Though born this side of the sea, I too made versicles
In Greek, but after midnight, when dreams are true,
A vision of Quirinus forbade me to do so, saying:
Your desire to swell the mighty ranks of the Greeks
Is as stupid as carrying wood to the forest.’
So while Furius, turgid Alpine poet, kills Memnon,
And muddies the head of the Rhine, I toy with these,
That won’t resound in the Muses’ temple competing
For Tarpa’s prize, nor be staged, again and again.
Fundanius, you alone of the living, delight us
With chatty comedy where the crafty whore and Davus
Cheat old Chremes: and Pollio, with a triple beat,
Sings kingly deeds: Varius marshals brave epics
Like none: and to Virgil the country-loving Muses
Have granted rare tenderness and grace. What Varro
Of Atax, and others, a few, attempted in vain,
Satire, is what I could write more effectively,
Though less well than its inventor: I’d not presume
To snatch the crown that clings to his head in glory.