Chapter 5
The Art of Poetry by Quintus Oratius Flaccus. Translated by Andrew Wood. Radfer LibriVox.org. By Linnie. Part 2. From a known theme I'd sew my poem frame, That each might hope that he could do the same. But, having struggled hard with toil and pain, He'd find at last that he had worked in vain. So much of veiled lines well-ranged and knit, And common subjects so much grace admit. Fawns from the forests brought, for so I wean, Should not, as if in cities bred had been,
And trained to business in the market-place, Converse in mincing namby-pamby phrase, Or belch forth words improper and obscene, In language born of slander and of spleen. Patricians, knights, and men of fortune, hate Such things as these, nor can they tolerate, Nor with approval crown the things which please That class who by rose chestnuts and chickpeas. When a long syllable succeeds a short, That's the iambus, measure of swift sort.
Whence also it of Trimatures the name, Cave to iambics when six beats the same, From first to last it had, not long ago, That it might yield a sound more grave and slow, Contentedly it took, writing to please, Within its own domain the state's fundis. But not to quit the second or fourth place, Did it as comrades kindly these embrace. Rarely we find this compound kind of verse In Ossius' famed and noble Trimatures.
Judgment severe on any as must be passed, Because upon the stage he verses cast, Ponderers with fundis which betoke the haste, Or want of care, of knowledge, or of taste. It is not every critic who can see, In lines the want of tuneful harmony, And Roman poets have indulgence, God, Which they undoubtedly deserved have not. Should I then ramble and write lawlessly? Or should I, thinking all my faults will see,
Safe within pardons bound, my self-preserve, That were but blamed to shun, not praise deserve? Pligrecian models, my friends, pissle, pray, With care them study both by night and day. Your ancestors, you say, thought fit to praise, The wit and numbers of old plotters' plays. Yes, one and the other, they too patiently, We may say foolishly admired, if we, How to distinguish wit from coarseness know, And can by beating time true cadence show.
Phespis invented tragedies, he said, before unknown. In wagons he conveyed, those who to sing and act his plays appeared, Having with lees of wine their faces smeared. And next came Aeschylus, the masque who used, And the grand flowing robe first introduced. The stage with planks of moderate size he led, Taught lofty uterines and the buskin's tread.
To these succeeded the old comedy, worthy of no small praise, Yet liberty to license ran, and into violence, Needing to be restrained by law. And hence, when the law passed, the power of masqueaf o'er, To its disgrace the chorus spoke no more. Our poets tried at everything their hand,
For this our special praise they may command, Because they dared Greek subjects to eschew, And from domestic facts their themes they drew, Whether they wrote in tragic high-tone strain, Or humbler, plainer, low-tone comic vein. Nor less renowned in letters would Rome be Than by her glorious arms and bravery, If'd were not that her poets every one, Time's laps and the phil's work were prone to shun.
O Pizos, sprung from Numa's blood direct, With sense review a work which to correct, By toil of many a day and many a blot, A bard has grudged, which he has treated not, With castigation tenfold till it be changed And amended to a nicety. Because that sage Democritus pretends, That genius-wretched study forge and sense, Because same bards from Hallikon hid bar, It comes that many poets' loans are.
Neglect their nails to pair, their beards to trim, Avoid their bath, retire and seek through whim, For he, forsooth, it seems made rightly claim, A poet's girdon and a poet's name. If never he his head submitted has, Incurable by three antiseras, to barber listeners, O stupid eye,
Who, when the time of string approaches try, By pergatives my bile to put to flight, Who but for this could better poems write? Tis no great matter, therefore let me play The greenstone's spark, which iron sharp may, Yet of itself for cuttin' isn't fit. I'll nothing write myself, but in submit, To those who do, such rules as may write,
Teach them their duties and their functions quite, Teach them where their resources they may find, What forms, what nourishes the poet's mind, Teach twigs unfit and fit the difference, Wither leads error, wither excellence.
Good sense of writing well is found and sourced, The matter you'll best find if you've recourse, To the Socratic words, your theme well con, The words with readiness will follow on. He who has learned what to his friends he owes,
What to his country he who rightly knows, How one should love a parent, brother, guest, Who understands the functions which invest, The office of a judge or senator, The part of one as general sent a war,
He should be skilled in that without dispute, His language to each character to suit. The skillful imitator I would tell, Of life and morals ever to mark well, The living models that with living fire,
The language of his works they may inspire. Sometimes a play which wants skill, weight and grace, Because this rich and tallying commonplace, And varied characters exemplifies, Proves more attractive in the people's eyes.
