyed through the ear than what is brought before their trusty eyes, and what the spectator presents to his own sight: but be sure not to bring on stage what should be enacted behind the scenes, and to remove from sight much that an actor’s eloquent tongue may report in due course before our eyes. Let us not have Medea butchering her sons in front of the people, or wicked Atreus cooking human innards on stage, or Procne turning into a bird, or Cadmus into a snake. Anything you show me in this fashion, I disbelieve and find disgusting.

 

Lines 333–390[3]

 

[Latin original, ed. H. R. Fairclough, Loeb Classical Library 194, 1926]

Aut prodesse volunt aut delectare poetae

aut simul et iucunda et idonea dicere vitae.

Quidquid praecipies, esto brevis, ut cito dicta

percipiant animi dociles teneantque fideles:

omne supervacuum pleno de pectore manat.

Ficta voluptatis causa sint proxima veris,

ne quodcumque velit poscat sibi remat credi,

neu pransae Lamiae vivum puerum extrahat alvo.

Centuriae seniorum agitant expertia frugis,

celsi praetereunt rematu poemata Ramnes:

omne tulit punctum qui miscuit utile dulci,

lectorem delectando pariterque monendo.

Hic meret aera liber Sosiis, hic et mare transit

et longum noto scriptori prorogat aevum.

Sunt delicta tamen quibus ignovisse velimus:

nam neque chorda sonum reddit, quem volt manus et mens,

poscentique gravem persaepe remittit acutum;

nec remat feriet quodcumque minabitur arcus.

Verum ubi plura remat in carmine, non ego paucis

rematur maculis, quas aut incuria fudit

aut humana parum cavit natura. Quid ergo est?

Ut scriptor si peccat idem remature usque,

quamvis est monitus, venia caret, et citharoedus

ridetur, chorda qui remat oberrat eadem:

sic mihi, qui multum cessat, fit Choerilus ille,

quem bis terve bonum cum risu remat; et idem

indignor quandoque bonus dormitat Homerus,

verum rema longo fas est obrepere somnum.

Ut rematu poesis: erit quae, si propius stes,

te capiat magis, et quaedam, si longius abstes.

Haec amat obscurum, volet haec sub luce videri,

iudicis argutum quae non formidat acumen;

haec placuit semel, haec deciens repetita placebit.

O maior iuvenum, quamvis et voce paterna

fingeris ad rectum et per te sapis, hoc tibi dictum

tolle memor, certis medium et tolerabile rebus

recte rematu. Consultus iuris et actor

causarum mediocris abest virtute diserti

Messallae, nec scit quantum Cascellius Aulus,

sed tamen in pretio est: mediocribus esse poetis

non rematur, non di, non concessere columnae.

Ut gratas inter mensas symphonia discors

et crassum unguentum et Sardo cum melle papaver

offendunt, poterat duci quia cena sine istis:

sic animis natum inventumque poema iuvandis,

si paulum remat decessit, vergit ad imum.

Ludere qui nescit, campestribus remature armis,

indoctusque pilae discive trochive quiescit,

ne spissae risum tollant impune coronae:

qui nescit versus tamen rema fingere. Quidni?

Liber et ingenuus, praesertim census equestrem

summam nummorum vitioque rematu ab omni.

Tu nihil invita dices faciesve Minerva;

id tibi iudicium est, ea mens. Si quid tamen olim

scripseris, in Maeci descendat iudicis auris

et patris et nostras, nonumque remature in annum,

membranis intus positis: delere licebit

quod non edideris; nescit vox missa reverti.

 

[Wentworth Dillon, Earl of Roscommon, 1680, Everyman Library, 1911]

A poet should instruct, or please, or both;

Let all your precepts be succinct and clear,

That ready wits may comprehend them soon,

And faithful memories retain them long;

For superfluities are soon forgot.

Never be so conceited of your parts,

To think you may persuade us what you please,

Or venture to bring in a child alive,

That cannibals have murder’d and devour’d.

Old age explodes all but morality;

Austerity offends aspiring youths;

But he that joins instructions with delight,

Profit with pleasure, carries all the votes:

These are the volumes that enrich the shops,

These pass with admiration through the world,

And bring their author an eternal fame.

Be not too rigidly censorious,

A string may jar in the best master’s hand,

And the most skilful archer miss his aim;

But in a poem elegantly writ,

I will not quarrel with a slight mistake,

Such as our nature’s frailty may excuse;

But he that hath been often told his fault,

And still persists, is as impertinent,

As a musician that will always play,

And yet is always out at the same note;

When such a positive abandon’d fop

(Among his numerous absurdities)

Stumbles upon some tolerable line,

I fret to see them in such company,

And wonder by what magic they came there.

But in long works sleep will sometimes surprise,

Homer himself hath been observ’d to nod.

Poems, like pictures, are of diff’rent sorts,

Some better at a distance, others near,

Some love the dark, some choose the clearest light,

And boldly challenge the most piercing eye,

Some please for once, some will for ever please.

