_Hes._ My poor friend, there is one very simple answer to all your questions: I might tell you that not one of my poems is my own work; all is the Muses', and to them I might refer you for all that has been said and left unsaid. For what came of my own knowledge, of pasturage, of milking, of driving afield, and all that belongs to the herdsman's art, I may fairly be held responsible: but for the Goddesses,--they give whatso they will to whom they will.--Apart from this, however, I have the usual poet's apology. The poet, I conceive, is not to be called to account in this minute fashion, syllable by syllable. If in the fervour of composition a word slip in unawares, search not too narrowly; remember that with us metre and euphony have much to answer for; and then there are certain amplifications--certain elegances--that insinuate themselves into a verse, one scarce knows how. Sir, you would rob us of our highest prerogative, our freedom, our unfettered movement. Blind to the flowers of poetry, you are intent upon its thorns, upon those little flaws that give a handle to malicious criticism. But there! you are not the only offender, nor I the only victim: in the trivial defects of Homer, my fellow craftsman, many a carping spirit has found material for similar hair-splitting disquisitions.--Come, now, I will meet my accuser on fair ground, face to face. Read, fellow, in my _Works and Days_: mark the inspired prophecies there set forth: the doom foretold to the negligent, the success promised to him that labours aright and in due season. One basket shall suffice to store thy grain, And men shall not regard thee. Could there be a more timely warning, balanced as it is by the prospect of abundance held out to him that follows the true method of agriculture?