It is a kind of sickness with me to compose books and to be ashamed of them afterwards.
[ed. Guterman (1963)]

I have the disease of writing books and being ashamed of them when I have written them.
[tr. Clark (2012)]

He beares the bell in all respects who good with sweete doth minge:
Who can in delectable style good counsaile with him bring.
His bookes the stationers will bye, beyonte Sea it will goe,
And will conserve the authors name a thowsand yeare, and mo.
[tr. Drant (1567)]

But he hath every suffrage can apply
Sweet mix'd with soure, to his reader, so
As doctrine and delight together goe.
This book will get thee Socij money; this
Will passe the Seas; and long as Nature is
With honour make the far-known Author live.
[tr. Jonson (1640), l. 490ff]

But he that joyns instructions with delight,
Profit with pleasure, carries all the Votes;
These are the Volumes that enrich the Shops,
These pass with admiration through the World,
And bring their Author an Eternal fame.
[tr. Roscommon (1680)]

Profit and pleasure, then, to mix with art,
To inform the judgment, nor to bend the heart,
Shall gain all votes; to booksellers shall raise
No trivial fortune, and across the seas
To distant nations spread the writer's fame,
And with immortal honours crown his name.
[tr. Francis (1747)]

But he who precept with amusement blends,
And charms the fancy while the heart he mends,
Wins every suffrage. Rarely shall he miss
To enrich the Sosii with a piece like this:
Seas shall it traverse, and the writer's page
Hand down his glories to a distant age.
[tr. Howes (1845)]

He who joins the instructive with the agreeable, carries off every vote, by delighting and at the same time admonishing the reader. This book gains money for the Sosii; this crosses the sea, and continues to its renowned author a lasting duration.
[tr. Smart/Buckley (1853)]

But he who, mixing grave and gay, can teach
And yet give pleasure, gains a vote from each:
His works enrich the vendor, cross the sea,
And hand the author down to late posterity.
[tr. Conington (1874)]

He wins all suffrages who, while he charms.
Instructs the soul, the heart to virtue warms,
And so what ministers to use unites
With what is beautiful in all he writes.
These are the works on which the Sosii thrive,
That cross the seas, to times remote survive.
[tr. Martin (1881)]

He meets with acceptance everywhere who blends the practical with the pleasant, by equally delighting and instructing the reader. Such a book enriches the Sosii, travels across the sea, and confers immortality on its famous author.
[tr. Elgood (1893)]

He has won every vote who has blended profit and pleasure, at once delighting and instructing the reader. That is the book to make money for the Sosii; this the one to cross the sea and extend to a distant day its author's fame.
[tr. Fairclough (Loeb) (1926)]

He wins every vote who combines the sweet and the useful,
Charming the reader and warning him equally well.
This book will bring in money for Sosius and Son,
Booksellers, travel across the sea, and extend
Its author's fame a long distance into the future.
[tr. Palmer Bovie (1959)]

The poet winning every vote blends the useful with the sweet,
giving pleasure to his reader while he offers him advice.
His book will make the Sosii money and travel overseas,
and far into the years ahead extend its author's name.
[tr. Fuchs (1977)]

Tame sense with a dash of sugar,
Storke your reader's cheeks while you box his ears.
Then everyone reads you, your royalties mount
Like gushing oil, foreigners run for your latest title
And read you long after you've turned to dust.
So: make your own memorial!
[tr. Raffel (1983 ed.)]

He who provides to all both profit and pleasure
Wins everybody's vote; his book will bring
Money for bookstore owners and fame across
The seas and down the years to the author himself.
[tr. Ferry (2001)]

Everyone votes for the man who mixes wholesome and sweet,
giving his reader an equal blend of help and delight.
That book earns the Sosii money; it crosses the ocean,
winning fame for the author and ensuring long survival.
[tr. Rudd (2005 ed.)]

Who can blend usefulness and sweetness wins every
Vote, at once delighting and teaching the reader.
That’s the book that earns the Sosii money, crosses
The seas, and wins its author fame throughout the ages.
[tr. Kline (2015)]

He wins every hand who mingles profit with pleasure, by delighting and instructing the reader at the same time.
[ed. Bartlett's]

Not lore enough in Poesis, let them be sweetlye fynde,
And let them leade to where them liste the hearers plyante mynde.
[tr. Drant (1567)]

Tis not enough the labouring Muse affords
Her Poëms beauty, but a sweet delight,
To worke the hearers minds, still to the plight.
[tr. Jonson (1640); l. 140ff]

He that would have Spectators share his Grief,
Must write not only well, but movingly,
And raise Mens Passions to what height he will.
[tr. Roscommon (1680)]

'Tis not enough, ye writers, that ye charm
With ease and elegance; a play should warm
With soft concernment; should possess the soul,
And, as it wills, the listening crowd controul.
[tr. Francis (1747)]

'Tis not enough that Plays are polish'd, chaste,
Or trickt in all the harlotry of taste,
They must have passion too; beyond controul
Transporting where they please the hearer's soul.
[tr. Coleman (1783)]

'Tis not enough that poetry combine
All fancy's charms in every sounding line:
Empassion'd let her be, and melt at will
The soul to pity or with horror thrill.
[tr. Howes (1845)]

It is not enough that poems be beautiful; let them be tender and affecting, and bear away the soul of the auditor whithersoever they please.
[tr. Smart/Buckley (1853)]

Mere grace is not enough: a play should thrill
The hearer's soul, and move it at its will.
[tr. Conington (1874)]

Fine things won't make a drama: it must thrill
The hearers' souls, and sway them at its will.
[tr. Martin (1881)]

Nor is it enough that poems possess beauty in the construction. They must please and, in whatsoever direction they will, send there the feelings of the auditors.
[tr. Elgood (1893)]

Not enough is it for poems to have beauty: they must have charm, and lead the hearer's soul where they will.
[tr. Fairclough (Loeb) (1926)]

It is not enough for poems to be fine; they must charm, and draw the mind of the listener at will.
[tr. Blakeney; ed. Kramer, Jr. (1936)]

It isn't enough to make lines pretty; they must move,
and affect the hearer's soul exactly as the poet wants.
[tr. Fuchs (1977)]

Poems (oh)
can be (oh)
so beautiful
And (oh) so dull.
Poets need charm, too, to seduce our minds.
[tr. Raffel (1983 ed.)]

Sheer abstract beauty isn't enough in a poem;
Its language must so persuade the listener
And act upon his soul that he'll respond
As the poem intends.
[tr. Ferry (2001)]

Correctness is not enough in a poem; it must be attractive,
leading the listener's emotions in whatever way it wishes.
[tr. Rudd (2005 ed.)]

It’s not enough for poems to have beauty: they must have
Charm, leading their hearer’s heart wherever they wish.
[tr. Kline (2015)]

A man may soner beare awaye and rather kepe in mynde
The thinge deryded, then that is prayse worthie in his kynde.
[tr. Drant (1567)]

For Readers so malicious now are growne,
What's bad they'll con, what's good they let alone.
[tr. W. P.; ed. Brome (1666)]

For what's derided by the Censuring Crowd,
Is thought on more than what is just and Good.
[tr. Creech (1684)]

For quickly we discern,
With ease remember, and with pleasure learn,
Whate'er may ridicule and laughter move,
Not what deserves our best esteem and love.
[tr. Francis (1747)]

For sooner caught and steadier to abide
On memory's tablet that which we deride,
Than what revere.
[tr. Howes (1845)]

For one learns sooner, and more willingly remembers, that which a man derides, than that which he approves and venerates.
[tr. Smart/Buckley (1853)]

For easier 'tis to learn and recollect
What moves derision than what claims respect.
[tr. Conington (1874)]

For we learn quicker, gladlier recollect
What makes us laugh, than what commands respect.
[tr. Martin (1881)]

The subject of our zeal sooner hears of, and is more inclined to remember, that which any one laughs at in the production than what he approves of and eulogizes.
[tr. Elgood (1893)]

For a man learns more quickly and remembers more easily that which he laughs at, than that which he approves and reveres.
[E.g. (1907)]

For one sooner learns
And easier remembers such concerns
As men deride that those men favor lend
And venerate.
[tr. A. F. Murison (1931); ed. Kramer, Jr. (1936)]

For we all more quickly learn and easily remember
the poems we scorn than those we approve of and respect.
[tr. Fuchs (1977)]

And writers of foolish poems often find
They're vividly and scornfully remembered.
[tr. Ferry (2001)]

For a thing that causes merriment is always sooner learnt
and longer remembered than what commands respect and approval.
[tr. Rudd (2005 ed.)]

Men remember more quickly, with greater readiness,
Things they deride, than those they approve and respect.
[tr. Kline (2015)]

Red Smith was asked if turning out a daily column wasn't quite a chore ... "Why, no," deadpanned Red. "You simply sit down at the typewriter, open your veins, and bleed."

“Writing a column is easy,” he once said. “You just sit at your typewriter until little drops of blood appear on your forehead.”

• Writing is easy. You just open a vein and bleed.
• There’s nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein.
• There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.
• Writing is easy. Just put a piece of paper in the typewriter and start bleeding.

• Quote Origin: Writing Is Easy; You Just Open a Vein and Bleed – Quote Investigator®
• Quotation Controversy--Writing and Bleeding | The Hemingway Society
• Hemingway Didn't Say That | The Hemingway Society
• Yale expert Fred Shapiro's pick of choice Harvard quotations | Harvard Magazine

There has never yet been either a poet or an orator who did not consider himself the greatest in the world.
[ed. Harbottle (1906)]

No one, whether poet or orator, ever thought anyone better than himself. This is so even in the case of bad ones.
[tr. Windstedt (Loeb) (1913)]

There never was a poet or an orator who thought any one better than himself.
[tr. McKinlay (1926), # 104]

There was never a poet or orator yet who thought anyone better than himself. This applies even to the bad ones.
[tr. Shackleton Bailey (1968)]

It must be borne in mind that there are many men who, without being productive, yet want to say something significant; and thus the most curious things are brought to light.
[tr. Rönnfeldt (1900)]

One has to remember that there are quite a lot of people who would like to say something significant without being productive, and then the most peculiar things see the light of day.
[tr. Stopp (1995), #497]

For nowe, who lookes to beare the bel, his doyngs he muste cull,
At home with hym, and better adde, then he dyd erste out pull.
[tr. Drant (1567)]

He that would write what should twice reading stand,
Must often be upon the mending hand.
[tr. A. B.; ed. Brome (1666)]

When you design a lasting Piece, be wise,
Amend, Correct, again, again Revise.
[tr. Creech (1684)]

Would you a reader's just esteem engage?
Correct with frequent care the blotted page.
[tr. Francis (1747)]

Spare not erasion, ye that wish your strain,
When once perused, to be perused again.
[tr. Howes (1845)]

You that intend to write what is worthy to be read more than once, blot frequently.
[tr. Smart/Buckley (1853)]

Ofttimes erase, if you intend to write what may prove worth a second reading.
[tr. Millington (1870)]

Oh yes! believe me, you must draw your pen
Not once nor twice but o'er and o'er again
Through what you've written, if you would entice
The man that reads you once to read you twice.
[tr. Conington (1874)]

Often must you turn your pencil to erase, if you hope to write something worth a second reading.
[tr. Fairclough (Loeb) (1926)]

You’ll often have to erase if you mean to write something
Worth reading twice.
[tr. Palmer Bovie (1959)]

Keep reversing your pencil if you'd like to write a piece
worth reading twice.
[tr. Fuchs (1977)]

For you must often
reverse your stylus and revise, if you wish
to write things worthy of being reread.
[tr. Alexander (1999)]

If you hope to deserve a second reading you must often employ
the rubber at the end of your pencil.
[tr. Rudd (2005 ed.)]

If you want to write what’s worth a second reading,
You must often reverse your stylus, and smooth the wax.
[tr. Kline (2015)]

A Work out-lasting Brass, and higher
Then Regal Pyramids proud Spire,
I have absolv'd. Which storming windes,
The Sea that turrets undermines,
Tract of innumerable daies,
Nor the rout of time can raze.
[tr. Fanshawe, ed. Brome (1666)]

'TIs finish't; I have rais'd a Monument
More strong than Brass, and of a vast extent:
Higher than Egypt's statelyest Pyramid,
That costly Monument of Kingly Pride;
As High as Heaven the top, as Earth the Basis wide:
Which eating showers, nor North wind's feeble blast,
Nor whirling Time, nor flight of Years can wast.
[tr. Creech (1684)]

I have completed a monument more lasting than brass, and more sublime than the regal elevation of pyramids, which neither the wasting shower, the unavailing north wind, nor an innumerable succession of years, and the flight of seasons, shall be able to demolish.
[tr. Smart/Buckley (1853)]

I've reared a monument, my own,
More durable than brass,
Yea, kingly pyramids of stone
In height it doth surpass.
Rain shall not sap, nor driving blast
Disturb its settled base.
Nor countless ages rolling past
Its symmetry deface.
[tr. Martin (1864)]

I have built a monument than bronze more lasting,
Soaring more high than regal pyramids,
Which nor the stealthy gnawing of the rain-drop,
Nor the vain rush of Boreas shall destroy;
Nor shall it pass away with the unnumbered
Series of ages and the flight of time.
[tr. Bulwer-Lytton (1870)]

I have built my mausoleum of more enduring material than brass, and loftier than the royal Pyramids. Neither corroding rain, the furious North wind, the recurring cycles of years, nor the flight of time, will be able to destroy it.
[tr. Elgood (1893)]

Now have I reared a monument more durable than brass,
And one that doth the royal scale of pyramids surpass,
Nor shall defeated Aquilo destroy, nor soaking rain,
Nor yet the countless tide of years, nor seasons in their train.
[tr. Gladstone (1894)]

I a statue have rear'd longer to live than brass,
And more lofty than height royal of Pyramids;
Which nor storm can devour, nor headlong Aquilo
Overwhelm, or the great series innum'rable
Of the years as they roll, and the swift flight of time.
[tr. Phelps (1897)]

I have wrought out a monument more durable than bronze,
And higher than the regal structure of the Pyramids,
Which not corroding rain, nor blustering Aquilo
May overthrow, or the innumerable
Series of years, and flight of time.
[tr. Garnsey (1907)]

A monument I've achieved more strong than brass,
Soaring kings' pyramids to overpass;
Which not corroding raindrip shall devour,
Or winds that from the north sweep down in power,
Or years unnumbered as the ages flee!
[tr. Marshall (1908)]

I have finished a monument more lasting than bronze and loftier than the Pyramids’ royal pile, one that no wasting rain, no furious north wind can destroy, or the countless chain of years and the ages’ flight.
[tr. Bennett (Loeb) (1912)]

Lo, I have reared a monument that bronze shall not outlast,
More lofty than the pyramids that despots piled of yore;
Its strength defies devouring rain, defies the ungoverned blast
Of Aquilo, the wind that blows from where the North seas roar;
It shall survive when the unnumbered tale of years is past,
When days and months have ceased to be, and Time shall be no more.
[tr. Mills (1924)]

More durable than bronze, higher than Pharaoh’s
Pyramids is the monument I have made,
A shape that angry wind or hungry rain
Cannot demolish, nor the innumerable
Ranks of the years that march in centuries.
[tr. Michie (1963)]

The monument I've made for myself will outlast
Brass, reaches higher than Egyptian
Kings and their pyramids; nothing can corrode it,
No rain, no wind, nor the endless years
Flying past.
[tr. Raffel (1983)]

Today I have finished a work outlasting bronze
And the pyramids of ancient royal kings.
The North Wind raging cannot scatter it
Nor can the rain obliterate this work,
Nor can the years, nor can the ages passing.
[tr. Ferry (1997)]

I have erected a monument more durable than bronze,
loftier than the regal pile of pyramids
that cannot be destroyed either by
corroding rains or the tempestuous North wind
or the endless passage of the years
or the flight of centuries.
[tr. Alexander (1999)]

I’ve raised a monument, more durable than bronze,
one higher than the Pyramids’ royal towers,
that no devouring rain, or fierce northerly gale,
has power to destroy: nor the immeasurable
succession of years, and the swift passage of time.
[tr. Kline (2015)]

I constructed a monument of pyramids more durable than bronze
and higher than a royal site,
which the greedy rain, the raging North Wind
would not be able to tear apart or countless
series of years and flight of time.
[tr. Wikisource (2021)]

The mind must rest as well as work. To write too much ruins it; to leave off writing rusts it.
[tr. Attwell (1896), ¶ 336]

One ruins the mind with too much writing. One rusts it by not writing at all.
[tr. Auster (1983), 1805 entry]

To make a Book, is like making a Pendulum, a Man must have Experience, as well as Wit to succeed in it.
[Bullord ed. (1696)]

Tis as much a Trade to make a Book, as to make a Watch; there's something more than Wit requisite to make an Author.
[Curll ed. (1713)]

To make a Book, is no less a Trade than to make a Clock; something more than Wit is necessary to form an Author.
[Browne ed. (1752)]

To make a book is as much a trade as to make a clock; something more than intelligence is required to become an author.
[tr. Van Laun (1885)]

What astonishes astonishes once, but what is admirable is more and more admired.
[tr. Calvert (1866), ch. 15]

That which astonishes, astonishes once; but whatever is admirable becomes more and more admired.
[tr. Attwell (1896), ¶ 370]

The surprising astonishes once; but the admirable is admired more and more.
[tr. Collins (1928), ch. 22]

