Short Poems

O SACRED ruler of Tarpeia's hall,
Whom, while our chief is safe, we Thunderer call;
Let other men to thee petition make
And ask that they thy gifts divine may take;
But be not wroth with me if naught I crave,
Nor bounty for myself desire to have.
For Caesar all my prayers are made to heaven:
From Caesar all I need is freely given.

When Caecilian dines, a boar's always on view.
It's the one guest he has — and a proper one too.

To heaven thou must in thought at least have come
Who didst design our Emperor's palace home.
Were Phidian Jove due lodging to receive,
Pisa would beg our God thy aid to give.

Though you send me no presents I'd not care a bit
If it were not that Tom, Dick, and Harry, and Kit
Get plenty. The next time you play dirty tricks,
I'll ask you on some Jewish gentry to fix.

Fountain wherein Ianthis doth delight,
Glory of garden and of mansion bright,
Where youths in marble beauty deck the mead,
And each cool wave reflects a Ganymede,
What does Alcides in yon woodland shrine?
Why holds the god a grot so near to thine?
Does he keep guard against the Naiads, pray,
Lest every Hylas should be stolen away?

Eggs for your meal and dessert apples, friend,
As gifts from my suburban home I send.

At three hundred tables your fare might be spread,
But with you we find three hundred waiters instead.
They snatch off the plates and make each course fly fast.
Enough! I don't care for a walking repast.

Here lies the sage, long in the palace known,
Who bore the Emperor's favour and his frown
Undaunted. By their children's love at rest
Husband and wife are of one grave possessed.
She died in youth, robbed of her life's spring bloom;
The father to his ninetieth year did come.
Yet all who see his children's tears believe
That they for one untimely taken grieve.

How is it, you ask, that a rascal so low,
As Charinus could yet this one service bestow?
I'll explain. Was not Nero a monster confessed,
Yet are not his baths still accounted the best?
At this some base knave with a sly sneering nod
May remark — " To the gifts of our master and god
You prefer something else" — Nay, that is your vile fancy.
I preferred Nero's baths to the baths of a Nancy.

Your toga is filthy, your shoes white as snow;
But your toga hangs down so your feet do not show.
Pull it up, silly fellow, and let them appear:
As it is their effect is quite wasted, I fear.