would not feel restrained as they appliedtheir brand. Lucilius wholly relied
on them; he'd copy them but rearrange
their feet and rhythms as the only change.10
He was keen-witted and a keen-nosed guy,
though crude when giving poetry a try.
This was his flaw: convinced it was a feat,
he'd stand upon one foot as he'd complete
two hundred lines of verse in just one hour.15
During this slog, you'd wish you had the power
of correcting what he was reciting.
He was a gasbag, lazy in his writing
(writing competently, anyway);
as for his mounds of verse, I am blasé.20
Look! Here's Crispinus sneaking up to tease
me with a “deal”:
“Go grab your tablets, please,
and I will grab mine. Let's arrange a place,
a time, and referees, and have a race
to see who writes the most!”
The gods were kind25
in shaping me a poor and puny mind,
which rarely has much insight to express,
but as for you, go chase your happiness
and imitate the air enclosed within
a bellows struggling against goat-skin30
until the iron softens in the fire!
How fortunate is Fannius, supplier
of his own books and busts, while what I write
goes unread, and I'm frightened to recite
in public for this reason: with my style35
there are some people who will barely smile
since nearly everyone deserves some scorn. Pick someone from a crowd! He'll be forlorn from greediness or failures in his life. This fellow's lusting for another's wife—40 that guy for boys. The glint of silver captures yet another fellow; bronze enraptures Albius. Another's deals are done from distant regions of the rising sun to places heated by its evening rays.45 Indeed, he's carried headlong through hard days just like a whirlwind's dust, afraid to lose his capital or profits he pursues. This bunch is stupefied by verse, and scorns the poets: “He has hay upon his horns!50 Stand back!” If he stirs laughter, he won't spare himself or friends, and he'll be thrilled to share whatever he has scribbled on his sheets with everybody beating their retreats from a hot oven or a water trough,55 including crones and slaveboys! Don't race off! Come listen to a bit of my reply: to start with, I do not identify myself as a real poet. You'd opine that it is not enough to write a line60 in meter, and a person such as me who writes a chatty sort of poetry could never be regarded in your eyes as a real poet. You would recognize a person who is brilliant, with a mind65 that is far more inspired and the kind of voice that resonates. Based on that thought, some doubted whether comic verses ought to count as verse because they can't convey great force and energy in what they say70 or how they say it. Though arranged in feet (unlike prose) that incessantly repeat, it's still just prose. “And yet the father raves because his spendthrift son who madly craves his slutty girlfriend doesn't take a deal75 to marry for a dowry that's unreal, and shames himself by marching drunk through town with torches though the sun is not yet down.”
So would it be less acrimonious
with the late father of Pomponius?80
Accordingly, it is inadequate
to write a line that is inanimate,
which, if examined closely, would portray
a father's rage exactly the same way
it happened in that play. As for all this85
I'm writing now and what Lucilius
produced in times past, if you rearranged
the meter and the rhythm, and exchanged
our first and latest words “when dreaded War's
unlocking iron-studded gates and doors,”90
a poet's broken parts would not be found.
Enough discussion! Someday I'll expound
on whether this is proper verse; I'll turn
for now to asking whether your concern
should be perceived as having any force.95
With pamphlets in their hands and badly hoarse,
fierce Sulcius and Caprius police
the streets so frightened thugs will keep the peace,
but anyone at all whose hands were clean
and led a life of virtue could demean100
the two of them. If, hypothetically,
you were to take on the mentality
of thieves like Birrius and Caelius,
I never would become like Caprius
and Sulcius. Why should I be that scary?105
There is no shop or pillar that would carry
my small books so that Hermogenes
Tigellius and customers would seize
them with their sweaty paws, and I recite
just for my friends—and just to be polite—110
not anywhere in any public space.
While at the baths or at the marketplace,
a lot of people like to perorate;
enclosures let their voices resonate.
This pleases fools, not those who want to see115
some sentiment and musicality.
“You love inflicting pain,” the people say,
“and choose to do it in a vicious way.”
What causes you to hurl this allegation?
Which of my peers provides substantiation?120
The man who knocks a friend behind his back,
who stands aside when enemies attack,
who seeks huge laughs and status as a jokester,
