Ad Melvinum (Epigr. XXXVII)
A Plea for Gentle Verse
The poet invokes various sacred and personal bonds to request that his work not be misconstrued as malicious.
And yet, I beg you—by the very hand that wrote these verses; by all the cups of the Muses; by the blessed sarcasms through which you triumph as a master; indeed, by your own priests; by the city I cannot capture in a short verse; by the hands dear and noble to you, which no signature has ever stained; by whatever you find pleasing—don't think me too sharp-tongued or cruel in my poems. Our Muse is friendly and toothless, not smeared with the poison of spiteful bile.
The Restraint of Power
The poet explains that he possesses the capacity for biting satire but has deliberately chosen to withhold it.
For if I had wanted to cut you with verse, and had powerfully vomited out all the anger that the Church you despise, or the Athens I have been hurt by, suggests to me—and who wouldn't be stirred by this conflict?—I would have already destroyed you completely with fiery Muses and a crackling Muse: every line, refusing ink, would have been drawn with burning lead, branding your profane outbursts and good-natured sneers with a hundred marks; this paper of mine, smeared with such words, would have stuck to you more than the fatal garment once clung to the raging Hercules; indeed, with this poem I would have built a dictionary of insults where, whenever the need arose, the Muses could draw whole cartloads for you. Now I have set all this aside, returning these thundering emotions to your companions. I haven't called you turbulent in my poem, nor ridiculous or foolish; I haven't attributed to you witchcraft, magic, or spinning; I don't charge you with swollen pride; omitting errors, stains, and arrogance, the filth, dreams, and dire ambitions, the Berecynthian din—I return none of these to you, though you deserve them.
Honoring the Learned Adversary
The poet concludes by offering genuine praise for his opponent's learning and poetic skill.
Indeed, I honor you with praise: for I say that Caesar is said to be the only one sober enough to come to the ruin of the Latin language; and you alone, amidst the storms of England—when usually there is nothing cruder or more unpolished than your company—approach as a man well-learned, and a poet.
Read the original Latin
Atqui te precor unice per ipsam, Quae scripsit numeros, manum; per omnes Musarum calices, per et beatos Sarcasmos quibus artifex triumphas; Quin per Presbyteros tuos; per urbem, Quam curto nequeo referre versu; Per caras tibi nobilesque dextras, Quas subscriptio neutiquam inquinavit; Per quicquid tibi suaviter probatur; Ne me carminibus nimis dicacem, Aut saevum reputes. Amica nostra est Atque edentula Musa, nec veneno Splenis perlita contumeliosi. Nam si te cuperem secare versu, Totamque evomerem potenter iram Quam aut Ecclesia despicata vobis, Aut laesae mihi suggerunt Athenae, Et quem non stimularet haec simultas, Jam te funditus igneis Camoenis, Et Musa crepitante subruissem: Omnis linea sepiam recusans Plumbo ducta fuisset aestuanti, Centum stigmatibus tuos inurens Profanos fremitus bonasque sannas: Plus charta haec mea delibuta dictis Haesisset tibi, quam suprema vestis Olim accreverit Herculi furenti: Quin hoc carmine lexicon probrorum Extruxissem, ubi, cum moneret usus, Haurirent tibi tota plaustra Musae. Nunc haec omnia sustuli, tonantes Affectus sociis tuis remittens. Non te carmine turbidum vocavi, Non deridiculumve sive ineptum, Non striges magiamve vel rotatus, Non fastus tibi turgidos repono; Errores, maculas superbiamque, Labes somniaque ambitusque diros, Tinnitus Berecynthios omittens Nil horum regero tibi merenti. Quin te laudibus orno: quippe dico, Caesar sobrius ad rei Latinae Unus dicitur advenire cladem: Et tu solus ad Angliae procellas, Cum plerumque tua sodalitate Nil sit crassius impolitiusve, Accedis bene doctus, et poeta.
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