See the mad poet! never wight, though sick
Of itch or jaundice, moon-struck, fanatic,
Was half so dangerous: men whose mind is sound
Avoid him; fools pursue him, children hound.
Suppose, while spluttering verses, head on high,
Like fowler watching blackbirds in the sky,
He falls into a pit; though loud he shout
"Help, neighbours, help!" let no man pull him out:
Should some one seem disposed a rope to fling,
I will strike in with, "Pray do no such thing:
I'll warrant you he meant it," and relate
His brother bard Empedocles's fate,
Who, wishing to be thought a god, poor fool,
Leapt down hot AEtna's crater, calm and cool.
"Leave poets free to perish as they will:
Save them by violence, you as good as kill.
'Tis not his first attempt: if saved to-day,
He's sure to die in some outrageous way.
Beside, none knows the reason why this curse
Was sent on him, this love of making verse,
By what offence heaven's anger he incurred,
A grave denied, a sacred boundary stirred:
So much is plain, he's mad: like bear that beats
His prison down and ranges through the streets,
This terrible reciter puts to flight
The learned and unlearned left and right:
Let him catch one, he keeps him till he kills,
As leeches stick till they have sucked their fills."
NOTES.
PAGE 6.
Enough: you'll think I've rifled the scrutore
Of blind Crispinus, if I prose on more.
Howes has a very similar couplet:—
But hold! you'll think I've pillaged the scrutore
Of blear Crispinus: not one word then more!
I believe it however to be a mere coincidence on my part. The word "scrutore" is an uncommon one; but it was the recollection of an altogether different passage which suggested it to me here. At any rate, Howes is not the first who has used it in translating the present lines.
Now 'tis enough: lest you should think
I've dipt in blear-eyed Crispin's ink,
And stolen my work from his scrutore,
I will not add a sentence more.