Classic Poem

W HOE'ER can endure with Zoilus to dine
At a supper with drabs by the walls might recline,
Or drink, even sober, from Leda's cracked jar.
For it's cleaner than he is and sweeter by far.
He sprawls on a couch which he fills all alone,
And with elbows thrust out takes three places for one.
Propped on purple silk cushions in saffron green coat
With a minion beside him to tickle his throat
Or hand him a toothpick, and lying below
A woman to fan him and cool his hot brow.
A boy with a myrtle branch keeps off the flies,
And a dexterous masseuse her nimble art plies
Rubbing all his limbs over with wide-stretched-out hand,
While a eunuch stands waiting his finger's command,
And holding his drunken lord's person with care
The voided stream guides to the full earthenware.

The great man himself to the crowd at his feet,
Where the lap-dogs are gnawing their goose-liver meat.
Turns and throws bits of ham for his wrestlers to seize
And with turtle-doves' rumps tries his minion to please.
We quaff poor new wine from Liguria's hills
Quickly mellowed by smoke; for his jesters he fills
A cup of bright crystal or veined alabaster
With Opimian nectar to drink to their master.
Though himself he is drenched in the costliest scent
He feels it no shame in gold shells to present
Us with grease that is used for their hair by poor whores,
And when he's quite drunk, he just lies back and snores;
While we still at table must even refrain
From toasting each other, and silent remain.
That's the treatment we get at Sir Malchio's feast;
And we can't pay him back, he is such a foul beast.