English

N ARNIA , aloof upon thy cloven hill
Where milk-white eddies ever whirl and play,
Why wilt thou keep my Quintus from me still?
'Tis thy delight to hold my friend away:

That spite doth mar the very fields I till;
Save when he dwells thereby, no worth have they,
Spare me, nor let thy greed our friendship sever,
So may thy wondrous bridge endure for ever.

Ten times a day I've heard you say, " If there is aught you need,
Pray come to me and you will see I am a friend indeed."
I'm hailed for debt with angry threat, with usurers I plead,
But though you hear, you are not clear if there is aught I need.
My landlord came his rent to claim; though there, you gave no heed
To my distress, but cannot guess if there is aught I need.
'Tis all in vain that I complain my cloak has run to seed.
'Tis worn and chill; you wonder still if there is aught I need.

My work's uneven, you protest
And sometimes falls beneath my best;
A compliment, say I:
Dull bards on level plains that grope
Shall never err — or soar — with Pope,
Although they shine with Pye.

Go happy rose, let thy soft petals bind
Those locks now bright, and if, when they are white
With Time's chill snows, thou still thereon art twined,
May fate be kind, and Venus never slight
The flower she choose, the flower of her delight.

Can this be true? In fair Narbonne 'tis said
My books are loved, all boys and sages con them,
Sweet matrons read them openly nor dread
To see a lord austere look sourly on them!

I count it naught so I am praised of these,
Should farthest Nile to me her homage proffer,
Should Hybla and Hymettus feed my bees,
Or gold of Tagus fill my swollen coffer.

For this is fame indeed; my heart was sad
And doubting feared lest flattering might deceive it;
When Lausus damned one song in three as bad

You always asked me to attend
Your birthday feasts when not your friend;
Then why this change — so sudden too?
For years you tried and proved me true,
Yet now at last you leave me out —
I know the cause beyond a doubt;

No Spanish plate in compliment,
No dainty robe or cloak I sent,
Your " generous" dinner to requite:
'Tis gifts not friends that you invite.
Now you will say, " That wretched slave
Forgot my note; I'll beat the knave."

Your few quatrains are not amiss,
Your couplets too are neat; for this
You earn a mild regard,
But little fame, for many men
Can write good verses now and then —
To make a book is hard.

My portrait painted by a cunning hand
Shall follow you, my little book, but go
To subject Ister and the Getic land,
For there Secundus rules the conquered foe.
Well shall he love your petty worth, and know
You show him Martial as no picture may:
No Time nor Chance shall mar your brightness, though
Apelles' work has mouldered in decay.

His face is so vast that his barber aghast
Perceived, ere his shaving was done,
A new crop had appeared; there were whiskers and beard
On the side where his task had begun.

Y OU'VE read my poems and condemn
Some thirty, so you say, of them:
The book's a good one I submit,
If there are thirty good in it.