Chapter XXII

Suffenus, he, dear Varus, whom, methinks, you know,
Has sense, a ready tongue to talk, a wit urbane,
And writes a world of verses, on my life no less.

Ten times a thousand he, believe me, ten or more,
Keeps fairly written; not on any palimpsest, 5
As often, enter'd, paper extra-fine, sheets new,
New every roller, red the strings, the parchment-case
Lead-rul'd, with even pumice all alike complete.

You read them: our choice spirit, our refin'd rare wit,
Suffenus, O no ditcher e'er appeared more rude, 10
No looby coarser; such a shock, a change is there.

How then resolve this puzzle? He the birthday-wit,
For so we thought him--keener yet, if aught is so--
Becomes a dunce more boorish e'en than hedge-born boor,
If e'er he faults on verses; yet in heart is then 15
Most happy, writing verses, happy past compare,
So sweet his own self, such a world at home finds he.

Friend, 'tis the common error; all alike are wrong,
Not one, but in some trifle you shall eye him true
Suffenus; each man bears from heaven the fault they send, 20
None sees within the wallet hung behind, our own.