A.C. Swinburne, letter to A.H. Bullen (May 16, 1888):
I am sorry to hear that you are spending any part of your valuable time on Horace, or any one who may have wasted any part of his in translating that writer. I should as soon think of doing Moore into Greek anapaests, or Tupper into Greek elegiacs (I fancy he would read like Theognis or Tyrtaeus) as of turning Horace into English. My dislike of him—dating from schooldays—is one of the very few points on which I find myself in sympathy with Byron.
Swinburne is referring to Byron, Childe Harold's Pilgrimage
, Canto IV, Stanza 77:
Then farewell, Horace; whom I hated so,
Not for thy faults, but mine; it is a curse
To understand, not feel thy lyric flow,
To comprehend, but never love thy verse,
Although no deeper Moralist rehearse
Our little life, nor Bard prescribe his art,
Nor livelier Satirist the conscience pierce,
Awakening without wounding the touch'd heart,
Yet fare thee well—upon Soracte's ridge we part.