Book XII, Epigram 94 (Ker)

I was writing an epic; you began to write one: left off, that my poems should not stand in rivalry with yours. My Thalia shifted to tragic buskins: you also fitted on yourself the long train of tragedy. I struck the strings of a lyre practised by the Calabrian Muses: you, ambitious man, snatch from me the new quill. I venture satire: you strain to be a Lucilius. I sport with light elegies: you, too, sport with the same thing. What lesser art can there he? I begin to model epigrams: in this quarter, too, my fame is already sought after by you. Pick out something you do not want — for what modesty is there in wanting everything? — and if there is anything you don't want, Tucca, leave it to me.