Ovid concludes with a rapturous anticipation of the renown which will follow the publication of this work.
The work is finish’d, which nor dreads the rage Of tempests, fire, or war, or wasting age; Come, soon or late, death’s undetermined day, This mortal being only can decay; My nobler part, my fame, shall reach the skies, And to late times with blooming honours rise: Whate’er the unbounded Roman power obeys, All climes and nations shall record thy praise: If ’tis allow’d to poets to divine. One half of round eternity is mine.