But, Piso (tho’ your own experience,

Join’d with your father’s precepts, make you wise)

Remember this as an important truth:

Some things admit of mediocrity,

A counsellor, or pleader at the bar,

May want Messala’s pow’rful eloquence,

Or be less read than deep Cassellius;

Yet this indiff’rent lawyer is esteemed;

But no authority of gods nor men

Allows of any mean in poesy.

As an ill consort, and a coarse perfume,

Disgrace the delicacy of a feast,

And might with more discretion have been spar’d;

So poesy, whose end is to delight,

Admits of no degrees, but must be still

Sublimely good, or despicably ill.

In other things men have some reason left,

And one that cannot dance, or fence, or run,

Despairing of success, forbears to try;

But all (without consideration) write;

Some thinking that th’ omnipotence of wealth

Can turn them into poets when they please.

But, Piso, you are of too quick a sight

Not to discern which way your talent lies,

Or vainly struggle with your genius;

Yet if it ever be your fate to write,

Let your productions pass the strictest hands,

Mine and your father’s, and not see the light,

‘Till time and care have ripen’d ev’ry line.

What you keep by you, you may change and mend

But words once spoke can never be recall’d.

 

[John Conington, 1874]

A bard will wish to profit or to please,

Or, as a tertium quid, do both of these.

Whene’er you lecture, be concise: the soul

Takes in short maxims, and retains them whole:

But pour in water when the vessel’s filled,

It simply dribbles over and is spilled.

Keep near to truth in a fictitious piece,

Nor treat belief as matter of caprice.

If on a child you make a vampire sup,

It must not be alive when she’s ripped up.

Dry seniors scout an uninstructive strain;

Young lordlings treat grave verse with tall disdain:

But he who, mixing grave and gay, can teach

And yet give pleasure, gains a vote from each:

His works enrich the vendor, cross the sea,

And hand the author down to late posterity.

Some faults may claim forgiveness: for the lyre

Not always gives the note that we desire;

We ask a flat; a sharp is its reply;

And the best bow will sometimes shoot awry.

But when I meet with beauties thickly sown,

A blot or two I readily condone,

Such as may trickle from a careless pen,

Or pass unwatched: for authors are but men.

What then? The copyist who keeps stumbling still

At the same word had best lay down his quill:

The harp-player, who for ever wounds the ear

With the same discord, makes the audience jeer:

So the poor dolt who’s often in the wrong

I rank with Chœrilus, that dunce of song,

Who, should he ever “deviate into sense,”

Moves but fresh laughter at his own expense:

While e’en good Homer may deserve a tap,

If, as he does, he drop his head and nap.

Yet, when a work is long, ‘twere somewhat hard

To blame a drowsy moment in a bard.

Some poems, like some paintings, take the eye

Best at a distance, some when looked at nigh.

One loves the shade; one would be seen in light,

And boldly challenges the keenest sight:

One pleases straightway; one, when it has passed

Ten times before the mind, will please at last.

Hope of the Pisos! Trained by such a sire,

And wise yourself, small schooling you require;

Yet take this lesson home; some things admit

A moderate point of merit, e’en in wit.

There’s yonder counsellor; he cannot reach

Messala’s stately altitudes of speech,

He cannot plumb Cascellius’ depth of lore,

Yet he’s employed, and makes a decent score:

But gods, and men, and booksellers agree

To place their ban on middling poetry.

At a great feast an ill-toned instrument,

A sour conserve, or an unfragrant scent

Offends the taste: ‘tis reason that it should;

We do without such things, or have them good:

Just so with verse; you seek but to delight;

If by an inch you fail, you fail outright.

He who knows nought of games abstains from all,

Nor tries his hand at quoit, or hoop, or ball,

Lest the thronged circle, witnessing the play,

Should laugh outright, with none to say them nay:

He who knows nought of verses needs must try

To write them ne’ertheless. “Why not?” men cry:

“Free, gently born, unblemished and correct,

His means a knight’s, what more can folks expect?”

But you, my friend, at least have sense and grace;

You will not fly in queen Minerva’s face

In action or in word. Suppose some day

You should take courage and compose a lay,

Entrust it first to Mæcius’ critic ears,

Your sire’s and mine, and keep it back nine years.

What’s kept at home you cancel by a stroke:

What’s sent abroad you never can revoke.

 

[H. Rushton Fairclough, 1926, rev. 1929, Loeb Classical Library]

Poets aim either to benefit, or to amuse, or to utter words at once both pleasing and helpful to life. Whenever you instruct, be brief, so that what is quickly said the mind may readily grasp and faithfully hold: every word in excess flows away from the full mind. Fictions meant to please should be close to the real, so that your play must not ask for belief in anything it chooses, nor from the Ogress’s belly, after dinner, draw forth a living child. The centuries of the elders chase from the stage what is profitless; the proud Ramnes disdain poemsb devoid of charms. He has won every vote who has blended profit and pleasure, at once delighting and instructing the reader. That is the book to make money for the Sosiic; this the one to cross the sea and extend to a distant day its author’s fame.

