Boy, I detest the Persian pomp; I hate those linden-bark devices; And as for roses, holy Moses! They can't be got at living prices! Myrtle is good enough for us,— For you, as bearer of my flagon; For me, supine beneath this vine, Doing my best to get a jag on!

A TARDY APOLOGY I

Mæcenas, you will be my death,—though friendly you profess yourself,— If to me in a strain like this so often you address yourself: "Come, Holly, why this laziness? Why indolently shock you us? Why with Lethean cups fall into desuetude innocuous?" A god, Mæcenas! yea, a god hath proved the very curse of me! If my iambics are not done, pray, do not think the worse of me; Anacreon for young Bathyllus burned without apology, And wept his simple measures on a sample of conchology. Now, you yourself, Mæcenas, are enjoying this beatitude; If by no brighter beauty Ilium fell, you've cause for gratitude. A certain Phryne keeps me on the rack with lovers numerous; This is the artful hussy's neat conception of the humorous!

A TARDY APOLOGY II

You ask me, friend, Why I don't send The long since due-and-paid-for numbers; Why, songless, I As drunken lie Abandoned to Lethean slumbers. Long time ago (As well you know) I started in upon that carmen; My work was vain,— But why complain? When gods forbid, how helpless are men! Some ages back, The sage Anack Courted a frisky Samian body, Singing her praise In metered phrase As flowing as his bowls of toddy. Till I was hoarse Might I discourse Upon the cruelties of Venus; 'T were waste of time As well of rhyme, For you've been there yourself, Mæcenas! Perfect your bliss If some fair miss Love you yourself and not your minæ; I, fortune's sport, All vainly court The beauteous, polyandrous Phryne!

TO THE SHIP OF STATE

O ship of state Shall new winds bear you back upon the sea? What are you doing? Seek the harbor's lee Ere 't is too late! Do you bemoan Your side was stripped of oarage in the blast? Swift Africus has weakened, too, your mast; The sailyards groan. Of cables bare, Your keel can scarce endure the lordly wave. Your sails are rent; you have no gods to save, Or answer pray'r. Though Pontic pine, The noble daughter of a far-famed wood, You boast your lineage and title good,— A useless line! The sailor there In painted sterns no reassurance finds; Unless you owe derision to the winds, Beware—beware! My grief erewhile, But now my care—my longing! shun the seas That flow between the gleaming Cyclades, Each shining isle.

QUITTING AGAIN

The hero of Affairs of love By far too numerous to be mentioned, And scarred as I'm, It seemeth time That I were mustered out and pensioned. So on this wall My lute and all I hang, and dedicate to Venus; And I implore But one thing more Ere all is at an end between us. O goddess fair Who reignest where The weather's seldom bleak and snowy, This boon I urge: In anger scourge My old cantankerous sweetheart, Chloe!

SAILOR AND SHADE

SAILOR

You, who have compassed land and sea, Now all unburied lie; All vain your store of human lore, For you were doomed to die. The sire of Pelops likewise fell,— Jove's honored mortal guest; So king and sage of every age At last lie down to rest. Plutonian shades enfold the ghost Of that majestic one Who taught as truth that he, forsooth, Had once been Pentheus' son; Believe who may, he's passed away, And what he did is done. A last night comes alike to all; One path we all must tread, Through sore disease or stormy seas Or fields with corpses red. Whate'er our deeds, that pathway leads To regions of the dead.

SHADE

The fickle twin Illyrian gales Overwhelmed me on the wave; But you that live, I pray you give My bleaching bones a grave! Oh, then when cruel tempests rage You all unharmed shall be; Jove's mighty hand shall guard by land And Neptune's on the sea. Perchance you fear to do what may Bring evil to your race? Oh, rather fear that like me here You'll lack a burial place. So, though you be in proper haste, Bide long enough, I pray, To give me, friend, what boon shall send My soul upon its way!

LET US HAVE PEACE

In maudlin spite let Thracians fight Above their bowls of liquor; But such as we, when on a spree, Should never brawl and bicker! These angry words and clashing swords Are quite de trop, I'm thinking; Brace up, my boys, and hush your noise, And drown your wrath in drinking. Aha, 't is fine,—this mellow wine With which our host would dope us! Now let us hear what pretty dear Entangles him of Opus. I see you blush,—nay, comrades, hush! Come, friend, though they despise you, Tell me the name of that fair dame,— Perchance I may advise you. O wretched youth! and is it truth You love that fickle lady? I, doting dunce, courted her once; Since when, she's reckoned shady!

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