Horace (Quintus Horatius Flaccus) - 1.6.2. lyrics

I turn again to myself, now, the son of a freedman, Denounced by everyone as ‘the son of a freedman' Because I'm your close friend now, Maecenas, earlier Because as tribune I commanded a Roman legion. Yet the situations differ, since one who'd begrudge Me honours, shouldn't begrudge me your friendship, Given you're careful only to patronise the worthy, Men free of self-seeking. I can't say I was lucky Enough to win your friendship just by good fortune: It wasn't luck indeed that revealed you to me: Virgil, The best of men, and Varius, told you what I was. Meeting you face to face, I stuttered a few words, Mute diffidence preventing me saying more. I didn't claim to be born of a famous father, Or rode a horse round a Tarentine estate, I said what I was. You said little, as is your way, I left: nine months later you recalled me, asking Me to be one of your friends. And I think it's fine To have pleased you, who separate true from false, Not by a man's father but by his pure life and heart.