1You do excellently in preparing to write about the Dacian war. 1For what subject is so recent, so rich, so lofty, what subject, in short, so poetic and, though its matter is entirely true, so like a legend? 2You will tell of new rivers let loose upon the land, new bridges thrown across rivers, steep mountainsides occupied by camps, a king driven from his palace, driven even from his life, yet despairing of nothing; 2on top of this, two triumphs celebrated, of which one was the first over a nation until then unconquered, the other the last. 3There is one difficulty, but a very great one: that to match these things in words is an arduous, immense task, even for your genius, though it rises to the greatest heights and grows with the grandest works.
3There is some labour also in this, that barbarous and savage names, above all that of the king himself, should not jar in Greek verse. 4But there is nothing that cannot be softened by art and care, if it cannot be overcome. 4Besides, if Homer is allowed to contract, lengthen and bend words, soft ones and Greek ones, for the smoothness of his verse, why should a similar boldness not be granted to you, especially one that is not affected but necessary? 5So, having called upon the gods by the right of bards, and among the gods upon him whose deeds, works and counsels you are going to tell, let out the ropes, spread your sails, and, now if ever, be borne along with all your genius.
5For why should I too not speak poetically with a poet? 6This I bargain for here and now: send me each first part as you finish it, or rather even before you finish it, just as it will be, fresh and rough and still like a newborn thing. 7You will reply that pieces cannot please in the same way as a connected whole, nor things begun in the same way as things completed. 7I know. 7So they will be judged by me as beginnings, viewed as limbs, and they will await your final polish in my book-chest. 7Allow me to have this, above everything else, as a pledge of your love: that I should know even those things which you would wish nobody to know.
8In short, I may perhaps be able to approve and praise your writings more the more slowly and cautiously you send them, but I shall love and praise you yourself the more, the more quickly and incautiously you send them. 8Farewell.