In daring drains
I sing, admitted to the lofty fanes,
Fill'd with the Glory of th' Eternal One.
There saw I things beyond Creation's bourne.
Which none who from her flaming bounds return
Can tell, when soaring Thought is launch'd so far
In Being's vast Abyss, that Mem'ry fails.
Nor dares pursue, altho' with crowded sails
She tries the Voyage o'er th' eternal Bar.
But some small remnant of that heav'nly Spoil,
From that strange Voyage won with arduous toil,
To her dear native soil, the Muse shall bear.
[tr. Boyd (1802), st. 1-3]

In heav’n,
That largeliest of his light partakes, was I,
Witness of things, which to relate again
Surpasseth power of him who comes from thence;
For that, so near approaching its desire
Our intellect is to such depth absorb’d,
That memory cannot follow. Nathless all,
That in my thoughts I of that sacred realm
Could store, shall now be matter of my song.
[tr. Cary (1814)]

In heaven, that drinks the deepest of the light,
Was I, and saw what to recount to sense
He knows not how, nor can, who comes from thence;
Because, approaching nearer its desire,
Dives intellect to such a depth profound
That memory fails, and cannot go beyond
In truth of that dominion's power, whate'er
I can find room to treasure in my mind,
Be now the subject in my song enshrined.
[tr. Bannerman (1850)]

Within that heaven which most his light receives
Was I, and things beheld which to repeat
Nor knows, nor can, who from above descends;
Because in drawing near to its desire
Our intellect ingulphs itself so far,
That after it the memory cannot go.
Truly whatever of the holy realm
I had the power to treasure in my mind
Shall now become the subject of my song.
[tr. Longfellow (1867)]

In the heaven which receives most of His light was I, and I beheld things which whoso descends thence has neither knowledge nor power to tell again, seeing that as it draws near to its desire our understanding plunges so deep, that the memory cannot go after it. Howbeit, so much of the holy realm as I could treasure up within my mind shall now be matter for my lay.
[tr. Butler (1885)]

In the sky which most partaketh of his light
Was I, and things I saw, which to repeat
Knows not, and cannot whoe'er leaves that height.
Because approaching to its yearned-for seat
The intellect deep diveth there so long
That memory behind it cannot fleet.
Of what to the holy kingdom doth belong
Which I had power to treasure in my mind,
Truly shall now be subject of my song.
[tr. Minchin (1885)]

In the heaven that receives most of its light I have been, and have seen things which he who descends from thereabove neither knows how nor is able to recount; because, drawing near to its own desire, our understanding enters so deep, that the memory cannot follow. Truly whatever of the Holy Realm I could treasure up in my mind shall now be the theme of my song.
[tr. Norton (1892)]

In that heaven which most receiveth of his light, have I been ; and have seen things which whoso descendeth from up there hath nor knowledge nor power to re-tell;
because, as it draweth nigh to its desire, our intellect sinketh so deep, that memory cannot go back upon the track.
Nathless, whatever of the holy realm I had the power to treasure in my memory, shall now be matter of my song.
[tr. Wicksteed (1899)]

I was in the heaven that most receives His light and I saw things which he that descends from it has not the knowledge or the power to tell again; for our intellect, drawing near to its desire, sinks so deep that memory cannot follow it. Nevertheless, so much of the holy kingdom as I was able to treasure in my mind shall now be matter of my song.
[tr. Sinclair (1939)]

In that heaven which partakes most of His light
I have been, and have beheld such things as who
Comes down thence has no wit nor power to write;
Such depth our understanding deepens to
When it draws near unto its longing's home
That memory cannot backward with it go.
Nevertheless what of the blest kingdom
Could in my memory, for its treasure, stray
Shall now the matter of my song become.
[tr. Binyon (1943)]

I have been in that Heaven of His most light,
and what I saw, those who descend from there
lack both the knowledge and the power to write.
For as our intellect draws near its goal
it opens to such depths of understanding
as memory cannot plumb within the soul.
Nevertheless, whatever portion time
still leaves me of the treasure of that kingdom
shall now become the subject of my rhyme.
[tr. Ciardi (1970)]

I have been in the heaven that most receives of his light, and have seen things which whoso descends from up there has niehter the knowledge nor the power to relate, because, as draws near to its desire, our intellect enters so deep that memory cannot go back upon the track. Nevertheless, so much of the holy kingdom as I could treasure up in my mind shall now be the matter of my song.
[tr. Singleton (1975)]

I have been in the heaven which takes most of his light,
And I have seen things which cannot be told,
Possibly, by anyone who comes down from up there;
Because, approaching the object of its desires,
Our intellect is so deeply absorbed
That memory cannot follow it all the way.
Nevertheless, what I was able to store up
Of that holy kingdom, in my mind,
Will now be the matter of my poem.
[tr. Sisson (1981)]

I was within the heaven that receives more
of His light; and I saw things that he
who from that height descends, forgets or can
not speak; for nearing its desired end,
our intellect sinks into an abyss
so deep that memory fails to follow it.
Nevertheless, as much as I, within
my mind, could treasure of the holy kingdom
shall now become the matter of my song.
[tr. Mandelbaum (1984)]

I have been in His brightest shining heaven
and seen such things that no man, once returned
from there, has wit or skill to tell about;
for when our intellect draws near its goal
and fathoms to the depths of its desire,
the memory is powerless to follow;
but still, as much of Heaven’s holy realm
as I could store and treasure in my mind
shall now become the subject of my song.
[tr. Musa (1984)]

In the heaven that receives most of his light have I been, and I have seen things that one who comes down from there cannot remember and cannot utter,
for as it draws near to its desire, our intellect goes so deep that the memory cannot follow it.
Nevertheless, as much of the holy kingdom as I was able to treasure up in my mind will now become the matter of my song.
[tr. Durling (2011)]

I have been in that Heaven that knows his light most, and have seen things, which whoever descends from there has neither power, nor knowledge, to relate: because as our intellect draws near to its desire, it reaches such depths that memory cannot go back along the track.
Nevertheless, whatever, of the sacred regions, I had power to treasure in my mind, will now be the subject of my labour.
[tr. Kline (2002)]

