Short Poems

From your cup no one ever to drink you allow:
But it really is kindness not pride that you show.

Both the judge and the counsel say you're in their debt:
You had best pay the one where most credit you'll get.

What means it, I wonder, the odour of scent
That's on your lips always, of cinnamon blent.
It's suspicious this perfume whenever we meet:
For men always scented don't really smell sweet.

You fondle your mother and she fondles you:
You're her " brother" and she is your " sister."
Why those mischievous names, I should much like to know?
Why are you not her son when you've kissed her?
If you think that such conduct is merely a jest,
You're mistaken, my innocent " brother."
When a mother as " sister" would fain be addressed,
She is neither the one nor the other.

C RETE gave the mighty name Metellus bore,
Scipio a mightier gained on Afric shore,
But yet more grand the name from conquered Rhine
That, when a child, Germania made thine.
Thy sire and brother won the Jewish crown:
The wreath the Chatti send is all thine own.

Some unguent rare was kept with care
In a small onyx dish.
Papilus came and smelt the same —
And now it's putrid fish!

These nuts at Saturn's feast to thee I send,
Dear Juvenal, my friend.
The rest to girls Priapus gave away,
With whom he loves to play.

You are ancient and ugly and haven't got money:
But yet you expect your full share of love's honey.

C YLLENE'S glory, heaven's pride, thou messenger with cunning tongue,
Whose golden wand with coiling snake doth splendid shine the gods among,
May thou thy stolen loves attain, fair Venus or young Ganymede,
And may thy mother's Ides adorned with bay proclaim some noble deed,
And Atlas bear a lighter load, if Carpus and Norbana now
To celebrate the nuptial day when first they met thou wilt allow.
A pious priest of wisdom he to wisdom pays his gift of love,
Sending his incense up to thee and faithful also unto Jove.

The wife and the husband both suffer from piles,
And so does their daughter, her husband, and boy.
The ulcer their steward and bailiff defiles,
And every farm-hand who is in their employ;
There are piles on them all, both on young and on old:
But piles of farm produce you'll nowhere behold.