[_Exit,
leaving_
HORACE _like a victim under the knife_.
World's Greatest Books - Volume 17 - Poetry and Drama
I'll see him
home. Life grants man nothing without hard work.
[_Enter_ FUSCUS, _a friend of_ HORACE. _Knowing the_
BORE'S _ways, he reads the situation_. HORACE
_furtively tugs at_ FUSCUS'S _gown, pinches him,
nods and winks to_ FUSCUS _to rescue him_. FUSCUS
_smiles, and with a mischievous fondness for a joke,
pretends he does not understand_.
HORACE (_angry with_ Fuscus): Of course, you _did_ say you wanted to
talk over something with me in private.
FUSCUS: Ah, yes, I remember; but I'll tell you at a more convenient
season. (_Inventing an excuse with mock solemnity_. ) To-day is the
"Thirtieth Sabbath. " You wouldn't affront the circumcised Jews, would
you?
HORACE: I have no scruples.
FUSCUS: But _I_ have. I'm a slightly weaker brother--one, of many.
Pardon, I'll talk about it another time.
[_Exit, leaving_ HORACE _like a victim under the knife_.
HORACE (_to himself_): To think this day should have dawned so
black for me!
[_Suddenly enter the_ PLAINTIFF _in the suit against the_
BORE.
PLAINTIFF (_loudly to the_ BORE): Where are you off to, you
scoundrel? (_To_ HORACE) May I call you as a witness to his contempt
of court?
[HORACE _lets his ear be touched, according to legal form.
The_ BORE _is hauled away to court, he and the_ PLAINTIFF
_bawling at each other. The arrest attracts a large
crowd_.
HORACE (_quietly disappearing_): What an escape! Thank Apollo!
_The Art of Poetry_
UNITY AND SIMPLICITY ARE REQUISITE
Suppose a painter to a human head
Should join a horse's neck, and wildly spread
The various plumage of the feather'd kind
O'er limbs of different beasts, absurdly joined.
Or if he gave to view of beauteous maid
Above the waist with every charm arrayed,
But ending, fish-like, in a mermaid tail,
Could you to laugh at such a picture fail?
Such is the book that, like a sick man's dreams,
Varies all shapes, and mixes all extremes.
"Painters and poets our indulgence claim,
Their daring equal, and their art the same. "
I own the indulgence, such I give and take;
But not through nature's sacred rules to break.
Your opening promises some grand design,
And purple patches with broad lustre shine
Sewed on the poem; here in laboured strain
A sacred grove, or fair Diana's fane
Rises to view; there through delightful meads
A murmuring stream its winding water leads.
home. Life grants man nothing without hard work.
[_Enter_ FUSCUS, _a friend of_ HORACE. _Knowing the_
BORE'S _ways, he reads the situation_. HORACE
_furtively tugs at_ FUSCUS'S _gown, pinches him,
nods and winks to_ FUSCUS _to rescue him_. FUSCUS
_smiles, and with a mischievous fondness for a joke,
pretends he does not understand_.
HORACE (_angry with_ Fuscus): Of course, you _did_ say you wanted to
talk over something with me in private.
FUSCUS: Ah, yes, I remember; but I'll tell you at a more convenient
season. (_Inventing an excuse with mock solemnity_. ) To-day is the
"Thirtieth Sabbath. " You wouldn't affront the circumcised Jews, would
you?
HORACE: I have no scruples.
FUSCUS: But _I_ have. I'm a slightly weaker brother--one, of many.
Pardon, I'll talk about it another time.
[_Exit, leaving_ HORACE _like a victim under the knife_.
HORACE (_to himself_): To think this day should have dawned so
black for me!
[_Suddenly enter the_ PLAINTIFF _in the suit against the_
BORE.
PLAINTIFF (_loudly to the_ BORE): Where are you off to, you
scoundrel? (_To_ HORACE) May I call you as a witness to his contempt
of court?
[HORACE _lets his ear be touched, according to legal form.
The_ BORE _is hauled away to court, he and the_ PLAINTIFF
_bawling at each other. The arrest attracts a large
crowd_.
HORACE (_quietly disappearing_): What an escape! Thank Apollo!
_The Art of Poetry_
UNITY AND SIMPLICITY ARE REQUISITE
Suppose a painter to a human head
Should join a horse's neck, and wildly spread
The various plumage of the feather'd kind
O'er limbs of different beasts, absurdly joined.
Or if he gave to view of beauteous maid
Above the waist with every charm arrayed,
But ending, fish-like, in a mermaid tail,
Could you to laugh at such a picture fail?
Such is the book that, like a sick man's dreams,
Varies all shapes, and mixes all extremes.
"Painters and poets our indulgence claim,
Their daring equal, and their art the same. "
I own the indulgence, such I give and take;
But not through nature's sacred rules to break.
Your opening promises some grand design,
And purple patches with broad lustre shine
Sewed on the poem; here in laboured strain
A sacred grove, or fair Diana's fane
Rises to view; there through delightful meads
A murmuring stream its winding water leads.
