Are, with the likeness of the truth, undone.
Myself for shortness labour, and I grow
Obscure. This, striving to run smooth, and flow
Hath neither soul nor sinews. Lofty he
Professing greatness swells; that low by lee,
Creeps on the ground; too safe, afraid of storm
This seeking, in a various kind, to form
One thing prodigiously, paint's in the woods
A dolphin, and a boar amid the floods,
So shunning faults to greater fault does lead,
When in a wrong and artless way we tread.
Horace, "Ars Poetica"
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