High in that sphere which takes from Him most light
I was -- I was! -- and saw things there that no one
who descends knows how or ever can repeat.
For, drawing near to what it most desires,
our intellect so sinks into the deep
no memory can follow it that far.
As much, though, truly of that holy realm
as I could keep as treasure in my mind
will now become the substance of my song.
[tr. Kirkpatrick (2007)]

I was in that heaven which receives
more of His light. He who comes down from there
can neither know nor tell what he has seen,
for, drawing near to its desire,
so deeply is our intellect immersed
that memory cannot follow after it.
Nevertheless, as much of the holy kingdom
as I could store as treasure in my mind
shall now become the subject of my song.
[tr. Hollander/Hollander (2007)]

And though I saw where most of His brightness falls,
What I have seen cannot be represented
Here, for those who have entered Heaven, and descended,
Have come so close to what our minds desire
They sink far in, and bury their knowledge, their power,
So deep that memory cannot recover
A thing. But I will try, truly, to present
Whatever remains in my mind of that holy kingdom
And make it the substance of this song I will sing.
[tr. Raffel (2010)]

I was in the heaven that gets more of its rays
And saw things that those who come down
From on high can’t grasp or else can’t say,
Because nearing what one wants,
Our intellect is so overcome
That our memory is left behind.
Even so, as much of the Holy Kingdom
As my mind could hold on to
Will now be the subject of my song.
[tr. Bang (2021)]

It is something laughable to see those writers who make the folding robes of their periods rustle around them: they want to cover their feet.
[tr. Common (1911)]

There is something laughable about those writers who make the folded drapery of their period rustle around them; they want to hide their feet.
[tr. Hill (2018)]

Of all Authors, there is none I despise more than the Compilers, who forage far and wide for Scraps of other Men's Works, which they piece into their own, like so many Dabs of Green Turf in a Flower-garden: they are not a whit superior to those that work in a Printing-house, who distribute the Types, which being put together make a Book, towards which they furnish'd nothing but Manual Labour. I am for having Original Authors reverenc'd: and, in my Judgment, 'tis a sort of Prophanation to drag, as it were out of their Sanctuary, Pieces of their Works, and expose them to a Contempt which they deserve not. If a Man has nothing new to say, why don't he hold his Tongue?
[tr. Ozell (1736 ed.), # 64]

Of all kind of authors, there are none I despise more than compilers, who search every where for shreds of other men's works, which they join to their own, like so many pieces of green turf in a garden: they are not at all superior to compositors in a printing house, who range the types, wh:ch, collected together, make a book, towards which they contribute nothing but the labours of the hand. I would have original writers respected, and it seems to me, a kind of profanation to take those pieces from the sanftuary in which they reside, and to expose them to a contempt they do not deserve. When a man hath nothing new to say, why does not he hold his tongue?
[tr. Floyd (1762)]

Of all the authors, there are none whom I despise more than compilers. They crowd from all quarters to pick up the shreds of other men’s works; these they fit into their own, as one would patch the turf of a lawn: they are not one whit superior to the compositor, whose type-setting may be called book-making if manual labor is all. I would have original books respected; and it seems to me a species of profanation, to take from them the matter of which they are composed, as if from a sanctuary, and expose it to an undeserved contempt. When a man has nothing new to say, why can’t he be quiet?
[tr. Davidson (1891)]

There is no class of authors I despise more than I do compilers, who come from every side to search for the fragments of other men's works, which they wedge into their own, just as you would introduce patches of turf into the border of a flower-plot. They are not superior to printers who arrange characters in such a way as to produce a book, but whose manual labor has been all that has entered into its composition. I would have original books respected. It is a kind of profanation to tear from them the parts of which they are composed, as if from a sanctuary, and thereby expose them to a contempt they do not deserve.
[tr. Betts (1897)]

Of all authors, I most despise the compilers, who search everywhere in the works of others for fragments which they then fit into their own, much as you would piece turf into a lawn. They are no better authors than the printers who select and combine letters and thus, contributing only their manual labor, make a book. I would have original books respected, and it seems to me that there is something profane in tearing constituent pieces from their sanctuary and exposing them to a scorn they do not deserve. When a man has nothing to say, why is he not silent?
[tr. Healy (1964)]

Of all these authors, the ones I despise the most are the compilers, the ones who rummage through the works of others and tear off strips to patch into their own books, like bits of turf in a lawn. They are no better than the compositors who work for the printers, putting letters together so as to form a book; they have contributed nothing but the use of their hands. I think original books ought to be more respected, for I think it is a kind of profanation to take fragments out of their sanctuary and expose them to a contempt that they do not merit. When a man has nothing new to say, why does he not keep quiet?
[tr. MacKenzie (2014)]

If breath and vigour, by indulgent Heav'n,
To sing this bev'rage of the Gods were giv'n,
What holy rapture would exalt my Song!
To tell the unexhausted sweets that flow
From that blest Fountain o'er the Vale below.
And warm, with new desire, the votive Throng!
But now the Muse has run her fatal round,
And mark'd her Circle to the Second Bound.
[tr. Boyd (1802), st. 26-27]

Were further space allow’d,
Then, Reader, might I sing, though but in part,
That beverage, with whose sweetness I had ne’er
Been sated. But, since all the leaves are full,
Appointed for this second strain, mine art
With warning bridle checks me.
[tr. Cary (1814)]

Reader, had I but longer space to write,
I might describe to thee, in part, the taste
Of draught that's ever sweet, nor waste
The time; but leaves are all already full
Appointed for the second canticle,
Nor curb nor rein permit me use the will.
[tr. Bannerman (1850)]

If, Reader, I possessed a longer space
For writing it, I yet would sing in part
Of the sweet draught that ne'er would satiate me;
But inasmuch as full are all the leaves
Made ready for this second canticle,
The curb of art no farther lets me go.
[tr. Longfellow (1867)]

