The Art of Poetry: an Epistle to the Pisos. Гораций

      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.