English

You never recite, though you pose as a poet.
Well, for that many thanks: we will gladly forgo it.

M OLLIS erat facilisque uiris Poeantius heros:
Uolnera sic Paridis dicitur ulta Venus.
Cur lingat cunnum Siculus Sertorius, hoc est:
Ab hoc occisus, Rufe, uidetur Eryx.

A THING , I am told, happened yesterday night,
Which I cannot approve, for I don't think it right
I'm informed you received such a tempest of knocks
As the pantaloon gets when they play Box and Cox.
And, what's more surprising, folk now are repeating
'Twas Caecilius gave you that most unkind beating.
You declare it's not true; and I hope it as well,
But the fellow has witnesses, so people tell.

O BATHING man, I like your plan
Of counting, for I heard
Stout Spatale was charged as three,
And paid without a word.

S UBDOLA famosae moneo fuge retia moechae,
Leuior o conchis, Galle, Cytheriacis.
Confidis natibus? Non est pedico maritus:
Quae faciat duo sunt: irrumat aut futuit.

Paul reads as his own all the poems he buys.
Well, all that he pays for is his, I surmise.

The shepherds return'd at the dawn,
To seek for the flow'rets that grew
On the border that skirted the lawn;
But the flowrets were shrunk from the view:
Not a primrose, or vi'let were seen,
Tho' they search'd for them carefully round;
The leaves, that at eve were so green,
Lay scatter'd, and parch'd on the ground.

The blast blew so harsh to the ear
It fill'd their sad bosoms with woe;

First Shepherd.

Return, ye shepherds, to the Cypress-grove ,
Descending dews impregn the hallow'd sod;
The gentle Spirit , sooth'd with heavenly love,
Reposes, in the bosom of its God.

Here will we meditate, — the lunar-beam
Now shines effulgent thro' the starry-sky,
See, how it twinkles on the rimpled stream,
And gives the Terrace , brightening, to the eye:

How was he wont beside the Urn to stand,

ON The late Rev. C HARLES P ARROTT , Rector of Saham, Norfolk

Come shepherds, and list to the lay,
Come virgins, attend to the verse,
Bring flowrets as fresh as the May,
And scatter them over the hearse, —
The hearse — where my Pollio is laid:
Alas! 'tis with anguish I tell
He's number'd, too soon, with the dead.
How solemn and slow tolls the knell!

Come hither, and haste to prepare —
Ere they snatch the dear Saint from the view,
Bring quickly the primrose so fair,
The pansey, and violet-blue,

SELECT MASTER .

At midnight, as at noon,
The ancient worthies met;
The glances of the moon
Beheld those laborers late;
Nor, till the glancing moon was high,
Did any lay his Trowel by.

Each felt a weight of care,
A solemn charge o'erspread;
Each toiled in earnest there
With busy hand and head;
And to the deep and faithful cave,
Those midnight cratt a secret gave.