The Art Of Poetry An Epistle To The Pisos

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Non quivis videt immodulata poemata judex:
Et data Romanis venia est indigna poetis.
To a short Syllable a long subjoin'd
Forms an Iambick foot; so light a kind,
That when six pure Iambicks roll'd along,
So nimbly mov'd, so trippingly the song,
The feet to half their number lost their claim,
And _Trimeter Iambicks_ was their name.
Hence, that the measure might more grave appear,
And with a slower march approach the ear,
From the fourth foot, and second, not displac'd,
The steady spondee kindly it embrac'd;
Then in firm union socially unites,
Admitting the ally to equal rights.
Accius, and Ennius lines, thus duly wrought,
In their bold Trimeters but rarely sought:
Yet scenes o'erloaded with a verse of lead,
A mass of heavy numbers on their head,
Speak careless haste, neglect in ev'ry part.
Or shameful ignorance of the Poet's art.

"Not ev'ry Critick spies a faulty strain,
And pardon Roman Poets should disdain."
Idcircone vager, scribamque licenter? ut omnes
Visuros peccata putem mea; tutus et intra
Spem veniae cautus? vitavi denique culpam,
Non laudem merui.

Vos exemplaria Graeca
Nocturna versate manu, versate diurna.
At vestri proavi Plautinos et numeros, et
Laudavere sales; nimium patienter utrumque
(Ne dicam stulte) mirati: si modo ego et vos
Scimus inurbanum lepido seponere dicto,
Legitimumque sonum digitis callemus et aure.
Ignotum tragicae genus invenisse Camenae
Dicitur, et plaustris vexisse poemata Thespis
Quae canerent agerentque, peruncti faecibus ora.
Shall I then all regard, all labour slight,
Break loose at once, and all at random write?
Or shall I fear that all my faults descry,
Viewing my errors with an Eagle eye,
And thence correctness make my only aim,
Pleas'd to be safe, and sure of 'scaping blame?
Thus I from faults indeed may guard my lays;
But neither they, nor I, can merit praise.

Pisos! be Graecian models your delight!
Night and day read them, read them day and night!
"Well! but our fathers Plautus lov'd to praise,
Admir'd his humour, and approv'd his lays."
Yes; they saw both with a too partial eye,
Fond e'en to folly sure, if you and I
Know ribaldry from humour, chaste and terse,
Or can but scan, and have an ear for verse.

A kind of Tragick Ode unknown before,
Thespis, 'tis said, invented first; and bore
Cart-loads of verse about, and with him went
A troop begrim'd, to sing and represent,
Post hunc personae pallaeque repertor honestae
Aeschylus et modicis instravit pulpita tignis,
Et docuit magnumque loqui, nitique cothurno.
Successit Vetus his Comoedia, non sine multa
Laude: sed in vitium libertas excidit, et vim
Dignam lege regi: lex est accepta; Chorusque
Turpiter obticuit, sublato jure nocendi.

Nil intentatum nostri liquere poetae:
Nec nimium meruere decus, vestigia Graeca
Ausi deserere, et celebrare domestica facta,
Vel qui Praetextas, vel qui docuere Togatas:
Nec virtute foret clarisve potentius armis,
Quam lingua, Latium; si non offenderet unum--
Next, Aeschylus, a Mask to shroud the face,
A Robe devis'd, to give the person grace;
On humble rafters rais'd a Stage, and taught
The buskin'd actor, with _his_ spirit fraught,
To breathe with dignity the lofty thought.
To these th' old comedy of ancient days
Succeeded, and obtained no little praise;
'Till Liberty, grown rank and run to seed,
Call'd for the hand of Law to pluck the weed:
The Statute past; the sland'rous Chorus, drown'd
In shameful silence, lost the pow'r to wound.

Nothing have Roman Poets left untried,
Nor added little to their Country's pride;
Daring their Graecian Masters to forsake,
And for their themes Domestick Glories take;
Whether _the Gown_ prescrib'd a stile more mean,
Or the _Inwoven Purple_ rais'd the scene:
Nor would the splendour of the Latian name
From arms, than Letters, boast a brighter fame,
Quemque poetarum limae labor et mora. Vos o
Pompilius sanguis, carmen reprehendite, quod non
Multa dies et multa litura coercuit, atque
Praesectum decies non castigavit ad unguem.

