English

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.

I HOPE this December will bring you good store:
Not trumpery tablets or napkins galore,
Nor half pounds of incense — and short weight at that;
But may some rich client or millionaire fat
Weigh in with some plate from his family treasure;
Or what will, I know, give you even more pleasure,
May you beat all the experts you tackle at chess,
And when you play ball in your light athlete's dress
May you win the applause of the well-oiled bystanders,
And beat even Polybus with his left-handers.
Then if some low fellow should put down to me

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.

Behold Theophila, your promised bride,
Whose mind with Attic learning deep is dyed.
Well might the garden of the happy sage
Claim her and all the Stoic equipage.
So little like the common female kind,
Your books in her a critic sure will find;
For e'en Pantaenis cannot her outshine
Though she be ranked with the Pierian nine.
It was a lover praised fair Sappho's art,
Your maid's as skilled and has a purer heart.

Bold hucksters had seized on the roads all about,
The contents of each shop you would see inside out,
Till the Emperor told them to beat a retreat,
And what was an alley made once more a street.
No cups chained to pillars to-day are allowed,
No barbers ply razors unseen in the crowd,
No longer through mud do our magistrates stray,
No longer do cookshops spread out o'er the way
Within doors butcher, barber, cook, vintner remain:
Rome was one big bazaar; she's herself now again.

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.

Six or seven young Nancies already you've wed,
Allured by their beards and their neatly-brushed head.
You test and you try them and find that each one
Falls very much short and is much too soon done.
So you give him the go-by and try a fresh sheet;
Only there once again disappointment to meet.
You had better endeavour a sage to discover
With rough, shaggy hair, if you want a true lover.
And even with them you may light on a Nan:
It is hard for a lady to find a real man.

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.