My own.

Think you, because I do not shut myself up to meditate, and drink water, and eat herbs, that I cannot write verses?
By Apollo, if I did not spend my days in politics, and my nights in revelry, I should have made Sophocles tremble.

But now I never go beyond a little song like this, and never invoke any Muse but Chariclea.

But come, Speusippus, sing.

You are a professed poet.