Ingenium misera quia fortunatius arte
Credit, et excludit sanos Helicone poetas
Democritus; bona pars non ungues ponere curat,
Non barbam, secreta petit loca, balnea vitat;
Nanciscetur enim pretium nomenque poetae,
Si tribus Anticyris caput insanabile numquam
Tonsori Licino commiserit. O ego laevus,
Qui purgor bilem sub verni temporis horam!
Non alius faceret meliora poemata: verum
Had they not, scorning the laborious file,
Grudg'd time, to mellow and refine their stile.
But you, bright hopes of the Pompilian Blood,
Never the verse approve and hold as good,
'Till many a day, and many a blot has wrought
The polish'd work, and chasten'd ev'ry thought,
By tenfold labour to perfection brought!

Because Democritus thinks wretched Art
Too mean with Genius to sustain a part,
To Helicon allowing no pretence,
'Till the mad bard has lost all common sense;
Many there are, their nails who will not pare,
Or trim their beards, or bathe, or take the air:
For _he_, no doubt, must be a bard renown'd,
_That_ head with deathless laurel must be crown'd,
Tho' past the pow'r of Hellebore insane,
Which no vile Cutberd's razor'd hands profane.
Ah luckless I, each spring that purge the bile!
Or who'd write better? but 'tis scarce worth while:
Nil tanti est: ergo fungar vice cotis, acutum
Reddere quae ferrum valet, exsors ipsa secandi.
Munus et officium, nil scribens ipse, docebo;
Unde parentur opes; quid alat formetque poetam;
Quid deceat, quid non; quo virtus, quo ferat error,

Scribendi recte, sapere est et principium et fons.
Rem tibi Socraticae poterunt ostendere chartae;
Verbaque provisam rem non invita sequentur.
Qui didicit patriae quid debeat, et quid amicis;
Quo fit amore parens, quo frater amandus et hospes;
Quod fit conscripti, quod judicis officium; quae
Partes in bellum missi ducis; ille profecto
Reddere personae scit convenientia cuique.
So as mere hone, my services I pledge;
Edgeless itself, it gives the steel an edge:
No writer I, to writers thus impart
The nature and the duty of their art:
Whence springs the fund; what forms the bard, to know;
What nourishes his pow'rs, and makes them grow;
What's fit or unfit; whither genius tends;
And where fond ignorance and dulness ends.

In Wisdom, Moral Wisdom, to excell,
Is the chief cause and spring of writing well.
Draw elements from the Socratick source,
And, full of matter, words will rise of course.
He who hath learnt a patriot's glorious flame;
What friendship asks; what filial duties claim;
The ties of blood; and secret links that bind
The heart to strangers, and to all mankind;
The Senator's, the Judge's peaceful care,
And sterner duties of the Chief in war!
These who hath studied well, will all engage
In functions suited to their rank and age.
Respicere exemplar vitae morumque jubebo
Doctum imitatorem, et veras hinc ducere voces.
Interdum speciosa locis, morataque recte
Fabula, nullius veneris, sine pondere et arte,
Valdius oblectat populum, meliusque moratur,
Quam versus inopes rerum, nugaeque canorae.

Graiis ingenium, Graiis dedit ore rotundo
Musa loqui, praeter laudem, nullius avaris.
Romani pueri longis rationibus assem
Discunt in partes centum diducere. Dicat
Filius Albini, si de quincunce remota est
Uncia, quid superet? poteras dixisse, triens. Eu!
Rem poteris servare tuam. Redit uncia: quid fit?
On Nature's pattern too I'll bid him look,
And copy manners from her living book.
Sometimes 'twill chance, a poor and barren tale,
Where neither excellence nor art prevail,
With now and then a passage of some merit,
And Characters sustain'd, and drawn with spirit,
Pleases the people more, and more obtains,
Than tuneful nothings, mere poetick strains.

_The Sons of Greece_ the fav'ring Muse inspir'd,
Inflam'd their souls, and with true genius fir'd:
Taught by the Muse, they sung the loftiest lays,
And knew no avarice but that of praise.
_The Lads of Rome_, to study fractions bound,
Into an hundred parts can split a pound.
"Say, Albin's Hopeful! from five twelfths an ounce,
And what remains?"--"a Third."--"Well said, young Pounce!
You're a made man!--but add an ounce,--what then?"
"A Half." "Indeed! surprising! good again!"