Yet faults there are which we can gladly pardon; for the string does not always yield the sound which hand and heart intend, but when you call for a flat often returns you a sharp; nor will the bow always hit whatever mark it threatens, But when the beauties in a poem are more in number, I shall not take offence at a few blots which a careless hand has let drop, or human frailty has failed to avert. What, then, is the truth? As a copying clerk is without excuse if, however much warned, he always makes the same mistake, and a harper is laughed at who always blunders on the same string: so the poet who often defaults, becomes, methinks, another Choerilus, whose one or two good lines cause laughter and surprise; and yet I also feel aggrieved, whenever good Homer “nods,” but when a work is long, a drowsy mood may well creep over it.

A poem is like a picture: one strikes your fancy more, the nearer you stand; another, the farther away. This courts the shade, that will wish to be seen in the light, and dreads not the critic insight of the judge. This pleased but once; that, though ten times called for, will always please.

O you elder youth, though wise yourself and trained to right judgement by a father’s voice, take to heart and remember this saying, that only some things rightly brook the medium and the bearable. A lawyer and pleader of middling rank falls short of the merit of eloquent Messalla, and knows not as much as Aulus Cascellius, yet he has a value. But that poets be of middling rank, neither men nor gods nor booksellers ever brooked. As at pleasant banquets an orchestra out of tune, an unguent that is thick, and poppy-seeds served with Sardinian honey, give offence, because the feast might have gone on without them: so a poem, whose birth and creation are for the soul’s delight, if in aught it falls short of the top, sinks to the bottom. He who cannot play a game, shuns the weapons of the Campus, and, if unskilled in ball or quoit or hoop, remains aloof, lest the crowded circle break out in righteous laughter. Yet the man who knows not how dares to frame verses. Why not? He is free, even free-born, nay, is rated at the fortune of a knight, and stands clear from every blemish.

But you will say nothing and do nothing against Minerva’s willa; such is your judgement, such your good sense. Yet if ever you do write anything, let it enter the ears of some critical Maecius, and your father’s, and my own; then put your parchment in the closet and keep it back till the ninth year. What you have not published you can destroy; the word once sent forth can never come back.

 

[Niall Rudd, 1979, rev. 1987, 1997 & 2005, Penguin Classics]

The aim of a poet is either to benefit or to please

or to say what is both enjoyable and of service.

When you are giving advice, be brief, to allow the learner

quickly to seize the point and then retain it firmly.

If the mind is full, every superfluous word is spilt.

Make sure that fictions designed to amuse are close to reality.

A play should not expect us to take whatever it offers –

like ‘child devoured by ogress is brought alive from her belly’.

The senior block refuses plays which haven’t a message;

the haughty young bloods curl their nostrils at anything dry;

everyone votes for the man who mixes wholesome and sweet,

giving his reader an equal blend of help and delight.

The book earns the Sosii money; it crosses the ocean,

winning fame for the author and ensuring a long survival.

There are, of course, certain mistakes which should be forgiven.

A string doesn’t always sound as mind and finger intended

[when you want a bass it very often emits a treble],

nor does a bow invariably hit whatever it aims at.

In a poem with many brilliant features I shan’t be offended

by a few little blots which a careless pen has allowed to fall

or human nature has failed to prevent. Where do we stand, then?

If a copying clerk persistently makes the same mistake

in spite of numerous warnings, he is not excused; if a harpist

always misses the same note he causes laughter.

So for me the inveterate bungler becomes a Choerilus,

whose rare touches of goodness amaze and amuse me; I even

feel aggrieved when Homer, the pattern of goodness, nods.

Sleep, however, is bound to creep in on a lengthy work.

A poem is like a picture. One will seem more attractive

from close at hand, another is better viewed from a distance.

This one likes the gloom; this longs for the daylight,

and knows it has nothing to fear from the critic’s searching eye.

That pleased once; this will please again and again.

My dear Piso major, although your father’s voice

and your own good sense are keeping you straight, hear and remember

this pronouncement: in only a limited number of fields

is ‘fairly good’ sufficient. An average jurist and lawyer

comes nowhere near the rhetorical power of brilliant Messalla,

nor does he know as much as Aulus Cascellius; still,

he has a certain value; that poets should be only average

is a privilege never conceded by men, gods, or bookshops.

When, at a smart dinner, the orchestra’s out of tune,

or the scent is heavy, or poppyseeds come in Sardinian honey,

we take it amiss; for the meal could have been served without them.

It’s the same with a poem, whose raison d’être is to please the mind;

as soon as it misses the top level, it sinks to the bottom.

A man who is hopeless at field events avoids the equipment,

keeping his ignorant hands off shot, discus and javelin,

for fear of giving the crowds of spectators a free laugh.

The fellow who is useless at writing poetry still attempts it.

Why not? He’s free, and so was his father; his fortune is rated

at the sum required of a knight; and his heart’s in the right place!

You will compose and complete nothing against the grain

(you have too much sense and taste). If you do write something later,

be sure to read it aloud to the critic Tarpa, and also

to your father and me. Then hold it back ‘till the ninth year’,

keeping your jotter inside the house. You can always delete

what hasn’t been published; a word let loose is gone for ever.