If I had, reader, longer space to write, I should sing, at all events in part, the sweet draught which never would have sated me; but, for that all the sheets put in frame for this second Canticle are full, the bridle of my art lets me go no further.
[tr. Butler (1885)]

Reader, if longer space to me were rated
For writing, I would strive to sing in part
That draught so sweet, which never could have sated.
But since is now completely filled the chart
Allotted for this second book, there leaves
No power to wander more the curb of Art.
[tr. Minchin (1885)]

If I had, Reader, longer space for writing I would yet partly sing the sweet draught which never would have sated me. But, because all the leaves destined for this second canticle are full, the curb of my art lets me go no further.
[tr. Norton (1892)]

If, reader, I had greater space for writing, I would sing, at least in part, of the sweet draught which never would have sated me;
but forasmuch as all the pages ordained for this second canticle are filled, the curb of art no further lets me go.
[tr. Okey (1901)]

If, reader, I had more space to write I should sing but in part the sweet draught which never would have sated me; but since all the sheets prepared for this second cantica are full the curb of art does not let me go farther.
[tr. Sinclair (1939)]

If, Reader, for the writing were more space,
That sweet fount, whence I ne'er could drink my fill,
Would I yet sing, though in imperfect praise.
But seeing that for this second canticle
The paper planned is full to the last page,
The bridle of art must needs constrain my will.
[tr. Binyon (1943)]

If for my writing, Reader, I'd more space,
I'd sing -- at least in part -- those sweets my heart
Might aye have drunk nor e'er known weariness;
But since I've filled the pages set apart
For this my second cantique, I'll pursue
No further, bridled by the curb of art.
[tr. Sayers (1955)]

If, reader, I had greater space for writing
I would yet partly sing the sweet draught
which never would have sated me.
but since all the pages ordained
for this second canticle are filled,
the curb of art lets me go no further.
[tr. Singleton (1973)]

Reader, if I had space to write more words,
I'd sing, at least in part, of that sweet draught
which never could have satisfied my thirst;
But now I have completed every page
planned for my poem's second canticle --
I am checked by the bridle of my art!
[tr. Musa (1981)]

If, reader, I had room to write more,
My poem could still not tell you everything
About the sweet drink of which I could never have had enough.
But since all the pages designed for this
Second part of the poem have been filled,
The rules of art stop me at this point.
[tr. Sisson (1981)]

If, reader, I had ampler space in which
to write, I'd sing -- though incompletely -- that
sweet draught for which my thirst was limitless;
but since all of the pages pre-disposed
for this, the second canticle, are full,
the curb of art will not let me continue.
[tr. Mandelbaum (1982)]

Reader, if I had more space to write, I would speak, partially at least, about that sweet drink, which would never have sated me: but because all the pages determined for the second Canticle are full, the curb of art lets me go no further.
[tr. Kline (2002)]

If, reader, I had more space to write, I would continue to sing in part the sweet drink that could never satiate me,
but because all the pages are filled that have been laid out for this second canticle, the bridle of art permits me to go no further.
[tr. Durling (2003)]

If, reader, I'd more space in which to write,
then I should sing in part about that drink,
so sweet I’d never have my fill of it.
However, since these pages now are full,
prepared by rights to take the second song,
the reins of art won't let me pass beyond.
[tr. Kirkpatrick (2007)]

If, reader, I had more ample space to write,
I should sing at least in part the sweetness
of the drink that never would have sated me,
but, since all the sheets
readied for this second canticle are full,
the curb of art lets me proceed no farther.
[tr. Hollander/Hollander (2007)]

O reader, if I had the space to tell you
More, I'd sing something about that sweetest
Drink, no quantity of which could ever
End my thirst, but because the pages meant
For this canto are already filled, my art prevents me,
Affirming limits I am forced to meet.
[tr. Raffel (2010)]

Nature seems wisely to have provided that the Follies of Men shou'd pass away, but Books perpetuate them. A Fool ought to be satisfy'd with having teaz'd those who liv'd at the same Time with him: but he is for going further, and is resolved to plague the Generations to come he is resolv'd to make his Impertinence triumph over Oblivion, which he might have enjoy'd as well as his Grave: he will have Posterity know that such a one liv'd, and all future Ages be inform'd that he was a Fool.
[tr. Ozell (1736 ed.), Letter 64]

Nature seems to have provided, that the follies of men should be transient, but they by writing books render them permanent. A fool ought to content himself with having wearied those who lived with him: but he is for tormenting future generations; he is desirous that his folly should triumph over oblivion, which he ought to have enjoyed as well as his grave; he is desirous that posterity should be informed that he lived, and that it should be known for ever that he was a fool.
[tr. Floyd (1762)]

Nature has wisely provided that the follies of men should be ephemeral; but, unhappily, these very follies are immortalised in books. A fool ought to have been satisfied with boring all those who have lived with him; yet he insists on torturing future races; he is determined that his folly shall triumph over the oblivion in which he ought to have been able to find as much enjoyment as he does in his last slumber; he wishes posterity to know that he has lived, and remember forever that he was a fool.
[tr. Betts (1897)]

While nature seems wisely to have provided that the stupidities of men should be transient, books immortalize them. A fool should be content with boring everyone who has lived with him, but he further undertakes to torment future generations. He wants his folly to triumph over the oblivion which he should welcome like the sleep of the tomb; he wants to inform posterity that he has lived, and to have it forever remembered that he was a fool.
[tr. Healy (1964)]

Nature in her wisdom seems to have arranged for man's follies to be short-lived, and books render them immortal. A fool ought to be satisfied with having bored all his own contemporaries, but he also seeks to torment those as yet unborn; he wants his stupidity to triumph over oblivion, which he might, like the tomb, have enjoyed; but no, he wants posterity to be notified that he has lived, and he wants her to know, for all eternity, that he was an idiot.
[tr. Mauldon (2008), Letter 64]

