SATIRE IV.

He apologizes for the liberties taken by satiric poets in general, and particularly by himself.

The poets Eupolis, and Cratinus, and Aristophanes, and others, who are authors of the ancient comedy, if there was any person deserving to be distinguished for being a rascal or a thief, an adulterer or a cut-throat, or in any shape an infamous fellow, branded him with great freedom.  Upon these [models] Lucilius entirely depends, having imitated them, changing only their feet and numbers:  a man of wit, of great keenness, inelegant in the composition of verse:  for in this respect he was faulty; he would often, as a great feat, dictate two hundred verses in an hour, standing in the same position.  As he flowed muddily, there was [always] something that one would wish to remove; he was verbose, and too lazy to endure the fatigue of writing—­of writing accurately:  for, with regard to the quantity [of his works], I make no account of it.  See!  Crispinus challenges me even for ever so little a wager.  Take, if you dare, take your tablets, and I will take mine; let there be a place, a time, and persons appointed to see fair play:  let us see who can write the most.  The gods have done a good part by me, since they have framed me of an humble and meek disposition, speaking but seldom, briefly:  but do you, [Crispinus,] as much as you will, imitate air which is shut up in leathern bellows, perpetually putting till the fire softens the iron.  Fannius is a happy man, who, of his own accord, has presented his manuscripts and picture [to the Palatine Apollo]; when not a soul will peruse my writings, who am afraid to rehearse in public, on this account, because there are certain persons who can by no means relish this kind [of satiric writing], as there are very many who deserve censure.  Single any man out of the crowd; he either labors under a covetous disposition, or under wretched ambition.  One is mad in love with married women, another with youths; a third the splendor of silver captivates:  Albius is in raptures with brass; another exchanges his merchandize from the rising sun, even to that with which the western regions are warmed:  but he is burried headlong through dangers, as dust wrapped up in a whirlwind; in dread lest he should lose anything out of the capital, or [in hope] that he may increase his store.  All these are afraid of verses, they hate poets.  “He has hay on his horn, [they cry;] avoid him at a great distance:  if he can but raise a laugh for his own diversion, he will not spare any friend:  and whatever he has once blotted upon his paper, he will take a pleasure in letting all the boys and old women know, as they return from the bakehouse or the lake.”  But, come on, attend to a few words on the other side of the question.