Page:Satires, Epistles, Art of Poetry of Horace - Coningsby (1874).djvu/191

 He's not my friend who hawks in every place A waxwork parody of my poor face; Nor were I flattered if some silly wight A stupid poem in my praise should write: The gift would make me blush, and I should dread To travel with my poet, all unread, Down to the street where spice and pepper's sold, And all the wares waste paper's used to fold.



EAR Florus, justly high in the good grace Of noble Nero, let's suppose a case; A man accosts you with a slave for sale, Born, say, at Gabii, and begins his tale: "See, here's a lad who's comely, fair, and sound; I'll sell him, if you will, for sixty pound. He's quick, and answers to his master's look, Knows Greek enough to read a simple book; Set him to what you like, he'll learn with ease; Soft clay, you know, takes any form you please; His voice is quite untrained, but still, I think, You'll like his singing, as you sit and drink. Excuse professions; they're but stale affairs, Which chapmen use for getting off their wares.