Nature has so arranged things that the absurdities men say are passing things, but books give them immortal life. A fool ought to have been content to have annoyed those who live near him, but instead he wants the chance to torment future generations. He wants his absurdities to triumph over the complete oblivion that he really ought to have welcomed and enjoyed like a tomb. He wants posterity to be informed that he lived, and he wants it known for all time that he was a fool.
[tr. MacKenzie (2014), Letter 64]

The Predominant Passion or rather Fury of most of the French is, to be thought Wits; and the Predominant passion of those who would be thought Wits, is to write Books.
And yet there is nothing so ill-contrived.
[tr. Ozell (1736 ed.), No. 64]

The passion of most of the French is to be taken for wits, and the passion of thole who would be thought wits, is to write books. And yet there is nothing so badly imagined.
[tr. Floyd (1762)]

The passion of nearly every Frenchman, is to pass for a wit; and the passion of those who wish to be thought wits, is to write books.
There never was such an erroneous idea.
[tr. Davidson (1891)]

The passion of most Frenchmen is to be thought wits ; and the passion of those who wish to be thought wits is to write books.
It is impossible to imagine a more unfortunate mania.
[tr. Betts (1897)]

The passion of most of the French is to be thought witty, and the passion of those who wish to be considered wits is to write books.
A worse misconception cannot be imagined.
[tr. Healy (1964)]

Most Frenchmen are desperately eager to be thought witty and, of those who seek to be witty, most are desperately eager to write a book.
No plan, however, could be less well conceived.
[tr. Mauldon (2008), No. 64]

With pumice dry just polish'd fine,
To whom present this book of mine;
This little volume smart, and new? --
Cornelius, I will give it you:
For then you oft were wont to say
Some trifling merit had my lay.
[tr. Nott (1795)]

My little volume is complete,
With all the care and polish neat
That makes it fair to see:
To whom shall I then, to whose praise,
Inscribe my lively, graceful lays?
Cornelius, friend, to thee.
[tr. Lamb (1821)]

My little volume is complete,
And with the pumice made as neat
As tome need wish to be;
And now what patron shall I choose
For thee gay sallies of my muse?
Cornelius, whom but thee?
For though they are but trifles, thou
Some value didst to them allow.
[tr. T. Martin (1861), st. 1-2]

To what dear friend, say, shall I dedicate
My smart new book, just trimm'd with pumice dry?
To thee, Cornelius -- for, in years gone by,
Thou was accustom'd my light lays to rate
As something more than trifles.
[tr. Cranstoun (1867)]

My little book, that's neat and new,
Fresh polished with dry pumice stone,
To whom, Cornelius, but to you,
Shall this be sent, for you alone --
(Who used to praise my lines, my own) ....
[tr. Lang (1888)]

To thee (Cornelius!); for wast ever fain
To deem my trifles somewhat boon contain.
[tr. Burton (1893)]

To whom inscribe my charming new book -- just out and with ashen pumice polished? Cornelius, to you! for you used to deem my triflings of account.
[tr. Smithers (1894)]

To whom am I to present my pretty new book, freshly smoothed off with dry pumice stone? To you, Cornelius: for you used to think that my trifles were worth something, long ago.
[tr. Warre Cornish (1904)]

To whom shall I offer this book, young and sprightly,
Neat, polished, wide-margined, and finished politely?
To you, my Cornelius ....
[tr. Stewart (1915)]

To whom shall I offer my new little book
Looking as polished as parchment can look?
Cornelius, to thee, for 'twa thou who didst prize
My trifles as something e'en then in thine eyes.
[tr. Symons-Jeune (1923)]

To whom this dainty booklet polished new
With pumice stone? Cornelius, to you.
For you were wont my versicles to praise
As things of value in those bygone days.
[tr. Wright (1926), ch. 3]

Who shall receive my new-born book,
my poems, elegant and shy,
neatly dressed and polished?
You, Cornelius,
shall by my single patron,
for, long ago, you praised my slender lines and stanzas.
[tr. Gregory (1931)]

Whom do I give my neat little volume
slicked dry and made fashionable with pumice?
Cornelius, to you: remindful that you
used to dwell on my scantlings as something great.
[tr. Zukofsky (1959)]

To whom will I give this sophisticated,
abrasively accomplished new collection?
To you, Cornelius! You had the habit
of making much of my poetic little.
[tr. C. Martin (1979)]

To whom do I send this fresh little book
of wit, just polished off with dry pumice?
To you, Cornelius: since you were accustomed
to consider my trifles worth something
even then.
[tr. Kline (2001)]

To whom do I dedicate this charming slim volume,
just now polished with dry pumice stone?
For you Cornelius, for you were accustomed to think
that my scribblings were something.
[tr. Ozlem (2003)]

Who's the dedicatee of my new witty
booklet, all fresh-polished with abrasive?
You, Cornelius: for you always used to
feel my trivia possessed some substance.
[tr. Green (2005)]

To whom to give this charming little book
dryly polished with a pumice stone?
To you, Cornelius: you used to think
my trivial little scribbles worth a look.
[Source (2011)]

Who is it I should give my little book to,
So pretty in its pumice-polished covers?
Cornelius, I'll give my book to you:
Because you used to think my nothings somethings.
[tr. Ferry (2012)]

To whom do I give this pleasing new little book,
Just now smoothed with dry pumice?
To you, Cornelius: For you were accustomed
To consider my trifles to be something.
[tr. Wikibooks (2017)]

To whom do I give this elegant new booklet,
polished just now with dry pumice?
To you, Cornelius! Since you always
thought my doggerel was worth something.
[tr. Wikisource (2018)]

There exists in the word, in the verb, something sacred which prohibits us from viewing it as a mere game of chance. To manipulate language with wisdom is to practice a kind of evocative sorcery.
[tr. Jakobson (1981)]

There is in a word, in a verb, something sacred which forbids us from using it recklessly. To handle a language cunningly is to practice a kind of evocative sorcery.
[E.g.]

Of all English and American poets not a half-dozen have been able to write good blank-verse; and the six hundred Californian poets are not among them.

