Classic Poem

Live , my Titullus, live. 'Tis still too late
In boyhood to begin: and yet you wait
Though age has come, and waste the precious days
Cooling your heels attendant at levees.

Through the three forums where the mud spurts at you,
Past Mavors shrine and great Augustus' statue,
We see you rush each morn from nine to noon
Wet with the slobberings of all the town.

Rob, plunder, hoard: your wealth you must resign.
What though with yellow gold your coffers shine,
And bulky ledgers tell of thousands lent!
Your heir will swear you have not left a cent.

And when upon your bed of stone you lie,
While paper-fed your funeral pyre burns high,
Your mourning son will his sad loss assuage
By taking the first night your favourite page.