Me too a singer; I too have sung; the swains
Call me a poet, but I believe them not:
For naught of mine, or worthy Varius yet
Or Cinna deem I, but account myself
A cackling goose among melodious swans.
'Twas in my thought to do so, Lycidas;
Even now was I revolving silently
If this I could recall- no paltry song: