Classic Poem

S ATURN'S feast is past and gone,
And of gifts from you not one;
Not an ounce of silver-plate,
Nor a napkin, brought of late
By a disappointed friend,
For my present; did you send.
Not a jar with fish-sauce red,
Into which a tunny bled;
No dry olives in a pottle,
From Picenum, nor a bottle
Of small Syrian figs to be
Sign that you remembered me.
Other people you may cheat,
Smiling at them when you meet;
But you won't gull me again,
For your trickery is plain.