Short Poems

Thy breastplate, dread as Pallas own, whereon
The Gorgon dare not gaze, now, Caesar, don!
Seems it but mortal armour? It shall be
A very Aegis when it touches thee.

" WHERE 's number ONE," you say, " if this book's TWO?"
My first is shy, so what am I to do?
But if in this the First you'd rather see,
Take one away, and then it ONE will be.

I CAN pardon your habit of spending the night
O'er the wine-cup; for Cato in that did delight.
And though with your verses the Muses you sully,
I praise them; for here you take pattern by Tully,
When you vomit, you do as Mark Antony did;
And your greed by Apicius' shadow is hid.
But when you indulge in your beastliest tricks,
To find you a model I'm quite in a fix.

You pretend for your kisses the girls are athirst,
With your cheeks, like a diver's, just ready to burst.

You have robbed the young gallant of nostrils and ears,
And his face now of both is bereft.
But your vengeance remains incomplete it appears;
He has still got another part left.

Though in a gorgeous litter you may ride,
It seems a pauper's bier when you're inside.

While Fannius the foeman fled,
He madly pierced his side,
And, lest he should be stricken dead,
By his own hand he died.

You only asked me when you know
I've asked another man to dine.
And, as to-day I eat at home,
Your invitation I decline.

Your share of Marius' estate
Is just four pounds of battered plate.
You thought you'd cornered him: l' feg,
The boot is on the other leg.

Whenever I meet you, wherever I go,
Ten times in one hour it is — " How do you do?"
That " How do you do?" is your first word each day:
It is plain that there is not much doing your way.