My Cinna's finally, after the ninth harvest it was begun, and after the ninth winter it was published, when Hortensius meanwhile five hundred thousand [lines] in one [year] will be sent to the curving waves of innermost Satrachus, hoary ages will roll out long hence. But Volusius' will die at Padua itself, and will often furnish loose wrappings for mackerel. May the short works of my comrade remain in my heart; as for the people, let them rejoice in bloated Antimachus.