This sordid squabble of a vulgar crowd
Of stiff patricians, ranting demagogues,
Serves well for others. I, I have my trees,
My cherries, rooted firm in Roman soil,
Shedding a delicate whiteness on the hills
When spring comes. A far greater triumph that
Than all my conquests.
Yes, they know me well,
These young men, “That old dragon on the hill,
Who gives such gorgeous dinners. Gods, his wines!