Classic Poem

You bade us dine with you, three score
Invited guests, and nothing more
You gave us than a wretched boar —
Aye, that was all I vow.

No Autumn grapes of flavour rare,
No apple honey sweet was there,
Nor any ripe and luscious pear,
Hung late upon the bough.

No rosy peaches graced the board,
Your baskets still their cheeses hoard,
No olive jar its bounty poured
To cheer our drooping mind.

In lonely state that pigling lay,
So small that 'twere an easy prey
For any brat unarmed to slay;
Yet there was worse behind!

We never got a single bit,
But only sat and looked at it,
So in the Arena one might sit,
And feast his eyes while starving.

You stingy host, for such a feat
I will not wish you boar to eat,
But only hope, when next you meet,
The boar may do the carving.