Classic Poem

Did I not, pleasant Calvus, prize
Thy friendship dearer than mine eyes;
For that same present brought me late,
I'd hate thee with Vatinian hate.
What have I done, or said, to be
Teaz'd with such loads of poetry?
Heav'n pay that client's impudence,
Who sent thee knaves so void of sense!
But if, as I suspect, it be
The scholiast Sulla gave this fee
Of new invention; it excites
My anger less than it delights:
For I myself should think it hard,
Had not thy pains their full reward.
O, what a book! gods, how accurs'd!
That thou upon the very first
Of all our feasts, on Saturn's days,
Couldst send me these devoted lays.
But trust me, wag, thou shalt not hence
Unpunish'd go for this offence:
Let but the morn appear, I'll run
To ev'ry book-stall in the town;
Cæsius, Aquinius I'll explore,
Suffenus, and a thousand more;
Whose poison, in each silly line,
Shall be a fair return for thine.
Mean while, vile bards, our age's shame,
Haste whence in evil hour you came!