Horace His arte of Poetrie, Epistles, and Satyrs Englished ::

Hee Defendeth Himselfe, againste those vvho had reported him to haue bene slaunderouse, sharpe and corrosiue: He toucheth Lusilius Not to condemne his doings, but to haue them amended Heprofesseth to speake against no man, vpon superfluitie or disease of the braine, but vppon a mere francknesse, and liberty of the minde: specially, he rebuketh them, whiche will kycke and resiste when they should be cured.

The Poet Aristophanes
Eupolis, and Cratine,
And auncients moe, whose interludes
are saust with sayings fine,
If any person were mislyude
in theft, or leachers lore,
Or wher a roisting quareller,
they woulde display him sore,
Hence, Lusill boroud al his vaine,
those presidents he tooke,
The matter sharpe, the feete but chaungde,
the forme ful sleke did looke.
In deede, the sence was too to tarte,
within an howers space,
Two hundreth verses he would make,
thought he, a gift of grace.
And would not moue his foote with al.
But huddle he would roule,
To halfe might wel bene scummed of,
an ydle chatting soule.
A milke sop long to pen a woorke,
much more to pen it wel,
The length is not material,
the scapes he must expell.

Crispinus, that greate length louer
with finger doth me call,
And darreins combats, if I dare:
should Crispine me appall?
Nay, thers my gloue geue velom here,
geue iudges, tyme, and place,
Lets see which one can more indite,
and wyth a better grace.
Well haue the godds appointed me,
of no corragious witte,
And speakinge seelde that I ne shoulde,
confounde the foole with it.
But thou (syr Crispine) in thy mynde,
assembles fansies ofte,
As bellowes sup and beltch out wyndes,
to make the yron softe.
O lerne not so to puffe and blowe,
saincte Fannie followe well,
That thou bestowde in surlye tombe

Fannie an arche Asse or blockheade in vvhose memoriall vvas erected a block.

thy statues here may dwell.
As for my woorkes obliuion
will raze them out of minde:
A fewe or none that will, or dare
behoulde them can I fynde.
Wote you not why? corrosyue style,
is corsey to the eye.
They dreame a thing that blamed here,
their counterfette should lye.
They dreame a truth for fynde me one,
amongste the sonnes of men:
But loue of goods, or loue of rule,
doth fonde him now and then.
Sum lyue catesnd in Cupids chaines,
and sum loue blasinge golde,
And sum a sum of syluer whyte,
or curraunte mettall wolde.

Sume kepe exchaunge from Easte, to Weste,
and sore vpon the Seas:
Toste and retoste, (lyke wherlwynd duste
ekynge the yr owne disease
For mainteyn a unce of gotten stocke,
or els to make it more.
All these do stande in awe of rymes,
and hate the Poets sore.
The Poets proyne, beware (say they)
that they may ieste their fill,
They spare no speache, they spare no frende,
fooles lauishe, and to ill.
And if their toyes in letters lymde
be printed once in booke:
Then all the worlde muste take the vewe,
and all sortes on them looke.
If this be true: then harke agayne,
I am no Poet, I.
No Poet such as is discryude,
am not I so? and why?
Not hea Poet, that can make
an haltinge hudlynge verse:
Nor he in paltrye daylie talke
that can his tale reherse.
Him Poet dub, whose wit is sharpe,
whose mynde doth mounte on hye,
Whose throat is shyrle in trumpet wyse,
to coutche mennes acts in skye.
Therfore demaunde hath once bene made,
if comedies myghte be
A poecye, sythence in them
the spirit puffes not free.
No gourgiouse sounde in worde or sence,
saue that in verse it runs:
From prose yt differs but by foote,
but (lo) the father burns

In peltinge chafe, for that his sonne
on wantons madded is,
And leaues a spouse of noble dowre,
this breedes a tempest, this.
And that with torch n twylightinge
he treades the romye stretes,
How say you haue not commodies
theyr vigors, and their spreetes.
Old Pomponie, if he had lyude,
what stirre now would he kepe,

Pomponius an impacient nygarde.

(thinge comicall) because his sonne,
is drent in debt so depe?
And what thoughe father Pomponie
should grate his gaule in twaine,
Affection makes no poecie,
but lustie, loftye vayne.
Its not inough to pen a verse,
in vernishde wordes and pure,
Eche worde alone must haue his sounde,
and seme not to demure.
Those simple wordes playmakers vse,
those vse Lusill and I.
So nyse, so neate, so numberouse.
that alls not worth a flye.
Disorder but the glydinge gate,
the wordes appeareth tame,
No glose there is of maiestie,
not such as in this same.
Foule moodi Mars broke brasen bars
bare boulstred boulwarkes back.
These wordes transposde, yet eche one hath
of Poesye a smacke:
And thus much now, an other tyme
if rymes allowde may be.
But now, why should this kynde of style,
be so suspect in me.

