Classic Poem

In twelve whole months one book I hardly finished,
So you declare my industry too small;
What hours have I by trouble undiminished?
The wonder is that I should write at all.

Ere dawn I call on patrons who ignore me,
To wish them all the luck that's never mine;
Then social care and business come to bore me,
To seal some deed I scale the Aventine;

The Consul or the Praetor may detain me,
Or I am caught in their attendant throng,
Often a dismal poet will constrain me
To hear his wretched verses all day long;

If men of law or critics have waylaid me
With some request, I dare not say them nay;
And when at weary eve my dole is paid me
What time is left for writing verses pray?