In the first place, I will except myself out of the number of those I would allow to be poets:  for one must not call it sufficient to tag a verse:  nor if any person, like me, writes in a style bordering on conversation, must you esteem him to be a poet.  To him who has genius, who has a soul of a diviner cast, and a greatness of expression, give the honor of this appellation.  On this account some have raised the question, whether comedy be a poem or not; because an animated spirit and force is neither in the style, nor the subject-matter:  bating that it differs from prose by a certain measure, it is mere prose.  But [one may object to this, that even in comedy] an inflamed father rages, because his dissolute son, mad after a prostitute mistress, refuses a wife with a large portion; and (what is an egregious scandal) rambles about drunk with flambeaux by day-light.  Yet could Pomponius, were his father alive, hear less severe reproofs!  Wherefore it is not sufficient to write verses merely in proper language; which if you take to pieces, any person may storm in the same manner as the father in the play.  If from these verses which I write at this present, or those that Lucilius did formerly, you take away certain pauses and measures, and make that word which was first in order hindermost, by placing the latter [words] before those that preceded [in the verse]; you will not discern the limbs of a poet, when pulled in pieces, in the same manner as you would were you to transpose ever so [these lines of Ennius]: 

    When discord dreadful bursts the brazen bars,
    And shatters iron locks to thunder forth her wars.

So far of this matter; at another opportunity [I may investigate] whether [a comedy] be a true poem or not:  now I shall only consider this point, whether this [satiric] kind of writing be deservedly an object of your suspicion.  Sulcius the virulent, and Caprius hoarse with their malignancy, walk [openly], and with their libels too [in their hands]; each of them a singular terror to robbers:  but if a man lives honestly and with clean hands, he may despise them both.  Though you be like highwaymen, Coelus and Byrrhus, I am not [a common accuser], like Caprius and Sulcius; why should you be afraid of me?  No shop nor stall holds my books, which the sweaty hands of the vulgar and of Hermogenes Tigellius may soil.  I repeat to nobody, except my intimates, and that when I am pressed; nor any where, and before any body.  There are many who recite their writings in the middle of the forum; and who [do it] while bathing:  the closeness of the place, [it seems,] gives melody to the voice.  This pleases coxcombs, who never consider whether they do this to no purpose, or at an unseasonable time.  But you, says he, delight to hurt people, and this you do out of a mischievous disposition.  From what source do you throw this calumny upon me?  Is any one then your voucher, with whom I have lived?  He who backbites his