I found my Greek and Latin in good condition enough.

I liked the Iliad a little less, and the Odyssey a great deal more than formerly.

Horace charmed me more than ever; Virgil not quite so much as he used to do.

The want of human character, the poverty of his supernatural machinery, struck me very strongly.

Can anything be so bad as the living bush which bleeds and talks, or the Harpies who befoul Aeneas's dinner?
It is as extravagant as Ariosto, and as dull as Wilkie's Epigoniad.