Short Poems

There was an old Derry down Derry,
Who loved to see little folks merry;
So he made them a Book,
And with laughter they shook,
At the fun of that Derry down Derry!

A MAN there is who was believ'd
By many; all he has deceiv'd;
To one on earth may he prove true,
O lady, and that one be you.

No , I will never weave a sonnet,
Let others wear their patience on it;
A better use of time I know
Than tossing shuttles to an fro.

Why should ye sourly criticise
A poet more profuse than wise?
The gentle Muse would not send from her
Her Ovid, tho' preferring Homer.
Mind, wise was gentle Ovid too,
And equal'd in his art by few.
Sirs, malice is a worse disease
Than all your itch and all your fleas.

Only one poet in the worst of days
Disdain'd Augustus in his pride to praise.
Ah, Delia! was it wantonness or whim
That made thee, once so tender, false to him?
To him who follow'd over snows and seas
Messala storming the steep Pyrenees.
But Nemesis avenged him, and the tear
Of Rome's last poet fell upon his bier.

I ANTHE took me by both ears and said
You are so rash, I own I am afraid.
Prop, or keep hidden in your breast, my name,
But be your love as lasting as your fame.

Let fools place Fortune with the Gods on high,
Prudence, be thou my guardian deity.
I have neglected thee, alas, too long!
But listen now and hear life's evensong.

In vain he beats his brow who thinks
To get the better of a Sphynx.

From Youth's bright wing the soonest fall
The brightest feathers of them all:
Few of the others that remain
Are there without some darker stain;
Youth, when at these old Age looks grim,
Cries, " Who the devil cares for him? "

The heaviest curse that can on mortal fall
Is " who has friends may he outlive them all!"
This malediction has awaited me
Who had so many . . . I could once count three.