He left a load of refuse still behind:
Fluent, yet indolent, he would rebel
Against the toil of writing, writing WELL,
Not writing MUCH; for that I grant you. See,
Here comes Crispinus, wants to bet with me,
And offers odds: "A meeting, if you please:
Take we our tablets each, you those, I these:
Name place, and time, and umpires: let us try
Who can compose the faster, you or I."
Thank Heaven, that formed me of unfertile mind,
My speech not copious, and my thoughts confined!
But you, be like the bellows, if you choose,
Still puffing, puffing, till the metal fuse,
And vent your windy nothings with a sound
That makes the depth they come from seem profound.

Happy is Fannius, with immortals classed,
His bust and bookcase canonized at last,
While, as for me, none reads the things I write.
Loath as I am in public to recite,
Knowing that satire finds small favour, since
Most men want whipping, and who want it, wince.
Choose from the crowd a casual wight, 'tis seen
He's place-hunter or miser, vain or mean:
One raves of others' wives: one stands agaze
At silver dishes: bronze is Albius' craze:
Another barters goods the whole world o'er,
From distant east to furthest western shore,
Driving along like dust-cloud through the air
To increase his capital or not impair: