Why I Love Horace

A lawyer, a mediocre pleader of causes, may fall short ... yet have value: but mediocrity in poets, no man, god or bookseller will accept ... The sensible fear to touch, they flee, a crazy poet, as when the evil itch, or jaundice, plagues someone, or fanatical delusions, or plain lunacy ...

He, inspired, goes wandering off, spouting his verses, and if like a fowler intent on blackbirds, he falls into a well, or a pit, however much he cries: 'Help me, citizens!' none will bother to pull him out. If anyone did choose to help, and let down a rope, I'd say: 'Who knows if he didn't do that on purpose, and doesn't want to be saved?'