English

Of an eloquent race you're reviving the name,
And let not your house lie forgotten by fame:
Minerva's good votaries ever attend you
And sages delight their wise leisure to lend you.
Other youths with a thick-eared old boxer you see
And a filthy masseur takes his scarcely-earned fee;
But you don't prepare for your bath with a ball —
Whether bladder or feather or solid withal —
Nor strike with blunt sword at some poor dummy image,
Nor darting with speed snatch the ball from the scrimmage,

Dear Thestylus, Voconius Victor's joy
And pleasant torment, most beloved boy,
I pray that fair without your locks you seem
And that your bard no maid more comely deem.
A little while his learned scrolls lay by
While to your lord I read my poetry.
So great Maecenas, who could Virgil hear,
Let Marsus' dark Melaenis charm his ear.

Your verses are full of a sugary grace,
As spotless and pure as a well-powdered face,
Not an atom of salt or suspicion of gall,
So how can they but on an audience pall!
Even food does not please if the cooking's too simple,
And cheeks lack in charm when they haven't a dimple.
A child may like apples and figs without savour:
But give me the sort that have got a sharp flavour.

Come , Phoebus, come; as when thou didst inspire
The second singer of our Roman quire
To thunderous strains of war. What shall I pray
From heaven that may befit this glorious day?
Only that Polla still her love may show
To his great shade, and he her love may know.

Smile , all ye Muses, on this sacred morn
When Lucan, bard of Phoebus, erst was born;
Since that great day 'tis only just, I deem,
Baetis should mingle with Castalia's stream.

This is the day which, proud of that great birth,
Gave Lucan to thee, Polla, and to earth.
Ah, cruel Nero! murder 'twas most foul.
This crime at least lies heavy on thy soul.

For vile greedy tricks Santra beats all creation.
When he hears of a dinner, for his invitation
He angles for weeks, and then hurries off straight
To the banqueting hall lest perchance he be late.
To start with he asks — " seven helpings of boar,"
And snatches some oysters to add to his score:
Then seizes the legs and the wings of a hare,
And lyingly shouts — " I have had no field-fare."
With mouthfuls of cake his soiled napkin he stains
Wherein a small scrap of pomegranate remains,
And raisins and mushrooms, and figs oozing ripe

Has Hylas fled the fountain's naiad queen,
Or who is this by Ianthis' waters seen?
Well is it that Alcides shrine is nigh
And that he can these wanton waves espy.
Serve then thy spring, Argynnus, nor have care
Of amorous nymphs: the god himself beware.

My girl has just suffered a most cruel blow,
Her favourite plaything she's lost, you must know.
It was not a sparrow like that which of yore
Catullus to Lesbia could not restore.
Nor was it a dove such as Stella to-day
From his darling Ianthis saw stolen away.
My girl is not taken by trifles so vain,
And the loss of a bird would not cause her much pain.
She has lost her pet page-boy who promised to be
In his virile appendage a real prodigy.

So may the Emperor read me with calm brow
And to my jests his wonted favour show,
E'en whom I justly hate I ne'er revile,
Nor strive for glory with a scoffing smile.
Yet what avails it? Knaves to me assign
Their own scurrilities and call them mine,
And shrinking cowardly from the honest light
Under my name breathe out their snakish spite.
My jests you know are harmless, that I swear
By Fame's bright spirit, and by the Muses dear
And by thy love, kind reader, who by me
Art judged a god, from cruel envy free.