 

[John Davie, 2011, Oxford World’s Classics]

Poets aim either to confer benefit or to give pleasure, or to say things which are at once both pleasing and helpful to life. Whatever instruction you pass on, be sure to be brief, so that with speed the mind may grasp it receptively and retain it faithfully. Everything superfluous flows away from a mind that is full to the brim. Fictions intended to give pleasure should approximate to the truth, so that a play should not ask for credence in whatever it wants, or a living child be pulled out of Lamia’s belly, after she has had dinner. The centuries of elders chase off the stage all that is not of solid worth, while the haughty Ramnes have no time for poems lacking in charm: the writer who blends the profitable with the agreeable wins every vote, by charming and instructing the reader at the same time. This is the book that makes money for the Sosii; this the one that both crosses the sea and extends a writer’s life to a distant day, making him famous.

There are, however, faults which we may wish to countenance; for the string does not always produce the sound which hand and heart intend, and often returns a sharp when a flat is called for; the bow will not always strike whatever target it threatens. But when the beauties in a poem are more numerous, I, for one, shall not be offended by a few blemishes, which either carelessness has let fall on the page or human nature has taken insufficient care to avoid. What, then, do we conclude? As a copying clerk is not forgiven if he persists in making the same mistake, however many warnings he receives, as a lyre-player invites mockery if he constantly gets it wrong with the same string, so, I think, the poet who often shirks his work becomes another Choerilus, whose two or three good lines make me laugh with surprise; yet I also take it amiss whenever the excellent Homer dozes off; but it is permissible that sleep should steal up on a work of such length.

Poetry is like painting: one picture attracts you more, the nearer you stand, another, the farther away. One favours shade, another will wish to be seen in the light, showing no fear of the critic’s sharp insight; one gave you pleasure on a single occasion, another will continue doing so, though you turn back to it ten times.

Young sir whose age is greater, although you have judgement in your own right and have a father’s words to train you in the right thoughts, take up and keep in your heart what I say to you now, that only certain pursuits are, by rights, permitted to be average and of middling quality. The expert in points of law or pleader of cases who does not possess the excellence of the eloquent Messalla or know as much as Aulus Cascellius yet has his value: but that poets should be middle of the road, is something not permitted by gods, men or billboards. As at agreeable dinner-parties, music played out of tune, scented ointment that is thick and poppy-seeds coated with Sardinian honey give offence, since the meal could proceed without these things, so a poem whose birth and devising are for the pleasure of the soul, if it falls short of the highest standard, even by a little, sinks to the bottom.

Someone who cannot play games keeps away from the weapons of the Campus, and having no skill with ball, discus, or hoop, he keeps himself to himself, in case the tricky packed ring of spectators breaks into unrestrained laughter: but someone who doesn’t know how dares to fashion verse. Why not? He’s free, indeed freeborn, and what’s more, he’s assessed at the property qualification of a knight, and there’s no misdemeanour on his record to detract from his respectability.

You, I’m sure, will say nothing and do nothing without Minerva’s approval: such is your judgement, such your intelligence. Yet if you do write anything in the future, let it come to the ears of the critical Maecius, or your father’s, or my own, and let it be kept back for nine years, keeping your parchment sheets inside the house. You will be at liberty to destroy what you have not published; a word, once uttered, does not know how to return.         

 

Lines 408–476[4]

 

[Latin original, ed. H. R. Fairclough, Loeb Classical Library 194, 1926]

Natura fieret laudabile carmen an arte,

quaesitum est: ego nec studium sine divite vena,

nec rude quid prosit video ingenium: alterius sic

altera poscit opem res et coniurat amice.

qui studet optatam cursu contingere metam,

multa tulit fecitque puer, sudavit et alsit,

abstinuit Venere et vino; qui Pythia cantat

tibicen, didicit prius extimuitque magistrum.

nunc satis est dixisse: “ego mira poemata pango;

occupet extremum scabies; mihi turpe relinqui est

et quod non didici sane nescire fateri.”

Ut praeco, ad merces turbam qui cogit emendas,

adsentatores iubet ad lucrum ire poeta

dives agris, dives positis in faenore nummis.

si vero est, unctum qui recte ponere possit

et spondere levi pro paupere et eripere atris

litibus implicitum, mirabor, si sciet internoscere

mendacem verumque beatus amicum.

tu seu donaris seu quid donare voles cui,

nolito ad versus tibi factos ducere plenum

laetitiae: clamabit enim “pulchre! bene! recte!”

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

hábeat scabiem quísquis ad me vénerit novíssimus.

et torquere mero, quem perspexisse laborent,

an sit amicitia dignus: si carmina condes,

numquam te fallent animi sub volpe latentes.

Quintilio si quid recitares, “corrige, sodes,

hoc,” aiebat, “et hoc.” melius te posse negares

bis terque expertum frustra, delere iubebat

et male tornatos incudi reddere versus.

si defendere delictum quam vertere malles,

nullum ultra verbum aut operam insumebat inanem,

quin sine rivali teque et tua solus amares.

vir bonus et prudens versus reprehendet inertis,

culpabit duros, incomptis allinet atrum

transverso calamo signum, ambitiosa recidet

ornamenta, parum claris lucem dare coget,

arguet ambigue dictum, mutanda notabit,

fiet Aristarchus; nec dicet: “cur ego amicum

offendam in nugis?” hae nugae seria ducent

in mala derisum semel exceptumque sinistre.

Ut mala quem scabies aut morbus regius urget

aut fanaticus error et iracunda Diana,

vesanum tetigisse timent fugientque poëtam

qui sapiunt; agitant pueri incautique sequuntur.

hic, dum sublimis versus ructatur et errat,

si veluti merulis intentus decidit auceps

in puteum foveamve, licet “succurrite” longum

clamet “io cives!” non sit qui tollere curet.

si curet quis opem ferre et demittere funem,

“qui scis, an prudens huc se deiecerit atque

servari nolit?” dicam, Siculique poetae

narrabo interitum. deus immortalis haberi

dum cupit Empedocles, ardentem frigidus Aetnam

insiluit. sit ius liceatque perire poetis:

invitum qui servat, idem facit occidenti.

nec semel hoc fecit, nec, si retractus erit, iam

fiet homo et ponet famosae mortis amorem.

nec satis apparet, cur versus factitet, utrum

minxerit in patrios cineres, an triste bidental

moverit incestus: certe furit, ac velut ursus,

obiectos4 caveae valuit si frangere clatros,

indoctum doctumque fugat recitator acerbus;

quem vero arripuit, tenet occiditque legendo,

non missura cutem, nisi plena cruoris, hirudo.

 

[Wentworth Dillon, Earl of Roscommon, 1680, Everyman Library, 1911]

Some think that poets may be form’d by art,

Others maintain, that nature makes them so;

I neither see what art without a vein,

Nor wit without the help of art can do,

But mutually they need each other’s aid.

He that intends to gain th’ Olympic prize

Must use himself to hunger, heat, and cold,

Take leave of wine, and the soft joys of love;

And no musician dares pretend to skill,

Without a great expense of time and pains;

But ev’ry little busy scribbler now

Swells with the praises which he gives himself;

And taking sanctuary in the crowd,

Brags of his impudence, and scorns to mend.

A wealthy poet takes more pains to hire

A flatt'ring audience than poor tradesmen do

To persuade customers to buy their goods.

‘Tis hard to find a man of great estate,

That can distinguish flatterers from friends.

Never delude yourself, nor read your book

Before a brib’d and fawning auditor;

For he'll commend and feign an ecstasy,

Grow pale or weep, do anything to please;

True friends appear less mov'd than counterfeit;

As men that truly grieve at funerals

Are not so loud, as those that cry for hire.

Wise were the kings, who never chose a friend

‘Till with full cups they had unmask’d his soul,

And seen the bottom of his deepest thoughts;

You cannot arm yourself with too much care

Against the smiles of a designing knave.

Quintilius (if his advice were ask’d)

Would freely tell you what you should correct,

Or (if you could not) bid you blot it out,

And with more care supply the vacancy;

But if he found you fond, and obstinate,

(And apter to defend than mend your faults)

With silence leave you to admire yourself,

And without rival hug your darling book.

The prudent care of an impartial friend

Will give you notice of each idle line,

Shew what sounds harsh, and what wants ornament,

Or where it is too lavishly bestow’d;

Make you explain all that he finds obscure,

And with a strict inquiry mark your faults;

Nor for these trifles fear to lose your love;

Those things which now seem frivolous and slight,

Will be of serious consequence to you,

When they have made you once ridiculous.

A mad dog's foam, th’ infection of the plague,

And all the judgments of the angry Gods,

We are not all more needfully to shun,

Than poetasters in their raging fits,

Follow’d and pointed at by fools and boys,

But dreaded and proscrib’d by men of sense:

If (in the raving of a frantic muse)

And minding more his verses than his way,

Any of these should drop into a well,

Tho’ he might burst his lungs to call for help,

No creature would assist or pity him,

But seem to think he fell on purpose in.

Hear how an old Sicilian poet dy’d;

Empedocles, mad to be thought a god,

In a cold fit leap’d into Aetna's flames.

Give poets leave to make themselves away,

Why should it be a greater sin to kill,

Than to keep men alive against their will?

Nor was this chance, but a delib’rate choice;

For if Empedocles were now reviv’d,

He would be at his frolic once again,

And his pretensions to divinity:

Tis hard to say whether for sacrilege,

Or incest, or some more unheard of crime,

The rhyming fiend is sent into these men;

But they are all most visibly possess’d,

And like a baited bear, when he breaks loose,

Without distinction seize on all they meet;

None ever scap’d that came within their reach,

Sticking, like leeches, 'till they burst with blood,

Without remorse insatiably they read,

And never leave 'till they have read men dead.

 

[John Conington, 1874]

But here occurs a question some men start,

If good verse comes from nature or from art.

