64. To Polla, Wife of Lucan
Dear lady, if you read this little book,
Do not with frowns upon my jesting look.
He, your own bard, our Muse's chiefest glory,
When on Pierian trump he sang war's story,
Was not ashamed to write in playful strain—
‘If I'm no Ganymede, why here remain?’
Do not with frowns upon my jesting look.
He, your own bard, our Muse's chiefest glory,
When on Pierian trump he sang war's story,
Was not ashamed to write in playful strain—
‘If I'm no Ganymede, why here remain?’
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