That Suffenus, Varus, a man you know too well,
Is a charming and sociable and sophisticated soul.
The same man writes by far the most verses –
I reckon ten thousand or more have
Been written by him, and not just drafted on
Second-hand papyrus as one normally would:
His paper is top notch, his scrolls are new
The scroll knobs, new, and the covers and red tie-thongs,
All lead-ruled and smoothed with pumice stone.
When you read them, that smart and sophisticated
Suffenus suddenly seems like any old goat-milker
Or digger, such is the transformation and discrepancy.
What are we to make of it? He who once seemed a wit
Or still sharper than a wit, if there is such a thing,
That same man is duller than the dull countryside
As soon as he touches poetry, nor is the same fellow ever
As happy as when he is writing poetry:
He is so pleased with himself and amazes himself so much,
But indeed we are all fools, for you could see a bit of Suffenus
In us all: each of us has been assigned his own fault,
We just don’t see the baggage on our own back.