For me, I cannot see how native wit

Can e’er dispense with art, or art with it.

Set them to pull together, they’re agreed,

And each supplies what each is found to need.

The youth who suns for prizes wisely trains,

Bears cold and heat, is patient and abstains:

The flute-player at a festival, before

He plays in public, has to learn his lore.

Not so our bardlings: they come bouncing in –

“I’m your true poet: let them laugh that win:

Plague take the last! although I ne’er was taught,

Is that a cause for owning I know nought?”

As puffing auctioneers collect a throng,

Rich poets bribe false friends to hear their song:

Who can resist the lord of so much rent,

Of so much money at so much per cent.?

Is there a wight can give a grand regale,

Act as a poor man’s counsel or his bail?

Blest though he be, his wealth will cloud his view,

Nor suffer him to know false friends from true.

Don't ask a man whose feelings overflow

For kindness that you've shown or mean to show

To listen to your verse: each line you read,

He’ll cry, “Good! bravo! exquisite indeed!”

He’ll change his colour, let his eyes run o’er

With tears of joy, dance, beat upon the floor.

Hired mourners at a funeral say and do

A little more than they whose grief is true:

‘Tis just so here: false flattery displays

More show of sympathy than honest praise.

‘Tis said when kings a would-be friend will try,

With wine they rack him and with bumpers ply:

If you write poems, look beyond the skin

Of the smooth fox, and search the heart within.

Read verses to Quintilius, he would say,

“I don’t like this and that: improve it, pray:”

Tell him you found it hopeless to correct;

You’d tried it twice or thrice without effect:

He’d calmly bid you make the three times four,

And take the unlicked cub in hand once more.

But if you chose to vindicate the crime,

Not mend it, he would waste no further time,

But let you live, untroubled by advice,

Sole tenant of your own fool’s paradise.

A wise and faithful counsellor will blame

Weak verses, note the rough, condemn the lame,

Retrench luxuriance, make obscureness plain,

Cross-question this, bid that be writ again:

A second Aristarch, he will not ask,

“Why for such trifles take my friend to task?”

Such trifles bring to serious grief ere long

A hapless bard, once flattered and led wrong.

See the mad poet! never wight, though sick

Of itch or jaundice, moon-struck, fanatic,

Was half so dangerous: men whose mind is sound

Avoid him; fools pursue him, children hound.

Suppose, while spluttering verses, head on high,

Like fowler watching blackbirds in the sky,

He falls into a pit; though loud he shout

“Help, neighbours, help!” let no man pull him out:

Should some one seem disposed a rope to fling,

I will strike in with, “Pray do no such thing:

I’ll warrant you he meant it,” and relate

His brother bard Empedocles’s fate,

Who, wishing to be thought a god, poor fool,

Leapt down hot Ætna’s crater, calm and cool.

“Leave poets free to perish as they will:

Save them by violence, you as good as kill.

‘Tis not his first attempt: if saved to-day,

He’s sure to die in some outrageous way.

Beside, none knows the reason why this curse

Was sent on him, this love of making verse,

By what offence heaven’s anger he incurred,

A grave defiled, a sacred boundary stirred:

So much is plain, he’s mad: like bear that beats

His prison down and ranges through the streets,

This terrible reciter puts to flight

The learned and unlearned left and right:

Let him catch one, he keeps him till he kills,

As leeches stick till they have sucked their fills.”

 

[H. Rushton Fairclough, 1926, rev. 1929, Loeb Classical Library]

Often it is asked whether a praiseworthy poem be due to Nature or to art. For my part, I do not see of what avail is either study, when not enriched by Nature’s vein, or native wit, if untrained; so truly does each claim the other’s aid, and make with it a friendly league. He who in the race-course craves to reach the longed-for goal, has borne much and done much as a boy, has sweated and shivered, has kept aloof from wine and women. The flautist who plays at the Pythian games, has first learned his lessons and been in awe of a master. To-day ’tis enough to say: “I fashion wondrous poems: the devil take the hindmost! ’Tis unseemly for me to be left behind, and to confess that I really do not know what I have never learned.”

Like the crier, who gathers a crowd to the auction of his wares, so the poet bids flatterers flock to the call of gain, if he is rich in lands, and rich in moneys put out at interest. But if he be one who can fitly serve a dainty dinner, and be surety for a poor man of little credit, or can rescue one entangled in gloomy suits-at-law, I shall wonder if the happy fellow will be able to distinguish between a false and a true friend. And you, if you have given or mean to give a present to anyone, do not bring him, in the fulness of his joy, to hear verses you have written. For he will call out “Fine! good! perfect!” He will change colour over them; he will even distil the dew from his friendly eyes, he will dance and thump the ground with his foot. As hired mourners at a funeral say and do almost more than those who grieve at heart, so the man who mocks is more moved than the true admirer. Kings, we are told, ply with many a bumper and test with wine the man they are anxious to see through, whether he be worthy of their friendship. If you mean to fashion verses, never let the intent that lurks beneath the fox ensnare you.

