"Still, were he living now--had only such Been Fate's decree--he would have blotted much, Cut everything away that could be called Crude or superfluous, or tame, or bald; Oft scratched his head, the labouring poet's trick, And bitten all his nails down to the quick." And then he lays down the canon for all high-class composition, which can never be too often enforced:-- "Oh yes, believe me, you must draw your pen Not once or twice, but o'er and o'er again, Through what you've written, if you would entice The man who reads you once to read you twice, Not making popular applause your cue, But looking to find audience fit though few." (C.) He had himself followed the rule, and found the reward. With natural exultation he appeals against the judgment of men of the Hermogenes type to an array of critics of whose good opinion he might well be proud:-- "Maecenas, Virgil, Varius,--if I please In my poor writings these and such as these,-- If Plotius, Valgius, Fuscus will commend, And good Octavius, I've achieved my end. You, noble Pollio (let your friend disclaim All thoughts of flattery, when he names your name), Messala and his brother, Servius too, And Bibulus, and Furnius kind and true, With others, whom, despite their sense and wit, And friendly hearts, I purposely omit; Such I would have my critics; men to gain Whose smiles were pleasure, to forget them pain." (C.) It is not strange that Horace, even in these early days, numbered so many distinguished men among his friends, for, the question of genius apart, there must have been something particularly engaging in his kindly and affectionate nature. He was a good hater, as all warm-hearted men are; and when his blood was up, he could, like Diggory, "remember his swashing blow." He would fain, as he says himself (Satires, II. 1), be at peace with all men:-- "But he who shall my temper try-- 'Twere best to touch me not, say I-- Shall rue it, and through all the town My verse shall damn him with renown."