Short Poems

Who carved our master's bust from Latin stone
And so the Phidian ivory outshone?
'Tis Jove's own face; nay 'tis the world we see:
So the god thunders when from clouds he's free.
Athena gave thee more than that one crown;
She too this worshipped image once did own.

Tell me where now the golden garland lies
That Alban Pallas gave thee for thy prize. Carus:
See'st thou our master's face in marble wrought?
To grace his locks my crown took wings unsought. Martial:
The pious oak may grudge the olive now
Its glory; for it wreathes our victor's brow.

L ATONA'S grandson, by whose potions mild
The Fates with too brief distaff are beguiled,
These locks, his lord's delight, thy boy sends now
To thee from Rome to pay his solemn vow,
And this bright glass has added to the hair
Whose verdict oft assured him he was fair.
Gone are his tresses bright; yet none the less
Preserve for him his youthful comeliness.

His mirror, beauty's wisdom, and his hair
To Aesculapius an offering
The boy our lord most loves to-day doth bear,
Who by his name recalls the hours of spring.
Happy the land that is with such gifts fee'd:
For him we would not take e'en Ganymede.

C HLOE seven husbands had,
In the churchyard laid 'em,
On the stone the record sad,
All their names engraved 'em;
Then added — " Chloi's work you see.
O what delicious naivete!

Do you think that this man, whom your generous board
Has got you for friend, can true friendship afford?
It's your oysters and mullet he loves, sir, not you:
If my dinners were good, he would be my friend too.

Thou hast a name which tells of vernal hours
When Attic bees lay waste the short-lived flowers:
Which Venus with her pen would joy to write
Or broider with soft silk and needle bright;
Which should be made with pearls from India's land
Or amber balls warmed by a virgin's hand;
Which cranes with flying wing to heaven bear,
And finds its rightful place with Caesar here.

If I got my name from autumn, I Oporinos should be:
Winter stars would give another, then Chimerinos you'ld see:
Therinos the months of summer would for me as title bring:
Tell me now what you should call me when I take my name from Spring?

Y OU'RE very glad with friends to dine,
Yet there you bawl, backbite, and blether.
Such ways, good sir, you'd best resign:
Free speech and greed go ill together.

Not a penny from Fabius, though every year,
Fifty pounds' worth of presents you gave!
Never mind: we are all in the same boat, I fear,
And in future that money you'll save.