Id. Lib. 8. Ep. 3 — Ad Musam

It was enough five, six, seven Books to fill,
Yea and too much; why, Muse, dost scrible still?
Cease, and be modest. Fame no farther grace
Can add; My Book's worn out in every place.
When raz'd Messalla's Monumentals must
Lye with Licinus's lofty Tomb in dust
I shall be read, and Travellors that come
Transport my Verses to their Father's home.
Thus I had once resolv'd (Her Clothes, and Head
Besmear'd with Ointment) when Thalia said,
Canst thou, Ungratefull, thus renounce thy Rhime.
Tell me; how would'st thou spend thy Vacant time.
To Tragick buskins would'st thy Sock transfer,
And in Heroick Verse sing bloudy War?
That tyrannous Pedants with awfull voice
May terrify Old Men, Virgins, and Boys:
Let rigid Antiquaries such things write,
Who by a blinking Lamp consume the Night,
With Roman air touch up thy Poems Dress,
That th' Age may read its manners, and confess:
Thou'lt find thou may'st with trifling Subjects play,
Until their Trumpets to thy Reed give way.