Promoters seeke, and pere eche wher,
and vse to woorke much woe,
Accusing and molesting men,
whersoeuer they do goe,
Feared, and much adrad of theues
and losels loose of life,
Not fearde of those that pilfer not,
nor broch no brabling strife.
Admit thou wart a naughtie packe,

Birrus and Cestas, for al naughtie packes.

as diuers other be,
I am not one that doth promote,
why art thou fraide of me?
My verses geue no gase from walls,
ne yet in tauernes fly,
Not Tigell nor such alegunners
my workes do ouerprye.
I shew them but to very frendes,
and at their great request:
Not to eche hobb, nor euery wher.
sum be that thincke it best,
Their quaynt deuises to proclame,
in market, fayre, and marte:
To reade them graue, & sounde them braue,
and to vnfoulde their arte.
Such pleasure haue pride practisers,
who do it not to mende,
Nor learne a decencie in thinges,
for no such honest ende.
A mallipert a merchaunte I
of malice (thou wilt say)
I vse this talke: whence issude this,
gainst me that thou dost lay?
Or which of my companions
hath this instilde to the?
Who pincheth at his frend, not prest,
or if he burned be,

Doth not alleuyate his blame,
who scoffes to make men smyle,
Who plyes for to be plausible,
and doth his flowtinge file,
Who can inuente things neuer mente,
who nothinge can conceale:
Such one is naughtes, beware of him,
and naughte to him reueale.
Sumtymes, at table thou shalte see
a dosen more or lesse,
Eche seekynge eche ortwharte the thums
with tauntes, and tearmes to dresse.
Their hoste they spare, for manner sake,
till Bacchus tyde be vp:
Then out muste al, mine hoste, myne hoste
is scande at euery cup.
Rayling thou hates, yet doste thou coumpte
raylers but mery men,
Good felows, francke, and free of speache:
If I haue iested then,
At Rufills tast Gorgonies smel,
(two paragons of pryde)
I am no freatinge ghoste therefore,
nor slaundrouse, all things tryde.
If chaunce we talke of Petills pranckes
how he from tower stole,
A massye peece of bullion golde,
(to twyne thy tale in hole)
Thou shaps it thus: (as is thy trade)
Petille, I know him well,
I haue sum cause to speake for him,
for he and I did dwell
Of childerne little in one house,
my fellow, and my frende,
Much hath he done for me at times,
I founde him euer kynde.

And yet I maruayle how he coulde
rub out this trespasse so.

Logille a fish vvhyt vvithout and black vvithin.

(Lo) here a craftye postles parte,
loe here a Logille lo
Ha, false malignaunte wreaking minde,
this vyce I do expell.
As cancre freate, from hearte and booke,
moste true it is I tell,
For certaintie I lyke it not,
then licence me the more,
To gesse aloufe, not hard to scratche
but clawe about the sore.
My father, he did vsuallie,
dehorte me from this sin,
By manifolde examples, which,
through talke he woulde bringe in.
Still warning me not to ingrate,
nor speke not much to lyue,

Olde Horace his talke.

But thryftylye, contentedly
enioye that he would geue.

Albie and Barns Scatter gooddes.

Maiste thou not see younge Albie now
how he is cumde to naughte,
Backbyting Bar most beggerlike?
Ingrayle them in thy thoughte.
Two presidents, that thou ne shouldste
thy fathers good mispende.
But when he woulde dehorte from loue,
his talke was to this ende.

Sectan wanton and amourouse.

Dissemblable to Sectans sorte,
no brothelmonger be,

So Trebon.

Kepe wedlocke chaste, let Trebons name
be warninge vnto thee.
The wyse men with their moralls sage,
by reason coulde the guide,
Suffyseth me that I can geue,
such counsayle as I tryde.

And if my sawes in time take place,
for teacher haste thou none,
When groweth, and yeres shal make the man,
youthes shipwracke will be gone.
Thus woulde he turne my plyant youth,
and what he wild in worde,
For patterne he woulde bid me marke,
The lyfe of sum good Lorde.
So, if he would inhibite me,
that is no godly deede
My sonne (sayth he): and here vpon,
sum foule reporte will breede.
For euen like as when neigbours dye,
the sickmans chaunging luste,
For feare doth stay, and is contente,
to cum to dyet iuste:
So skillesse youth to see defame
of others, may take heede,
And slip not into vyces snare,
nor listen to her reede.
Hereby I stayed my tempting age,
and did no haynouse sin
In easye crymes, and veniall
I haue bene trapped in.
And these, (no doubte) wil wayne a waye
and ebb, as they did ryse,
By helpe of yeares, by frendes reproofe
and by myne owne aduyce.
As I lye in my bed sumtymes,
on matters thus I muse,
Thrifte would do thus, righte dothe diswade
that I shoulde thus me vse.
Thus coulde I make my chearfull frendes:
this was a foolishe parte:
Was I so fondlye ouerseene?
a foole sone flings his carte,

Thus do I mutter in my mynde,
Ere whyle at cardes I play,
(A faulte, amongste the meaner faultes)
forgeue me, Thou saieste nay.
Then Poets all preaz on preas on
helpe at a pinche: no dreede,
We be so ryotouse a route;

The multitude cannot be led from their fancies, no not for truthes sake,

who sayes but we shall speede?
As Iewes do measure all by nyghte
that none dare them forsake:
So we by number will men force,
in league with vs to take.

University of Virginia Library

The fourth satyre [of Horace].