Simonides Preserved by the Gods

Three sorts there are, as Malherbe[1] says, / Which one can never overpraise -- / The gods, the ladies, and the king; / And I, for one, endorse the thing. / The heart, praise tickles and entices; / Of fair one's smile, it oft the price is. / See how the gods sometimes repay it. / Simonides -- the ancients say it -- / Once undertook, in poem lyric, / To write a wrestler's panegyric; / Which, ere he had proceeded far in, / He found his subject somewhat barren. / No ancestors of great renown; / His sire of some unnoted town; / Himself as little known to fame, / The wrestler's praise was rather tame. / The poet, having made the most of / Whate'er his hero had to boast of, / Digress'd, by choice that was not all luck's, / To Castor and his brother Pollux; / Whose bright career was subject ample, / For wrestlers, sure, a good example. / Our poet fatten'd on their story, / Gave every fight its place and glory, / Till of his panegyric words / These deities had got two-thirds. / All done, the poet's fee / A talent was to be. / But when he comes his bill to settle, / The wrestler, with a spice of mettle, / Pays down a third, and tells the poet, / 'The balance they may pay who owe it. / The gods than I are rather debtors / To such a pious man of letters. / But still I shall be greatly pleased / To have your presence at my feast, / Among a knot of guests select, / My kin, and friends I most respect. ' / More fond of character than coffer, / Simonides accepts the offer. / While at the feast the party sit, / And wine provokes the flow of wit, / It is announced that at the gate / Two men, in haste that cannot wait, / Would see the bard. He leaves the table, / No loss at all to 'ts noisy gabble. / The men were Leda's twins, who knew / What to a poet's praise was due, / And, thanking, paid him by foretelling / The downfall of the wrestler's dwelling. / From which ill-fated pile, indeed, / No sooner was the poet freed, / Than, props and pillars failing, / Which held aloft the ceiling / So splendid o'er them, / It downward loudly crash'd, / The plates and flagons dash'd, / And men who bore them; / And, what was worse, / Full vengeance for the man of verse, / A timber broke the wrestler's thighs, / And wounded many otherwise. / The gossip Fame, of course, took care / Abroad to publish this affair. / 'A miracle! ' the public cried, delighted. / No more could god-beloved bard be slighted. / His verse now brought him more than double, / With neither duns, nor care, nor trouble. / Whoe'er laid claim to noble birth / Must buy his ancestors a slice, / Resolved no nobleman on earth / Should overgo him in the price. / From which these serious lessons flow: -- / Fail not your praises to bestow / On gods and godlike men. Again, / To sell the product of her pain / Is not degrading to the Muse. / Indeed, her art they do abuse, / Who think her wares to use, / And yet a liberal pay refuse. / Whate'er the great confer upon her, / They're honour'd by it while they honour. / Of old, Olympus and Parnassus / In friendship heaved their sky-crown'd masses.[2]

[1]: _Malherbe_. -- See note to Fable I., Book III.