Classic Poem

These cackling fowls and eggs I send you,
These Chian figs grown ripe in tempered heat,
The shaggy kid for which his dam doth bleat,
The cabbage white with rime of frozen dew
That hath not marred the olives' tender hue,
Think you that all are from my country-seat?

Nay, Regulus, you will not understand,
Naught in my starveling field could you descry
Save me; far Umbria doth your need supply
And rich suburban gardens nigh at hand:
What Tusculum doth yield at your demand
I hunt through all the market-place to buy.