to the appearances by its conceptions presented to it; but they are weak and imperfect.  Most of the fables of AEsop have diverse senses and meanings, of which the mythologists chose some one that quadrates well to the fable; but, for the most part, ’tis but the first face that presents itself and is superficial only; there yet remain others more vivid, essential, and profound, into which they have not been able to penetrate; and just so ’tis with me.

But, to pursue the business of this essay, I have always thought that, in poesy, Virgil, Lucretius, Catullus, and Horace by many degrees excel the rest; and signally, Virgil in his Georgics, which I look upon as the most accomplished piece in poetry; and in comparison of which a man may easily discern that there are some places in his AEneids, to which the author would have given a little more of the file, had he had leisure:  and the fifth book of his AEneids seems to me the most perfect.  I also love Lucan, and willingly read him, not so much for his style, as for his own worth, and the truth and solidity of his opinions and judgments.  As for good Terence, the refined elegance and grace of the Latin tongue, I find him admirable in his vivid representation of our manners and the movements of the soul; our actions throw me at every turn upon him; and I cannot read him so often that I do not still discover some new grace and beauty.  Such as lived near Virgil’s time complained that some should compare Lucretius to him.  I am of opinion that the comparison is, in truth, very unequal:  a belief that, nevertheless, I have much ado to assure myself in, when I come upon some excellent passage in Lucretius.  But if they were so angry at this comparison, what would they say to the brutish and barbarous stupidity of those who, nowadays, compare him with Ariosto?  Would not Ariosto himself say?

“O seclum insipiens et inficetum!”

          ["O stupid and tasteless age.”—­Catullus, xliii. 8.]

I think the ancients had more reason to be angry with those who compared Plautus with Terence, though much nearer the mark, than Lucretius with Virgil.  It makes much for the estimation and preference of Terence, that the father of Roman eloquence has him so often, and alone of his class, in his mouth; and the opinion that the best judge of Roman poets —­[Horace, De Art.  Poetica, 279.]—­has passed upon his companion.  I have often observed that those of our times, who take upon them to write comedies (in imitation of the Italians, who are happy enough in that way of writing), take three or four plots of those of Plautus or Terence to make one of their own, and , crowd five or six of Boccaccio’s novels into one single comedy.  That which makes them so load themselves with matter is the diffidence they have of being able to support themselves with their own strength.  They must find out something to lean to; and not having of their own stuff wherewith to entertain us, they bring in the story to supply the defect of language.  It is quite otherwise with my author; the elegance and perfection of his way of speaking makes us lose the appetite of his plot; his refined grace and elegance of diction everywhere occupy us:  he is so pleasant throughout,