Book XI, Epigram 4: De suis Libellis

My lines are not alone delighted here,
Nor doe I spend them on the idle eare,
But by the sowre Centurion they are lost
Under his ensignes in the Getick frost.
And Brittain's said my verse to sing: But what
Can thence accrew? my purse ne're hears of that.
What never dying Papers could I write?
And glorious wars in a rich strain Indite!
Should Heaven Augustus once again revive,
And Rome to me a sweet Maecenas give!