Semis. An haec animos aerugo et cura peculi
Cum semel imbuerit speramus carmina singi
Posse linenda cedro, et levi servanda cupresso?

Aut prodesse volunt, aut delectare poetae;
Aut simul et jucunda et idonea dicere vitae.
Quicquid praecipies, esto brevis: ut eito dicta
Percipiant animi dociles, tencantque fideles.
Omni supervacuum pleno de pectore manat.
Ficta voluptatis causa sint proxima veris:
Ne, quodcumque volet, poscat fibi fabula credi;
Neu pransea Lamiae vivum puerum extrahat alvo.
Centuriae seniorum agitant expertia frugis:
Celsi praetereunt austera poemata Rhamnes.
Omne tulit punctum, qui miscuit utile dulci,
Lectorem delectando, pariterque monendo

From minds debas'd with such a sordid lust,
Canker'd and eaten up with this vile rust,
Can we a verse, that gives the Genius scope,
Worthy the Cedar, and the Cypress, hope?

Instruction to convey and give delight,
Or both at once to compass, Poets write:
Short be your precepts, and th' impression strong,
That minds may catch them quick, and hold them long!
The bosom full, and satisfied the taste,
All that runs over will but run to waste.
Fictions, to please, like truths must meet the eye,
Nor must the Fable tax our faith too high.
Shall Lamia in our fight her sons devour,
And give them back alive the self-same hour?
The Old, if _Moral's_ wanting, damn the Play;
And _Sentiment_ disgusts the Young and Gay.
He who instruction and delight can blend,
Please with his fancy, with his moral mend,
Hic meret aera liber Sofiis, hic et mare transit,
Et longum noto scriptori prorogat aevum.

Sunt delicta tamen, quibus ignovisse velimus.
Nam neque chorda sonum reddit, quem vult manus et mens;

Poscentique gravem persaepe remittit acutum:
Nec semper feriet, quodcumque minabitur, arcus.
Verum ubi plura nitent in carmine, non ego paucis
Offendar maculis, quas aut incuria fudit,
Aut humana parum cavit natura quid ergo est?
Ut scriptor si peccat idem librarius usque,
Quamvis est monitus, venia caret; ut citharoedus
Ridetur, chorda qui semper oberrat eadem;
Hits the nice point, and every vote obtains:
His work a fortune to the Sosii gains;
Flies over seas, and on the wings of Fame
Carries from age to age the writer's deathless name.

Yet these are faults that we may pardon too:
For ah! the string won't always answer true;
But, spite of hand and mind, the treach'rous harp
Will sound a flat, when we intend a sharp:
The bow, not always constant and the same,
Will sometimes carry wide, and lose its aim.
But in the verse where many beauties shine,
I blame not here and there a feeble line;
Nor take offence at ev'ry idle trip,
Where haste prevails, or nature makes a slip.
What's the result then? Why thus stands the case.
As _the Transcriber_, in the self-same place
Who still mistakes, tho' warn'd of his neglect,
No pardon for his blunders can expect;
Or as _the Minstrel_ his disgrace must bring,
Who harps for ever on the same false string;
Sic mihi qui multum cessat, fit Choerilus ille,
Quem bis terve bonum, cum risu miror; et idem
Indignor, quandoque bonus dormitat Homerus.
Verum operi longo fas est obrepere somnum.

Ut pictura, poesis: erit quae, si propius stes,
Te capiat magis; et quaedam, si longius abstes:
Haec amat obscurum; volet haec sub luce videri,
Judicis argutum quae non formidat acumen:
Haec placuit semel; haec decies repetita placebit.

O major juvenum, quamvis et voce paterna
Fingeris ad rectum, et per te sapis; hoc tibi dictum
Tolle memor: certis medium et tolerabile rebus
_The Poet_ thus, from faults scarce ever free,
Becomes a very Chaerilus to me;
Who twice or thrice, by some adventure rare,
Stumbling on beauties, makes me smile and stare;
_Me_, who am griev'd and vex'd to the extreme,
If Homer seem to nod, or chance to dream:
Tho' in a work of length o'erlabour'd sleep
At intervals may, not unpardon'd, creep.

