Short Poems

An astrologer said that you would not last long,
And I really imagine he was not far wrong,
For, wishing to leave not one penny behind,
In a year you have thrown your estate to the wind;
A very nice fortune you've managed to spend,
So I think we may say that you've had a quick end.

Poor John in his youth was so very sharp-set,
He married a grand dame for what he could get.
To-day he discovers there's plenty to do;
For he has both to feed her and fondle her too.

The servants once who stood at Caesar's board
In the proud palace were by Rome abhorred.
But now your men to all, Sire, are so dear
That our own households are our second care;
So deferential are they and so kind,
Such modest calm in every face we find.
Each page takes pattern by his master's ways
And not his own, but Caesar's, mood displays.

Our Caesar deigns to take Alcides' face
And with new shrine the Latin Road to grace,
Just where the traveller to Diana's home
Sees by the stone he is eight miles from Rome.
Here Hercules with vows and victims' blood
Was worshipped once: now there's a greater god
Whom men beseech for rank and wealth each day,
And from the other only trifles pray.

Bright garland, whether you from Paestum come,
Or Tibur or Praeneste is your home;
Whether rich Tusculum your blossoms yields,
Or you give fame to fair Campanian fields;
That for Sabinus you may have more charm,
Pretend you come from my Nomentan farm.

That which in his despite you sought from heaven,
To die before your brother, has been given.
But Tullus grudges you the Stygian shade
And in his elder's grave would fain be laid.
You dwell at peace in the Elysian zone,
Now first rejoicing that you are alone;
And if for Pollux Castor comes again,
You'll say — " Seek not high heaven to regain."

A SOLDIER you have borne the Getic sky,
And watched the sluggish Wain with careful eye.
But now you travel further from us still
Even to Prometheus and his storied hill.
How will you cry when those grim rocks you see,
Whereon he suffered — " Yet more hard was he."
And then will add — " Who could such pains endure,
Was fit to mould the race of man, be sure.

When Diodorus sailed from Egypt's shore
His prize to take at Rome, Philaenis swore,
If he returned, she'ld give him that sweet kiss
Which even Sabine matrons know is bliss.
His ship was wrecked, but through the raging main
He swam to land her promise to obtain.
Yet even so he seems a laggard spouse:
I'ld ne'er embark if my girl made such vows.

In the baths what is now the most pleasing diversion
Is to go and see Maro displaying his person.

Give me the girl who's always willing,
Who can suffice for lovers three,
Whose price complete is just one shilling,
Who gives my man what she gives me.
Let Frenchmen in their arms enfold
Fine ladies with their silks and all,
They care for nothing else but gold,
Give me the girl who wears a shawl.