Horace, Satires I.iv 33-44

omnes hi metuunt versus, odere poetas.
'faenum habet in cornu, longe fuge; dummodo risum
excutiat sibi, non hic cuiquam parcet amico
et quodcumque semel chartis inleverit, omnis
gestiet a furno redeuntis scire lacuque
et pueros et anus.' agedum pauca accipe contra.
primum ego me illorum, dederim quibus esse poetis,
excerpam numero: neque enim concludere versum
dixeris esse satis neque, siqui scribat uti nos
sermoni propiora, putes hunc esse poetam.
ingenium cui sit, cui mens divinior atque os
magna sonaturum, des nominis huius honorem.

They dread our verse and hate the poets. “Flee! 

Far! For there's hay tied to his horns. He won't 
spare any friend to raise a laugh. Whatever 
he scribbles down on paper, everyone 
must know about it.” Listen, let me say 
that first I’d cut my name from lists of poets,
just churning out a verse is not enough; 

someone like me, who writes in common language, 
doesn't deserve it. Give that name to one 
whose soul is honoured song divine of power.


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