From your cup no one ever to drink you allow:
But it really is kindness not pride that you show.

T HERE'S nothing Selius will not do or dare
Rather than sup at home on meagre fare;
He haunts the running-ground and swears 'tis true
That swift Achilles never ran like you,
Paulinus; failing him he next may go
And take his chance at Jason's portico.
That too is blank, so off to Isis' shrine —
Some courtesan may take him home to dine.
Failure once more! Well, Pompey's porch may do,
Or, should that fail, perhaps his avenue:
He hurries next to Faustus' baths and then
To Lupus' and to Gryllus' murky den.

Both the judge and the counsel say you're in their debt:
You had best pay the one where most credit you'll get.

What means it, I wonder, the odour of scent
That's on your lips always, of cinnamon blent.
It's suspicious this perfume whenever we meet:
For men always scented don't really smell sweet.

With clouded brow and weary gait,
Unheeding though the hour be late,
Doth Selius tramp the portico,
His weary head bowed down with woe;
For grief that scarce can be suppressed
He tears his hair and beats his breast.
Deem not this sorrow doth portend
The loss of brother or of friend;
His wife and sons — long life be theirs —
Are prosperous; in his affairs
Bailiff and slaves are diligent,
No tenant cheats him of his rent.
" Then what can cause his grief," you say —
He has to dine at home to-day.

You give me only half a kiss;
All thanks for that; but pray
Grant me a further boon; 'tis this —
Take half that half away.
Yet higher should the favour be —
Mere speech its worth profanes —
If you would not inflict on me
The quarter that remains.

She did not answer when I wrote,
Refusal must be meant;
And yet I know she read the note —
And silence gives consent.

Good reader, do not blame the bard
For phrases too obscure or hard,
Or if the grammar seem to halt;
Believe me that's the scrivener's fault.
He knew your eagerness to read
And sacrificed too much to speed.
If me you blame instead of him,
Your intellect must need be dim:
You call me but a feeble poet?
I'm not so dull as not to know it;
My verse is poor, that I admit,
But doubt if you can better it.

Y OU'RE a moderate reciter, you've a pretty knack of pleading,
You're a pretty story-writer, and your verse is pretty reading,
You've a pretty style in dancing, and your voice is rather pretty,
If your plays are not entrancing they are moderately witty,
Then your satire's rather comic, and of letters you've a smattering,
While on questions astronomic you've a pretty trick of chattering,
Your music's commonplace with no unusual ability,
At games you show some grace with no remarkable agility.
Tho' you're moderate at all, you've mastered not a thing of them;

" PUBLISH soon," you used to say,
And pretend
That you could not bear delay,
Eager friend;
Now your taste can hardly brook
Just two pages of my book,
Ere you yawn, and turn to look
At the end.

Yet its verses are not new
And unknown,
All the duller ones to you
I had shown;
Then how carefully you'd note them,
In your pocket-book you wrote them,
With intent, perhaps, to quote them
As your own.

Aye, at parties then you passed
Them about;
On the interest you cast
Little doubt.