Classic Poem

Spare me, for I am tired with labour long
And social calls; O Rome, thou canst discern it;
Still must I toil amid the clients' throng
For one half-crown, and spend all day to earn it.

Great sacks of gold the charioteer reward,
It takes him but a single hour to win them;
My little books demand no golden hoard,
For well they know how little there is in them.

I do not ask Apulian fields to till,
Hybla's or Egypt's wealth that none may number,
Or vineyards rich that crown the Setine hill;
The greater boon I ask is merely slumber!