I turn again to myself, now, the son of a freedman,
Denounced by everyone as ‘the son of a freedman’
Because I’m your close friend now, Maecenas, earlier
Because as tribune I commanded a Roman legion.
Yet the situations differ, since one who’d begrudge
Me honours, shouldn’t begrudge me your friendship,
Given you’re careful only to patronise the worthy,
Men free of self-seeking. I can’t say I was lucky
Enough to win your friendship just by good fortune:
It wasn’t luck indeed that revealed you to me: Virgil,
The best of men, and Varius, told you what I was.
Meeting you face to face, I stuttered a few words,
Mute diffidence preventing me saying more.
I didn’t claim to be born of a famous father,
Or rode a horse round a Tarentine estate,
I said what I was. You said little, as is your way,
I left: nine months later you recalled me, asking
Me to be one of your friends. And I think it’s fine
To have pleased you, who separate true from false,
Not by a man’s father but by his pure life and heart.