XXVIII.
Starving company, troop of hungry Piso,
Light of luggage, of outfit expeditious,
You, Veranius, you, my own Fabullus,
Say, what fortune? enough of empty masters,
5 Frost and famine, a lingering probation?
Stands your diary fair? is any profit
Enter'd given? as I to serve a praetor
Count each beggarly gift a timely profit.
Trust me, Memmius, you did aptly finger
10 My passivity, fool'd me most supinely.
Friends, confess it; in e'en as hard a fortune
You stand mulcted, on you a like abashless
Rake rides heavily. Court the great who wills it!
Gods and goddesses evil heap upon ye,
15 Rogues to Romulus and to Remus outcast.