Those who claim that the Muses do not seek comfort and that solitude and<hr>
poverty are necessary for the creation of their works may change their opinion when they learn<hr>
that the generosity of Octavius and Maecenas did not prevent Virgil from creating masterpieces, that Horace gained universal fame, and that Livy earned an undying glory.<hr>
        Indeed, it is obvious that those who create beautiful things when they work out of necessity would accomplish wonders if they worked solely out of passion for glory. A noble goal would raise their spirits to the heavens, while sadness and necessity bring them down and blind them to make them crawl on earth. All the time they spend complaining about their fate, blaming the ignorance of their contemporaries, and denouncing the avarice of their princes would be better used for higher pursuits. I know full well that solitude, fountains, rivers, meadows and woods have always been considered conducive to the composition of beautiful works, but when all these things belong to the one who imagined them, I do not see how they could be an obstacle to his glory. And he will describe the beauty of his meadow better than that of another, the shade of his woods will protect him better from the ardor of the sun than those of his neighbors, the murmur of his fountains will provide him with more peaceful reflections than those of the public. A river to which he is attached will seem more suitable for a beautiful description than if it were viewed with an indifferent eye. And finally, occasional solitude will provide him with more pleasant ideas than those he imposes on himself.<hr>
       It is true that the huts of shepherds make a landscape more inviting, but since painters always place them in the background, poets should see them on their journeys or through the windows of their palaces. How can one imagine that a man who spends his whole life in discomfort, sorrow, and solitude can speak of the abundance he does not have, of the magnificence he does not see, of the court he has never frequented, of the kings he knows only by name, of war that he has only seen in books, and of so many other things that are foreign to him?<hr>
        Poets, Maecenas, are like painters, they cannot accurately depict what they do not see. That is why it is essential for great princes to have them by their side, so that their actions are immortalized by works that will cross the ages. How can one think that those who are given everything to complain can willingly praise those they secretly accuse of causing their precarious situation? How can one distinguish those who praise to obtain favors from those who do it out of sincere gratitude? No, Maecenas, it is impossible that it could be so. Just like dreams that usually reflect the thoughts of the day, these reflections that poetry offers to those who dedicate themselves to it lose all their brightness because of the sorrow of their authors when they are not happy. They always feel the pangs of poverty and solitude.<hr>

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