Poems and Pictures are adjudg'd alike;
Some charm us near, and some at distance strike:
_This_ loves the shade; _this_ challenges the light,
Daring the keenest Critick's Eagle sight;
_This_ once has pleas'd; _this_ ever will delight.

O thou, my Piso's elder hope and pride!
tho' well a father's voice thy steps can guide;
tho' inbred sense what's wise and right can tell,
remember this from me, and weigh it well!
In certain things, things neither high nor proud,
_Middling_ and _passable_ may be allow'd.
Recte concedi: consultus juris, et actor
Causarum mediocris, abest virtute diserti
Messallae, nec scit quantum Cascellius Aulus;
Sed tamen in pretio est: mediocribus esse poetis
Non homines, non Di, non concessere columnae.
Ut gratas inter mensas symphonia discors,
Et crassum unguentum, et Sardo cum melle papaver
Offendunt, poterat duci quia coena sine istis;
Sic animis natum inventumque poema juvandis,
Si paulum summo decessit, vergit ad imum.

* * * * *

Ludere qui nescit, campestribus abstinet armis;
Indoctusque pilae, discive, trochive, quiescit;
Ne spissae risum tollant impune coronae:
Qui nescit versus, tamen audet fingere. Quid ni?
A _moderate_ proficient in the laws,
A _moderate_ defender of a cause,
Boasts not Messala's pleadings, nor is deem'd
Aulus in Jurisprudence; yet esteem'd:
But _middling Poet's, or degrees in Wit,_
Nor men, nor Gods, nor niblick-polls admit.
At festivals, as musick out of tune,
Ointment, or honey rank, disgust us soon,
Because they're not essential to the guest,
And might be spar'd, Unless the very best;
Thus Poetry, so exquisite of kind,
Of Pleasure born, to charm the soul design'd,
If it fall short but little of the first,
Is counted last, and rank'd among the worst.
The Man, unapt for sports of fields and plains,
From implements of exercise abstains;
For ball, or quoit, or hoop, without the skill,
Dreading the croud's derision, he sits still:
In Poetry he boasts as little art,
And yet in Poetry he dares take part:
Liber et ingenuus; praesertim census equestrem
Summam nummorum, vitioque remotus ab omni.

* * * * *

Tu nihil invita dices faciesve Minerva:
Id tibi judicium est, ea mens: si quid tamen olim
Scripseris, in Metii descendat judicis aures,
Et patris, et nostras; nonumque prematur in annum.
Membranis intus positis, delere licebit
Quod non edideris: nescit vox missa reverti.

* * * * *

Silvestres homines sacer interpresque Deorum
Caedibus et victu foedo deterruit Orpheus;
Dictus ob hoc lenire tigres rabidosque leones.
Dictus et Amphion, Thebanae conditor arcis,
Saxa movere sono testudinis, et prece blanda.
And why not? he's a Gentleman, with clear
Good forty thousand sesterces a year;
A freeman too; and all the world allows,
"As honest as the skin between his brows!"
Nothing, in spite of Genius, YOU'LL commence;
Such is your judgment, such your solid sense!
But if you mould hereafter write, the verse
To _Metius_, to your _Sire_ to _me_, rehearse.
Let it sink deep in their judicious ears!
Weigh the work well; _and keep it back nine years_!
Papers unpublish'd you may blot or burn:
A word, once utter'd, never can return.

The barb'rous natives of the shaggy wood
From horrible repasts, and ads of blood,
Orpheus, a priest, and heav'nly teacher, brought,
And all the charities of nature taught:
Whence he was said fierce tigers to allay,
And sing the Savage Lion from his prey,
Within the hollow of AMPHION'S shell
Such pow'rs of found were lodg'd, so sweet a spell!
Ducere quo vellet suit haec sapientia quondam,
publica privatis secernere, sacra profanis;
concubitu prohibere vago; dare jura maritis;
Oppida moliri; leges incidere ligno.
Sic honor et nomen divinis vatibus atque
Carminibus venit post hos insignis Homerus
Tyrtaeusque mares animos in Martia bella
Versibus exacuit dictae per carmina sortes,
Et vitae monstrata via est; et gratia regum

