Page:Satires, Epistles, Art of Poetry of Horace - Coningsby (1874).djvu/217

 And the best bow will sometimes shoot awry. But when I meet with beauties thickly sown, A blot or two I readily condone, Such as may trickle from a careless pen, Or pass unwatched: for authors are but men. What then? the copyist who keeps stumbling still At the same word had best lay down his quill: The harp-player, who for ever wounds the ear With the same discord, makes the audience jeer: So the poor dolt who's often in the wrong I rank with Chœrilus, that dunce of song, Who, should he ever "deviate into sense," Moves but fresh laughter at his own expense: While e'en good Homer may deserve a tap, If, as he does, he drop his head and nap. Yet, when a work is long, 'twere somewhat hard To blame a drowsy moment in a bard.
 * Some poems, like some paintings, take the eye

Best at a distance, some when looked at nigh. One loves the shade; one would be seen in light, And boldly challenges the keenest sight: One pleases straightway; one, when it has passed Ten times before the mind, will please at last.
 * Hope of the Pisos! trained by such a sire,

And wise yourself, small schooling you require; Yet take this lesson home; some things admit A moderate point of merit, e'en in wit. There's yonder counsellor; he cannot reach Messala's stately altitudes of speech, He cannot plumb Cascellius' depth of lore,