He who regards nothing more in his Works than the taste of the Age, has a greater value for his Person than his Writings: He should always aim at Perfection; and tho his Contemporaries refuse him Justice, Posterity will give it him.
[Bullord ed. (1696)]

He who regards nothing more in his Works than the Taste of his own Age, Considers his Person more than his Writings: He should always aim at Perfection, and tho his Contemporaries refuse him Justice, Posterity will give it him.
[Curll ed. (1713)]

He who regards nothing more in his Works than the Taste of the Age, has a greater value for his Person than his Writings: He should always aim at Perfection; and though his Cotempararies refuse him Justice, he will be better used by Posterity.
[Browne ed. (1752)]

He who only writes to suit the taste of the age, considers himself more than his writings. We should always aim at perfection, and then posterity will do us that justice which sometimes our contemporaries refuse.
[tr. Van Laun (1885)]

'Tis the Glory or the Merit of some Men to write well; and of others not to write at all.
[Curll ed. (1713)]

It is the Glory and Merit of some Men to write well, and of others not to write at all.
[Browne ed. (1752)]

It is the glory and the merit of some men to write well, and of others not to write at all.
[tr. Van Laun (1885)]

The glory or merit of certain men lies in writing well: that of certain others, in not writing at all.
[tr. Stewart (1970)]

To raise my self a way must now be found,
That through all Nations I may be renown'd.
[tr. Ogilby (1649)]

New ways I must attempt, my groveling Name
To raise aloft, and wing my flight to Fame.
[tr. Dryden (1709), ll. 13-14]

I too from earth to lift myself will try,
And on the wings of Fame adventurous fly
[tr. Nevile (1767), ll. 11-12]

I too will boldly strive my flight to raise,
And, wing'd by victory, catch the gale of praise.
[tr. Sotheby (1800)]

I, too, must attempt a way, whereby I may raise myself from the gorund, and victorious hover through the lips of men.
[tr. Davidson (1854)]

Some way I must outstrive,
To lift me also from the ground, and then
A flight of triumph on the lips of men!
[tr. Blackmore (1871), l. 10ff]

I must essay a course by which I may raise myself, like other poets, from the lowly ground, and ride triumphant on the lips of men.
[tr. Wilkins (1873)]

Needs must a path be tried,
By which I too may lift me from the dust,
And float triumphant through the mouths of men.
[tr. Rhoades (1881), ll. 11-13]

Be mine the glory to ascend to fame
By paths untrodden.
[tr. King (1882)]

I must try a course whereby I also may soar aloft and hover victorious before the eyes of men.
[tr. Bryce (1897)]

A path must be adventured where I too may rise from earth and fly triumphing on the lips of men.
[tr. Mackail (1899)]

A path will I try that shall lift me above
This earth, and from lip to lip of men my triumphant flight
Will I wing.
[tr. Way (1912)]

I must essay a path whereby I, too, may rise from earth and fly victorious on the lips of men.
[tr. Fairclough (Loeb) (1916)]

No, I must venture a theme will exalt me
From earth and give me wings and a triumph on every tongue.
[tr. Day-Lewis (1940)]

I must find a way to soar aloft
And raise my verse above this common soil,
To fly victorious on the lips of men.
[tr. Bovie (1956)]

I must find a way to raise myself from the earth and fly victorious, my name on the lips of men.
[tr. Miles (1980)]

I must find a way
Of my own to soar above the common ground
And "fly victorious on the lips of men."
[tr. Wilkinson (1982)]

I must try a path, by which I too
can rise from the earth and fly, victorious, from men’s lips.
[tr. Kline (2001)]

I must try for a new path on which I may rise from the earth and soar triumphant from the lips of men.
[tr. Lembke (2004)]

I must essay a path by which I too
may rise from earth a triumph fluttering on the lips of men.
[tr. Johnson (2009)]

I too must find
The way to rise in flight above the earth,
Triumphant on the speech of men.
[tr. Ferry (2015)]

Genius begins beautiful works, but only labor finishes them.
[tr. Calvert (1866), ch. 8]

Genius begins great works; labour alone finishes them.
[tr. Attwell (1896), ¶ 335]

Beautiful works. Genius beings them, but labor alone finishes them.
[tr. Auster (1983)], 1801]

Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven's sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something.

You'd Poet seem, yet nothing you rehearse:
Be what you will, so we ne'er hear your verse.
[tr. Wright (1663)]

Thou would'st a poet be, yet nought dost write:
Be what thou wilt, so nought thou dost indite.
[tr. Killigrew (1695)]

Arthur, they say, has wit. "For what?
For writing?" No -- for writing not.
[tr. Swift (early 18th C)]

Nought you recite, and would be pris'd a poet?
Be what you will, so no reciting blow it.
[tr. Elphinston (1782), 12.18]

You don't recite, but would be deemed a poet;
You shall be Homer -- so you do not show it.
[tr. Byron (early 19th C)]

You don't recite; but still would seem a poet.
You shall be Homer, so you do not show it.
[tr. Byron (early 19th C), alt.]

You recite nothing, and you wish, Mamercus, to be thought a poet. Be whatever you will, only do not recite.
[tr. Bohn's Classical (1859)]

Though you never have read us a line of your verse,
You insist on our thinking you write.
Yes, yes, be a poet; be anything else --
If only you'll forbear to recite.
[tr. Nixon (1911)]

You recite nothing, and yet wish, Mamercus, to be held a poet. Be what you like -- provided you recite nothing.
[tr. Ker (1919)]

You never recite, though you pose as a poet.
Well, for that many thanks: we will gladly forgo it.
[tr. Pott & Wright (1921)]

You'd like to be thought of as a poet
but refuse to recite your material?
Be what you want, Mammercus; the public
will tolerate you so long as you don't inflict
your verse on public nerves.
[tr. Bovie (1970)]

You recite nothing and want to be considered a poet, Mamercus. Be what you like, so long as you recite nothing.
[tr. Shackleton Bailey (1993)]