Chapter 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