That I, descended of Patrician race,
With charms of fortune, and with charms of face,
Am so indifferent grown to you of late,
So little car'd for, now excites no hate.
Rare taste, and worthy of a poet's brain;
To prey on garbage, and a slave adore!
In such to find out charms a bard must feign
Beyond what fiction ever feign'd of yore.
Her friends may think Sulpicia is disgrac'd;
No! no! she honours your transcendent taste.