Why do you shun me, Chloe, like the fawn, That, fearful of the breezes and the wood, Has sought her timorous mother since the dawn, And on the pathless mountain tops has stood? Her trembling heart a thousand fears invites, Her sinking knees with nameless terrors shake,— Whether the rustling leaf of spring affrights, Or the green lizards stir the slumbering brake. I do not follow with a tigerish thought, Or with the fierce Gætulian lion's quest; So, quickly leave your mother, as you ought, Full ripe to nestle on a husband's breast.

TO CHLOE II

Chloe, you shun me like a hind That, seeking vainly for her mother, Hears danger in each breath of wind, And wildly darts this way and t' other; Whether the breezes sway the wood Or lizards scuttle through the brambles, She starts, and off, as though pursued, The foolish, frightened creature scrambles. But, Chloe, you're no infant thing That should esteem a man an ogre; Let go your mother's apron-string, And pin your faith upon a toga!

III A PARAPHRASE

How happens it, my cruel miss, You're always giving me the mitten? You seem to have forgotten this: That you no longer are a kitten! A woman that has reached the years Of that which people call discretion Should put aside all childish fears And see in courtship no transgression. A mother's solace may be sweet, But Hymen's tenderness is sweeter; And though all virile love be meet, You'll find the poet's love is metre.

IV A PARAPHRASE, CIRCA 1715

Since Chloe is so monstrous fair, With such an eye and such an air, What wonder that the world complains When she each am'rous suit disdains? Close to her mother's side she clings, And mocks the death her folly brings To gentle swains that feel the smarts Her eyes inflict upon their hearts. Whilst thus the years of youth go by, Shall Colin languish, Strephon die? Nay, cruel nymph! come, choose a mate, And choose him ere it be too late!

V A PARAPHRASE, BY DR. I.W

Why, Mistress Chloe, do you bother With prattlings and with vain ado Your worthy and industrious mother, Eschewing them that come to woo? Oh, that the awful truth might quicken This stern conviction to your breast: You are no longer now a chicken Too young to quit the parent nest. So put aside your froward carriage, And fix your thoughts, whilst yet there's time, Upon the righteousness of marriage With some such godly man as I'm.

VI A PARAPHRASE, BY CHAUCER

Syn that you, Chloe, to your moder sticken, Maketh all ye yonge bacheloures full sicken; Like as a lyttel deere you ben y-hiding Whenas come lovers with theyre pityse chiding. Sothly it ben faire to give up your moder For to beare swete company with some oder; Your moder ben well enow so farre shee goeth, But that ben not farre enow, God knoweth; Wherefore it ben sayed that foolysh ladyes That marrye not shall leade an aype in Hadys; But all that do with gode men wed full quicklye When that they be on dead go to ye seints full sickerly.

TO MÆCENAS

Than you, O valued friend of mine, A better patron non est! Come, quaff my home-made Sabine wine,— You'll find it poor but honest. I put it up that famous day You patronized the ballet, And the public cheered you such a way As shook your native valley. Cæcuban and the Calean brand May elsewhere claim attention; But I have none of these on hand,— For reasons I'll not mention.

ENVOY

So, come! though favors I bestow Cannot be called extensive, Who better than my friend should know That they're at least expensive?

TO BARINE

If for your oath broken, or word lightly spoken, A plague comes, Barine, to grieve you; If on tooth or on finger a black mark shall linger Your beauty to mar, I'll believe you. But no sooner, the fact is, you bind, as your tact is, Your head with the vows of untruth, Than you shine out more charming, and, what's more alarming, You come forth beloved of our youth. It is advantageous, but no less outrageous, Your poor mother's ashes to cheat; While the gods of creation and each constellation You seem to regard as your meat. Now Venus, I own it, is pleased to condone it; The good-natured nymphs merely smile; And Cupid is merry,—'t is humorous, very,— And sharpens his arrows the while. Our boys you are making the slaves for your taking, A new band is joined to the old; While the horrified matrons your juvenile patrons In vain would bring back to the fold. The thrifty old fellows your loveliness mellows Confess to a dread of your house; But a more pressing duty, in view of your beauty, Is the young wife's concern for her spouse.

THE RECONCILIATION I

HE When you were mine, in auld lang syne, And when none else your charms might ogle, I'll not deny, fair nymph, that I Was happier than a heathen mogul. SHE Before she came, that rival flame (Had ever mater saucier filia?), In those good times, bepraised in rhymes, I was more famed than Mother Ilia. HE Chloe of Thrace! With what a grace Does she at song or harp employ her! I'd gladly die, if only I Could live forever to enjoy her! SHE My Sybaris so noble is That, by the gods, I love him madly! That I might save him from the grave, I'd give my life, and give it gladly! HE What if ma belle from favor fell, And I made up my mind to shake her; Would Lydia then come back again, And to her quondam love betake her? SHE My other beau should surely go, And you alone should find me gracious; For no one slings such odes and things As does the lauriger Horatius!

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