Short Poems

Present you with my books? Not I indeed.
I know you want to sell them, not to read.

Be cautious how you recommend
My verses to your father, friend;
The merry quip, the sportive whim,
Might hurt a sober soul like him;
But if he likes my wanton work
'Twould pass an elder of the Kirk.

In Fabius' will sole legatee,
Why is not Labienus glad?
In courting the testator, he
Had spent far more than Fabius had.

You are weary and wan, yet the lawsuit drags on,
Now its twentieth year is complete.
So you must be a dunce; it had ended at once
Had you only admitted defeat.

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.

Each morn you tell some evil dream you've had
About me, till you drive me nearly mad;
To charms I have resorted to divine
The omen; that has used up all my wine,
My salted meal, whole mounds of frankincense,
And half my flocks and herds — a vain expense.
Pigs, fowls, and eggs are gone; for mercy's sake
Do dream about yourself — or stay awake.

Whilst you attempt your present to commend
In verses fit for Homer's approbation,
You suffer agonies, ambitious friend,
And I starvation;
'Tis Martial suffers while your Muse is mute;
The rich can wait for verse — on them bestow it:
Hard cash, tho' unaccompanied, would suit

The best you can do is to grant my demand,
Your second-best course to refuse it off-hand;
I welcome assent and denial excuse —
But, Cinna, you neither consent nor refuse.

Who can dispute with you the meed
For tuneful verse or noble deed?
Not I, who readily concede
The palm;
'Tis ease and quiet I pursue —
" Then why send feeble verses?" True,
Yet coals to Newcastle can do

You boast " The world's my country!" Be it so;
It takes all sorts to make a world you know!