Their interest too it longer keeps than place, Lacking in incidents, mere jingling lays. Unto the Greeks who covet not but praise, And polished phrase. But as for Roman boys, it is their concern,
By calculations tedious to learn. And as into a hundred parts to share, Suppose one asks Albina's son, Whaner you from five ounces take one ounce away, What's left? You used to know. Four, he will say.
Good, you rejoin, well will you guard your store? But if there should be added one ounce more, What's the condition then? The sum will be six ounces, that is plain. If wealth, corrosion and anxiety
Shall thus possess men's minds, how should it be That one can hope that poems can be read, Worthy that we their custody commit, When ones with setter oil they've been imbued, To boxes wrought of polished cypress wood?
The bard seeks either to instruct or please, Or to find what pleasure gives, With what will tend to guide man as he lives. If precepts you'd in part use brevity, So that the docile mind may quickly see,
What you would teach it faithfully retain. From a full mind all words superfluous drain. Fiction that's meant to please should ever be, As near as may be, its reality. Nor should a play credence and tire receive,
For instance, from a well-fed lummi as maw Would never do a living boy to draw. Grave seniors uninstructive plays will spurn, On plays all steer, proud knights their backs will turn. He who the useful and agreeable
In happy harmony has mingled well, And in one breath delight and warning gives, A general vote of gratitude receives. A work like this merits the saucy's pay, When the poet finds its way,
And down the stream of time, wafted by fame, To distant ages bears its author's name. Yet there are faults which one would feign excuse, Not aid a tone which hand and mind would choose, Gives the string forth, for not unfrequently,
When we require a flat or sharp to be. Nor always will the arrow from the bow Strike where the archer meant that it should go. When in a poem beauty is much abound, Why should we chide if a few stains be found,
Which have crept in through want of proper care, Or of which human nature can't beware? What shall we say, if a transcriber make, Although we've warned him off the same mistake, He's not excused, we laugh at a hard player,
Should he upon the same string always err. And so the bard whose faults are numerous, Is not to be worried, if he on a few occasions shine, To wander and to laugh at, I incline. And I the same somewhat annoyed may feel,
If o'er good hummer sleep at times should steal. To one who writes a lengthened work indeed, Rightly we may to snatch a nap concede. With poems as with paintings tis the case, That some please more when viewed from a near place,
Whereas to others, if you'd just as do, Them at a distance you are bound to view. Some court a shade, some love the sunlight's blaze, Nor hold in dread the critic's skinnest gaze. Some please for once, and then to please they cease,
Others ten times repeated still will please. O thou the elder of the Piso youth, Though by the father's voice thou art formed to truth, And of thyself art wise, yet what I say take up, And in thy memory let it stay.
That in some things allowable may be, Mere average worth and mediocrity, One who has no great knowledge of the laws, And who can only fairly plead a cause, Far from Masala's excellence may be, in eloquence,
Nor as much law knows he, as does Castileus Aulus, That's quite true. And yet that man has his own value too. But mediocre bards, nor gods I vow, Nor men, nor booksellers will e'er allow. Meets pleasant feasts sometimes to make us sick,
In true discordant music unguents thick, And bitter poppy conserves which are made, With honey from Sardinia conveyed. Because the supper might with these dispense, The greater to the guests is the offense.
And so a poem which a bard indicts, The offspring of his brain to yield delights, If from the top a little it descend, Is too apt to tend. One who his strength in games has nare employed,
The struggles of the campus will avoid. He who of ball who quite knows not the use, Will rest in quiet and to play refuse. Lest of surrounding bystanders the crowd Should mock his efforts with derision loud.
Yet he who knows the verse not a jot, Will dare to fashion poems, and why not? For here, as fortune may suffice, To constitute a night void of all vice. But you, such is your judgment, such your mind,
Will not what's wrong to wisdoms prompting blind, Or say, or do. If ever you should write, the critic messiest judgment You'll invite. Your father's too, and mine, Your manuscript, for nine long years should in your desk be kept.
What you've not published you may change or burn. A word once uttered never can return. Orpheus, of God's priest and interpreter, The savage race of mankind to deter From murder and from victuals foul prevail.
On this account, to a sad, he never failed, By softening influences to his wage, The tigers and the rabid lions rage. And Fiam too, who built the Theban towers, His harp and winning voice employed as powers,
To bring the stony rock from out its bed, And lead it at his pleasure, so to said. For this was wisdom judged in days of old, Public from private things distinct to hold, Things sacred from profane to separate,
To check light love and rule the married state. Towns fortified to build was then thought good, And to inscribe the code of laws on wood. And thus distinction and a glorious name And to their poems came.
