Book XII, Epigram 96: In Tuccam

I penn'd an Epod: Thou beganst to write?
Therefore I ceas'd, least thine with mine unite.
My Muse to Tragick fancies soard her strain,
Thou strov'st to fit the buskin to thy brain.
Thence then I touch'd the Harp with learned skill,
With new ambition thou pursu'dst mee stil.
I Satyrs dared: Thou more exact wouldst bee,
I playd light Elegee's, thou ecchod'st mee;
What could be less? I Epigrams did frame:
And here thou soughtst to rob me of my fame.
Say what thou wilt not: Blush all things to bee:
And what thou wilt not, Tucca leave to mee.