love poetry

ACT. I. SCEN. I.

Scedasus, Patacion, Epigenes, Terpander,
Eudemus, Nicias with the Pictures of three
Byzantine Virgins.

Sced. But there's no other way.
Epi. They must be sent
Or we must die.
Pat. Wee're no such subtile feeders
As to make Meals on Air, sup on a Blast,
And think a fresh Gale Second Course.
Terp. No verily; Let's see thy Pictures, Nicias . I would the Tyrant had a mind to all the

Your capital was always small,
Yet in the mart you gave
The thousand pounds that made your all
To buy a pretty slave.

For love that price was high to pay
E'en with a bulging purse.
What's that? You're not in love you say —
That makes the matter worse.

I OFFERED love — you ask for awe;
Then I'll obey you and revere;
But don't forget the ancient saw
That love will never dwell with fear.

You ask the reasons why I never do
Kiss you?
Fair locks I love and you have none,
That's one.
Your face is of the beetroot's hue,
That's two.
Your one blear eye can hardly see,
That's three.
That act all nature might appal,

W HENE'ER you plead in court or read your verses,
Watch Selius fishing for an invitation.
With wild applause your words he intersperses,
" Perfect," " Hear, hear," " 'Tis said to admiration,"
" Bravo," " How grand the style!" " How good the matter!" —
Then you invite him, just to stop his chatter.

To feasts and theatres you love to go
With men of rank and, when you chance to meet.
To lounge with them about a portico
Or street.

They let you bathe and dine with them, but what
Your dullard pride will never comprehend
Is that you are their mountebank, and not

He was great with the gloves, but the lady he loves
Said boxing must now be deserted;
A Knight she has made him, and so has displayed him
As Pollux to Castor converted.

C AELIA , you love a Teuton swain,
An Asiatic stirs your pity,
For you swart Indians cross the main,
Copts flock to you from Pharos' city.

A Jew, a Scythian cavalier,
Can please you — but I can't discover
Why you, a Roman, are austere
To none except a Roman lover.

C YLLENE'S glory, heaven's pride, thou messenger with cunning tongue,
Whose golden wand with coiling snake doth splendid shine the gods among,
May thou thy stolen loves attain, fair Venus or young Ganymede,
And may thy mother's Ides adorned with bay proclaim some noble deed,
And Atlas bear a lighter load, if Carpus and Norbana now
To celebrate the nuptial day when first they met thou wilt allow.
A pious priest of wisdom he to wisdom pays his gift of love,
Sending his incense up to thee and faithful also unto Jove.

If for thy people's love thou hast a care,
And wilt a joyful issue grant to prayer,
Then, sire, give back our god: Rome grudges thee
To foreign lands though thou victorious be.
Our foemen have the Lord of Earth in sight,
And in thy face find terror and delight.