But to return to what concerns myself; I think it would be very difficult for any other man to have a meaner opinion of himself; nay, for any other to have a meaner opinion of me than of myself:  I look upon myself as one of the common sort, saving in this, that I have no better an opinion of myself; guilty of the meanest and most popular defects, but not disowning or excusing them; and I do not value myself upon any other account than because I know my own value.  If there be any vanity in the case, ’tis superficially infused into me by the treachery of my complexion, and has no body that my judgment can discern:  I am sprinkled, but not dyed.  For in truth, as to the effects of the mind, there is no part of me, be it what it will, with which I am satisfied; and the approbation of others makes me not think the better of myself.  My judgment is tender and nice, especially in things that concern myself.

I ever repudiate myself, and feel myself float and waver by reason of my weakness.  I have nothing of my own that satisfies my judgment.  My sight is clear and regular enough, but, at working, it is apt to dazzle; as I most manifestly find in poetry:  I love it infinitely, and am able to give a tolerable judgment of other men’s works; but, in good earnest, when I apply myself to it, I play the child, and am not able to endure myself.  A man may play the fool in everything else, but not in poetry;

                         “Mediocribus esse poetis
          Non dii, non homines, non concessere columnae.”

     ["Neither men, nor gods, nor the pillars (on which the poets
     offered their writings) permit mediocrity in poets.” 
     —­Horace, De Arte Poet., 372.]

I would to God this sentence was written over the doors of all our printers, to forbid the entrance of so many rhymesters!

                    “Verum
                    Nihil securius est malo poetae.”

     ["The truth is, that nothing is more confident than a bad poet.” 
     —­Martial, xii. 63, 13.]

Why have not we such people?—­[As those about to be mentioned.]—­ Dionysius the father valued himself upon nothing so much as his poetry; at the Olympic games, with chariots surpassing all the others in magnificence, he sent also poets and musicians to present his verses, with tent and pavilions royally gilt and hung with tapestry.  When his verses came to be recited, the excellence of the delivery at first attracted the attention of the people; but when they afterwards came to poise the meanness of the composition, they first entered into disdain, and continuing to nettle their judgments, presently proceeded to fury, and ran to pull down and tear to pieces all his pavilions:  and, that his chariots neither performed anything to purpose in the race, and that the ship which brought back his people failed of making Sicily, and was by the tempest driven and wrecked upon the coast of Tarentum, they certainly