Tim, you really should write memoirs of all the poets you've known. I know you have years to go before you sleep, but I wish you'd post more of these anecdotes on Lariat, then eventually pull them all together in a book! Or several books.
I have no Richard Wilbur stories, but I've been dipping into his Moliere translations; two of the exceptional characteristics of his dramatic/translation style are elegance and focus. He never wastes words. Even when translating references to prostitution, he is the epitome of classy.
One example appears in Mayflies:
Night:
It's not the prettiest of tasks
That Jupiter would have me do!
There's a sweet name for creatures who
Perform the service that he asks!
Mercury:
For a young goddess, you embrace
Old-fashioned notions, it seems to me:
To do such service isn't base
Except in those of low degree.
When one is blessed with high estate and standing,
All that one does is good as gold,
And things have different names, depending
On what position one may hold.
Moliere's satire bears many similarites to the historical commedia dell'arte of Italy, which used stock characters and broad pratfalls. Wilbur's elegance provides a distinct counterpoint to the wonderful low mockeries, as in the following sarcastic speech by the male Sganarelle in The School for Husbands:
I see: I mustn't wear what clothes I please,
But must submit to fashion's wise decrees!
Do you propose, by precepts so bizarre,
Dear elder brother—for that is what you are
By 20 blessed years, I must confess,
Although of course it couldn't matter less—
Do you propose, I say, to force me to
Adorn myself as your young dandies do?
To wear those little hats which leave their brains,
Such as they are, exposed to wind and rains,
And those immense blond wigs which hide their features
And make one doubt that they are human creatures?
Those tiny doublets, cut off at armpit-level,
Those collars hanging almost to the navel,
Those sleeves that drag through soups and gravy boats,
And those huge breeches, loose as petticoats?
Those small, beribboned slippers, too neat for words,
Which make them look like feather-footed birds?
Those rolls of lace they force their legs to wear
Like the leg irons that slaves and captives bear,
So that we see each fop and fashion plate
Walk like a pigeon, with a waddling gait?
You'd have me dress like that? I note with loathing
That you're attired in just such modish clothing.
I've decided on one or two questions which I'll post on the other Wilbur thread.
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