Epistles 1.19 (Creech): Prisco Si Credis

MY Lord, if what Cratinus says be right,
Those Verses cannot live, those Lines delight,
Which Water drinkers Pen, in vain they Write.
For e're since Bacchus did in wild design,
With Fauns and Satyrs half-mad Poets joyn,
The Muses every morning smelt of Wine.
From Homer's praise his love of Wine appears,
And Ennius never dar'd to write of Wars
Till heated well, let sober dotards choose
The Plodding Law, but never tempt a Muse,
This Law once made, the Poets streight begin,
They drunk all night, all day they stunk of Wine:
Suppose a Man the coursest Gown should wear,
No Shoes, his Forehead rough, his look severe,
And Ape great Cato in his Form and Dress;
Must He his Vertues and his Mind express?
Whilst dull Hyarbit wish't, and vainly strove
To speak as smoothly, and as aptly move
As sweet Timagenes, and reach his Arts,
He overstrain'd himself, and broak his Parts:
Examples Vice can imitate deceive:
Should I by Chance, or a Disease be pale,
The Sots would drink their bloodless Cummin all.
Base Imitators, Slaves to others Wills,
How oft you move my frowns, how oft my smiles?

I trod new paths, to others feet unknown;
He that first ventures, leads the others on:
I first the Romans keen Iambicks taught,
In numerous smoothness, and in hight of thought,
I match't Archilocus, I show'd the Age
His numbers, but forbore his murdering rage.
But lest you say that I fall short of fame,
Because my Number's his, my Verse the same;
The Saphick sweetens all his bitter vain,
And grave Alcaick smooths his rougher strain:
The subject's different, different the Designs,
And tho thro all a vertuous freedom shines,
With no black Lines he daubs, no envious breath
Doth soil Mens same, or Rhyme a Spouse to death.
This Verse ne're heard by Latine Ears before,
I first discover'd from the Grecian store;
And this delights me now that I am known,
And read for these inventions of my own.

Now would you know why our ungrateful Rome,
Doth praise my Poems when with me at home,
But flout abroad; I'le freely tell the Cause:
I do not beg the empty Crowd's Applause:
I do not often treat, nor do I send
My old cast Suits, and bribe them to commend.
I do not crowd to hear our Fops rehearse,
Nor do I praise, and clap our Nobles Verse:
I cannot run to every Pedant Fool,
And beg that He would read my Book in's School:
Hence springs my Wo; now if I say I fear,
To bring dull Lines t'a crowded Theatre,
And vaunt my Trifles, streight, You jeer, you cry,
And keep your Verse alone for Caesar's Eye:
And proud you think that you alone can write
Sweet hony lines, fine in thy own conceit:
A tart reply to this I fear to give,
Lest his sharp Nails should scratch me whilst I strive.
I do not like the place I freely say,
Forbear a while, let's take another day;
For Jest dislike, Dislike Contention bears,
Contention Hate, and Hate breeds dreadful Wars.