Great Homer and Tertules next appeared. They in their works men's manly bosoms cheered, And proudly spurred them on to field the fight. Poems were used to bring men's fates to light. By them the proper path of life was taught,
And in Pairian strains kings' favors sought. Sports were found out, and the hard work to cheer Ver-served their labor o'er to crown the year. You, Phoebus, god of poetry, and lyric muse, Ashamed you need not be.
We know another question has been raised, Whether a poem worthy to be praised Owes more to nature or owes more to art. I must confess, I see not for my part How study without genius can succeed,
And how untouched genius well can speed. Each from the other seems to ask its aid, And the one who's been in the race would reach the winning post, Endurance much and toil it must have cost. When young he must both cold and heat have braved,
Himself from love and wine's enticement saved. The harpist at the Pythian games would play Must first have learned and felt a master's sway. Nor tis enough a poet should exclaim, I wondrous poems write which gild my name.
Play take the himmost where great does grace, If I were left behind hand in the race, And to confess where it fursuth my lot That I don't know that which I ne'er was thought. An auction-crier to collect a crowd,
His wares to buy puffs them in accents loud. Even so a poet who's of land possessed, Rich too in cash laid out at interest, His gull distributing with liberal hand Is sure the praise of flatters to commend.
A dinner give in handsome style, Or a poor man relieve who, credit gone, Needs good security, and from vexatious loss To set him free, though blessed he be, I'd wonder if he knew, a false friend
To distinguish from a true. Should you have made or should you mean to make To any one a present, don't him take, Replied with joy to judge your poetry. Then he'll grow pale, and next there will appear
In his moist eye like dew the friendly tear. He'll dance and jump about like one inspired, As at a funeral the mourners hired by voice and action Play a stronger part than friends and relatives Who mourn at heart. So will the flatterer
Far more move the peer than he whose Approbation is sincere. They say that kings With many wine cups ply, and thus extort From him whom they would spy, whether it be The case or know that be, a favored and a friendship
Worthy be. If you'll write poetry, be sure you'll Need off cunning fox-like flatters to take heed. If to Quintilius you should aught recite, He'll say, I pray you this and that put right. If that you can to better you maintain,
For you have tried it twice or thrice in vain, He'd bid you then the false delete or burn, And to the anvil ill-wrought lines return. But if these thoughts you rather would defend Than take the pains to alter and amend,
He not a word would add, nor further try, For then he knows he'll fail most certainly. To bulk your notion that your works and you, You fondly may as quite unrivaled view. An honest, skillful critic will find fault
With languid lines, and those erase which halt. Lines that are rough he'll blame, and tropes ornate From the ambitious lines he'll amputate, For the obscure more light he'll recommend, And the ambiguous he will reprehend.
About things requiring change he'll not be dumb, A second aristarch as he'll become. Nor will he say, wherefore should I offend In matters which but trifles are a friend? Tis by such trifles mischief is in jail,
And those who've once met public laughter failed. The wise with a mad poet contact fear, And fly incontinent if he come near, As from one with the itch or jaundice sick, The furious stricken or the lunatic.
Hemed children of the pavement chase and hoot, And foolish adults join in the pursuit. While spouting verses he at random strays, His head erect as at the sky he gaze, If like a fowler keenly occupied,
In sneering blackbirds he perchance should slide Into a ditcher well, though long he cried, Help, help, O citizens! yet none will hide, To pull him out, or if there one should be, Inclined to help him out for charity,
And to let down a rope, to him I'll say. How know you but the man on purpose may himself Have brought into this sorry plight, This to illustrate I would then relate The bard of Sicily's untimely fate,
That fool Empedocles who madly sought To be a Deity mortal thought, And with Sancois for cool himself he kept, Into the burning fire of Aetna leapt. Give poets right and leave to perish still,
To save them against their wish is them to kill. Nor only once has he done this for he, Will never be a reasonable man, nor cease to sigh From the desire of famous death to die. Why it is doomed that from his pen should flow
A constant stream of verse we scarcely know. Did he his father's grave with insult treat, Or has he trod with sacrilegious feet The sad bydentos presence, one thing's clear? He's mad, and like a bear in his career,
If it hath broke the greatness of its den, He hath rehearsed where his den, learned and unlearned, And if he should succeed in catching one, Him he to death will read, just like a leech Which to one's skin sticks fast, nor quits its hole
To gorge with blood at last.
