Venus, dear Cnidian-Paphian queen! Desert that Cyprus way off yonder, And fare you hence, where with incense My Glycera would have you fonder; And to your joy bring hence your boy, The Graces with unbelted laughter, The Nymphs, and Youth,—then, then, in sooth, Should Mercury come tagging after.

IN THE SPRINGTIME I

'T is spring! The boats bound to the sea; The breezes, loitering kindly over The fields, again bring herds and men The grateful cheer of honeyed clover. Now Venus hither leads her train; The Nymphs and Graces join in orgies; The moon is bright, and by her light Old Vulcan kindles up his forges. Bind myrtle now about your brow, And weave fair flowers in maiden tresses; Appease god Pan, who, kind to man, Our fleeting life with affluence blesses; But let the changing seasons mind us, That Death's the certain doom of mortals,— Grim Death, who waits at humble gates, And likewise stalks through kingly portals. Soon, Sestius, shall Plutonian shades Enfold you with their hideous seemings; Then love and mirth and joys of earth Shall fade away like fevered dreamings.

IN THE SPRINGTIME II

The western breeze is springing up, the ships are in the bay, And spring has brought a happy change as winter melts away. No more in stall or fire the herd or plowman finds delight; No longer with the biting frosts the open fields are white. Our Lady of Cythera now prepares to lead the dance, While from above the kindly moon gives an approving glance; The Nymphs and comely Graces join with Venus and the choir, And Vulcan's glowing fancy lightly turns to thoughts of fire. Now it is time with myrtle green to crown the shining pate, And with the early blossoms of the spring to decorate; To sacrifice to Faunus, on whose favor we rely, A sprightly lamb, mayhap a kid, as he may specify. Impartially the feet of Death at huts and castles strike; The influenza carries off the rich and poor alike. O Sestius, though blessed you are beyond the common run, Life is too short to cherish e'en a distant hope begun. The Shades and Pluto's mansion follow hard upon the grip. Once there you cannot throw the dice, nor taste the wine you sip; Nor look on blooming Lycidas, whose beauty you commend, To whom the girls will presently their courtesies extend.

TO A BULLY

You, blatant coward that you are, Upon the helpless vent your spite. Suppose you ply your trade on me; Come, monkey with this bard, and see How I'll repay your bark with bite! Ay, snarl just once at me, you brute! And I shall hound you far and wide, As fiercely as through drifted snow The shepherd dog pursues what foe Skulks on the Spartan mountain-side. The chip is on my shoulder—see? But touch it and I'll raise your fur; I'm full of business, so beware! For, though I'm loaded up for bear, I'm quite as like to kill a cur!

TO MOTHER VENUS

O mother Venus, quit, I pray, Your violent assailing! The arts, forsooth, that fired my youth At last are unavailing; My blood runs cold, I'm getting old, And all my powers are failing. Speed thou upon thy white swans' wings, And elsewhere deign to mellow With thy soft arts the anguished hearts Of swains that writhe and bellow; And right away seek out, I pray, Young Paullus,—he's your fellow! You'll find young Paullus passing fair, Modest, refined, and tony; Go, now, incite the favored wight! With Venus for a crony He'll outshine all at feast and ball And conversazione! Then shall that godlike nose of thine With perfumes be requited, And then shall prance in Salian dance The girls and boys delighted, And while the lute blends with the flute Shall tender loves be plighted. But as for me, as you can see, I'm getting old and spiteful. I have no mind to female kind, That once I deemed delightful; No more brim up the festive cup That sent me home at night full. Why do I falter in my speech, O cruel Ligurine? Why do I chase from place to place In weather wet and shiny? Why down my nose forever flows The tear that's cold and briny?

TO LYDIA

Tell me, Lydia, tell me why, By the gods that dwell above, Sybaris makes haste to die Through your cruel, fatal love. Now he hates the sunny plain; Once he loved its dust and heat. Now no more he leads the train Of his peers on coursers fleet. Now he dreads the Tiber's touch, And avoids the wrestling-rings,— He who formerly was such An expert with quoits and things. Come, now, Mistress Lydia, say Why your Sybaris lies hid, Why he shuns the martial play, As we're told Achilles did.

TO NEOBULE

A sorry life, forsooth, these wretched girls are undergoing, Restrained from draughts of pleasant wine, from loving favors showing, For fear an uncle's tongue a reprimand will be bestowing! Sweet Cytherea's winged boy deprives you of your spinning, And Hebrus, Neobule, his sad havoc is beginning, Just as Minerva thriftily gets ready for an inning. Who could resist this gallant youth, as Tiber's waves he breasted, Or when the palm of riding from Bellerophon he wrested, Or when with fists and feet the sluggers easily he bested? He shot the fleeing stags with regularity surprising; The way he intercepted boars was quite beyond surmising,— No wonder that your thoughts this youth has been monopolizing! So I repeat that with these maids fate is unkindly dealing, Who never can in love's affair give license to their feeling, Or share those sweet emotions when a gentle jag is stealing.

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