Sunt Quibus In Satira
Horace. Trebatius
Horace
Some think in satire I'm too keen, and press
The spirit of invective to excess:
Some call my verses nerveless: once begin,
A thousand such per day a man might spin.
Trebatius, pray advise me.
T. Wipe your pen.
H. What, never write a single line again?
T. That's what I mean.
H. 'Twould suit me, I protest, Exactly: but at nights I get no rest.
T. First rub yourself three times with oil all o'er,
Then swim the Tiber through from shore to shore,
Taking good care, as night draws on, to steep
Your brain in liquor: then you'll have your sleep.
Or, if you still have such an itch to write,
Sing of some moving incident of fight;
Sing of great Caasar's victories: a bard
Who works at that is sure to win reward.
Horace. Trebatius
Horace
Some think in satire I'm too keen, and press
The spirit of invective to excess:
Some call my verses nerveless: once begin,
A thousand such per day a man might spin.
Trebatius, pray advise me.
T. Wipe your pen.
H. What, never write a single line again?
T. That's what I mean.
H. 'Twould suit me, I protest, Exactly: but at nights I get no rest.
T. First rub yourself three times with oil all o'er,
Then swim the Tiber through from shore to shore,
Taking good care, as night draws on, to steep
Your brain in liquor: then you'll have your sleep.
Or, if you still have such an itch to write,
Sing of some moving incident of fight;
Sing of great Caasar's victories: a bard
Who works at that is sure to win reward.
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