That stones were said to move, and at his call,
Charm'd to his purpose, form'd the Theban Wall.
The love of Moral Wisdom to infuse
_These_ were the Labours of THE ANCIENT MUSE.
"To mark the limits, where the barriers stood
'Twixt Private Int'rest, and the Publick Good;
To raise a pale, and firmly to maintain
The bound, that fever'd Sacred from Profane;
To shew the ills Promiscuous Love should dread,
And teach the laws of the Connubial Bed;
Mankind dispers'd, to Social Towns to draw;
And on the Sacred Tablet grave the Law."
Thus fame and honour crown'd the Poet's line;
His work immortal, and himself divine!
Next lofty Homer, and Tyrtaeus strung
Their Epick Harps, and Songs of Glory sung;
Sounding a charge, and calling to the war
The Souls that bravely feel, and nobly dare,
In _Verse_ the Oracles their sense make known,
In Verse the road and rule of life is shewn;
Pieriis tentata modis, ludusque repertus,
Et longorum operum finis j ne forte pudori
Sit tibi Musa lyne folers, et cantor Apollo,

Natura sieret laudabile carmen, an arte,
Quaesitum ess. Ego nec studium sine divite vena,
Nec rude quid possit video ingenium: alterius sic
Altera poscit opem res, et conjurat amice.
Qui studet optatam cursu contingere metam,
Multa tulit fecitque puer; sudavit et alsit;
Abstinuit venere et vino, qui Pythia cantat
_Verse_ to the Poet royal favour brings,
And leads the Muses to the throne of Kings;
_Verse_ too, the varied Scene and sports prepares,
Brings rest to toil, and balm to all our cares.
deem then with rev'rence of the glorious fire,
breath'd by the muse, the mistress of the lyre!
blush not to own her pow'r, her glorious flame;
nor think Apollo, lord of song, thy shame!

Whether good verse of Nature is the fruit,
Or form'd by Art, has long been in dispute.
But what can Labour in a barren foil,
Or what rude Genius profit without toil?
The wants of one the other must supply
Each finds in each a friend and firm ally.
Much has the Youth, who pressing in the race
Pants for the promis'd goal and foremost place,
Suffer'd and done; borne heat, and cold's extremes,
And Wine and Women scorn'd, as empty dreams,

Tibicen, didicit prius, extimuitque magistrum.
Nunc satis est dixisse, Ego mira poemata pango:
Occupet extremum scabies: mihi turpe relinqui est,
Et quod non didici, sane nescire sateri.

* * * * *

Ut praeco, ad merces turbam qui cogit emendas;
Assentatores jubet ad lucrum ire poeta
Dives agris, dives positis in foenore nummis.
Si vero est, unctum qui recte ponere possit,
Et spondere levi pro paupere, et eripere artis
Litibus implicitum; mirabor, si sciet inter--
Noscere mendacem verumque beatus amicum.
The Piper, who the Pythian Measure plays,
In fear of a hard matter learnt the lays:
But if to desp'rate verse I would apply,
What needs instruction? 'tis enough to cry;
"I can write Poems, to strike wonder blind!
Plague take the hindmost! Why leave _me_ behind?
Or why extort a truth, so mean and low,
That what I have not learnt, I cannot know?"

As the sly Hawker, who a sale prepares,
Collects a croud of bidders for his Wares,
The Poet, warm in land, and rich in cash,
Assembles flatterers, brib'd to praise his trash.
But if he keeps a table, drinks good wine,
And gives his hearers handsomely to dine;
If he'll stand bail, and 'tangled debtors draw
Forth from the dirty cobwebs of the law;
Much shall I praise his luck, his sense commend,
If he discern the flatterer from the friend.
Tu seu donaris seu quid donare voles cui;
Nolito ad versus tibi factos ducere plenum
Laetitiae; clamabit enim, Pulchre, bene, recte!
Pallescet; super his etiam stillabit amicis
Ex oculis rorem; saliet; tundet pede terram.
Ut qui conducti plorant in funere, dicunt
Et faciunt prope plura dolentibus ex animo: sic
Derisor vero plus laudatore movetur.
Reges dicuntur multis urgere culullis,
Et torquere mero quem perspexisse laborant
An sit amicitia dignus: si carmina condes,
Nunquam te fallant animi sub vulpe latentes.
Quintilio si quid recitares: Corrige sodes
Hoc, aiebat, et hoc: melius te posse negares
Is there a man to whom you've given aught?
Or mean to give? let no such man be brought
To hear your verses! for at every line,
Bursting with joy, he'll cry, "Good! rare! divine!"
The blood will leave his cheek; his eyes will fill
With tears, and soon the friendly dew distill:
He'll leap with extacy, with rapture bound;
Clap with both hands; with both feet beat the ground.
As mummers, at a funeral hir'd to weep,
More coil of woe than real mourners keep,
More mov'd appears the laugher in his sleeve,
Than those who truly praise, or smile, or grieve.
Kings have been said to ply repeated bowls,
Urge deep carousals, to unlock the souls
Of those, whose loyalty they wish'd to prove,
And know, if false, or worthy of their love:
You then, to writing verse if you're inclin'd,
Beware the Spaniel with the Fox's mind!

