Bad poets are our jest:  yet they delight,
Just like their betters, in whate’er they write,
Hug their fool’s paradise, and if you’re slack
To give them praise, themselves supply the lack. 
But he who meditates a work of art,
Oft as he writes, will act the censor’s part: 
Is there a word wants nobleness and grace,
Devoid of weight, unworthy of high place? 
He bids it go, though stiffly it decline,
And cling and cling, like suppliant to a shrine: 
Choice terms, long hidden from the general view,
He brings to day and dignifies anew,
Which, once on Cato’s and Cethegus’ lips,
Now pale their light and suffer dim eclipse;
New phrases, in the world of books unknown,
So use but father them, he makes his own: 
Fluent and limpid, like a crystal stream,
He makes Rome’s soil with genial produce teem: 
He checks redundance, harshnesses improves
By wise refinement, idle weeds removes;
Like an accomplished dancer, he will seem
By turns a Satyr and a Polypheme;
Yet all the while ’twill be a game of skill,
Where sport means toil, and muscle bends to will.

Yet, after all, I’d rather far be blind
To my own faults, though patent to mankind,
Nay, live in the belief that foul is fair,
Than see and grin in impotent despair. 
There was an Argive nobleman, ’tis said,
Who all day long had acting in his head: 
Great characters on shadowy boards appeared,
While he looked on and listened, clapped and cheered: 
In all things else he fairly filled his post,
Friendly as neighbour, amiable as host;
Kind to his wife, indulgent to his slave,
He’d find a bottle sweated and not rave;
He’d scorn to run his head against a wall;
Show him a pit, and he’d avoid the fall. 
At last, when quarts of hellebore drunk neat,
Thanks to his kin, had wrought a cure complete,
Brought to himself again, “Good friends,” quoth he,
“Call you this saving? why, ’tis murdering me;
Your stupid zeal has spoilt my golden days,
And robbed me of a most delicious craze.”

Wise men betimes will bid adieu to toys,
And give up idle games to idle boys;
Not now to string the Latian lyre, but learn
The harmony of life, is my concern. 
So, when I commune with myself, I state
In words like these my side in the debate: 
“If no amount of water quenched your thirst,
You’d tell the doctor, not go on and burst: 
Experience shows you, as your riches swell
Your wants increase; have you no friend to tell? 
A healing simple for a wound you try;
It does no good; you put the simple by: 
You’re told that silly folk whom heaven may bless
With ample means get rid of silliness;
You test it, find ’tis not the case with you: 
Then why not change your Mentor for a new? 
Did riches make you wiser, set you free
From idle fear, insane cupidity,
You’d blush, and rightly too, if earth contained