Classic Poem

Ye sons of Bilbilis, beneath whose walls
The rushing Salo leaps and foams and falls,
My fellow-townsmen, do you take delight
In your bard's verses, and his glory bright?
Be sure I am your honour and your fame,
And that Verona owes no more her name
To gay Catullus than you yours to me,
She who is fain that I her son should be.
Now four-and-thirty summers have gone by
Since without me to Ceres' deity
You bring your rustic cakes, while I away
In Italy have seen my hair turn grey.
If you will welcome my return, I come:
If not, I must go back again to Rome.