Nine years, dear Cinna, and it's worth the wait.
Your tenants brought rich harvests in nine times.
Nine winters froze. Yet 'Smyrna' isn't late...
Hortensius wrote fifty thousand rhymes
in those nine years. In far off years and climes
they'll read you. While his work will dissipate
forgotten; all those pages used to wrap
cat litter, fish and chips. It's all such crap.