Alba, your kings, and the realm your folk

have constructed with such industry

Shall be yawned out on my lyre—with such industry.

My little mouth shall gobble in such great fountains,

“Wherefrom father Ennius, sitting before I came, hath drunk.”

I had rehearsed the Curian brothers, and made remarks on the Horatian javelin

(Near Q. H. Flaccus’ book-stall).

“Of” royal Aemilia, drawn on the memorial raft,

“Of” the victorious delay of Fabius, and the left-handed

battle at Cannae,

Of lares fleeing the “Roman seat” ...

I had sung of all these

And of Hannibal,

and of Jove protected by geese.

And Phoebus looking upon me from the Castalian tree,

Said then “You idiot! What are you doing with that water;

“Who has ordered a book about heroes?

You need, Propertius, not think

“About acquiring that sort of a reputation.

“Soft fields must be worn by small wheels,

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