Hor. 
   There are to whom I seem excessive sour,
   And past a satire’s law t’ extend my power: 
   Others, that think whatever I have writ
   Wants pith and matter to eternise it;
   And that they could, in one day’s light, disclose
   A thousand verses, such as I compose. 
   What shall I do, Trebatius? say.

Treb.  Surcease.

Hor.  And shall my muse admit no more increase?

Treb.  So I advise.

Hor. 
   An ill death let me die,
   If ’twere not best; but sleep avoids mine eye,
   And I use these, lest nights should tedious seem.

Treb. 
   Rather, contend to sleep, and live like them,
   That, holding golden sleep in special price,
   Rubb’d with sweet oils, swim silver Tyber thrice,
   And every even with neat wine steeped be: 
   Or, if such love of writing ravish thee,
   Then dare to sing unconquer’d Caesar’s deeds;
   Who cheers such actions with abundant meeds.

Hor. 
   That, father, I desire; but, when I try,
   I feel defects in every faculty: 
   Nor is’t a labour fit for every pen,
   To paint the horrid troops of armed men,
   The lances burst, in Gallia’s slaughter’d forces;
   Or wounded Parthians, tumbled from their horses: 
   Great Caesar’s wars cannot be fought with words.

Treb. 
   Yet, what his virtue in his peace affords,
   His fortitude and justice thou canst shew
   As wise Lucilius honour’d Scipio.

Hor. 
   Of that, my powers shall suffer no neglect,
   When such slight labours may aspire respect: 
   But, if I watch not a most chosen time,
   The humble words of Flaccus cannot climb
   Th’ attentive ear of Caesar; nor must I
   With less observance shun gross flattery: 
   For he, reposed safe in his own merit,
   Spurns back the gloses of a fawning spirit.

Treb. 
   But how much better would such accents sound
   Than with a sad and serious verse to wound
   Pantolabus, railing in his saucy jests,
   Or Nomentanus spent in riotous feasts? 
   In satires, each man, though untouch’d, complains
   As he were hurt; and hates such biting strains.

Hor. 
   What shall I do?  Milonius shakes his heels
   In ceaseless dances, when his brain once feels
   The stirring fervour of the wine ascend;
   And that his eyes false numbers apprehend. 
   Castor his horse, Pollux loves handy-fights;
   A thousand heads, a thousand choice delights. 
   My pleasure is in feet my words to close,
   As, both our better, old Lucilius does: 
   He, as his trusty friends, his books did trust
   With all his secrets; nor, in things unjust,
   Or actions lawful, ran to other men: 
   So that the old man’s life described, was seen
   As in a votive table in his lines: 
   And to his steps my genius inclines;
   Lucanian, or Apulian, I know not