My song is not for city-folk alone,
Not ears of idlers only hear my lay,
But stern centurions its magic own,
'Mid Getic frost they thumb my pages gay,
And painted Britons sing my songs, men say;
‘What profit’? saith my empty purse to me.
Yet could I sound a strain of deathless worth,
So loud and clear my clarion tone should be,
If Heaven that gives Augustus back to earth
Would send Maecenas, niggard Rome, to thee.