Page:Satires, Epistles, Art of Poetry of Horace - Coningsby (1874).djvu/40

To win men's hearts, and having won, secure.
But we put virtue down to vice's score,
And foul the vessel that was clean before:
See, here's a modest man, who ranks too low
In his own judgment; him we nickname slow:
Another, ever on his guard, takes care
No enemy shall catch him unaware,
(Small wonder, truly, in a world like this,
Beset with dogs that growl and snakes that hiss);
We turn his merit to a fault, and style
His prudence mere disguise, his caution guile.
Or take some honest soul, who, full of glee,
Breaks on a patron's solitude, like me,
Finds his Mæcenas book in hand or dumb,
And pokes him with remarks, the first that come;
We cry "He lacks e'en common tact." Alas!
What hasty laws against ourselves we pass!
For none is born without his faults: the best
But bears a lighter wallet than the rest.
A man of genial nature, as is fair,
My virtues with my vices will compare,
And, as with good or bad he fills the scale,
Lean to the better side, should that prevail:
So, when he seeks my friendship, I will trim
The wavering balance in my turn for him.
He that has fears his blotches may offend
Speaks gently of the pimples of his friend:
For reciprocity exacts her dues,
And they that need excuse must needs excuse.
Now, since resentment, spite of all we do,