Şiir 1
Thus when with soaring wings I seek renown,
Thou pluck'st my pinions, and I flutter down.
Could I on such mean thoughts my muse employ,
I want a mistress, or a blooming boy."
Thus I complain'd; his bow the stripling bent,
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And chose an arrow fit for his intent.
The shaft his purpose fatally pursues;
" Now, poet, there's a subject for thy muse,"
He said: (too well, alas, he knows his trade,)
For in my breast a mortal wound he made.
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Far hence ye proud Hexameters remove,
My verse is pac'd, and tramell'd into love.
With myrtle wreaths my thoughtful brows enclose,
While in unequal verse I sing my woes.