Book VIII, Epigram 56 (Ker)

Although our grandsires' age yields to our own times, and Rome has waxed greater in company with her chief, you wonder divine Maro's genius is seen no more, and that no man with such a trump as his blows loud of war. Let there be many a Maecenas, many a Maro, Flaccus, will not fail, and even your fields will give you a Virgil. Tityrus, sick at heart, had lost his lands nigh ill-starred Cremona, and was weeping for his plundered sheep: the Tuscan knight smiled, and dispelled malignant poverty, and bade it go in hurried flight. "Take wealth, and be greatest of bards: you," he said, "may love even my Alexis." That boy most fair was standing by his master's board, pouring the dark Falernian with hand marble-fair, and offered the beaker tasted first by his rosy lips, lips that might tempt Jove himself. Plump Galatea fell away from the inspired bard and Thestylis - with her cheeks burnt red by harvest; at once "Italy" he conceived, and "Arms and the man," he who but now in song untrained had with effort wept for a gnat. Why should I speak of Variuses and Marsuses, and tell the names of poets enriched, whom 'twere a long task to number? Shall I then be a Virgil if you give me the gifts of a Maecenas? I shall not be a Virgil, a Marsus shall I be.