After years of sloth my Muse, as if startled from long slumber, rejoices to sing a Roman song to Roman ears. Once more the same halls bring the gathering I longed for, and Apollo's temple echoes to the voice of a familiar bard. 'Twas here I sang of the consular fasces and of the winning back of Libya and here must I sing of the war that overthrew the Getae.
But my former success won for me a brazen statue and the Fathers set up my likeness in my honour; at the Senate's prayer the Emperor allowed the claim — bethink thee, Muse, how strict a judgement thou dost face! Wit wins less favour when too soon rewarded, and so great a gift refuses indulgence for my song. Now that my name is read and my features are known in the forum my Muse labours for a sterner critic than before.
Yet my theme itself brings cheer and, as I begin to speak, eagerly lightens much of my accustomed fear. A gracious and more devoted hearing is secured for me, be it by the war's deserving or be it by Stilicho's love.