Seven, nearer eight years have pa**ed now since Maecenas
Began to count me among his friends, yet up to now
He's merely been willing to let me share his carriage
When travelling, and confide nuggets like these to me:
‘What's the time, now?' ‘Can the Thracian Chicken beat Syrus?
‘These frosty mornings will chill you if you're not careful.'
And whatever else it's safe to drop in a careless ear.
All that time, every hour of the day, yours truly has
Grown more envied. If he's watched the Games with me
Or played ball on the Campus, all cry: ‘Fortune's child!'
Should a chilling rumour fill the streets, from the Rostra,
Whoever meets me asks my views: ‘My good friend,
Since you, so much nearer the gods, must know, have you
Heard any news of the Dacians?' Not a thing. ‘Oh,
You're always teasing us!' May the gods strike me
If I have! ‘Well then, where does Caesar intend to grant
His men the land he promised, Italy, Sicily?'
When I swear I know nothing, they wonderingly take me
For a remarkably deep and reticent mortal indeed.