those Verses in the Front of Virgil; but have rejected them to my own Preface.
Sung to my Oaten Pipe, their Rural Loves,
And issuing thence, compell'd the Neighb'ring Field
A plenteous Crop of rising Corn to yield,
Manur'd the Glebe, and stock'd the fruitful Plain,
(A Poem grateful to the greedy Swain,) &c.
If there be not a tolerable Line in all these six, the Prefacer gave me no occasion to write better. This is a just Apology in this place. But I have done great wrong to Virgil in the whole Translation: Want of Time, the Inferiority of our Language, the inconvenience of Rhyme, and all the other Excuses I have made, may alleviate my Fault, but cannot justify the boldness of my Undertaking. What avails it me to acknowledge freely, that I have not been able to do him right in any Line? For even my own Confession makes against me; and it will always be return'd upon me, Why then did you attempt it? To which no other Answer can be made, than that I have done him less Injury than any of his former Libellers.
What they call'd his Picture, had been drawn at length, so many times, by the Daubers of almost all Nations, and still so unlike him, that I snatch'd up the Pencil with disdain: being satisfi'd before-hand, that I cou'd make some small resemblance of him, though I must be content with a worse likeness. A Sixth Pastoral, a Pharmaceutria, a single Orpheus, and some other Features, have been exactly taken: But those Holiday-Authors writ for Pleasure; and only shew'd us what they cou'd have done, if they wou'd have taken pains, to perform the whole.
