Short Poems

Who writes a distich hopes to please
By brevity, the soul of wit;
But if he fill a tome with these,
I pray you where's the benefit?

You rich old fool, the gifts that toady gave
Mean he would like to give one more — a grave.

If aught we ask, my modest book and I,
Grant it — we speak in no presumptuous tone,
Or suffer us to ask though thou deny;
Incense and prayer offend not Jove on high,
Men fashion images in gold or stone,
Not gods; 'tis worship gives them sanctity.

Because I beat my cook who spoilt the dinner
You say " Oh cruel wretch, oh greedy sinner,
Such penalties for greater faults are fit."
What greater crime, I ask, can cooks commit?

You said it was wild boar you gave me, Sir;
'Twas but a farm-yard hog — you greatly err
Who think I can be cheated by a name;
Only a mongrel mixes wild with tame.

You write a hundred lines a day?
That means a crazy brain.
And yet you publish none, you say;
That shows that you are sane.

He makes parade of poverty — a plot
To make us think him rich when he is not.

Though long a baker, now you are
Seeking a fortune at the bar;
Your gains are spent as soon as made,
You borrow too — the same old trade;
Of old you made your bread: somehow
You still contrive to make it now.
And you will find that spendthrifts must
Like bakers seek to raise a crust.

I BOUGHT him as a fool at vast expense;
Pay back the price, he shows a gleam of sense.

I MARRY wealth and be for life
Naught save the husband of my wife?
Nay 'twere a galling tether.
The man must rule, the wife obey,
Priscus, there is no other way
To make them pull together.