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, Frost and famine, a lingering probation? 5

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 My passivity, fool'd me most supinely. 10

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, Rogues to Romulus and to Remus outcast. 15