在你那杂乱无章的书页上的两大栏里，罗马人的机智被英国人的愤怒剥去了;在那里，讽刺变成了讽刺，现代的流言蜚语与古代的理智交织在一起;一方面，我们看到贺拉斯如何思考，另一方面，他却从不写作;谁能相信，谁看到了善与恶，愚钝的抄写员比他以前翻译的希腊文更能理解他假装模仿的精神?你正是他笔下的一个形象，正如你自己是人类之子，我们自己的同类在滑稽中描摹，是人类的一种标志，既是相似，又是耻辱。贺拉斯会笑，是细腻的，是清晰的;你只会粗声粗气地咒骂，或暗笑;他的文笔优雅，他的辞藻纯净，而你那拙劣的诗句却无人能忍受;像你的心一样坚硬，像你的出身一样阴暗。如果他有刺，它们都在玫瑰上生长;你像蓟，又像荆棘;只有一点例外，那就是，虽然这片土地长满了野草，但它们似乎是辛劳的产物。 Satire should, like a polish'd razor, keen, Wound with a touch, that's scarcely felt or seen: Thine is an oyster-knife, that hacks and hews; The rage, but not the talent to abuse; And is in hate, what love is in the stews. 'Tis the gross lust of hate, that still annoys, Without distinction, as gross love enjoys: Neither to folly, nor to vice confin'd, The object of thy spleen is humankind: It preys on all who yield, or who resist: To thee 'tis provocation to exist. But if thou seest a great and generous heart, Thy bow is doubly bent to force a dart. Nor dignity nor innocence is spar'd, Nor age, nor sex, nor thrones, nor graves, rever'd. Nor only justice vainly we demand, But even benefits can't rein thy hand; To this or that alike in vain we trust, Nor find thee less ungrateful than unjust. Not even youth and beauty can control The universal rancour of thy soul; Charms that might soften superstition's rage, Might humble pride, or thaw the ice of age. But how should'st thou by beauty's force be mov'd, No more for loving made than to be lov'd? It was the equity of righteous Heav'n, That such a soul to such a form was giv'n; And shows the uniformity of fate, That one so odious should be born to hate. When God created thee, one would believe He said the same as to the snake of Eve; To human race antipathy declare, 'Twixt them and thee be everlasting war. But oh! the sequel of the sentence dread, And whilst you bruise their heel, beware your head. Nor think thy weakness shall be thy defence, The female scold's protection in offence. Sure 'tis as fair to beat who cannot fight, As 'tis to libel those who cannot write. And if thou draw'st thy pen to aid the law, Others a cudgel, or a rod, may draw. If none with vengeance yet thy crimes pursue, Or give thy manifold affronts their due; If limbs unbroken, skin without a stain, Unwhipt, unblanketed, unkick'd, unslain, That wretched little carcase you retain, The reason is, not that the world wants eyes, But thou'rt so mean, they see, and they despise: When fretful porcupine, with ranc'rous will, From mounted back shoots forth a harmless quill, Cool the spectators stand; and all the while Upon the angry little monster smile. Thus 'tis with thee: -- while impotently safe, You strike unwounding, we unhurt can laugh. Who but must laugh, this bully when he sees, A puny insect shiv'ring at a breeze? One over-match'd by every blast of wind, Insulting and provoking all mankind. Is this the thing to keep mankind in awe, To make those tremble who escape the law? Is this the ridicule to live so long, The deathless satire and immortal song? No: like the self-blown praise, thy scandal flies; And, as we're told of wasps, it stings and dies. If none do yet return th'intended blow, You all your safety to your dulness owe: But whilst that armour thy poor corse defends, 'Twill make thy readers few, as are thy friends: Those, who thy nature loath'd, yet lov'd thy art, Who lik'd thy head, and yet abhorr'd thy heart: Chose thee to read, but never to converse, And scorn'd in prose him whom they priz'd in verse Ev'n they shall now their partial error see, Shall shun thy writings like thy company; And to thy books shall ope their eyes no more Than to thy person they would do their door. Nor thou the justice of the world disown, That leaves thee thus an outcast and alone; For though in law to murder be to kill, In equity the murder's in the will: Then whilst with coward-hand you stab a name, And try at least t'assassinate our fame, Like the first bold assassin's be thy l