Quintilius, when he heard you ought recite,
Cried, "prithee, alter _this_! and make _that _right!"
Bis terque expertum frustra? delere jubebat,
Et male ter natos incudi reddere versus.
Si defendere delictum, quam vortere, malles;
Nullum ultra verbum, aut operam insumebat inanem,
Quin sine rivali teque et tua folus amares.

Vir bonus et prudens versus reprehendet inertes;
Culpabit duros; incomptis allinet atrum
Transverso calamo signum; ambitiosa recidet
Ornamenta; parum claris lucem dare coget;
Arguet ambigue dictum; mutanda notabit;
Fiet Aristarchus; non dicet, Cur ego amicum
Offendam in nugis? Hae migae feria ducent
But if your pow'r to mend it you denied,
Swearing that twice and thrice in vain you tried;
"Then blot it out! (he cried) it must be terse:
Back to the anvil with your ill-turn'd verse!"
Still if you chose the error to defend,
Rather than own, or take the pains to mend,
He said no more; no more vain trouble took;
But left you to admire yourself and book.

The Man, in whom Good Sense and Honour join,
Will blame the harsh, reprove the idle line;
The rude, all grace neglected or forgot,
Eras'd at once, will vanish at his blot;
Ambitious ornaments he'll lop away;
On things obscure he'll make you let in day,
Loose and ambiguous terms he'll not admit,
And take due note of ev'ry change that's fit,
A very ARISTARCHUS he'll commence;
Not coolly say--"Why give my friend offence?
These are but trifles!"--No; these trifles lead
To serious mischiefs, if he don't succeed;
In mala derisum semel, exceptumque sinistre,
Ut mala quem scabies aut morbus regius urget,
Aut fanaticus error, et iracunda Diana;
Vesanum tetigisse timent fugiuntque poetam,
Qui sapiunt: agitant pueri, incautique sequuntur.
Hic, dum sublimis versus ructatur, et errat,
Si veluti menilis intentus decidit auceps
In puteum, soveamve; licet, Succurrite, longum
Clamet, in cives: non sit qui tollere curet.
Si curet quis opem serre, et demittere sunem;
Qui scis, an prudens huc se projecerit, atque
Servari nolet? dicam: Siculique poetae
Narrabo interitum.

While the poor friend in dark disgrace sits down,
The butt and laughing-stock of all the town,
As one, eat up by Leprosy and Itch,
Moonstruck, Posses'd, or hag-rid by a Witch,
A Frantick Bard puts men of sense to flight;
His slaver they detest, and dread his bite:
All shun his touch; except the giddy boys,
Close at his heels, who hunt him down with noise,
While with his head erect he threats the skies,
Spouts verse, and walks without the help of eyes;
Lost as a blackbird-catcher, should he pitch
Into some open well, or gaping ditch;
Tho' he call lustily "help, neighbours, help!"
No soul regards him, or attends his yelp.
Should one, too kind, to give him succour hope,
Wish to relieve him, and let down a rope;
Forbear! (I'll cry for aught that you can tell)
By sheer design he jump'd into the well.
He wishes not you should preserve him, Friend!
Know you the old Sicilian Poet's end?
Deus immortalis haberi.

Dum cupit Empedocles, ardeatem frigidus aetnam
Infiluit. sit fas, liceatque perire poetis.
Invitum qui fervat, idem facit occidenti.
Nec semel hoc fecit; nec si retractus erit jam,
Fiet homo, et ponet famosae mortis amorem.
Nec fatis apparet, cur versus factitet; utrum
Minxerit in patrios cineres, an triste bidental
Moverit incestus: certe furit, ac velut ursus
Objectos caveae valuit e srangere clathros,

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