Page:Satires, Epistles, Art of Poetry of Horace - Coningsby (1874).djvu/176

 My works at home, but run them down abroad? I stoop not, I, to catch the rabble's votes By cheap refreshments or by cast-off coats, Nor haunt the benches where your pedants swarm, Prepared by turns to listen and perform. That's what this whimpering means. Suppose I say "Your theatres have ne'er been in my way, Nor I in theirs: large audiences require Some heavier metal than my thin-drawn wire:" "You put me off," he answers, "with a sneer: Your works are kept for Jove's imperial ear: Yes, you're a paragon of bards, you think, And no one else brews nectar fit to drink." What can I do? 'tis an unequal match; For if my nose can sniff, his nails can scratch: I say the place won't suit me, and cry shame; "E'en fencers get a break 'twixt game and game." Games oft have ugly issue: they beget Unhealthy competition, fume and fret: And fume and fret engender in their turn Battles that bleed, and enmities that burn.