‘Pindar was incredibly admired and honour'd among the Ancients, even to that degree, that we may believe they saw more in him than we do now.’ Abraham Cowley's rather ingenuous statement, introducing in 1656 a significantly curtailed translation of Horace, Odes 4.2, retitled ‘The Praise of Pindar’, pinpoints what was to become a dominant tension in Pindaric criticism, in the attempt to reconcile the reputation (drawn largely from Horace, with Quintilian, Dionysius of Halicarnassus, ps.-Longinus and many others in support) with the reality of the extant texts. The critical debate about Pindar has often read like a literary application of the tale of the Emperor's clothes: on the one side, in the words of an eighteenth-century Frenchman, ‘le sang froid’ is a poor judge of ‘l'enthousiasme’, and on the other, in the words of John Wolcot, the English Peter Pindar, some moderns ‘suspect his reputation, concluding it all to be a fable, invented by some idle enthusiast who was incapable of distinguishing between sense and sound, noise and sublimity, the bold thunder and the rumbling wheel-barrow’. In an age which saw itself as struggling to recreate the taste of antiquity, many were prepared to make the act of faith involved in accepting the ‘Horatian’ and ‘Longinian’ Pindar as a model of unapproachable poetic sublimity.