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: