English

He was great with the gloves, but the lady he loves
Said boxing must now be deserted;
A Knight she has made him, and so has displayed him
As Pollux to Castor converted.

Each morn you tell some evil dream you've had
About me, till you drive me nearly mad;
To charms I have resorted to divine
The omen; that has used up all my wine,
My salted meal, whole mounds of frankincense,
And half my flocks and herds — a vain expense.
Pigs, fowls, and eggs are gone; for mercy's sake
Do dream about yourself — or stay awake.

Friend , it is pleasant that you read
My verse to Celer — if indeed
He cares to hear;
But since he ruled my native shore
Where none was feared and trusted more.
I shrink in fear;
No common auditor is he,
And such a critic well may be
A judge severe.

You want to hear my verse, but not to buy it?
If that's your longing, you can gratify it:
Find Auctus (near Mars' temple is his dwelling,
Perhaps you know the man and need no telling)
In civic as in legal lore a leader,
He is himself my book and no mere reader.
A written scroll could not record it better,
He reels it off, and never drops a letter,
So if he said 'twas his, all would believe him,
But were my fame diminished, that would grieve him.
Call about four, till then he's not at leisure,

Whilst you attempt your present to commend
In verses fit for Homer's approbation,
You suffer agonies, ambitious friend,
And I starvation;
'Tis Martial suffers while your Muse is mute;
The rich can wait for verse — on them bestow it:
Hard cash, tho' unaccompanied, would suit

'T IS he, the friend of Seneca, not less
Beloved than dear Serenus of the sage,
Whose kindly greetings writ on many a page
Serve still to testify his tenderness.

And you that crossed the wide Sicilian sea
To follow him and share his exile drear,
Ovid, we praise you still and hold you dear,
Who scorned a monarch's frenzied tyranny.

The days of old of Pylades may prate
Who to a wrathful woman's victim clave,
Thine, Ovid, was the nobler part, to brave —
And all for love — a Nero's cruel hate.

The best you can do is to grant my demand,
Your second-best course to refuse it off-hand;
I welcome assent and denial excuse —
But, Cinna, you neither consent nor refuse.

Who can dispute with you the meed
For tuneful verse or noble deed?
Not I, who readily concede
The palm;
'Tis ease and quiet I pursue —
" Then why send feeble verses?" True,
Yet coals to Newcastle can do

You boast " The world's my country!" Be it so;
It takes all sorts to make a world you know!

Friend Caelius vowed he would no longer bear
To run and dance attendance everywhere
On Patrons, face their haughtiness and scorn
Or be compelled to greet them every morn.
So to escape these toils he feigned the gout,
But, fearing lest his patron found him out,
With drugs he smeared and bandaged both his feet,
And crawled with dragging footsteps down the street;
So well he feigned disease, when he had not it,
That now he shams no more; for he has got it.