Robinson Ellis - Catullus (Part XXII) lyrics

Suffenus, he, dear Varus, whom, methinks, you know, Has sense, a ready tongue to talk, a wit urbane, And writes a world of verses, on my life no less. Ten times a thousand he, believe me, ten or more, Keeps fairly written; not on any palimpsest, As often, enter'd, paper extra-fine, sheets new, New every roller, red the strings, the parchment-case Lead-rul'd, with even pumice all alike complete. You read them: our choice spirit, our refin'd rare wit, Suffenus, O no ditcher e'er appeared more rude, No looby coarser; such a shock, a change is there. How then resolve this puzzle? He the birthday-wit, For so we thought him—keener yet, if aught is so— Becomes a dunce more boorish e'en than hedge-born boor, If e'er he faults on verses; yet in heart is then Most happy, writing verses, happy past compare, So sweet his own self, such a world at home finds he. Friend, 'tis the common error; all alike are wrong, Not one, but in some trifle you shall eye him true Suffenus; each man bears from heaven the fault they send, None sees within the wallet hung behind, our own.