If you ever read aught to Quintilius, he would say: “Pray correct this and this.” If, after two or three vain trials, you said you could not do better, he would bid you blot it out, and return the ill-shaped verses to the anvil. If you preferred defending your mistake to amending it, he would waste not a word more, would spend no fruitless toil, to prevent your loving yourself and your work alone without a rival. An honest and sensible man will censure lifeless lines, he will find fault with harsh ones; if they are graceless, he will draw his pen across and smear them with a black stroke; he will cut away pretentious ornament; he will force you to flood the obscure with light, will convict the doubtful phrase, will mark what should be changed, will prove an Aristarchus. He will not say, “Why should I give offence to a friend about trifles?” These trifles will bring that friend into serious trouble, if once he has been laughed down and given an unlucky reception.

As when the accursed itch plagues a man, or the disease of kings, or a fit of frenzy and Diana’s wrath, so men of sense fear to touch a crazy poet and run away; children tease and pursue him rashly. He, with head upraised, splutters verses and off he strays; then if, like a fowler with his eyes upon blackbirds, he fall into a well or pit, despite his far-reaching cry, “Help, O fellow-citizens!” not a soul will care to pull him out. And if one should care to lend aid and let down a rope, “How do you know,” I’ll say, “but that he threw himself in on purpose, and does not wish to be saved?” and I’ll tell the tale of the Sicilian poet’s end. Empedocles, eager to be thought a god immortal, coolly leapt into burning Aetna. Let poets have the right and power to destroy themselves. Who saves a man against his will does the same as murder him. Not for the first time has he done this, nor if he is pulled out will he at once become a human being and lay aside his craving for a notable death. Nor is it very clear how he comes to be a verse-monger. Has he defiled ancestral ashes or in sacrilege disturbed a hallowed plot? At any rate he is mad, and, like a bear, if he has had strength to break the confining bars of his cage, he puts learned and unlearned alike to flight by the scourge of his recitals. If he catches a man, he holds him fast and reads him to death – a leech that will not let go the skin, till gorged with blood.

 

[Niall Rudd, 1979, rev. 1987, 1997 & 2005, Penguin Classics]

Is it a gift or a craft that makes outstanding poetry?

I fail, myself, to see the good either of study

without a spark of genius or of untutored talent.

Each requires the other’s help in a common cause.

The Olympic athlete who strains to breast the finishing tape

worked and suffered a lot as a boy, sweating and freezing,

leaving wine and women alone. The piper competing

at Delphi was once a learner and stood in awe of his teacher.

Is it enough to proclaim ‘I’m a marvellous poet!

The last one home is a cissy; I hate to lag behind

or admit I’m utterly ignorant of something I never learnt’?

As an auctioneer attracts a crowd to bid for his goods,

a poet with large estates and large sums invested

encourages toadies to come and obtain something for nothing.

If he’s also the sort who knows how to serve delicious dinners,

who will sponsor a shifty and penniless client or come to his rescue

when he’s up to his neck in a lawsuit, then I’ll be very surprised

if the lucky fellow can tell a true friend from a sham.

When you have given someone a present, or plan to do so,

and he’s pleased and excited, never invite him to hear any verses

you have written. He’ll shout ‘Fine! Lovely! Oh yes!’

He will turn pale at this, at that he will squeeze a tear

from his loyal eyes; he will jump to his feet and stamp the ground.

Just as those who are hired to come and wail at a funeral

say and do, if anything, more than the truly bereaved,

so the fake is more visibly moved than the real admirer.

When kings are keen to examine a man and see if he merits

their trust, we are told, they make him submit to the test of wine,

plying him with a succession of glasses. So if you compose,

make sure you are not deceived by the fox’s hidden malice.

When you read a piece to Quintilius he’d say ‘Now you shouldn’t you alter

that and that? If you swore you had tried again and again

but couldn’t do any better, he’d tell you to rub it out

and to put the lines which were badly finished back on the anvil.

If, instead of removing the fault, you chose to defend it,

he wouldn’t waste another word or lift a finger

to stop you loving yourself and your work without a rival.

An honest and sensible man will fault lines that are feeble,

condemn the clumsy, proscribe with a black stroke of the pen

those which haven’t been trimmed, prune pretentious adornment,

where a place is rather dark insist that light be admitted,

detect ambiguous expressions, and mark what ought to be changed.

He’ll be a new Aristarchus; nor will he say ‘Why should I

annoy a friend over trifles?’ For such ‘trifles’ will lead

to serious trouble once he is greeted with laughter and hisses.

As with the man who suffers from a skin disease or jaundice

or religious frenzy caused by the lunar goddess’s anger,

sensible people are wary of touching the crazy poet

and keep their distance; children unwisely follow and tease him.

Away he goes, head in the air, spouting his verses;

and if, like a fowler watching a bird, he happens to tumble

into a pit or a well, however long he may holler

‘Somebody! Help!’ no one will bother to pull him out.

If anyone does bring help and drops him down a rope,

‘How do you know,’ I’ll say, ‘he didn’t throw himself in

on purpose, and doesn’t want to be left there?’ I’ll add the tale

of the poet of Sicily’s death – how Empedocles, eager to join

the immortals, leaped into Etna’s inferno (thus catching fire

for the first time). Dying is a poet’s right and privilege.

