1. My praise of the prince goes on, while he
O men, is clad in robes of blaming me.

2. No rhyme have I composed that tells him so,
Yet for my thanks he gives me gifts, you see.

3. I think, though now deprived of his regard,
I will be named a poet, falsely.

4. Woe to the poets! Their nights sleepless are,
Yet branded with the worst names they will be.