See, even our age has its miracles—miracles which future generations will scarcely believe.
The ready Muses we worshipped with votive incense; it is not just the spirit of money that you celebrate.
Here is one for whom time will have doubled nine five-year periods before a fifth crop grow in the sun-baked fields.
He composes verses worthy of Virgil or Apollo; and the Muses' nectar flows from the old man's lips.
How dear to Phoebus he was in the flower of his early youth! a man whose veins are still warm with such blood.
I am wrong: it was not Phoebus but devotion which poured forth these songs; Apollo is never accustomed to play such compositions.]