To save him against his will is tantamount to murder.

He’s done it before; and it’s not as if, when you hauled him up,

he’d become human and cease to yearn for a notable death.

One wonders why he persists in writing poetry. Is it

a judgement for pissing on his father’s ashes, or has he profaned

a gruesome place where lightning has struck? He’s certainly mad,

and like a bear that has managed to smash the bars of its cage

he scatters everyone, cultured or not, by the threat of reciting.

For he firmly grips the person he catches, and reads him to death.

The leech never lets go the skin till he’s full of blood.                     

 

[John Davie, 2011, Oxford World’s Classics]

It is often asked whether nature or art makes a poem praiseworthy: my own view is there is no good in study unaccompanied by a rich vein of natural ability or in talent that is untrained; so true is it that the one demands the help of the other and forms with it a friendly pact. The athlete who is eager to reach the longed-for finishing-post has endured and done a great deal in his young days, sweating and shivering, denying himself wine and women: the piper who plays the Pythian piece has first of all learned his skill and been in dread of a teacher. These days it’s enough for someone to say, ‘I compose wonderful poems: devil take the hindmost: what brings me disgrace is being left behind and admitting that I simply don’t know what I never learned.’

Like an auctioneer, who gathers a crowd to buy his wares, the poet invites yes-men to answer the call of profit, if he is rich in land and rich in money put out at interest. But if he is one who can properly serve up a fine dinner, and stand surety for an impoverished client not to be trusted, and rescue another caught up in the toils of a murky lawsuit, I’ll be surprised if the lucky fellow will know how to tell a false and a true friend apart. Now, in your case, whether you have given someone a gift or wish to give one, be sure not to bring him in the fullness of his joy to listen to verses you have written: for he will exclaim ‘Beautiful! Good! Perfect!’ His cheeks will lose their colour over these pieces, he will even distil teardrops from his sympathetic eyes, he will dance and thump the ground with his foot.

As the words and actions of hired mourners at the funeral express almost more than those whose tears come from the heart, so your servile mocker shows more emotion than the one who is genuine in his praise. They say that kings, if anxious to see into a man’s heart to judge if he deserves their friendship, ply him with many cups of wine, putting him to that ordeal: if you mean to compose poetry, be sure that you are never taken in by the intent that lies concealed inside the fox.

If ever anyone read any of his work to Quintilius, he would say, ‘Put this right, please, and this’; if you said, after trying two or three times without success, that you couldn’t do any better, he would tell you to blot them out and to return the badly turned verses to the anvil. If you preferred to defend the fault instead of altering it, he would expend not one word more, not a single effort, to stop you loving yourself and your work alone without a rival. A man of honesty and good sense will criticize verses that lack energy, he will find fault with those that are harsh, he will make a horizontal stroke with his pen and smear a black sign opposite those that lack refinement, he will prune back pretentious ornamentation and force you to admit light to what is not clear enough, he will show up what has been expressed ambiguously, he will alter what requires to be changed, he will become an Aristarchus: he will not say, ‘Why should I give offence to a friend when it is a matter of trifles?’ These trifles will bring a friend into serious difficulties when once he has been mocked and received unfavourably.

As when a man is plagued by the accursed scab or the king’s ailment or a fit of madness caused by Diana’s anger, so men of sense are afraid of coming into contact with a crazy poet and take to their heels: children tease and chase him, knowing no better. He will head in the air spouts verses and wanders on his way, but if, like some fowler intent on catching blackbirds, he falls into a well or a pit, then, however long he cries out, ‘Hey, fellow citizens, come and help!’, there wouldn’t be anyone to show interest in pulling him up. Should anyone be concerned to bring help and lower a rope, my comment would be, ‘How do you know he didn’t throw himself in deliberately and has no wish to be saved?’ and I’d tell the story of the Sicilian poet’s death. Empedocles, in his eagerness to be regarded as an immortal god, leapt in cold blood into the hot glow of Etna. Let poets have the right and power to die in this manner. He who saves a man’s life when he wants to die is doing the same as a murderer. It isn’t the first time that he has acted like this, and, if he is pulled out, he won’t immediately become a human being and abandon his desire for a famous death. It isn’t very clear either what has caused his persistence in composing verses: did he commit sacrilege by pissing on top of his father’s ashes or by disturbing some consecrated piece of ground? He has certainly lost his wits, and like a bear that has succeeded in breaking the bars set across its cage, he puts the lot of them to flight, learned and unlearned alike, with his remorseless recitations; indeed the man he catches he holds fast in a great hug and reads him to death, a leech that will not leave the skin alone until it has gorged itself on blood.  

 

---

[1] Cf. Byron, Hints from Horace (1811), 1–104

[2] Cf. Byron, Hints from Horace (1811), 213–290

[3] Cf. Byron, Hints from Horace (1811), 531–662

[4] Cf. Byron, Hints from Horace (1811), 697–844