The surgeon with his instruments and skill,
Searches his skull, deeper and deeper still,
To feel his brains, and try if they were sound;
And, as he keeps ado about the wound,
The fellow cries—Good surgeon, spare your pains,
When I began this brawl I had no brains.
Euricius Cordus
TO PHILOMUSUS
If only when they’re dead, you poets praise,
I own I’d rather have your blame always.