And for the most part, himself doth advance With much self-love, and more arrogance.
And, but that I would not be thought a prater, I could tell you he were a translator. I know the authors from whence he has stole, And could trace him too, but that I understand them not full and whole.
Tuc. That line is broke loose from all his fellows: chain him up shorter, do.
The best note I can give you to know him by, Is, that he keeps gallants' company; Whom I could wish, in time should him fear, Lest after they buy repentance too dear. DEME. FANNIUS.
Tuc. Well said! This carries palm with it.
Hor. And why, thou motley gull, why should they fear! When hast thou known us wrong or tax a friend? I dare thy malice to betray it. Speak. Now thou curl'st up, thou poor and nasty snake, And shrink'st thy poisonous head into thy bosom: Out, viper! thou that eat'st thy parents, hence! Rather, such speckled creatures, as thyself, Should be eschew'd, and shunn'd; such as will bite And gnaw their absent friends, not cure their fame; Catch at the loosest laughters, and affect To be thought jesters; such as can devise Things never seen, or head, t'impair men's names, And gratify their credulous adversaries; Will carry tales, do basest offices, Cherish divided fires, and still encrease New flames, out of old embers; will reveal Each secret that's committed to their trust: These be black slaves; Romans, take heed of these.
Tuc. Thou twang'st right, little Horace: they be indeed a couple of chap-fall'n curs. Come, we of the bench, let's rise to the urn, and condemn them quickly.
Virg. Before you go together, worthy Romans, We are to tender our opinion; And give you those instructions, that may add Unto your even judgment in the cause: Which thus we do commence. First, you must know, That where there is a true and perfect merit, There can be no dejection; and the scorn Of humble baseness, oftentimes so works In a high soul, upon the grosser spirit, That to his bleared and offended sense, There seems a hideous fault blazed in the object; When only the disease is in his eyes. Here-hence it comes our Horace now stands tax'd Of impudence, self-love, and arrogance, By those who share no merit in themselves; And therefore think his portion is as small. For they, from their own guilt, assure their souls, If they should confidently praise their works, In them it would appear inflation: Which, in a full and well digested man, Cannot receive that foul abusive name, But the fair title of erection. And, for his true use of translating men, It still hath been a work of as much palm, In clearest judgments, as to invent or make, His sharpness,---that is most excusable; As being forced out of a suffering virtue, Oppressed with the license of the time:--- And howsoever fools or jerking pedants, Players, or suchlike buffoon barking wits, May with their beggarly and barren trash Tickle base vulgar ears, in their despite; This, like Jove's thunder, shall their pride control, "The honest satire hath the happiest soul."