Classic Poem

Long had I wish'd to send, in Roman tongue,
The verse which Battus' son divinely sung;
Send thee those strains which nicest pains require,
Strains that might sweetly sooth thy fruitless ire!
For often, like a trifling fly, enrag'd,
Poor idle war thou at my head hast wag'd.
But, Gellius, since the Muses vainly plead,
Since even my requests thou wilt not heed;
Thy darts with this slight cov'ring I defy,
Whilst thou, transfixt by mine, shalt weep and die.