the Tuscan Sea, was roaring; with so great noise are viewed
the shows and contrivances, and foreign riches: with which the actor
being daubed over, as soon as he appears upon the stage, each right hand
encounters with the left. Has he said any thing yet? Nothing at all.
What then pleases? The cloth imitating [the color of] violets, with the
dye of Tarentum.

And, that you may not think I enviously praise those kinds of writing
which I decline undertaking, when others handle them well: that poet to
me seems able to walk upon an extended rope, who with his fictions
grieves my soul, enrages, soothes, fills it with false terrors, as an
enchanter; and sets me now in Thebes, now in Athens.

But of those too, who had rather trust themselves with a reader, than
bear the disdain of an haughty spectator, use a little care; if you
would fill with books [the library you have erected], an offering worthy
of Apollo, and add an incentive to the poets, that with greater
eagerness they may apply to verdant Helicon.

We poets, it is true (that I may hew down my own vineyards), often do
ourselves many mischiefs, when we present a work to you while thoughtful
or fatigued; when we are pained, if my friend has dared to find fault
with one line; when, unasked, we read over again passages already
repeated: when we lament that our labors do not appear, and war poems,
spun out in a fine thread: when we hope the thing will come to this,
that as soon as you are apprised we are penning verses, you will kindly
of yourself send for us and secure us from want, and oblige us to write.
But yet it is worth while to know, who shall be the priests of your
virtue signalized in war and at home, which is not to be trusted to an
unworthy poet. A favorite of king Alexander the Great was that
Choerilus, who to his uncouth and ill-formed verses owed the many pieces
he received of Philip's royal coin. But, as ink when touched leaves
behind it a mark and a blot, so writers as it were stain shining actions
with foul poetry. That same king, who prodigally bought so dear so
ridiculous a poem, by an edict forbade that any one beside Apelles
should paint him, or that any other than Lysippus should mold brass for
the likeness of the valiant Alexander. But should you call that faculty
of his, so delicate in discerning other arts, to [judge of] books and of
these gifts of the muses, you would swear he had been born in the gross
air of the Boeotians. Yet neither do Virgil