Classic Poem

Whilst I escort or see you home and hear
Your endless babble with a servile ear,
Praise everything you do, and laud your taste,
How many epigrams have gone to waste!
Seems it a paltry thing to lose to-day
What Romans read and strangers far away?
To knights and senators my lines appeal,
These lawyers love and poets often steal;
And now much work has died still born—'tis true
I swear, my worthy friend,—and all through you;
Is this endurable, that to increase
Your crowd of clients, half my work must cease?
Thus of my book a single page is done,
Although it is a month since 'twas begun;
Such is the penalty of bards at Rome—
They only do their work who dine at home.