A COUNTERBLAST AGAINST GARLIC

May the man who has cruelly murdered his sire-- A crime to be punished with death-- Be condemned to eat garlic till he shall expire Of his own foul and venomous breath!

What stomachs these rustics must have who can eat This dish that Canidia made, Which imparts to my colon a torturous heat, And a poisonous look, I'm afraid!

They say that ere Jason attempted to yoke The fire-breathing bulls to the plow He smeared his whole body with garlic,--a joke Which I fully appreciate now.

When Medea gave Glauce her beautiful dress, In which garlic was scattered about, It was cruel and rather low-down, I confess, But it settled the point beyond doubt.

On thirsty Apulia ne'er has the sun Inflicted such terrible heat; As for Hercules' robe, although poisoned, 't was fun When compared with this garlic we eat!

Maecenas, if ever on garbage like this You express a desire to be fed, May Mrs. Maecenas object to your kiss, And lie at the foot of the bed!

AN EXCUSE FOR LALAGE

To bear the yoke not yet your love's submissive neck is bent, To share a husband's toil, or grasp his amorous intent; Over the fields, in cooling streams, the heifer longs to go, Now with the calves disporting where the p.u.s.s.y-willows grow.

Give up your thirst for unripe grapes, and, trust me, you shall learn How quickly in the autumn time to purple they will turn.

Soon she will follow you, for age steals swiftly on the maid; And all the precious years that you have lost she will have paid.

Soon she will seek a lord, beloved as Pholoe, the coy, Or Chloris, or young Gyges, that deceitful, girlish boy, Whom, if you placed among the girls, and loosed his flowing locks, The wondering guests could not decide which one decorum shocks.

AN APPEAL TO LYCE

Lyce, the G.o.ds have heard my prayers, as G.o.ds will hear the dutiful, And brought old age upon you, though you still affect the beautiful.

You sport among the boys, and drink and chatter on quite aimlessly; And in your cups with quavering voice you torment Cupid shamelessly.

For blooming Chia, Cupid has a feeling more than brotherly; He knows a handsaw from a hawk whenever winds are southerly.

He pats her pretty cheeks, but looks on you as a monstrosity; Your wrinkles and your yellow teeth excite his animosity.

For jewels bright and purple Coan robes you are not dressable; Unhappily for you, the public records are accessible.

Where is your charm, and where your bloom and gait so firm and sensible, That drew my love from Cinara,--a lapse most indefensible?

To my poor Cinara in youth Death came with great celerity; Egad, that never can be said of you with any verity!

The old crow that you are, the teasing boys will jeer, compelling you To roost at home. Reflect, all this is straight that I am telling you.

A ROMAN WINTER-PIECE

I

See, Thaliarch mine, how, white with snow, Soracte mocks the sullen sky; How, groaning loud, the woods are bowed, And chained with frost the rivers lie.

Pile, pile the logs upon the hearth; We'll melt away the envious cold: And, better yet, sweet friend, we'll wet Our whistles with some four-year-old.

Commit all else unto the G.o.ds, Who, when it pleaseth them, shall bring To fretful deeps and wooded steeps The mild, persuasive grace of Spring.

Let not To-morrow, but To-day, Your ever active thoughts engage; Frisk, dance, and sing, and have your fling, Unharmed, unawed of crabbed Age.

Let's steal content from Winter's wrath, And glory in the artful theft, That years from now folks shall allow 'T was cold indeed when we got left.

So where the whisperings and the mirth Of girls invite a sportive chap, Let's fare awhile,--aha, you smile; You guess my meaning,--_verb.u.m sap_.

A ROMAN WINTER-PIECE

II

Now stands Soracte white with snow, now bend the laboring trees, And with the sharpness of the frost the stagnant rivers freeze.

Pile up the billets on the hearth, to warmer cheer incline, And draw, my Thaliarchus, from the Sabine jar the wine.

The rest leave to the G.o.ds, who still the fiercely warring wind, And to the morrow's store of good or evil give no mind.

Whatever day your fortune grants, that day mark up for gain; And in your youthful bloom do not the sweet amours disdain.

Now on the Campus and the squares, when evening shades descend, Soft whisperings again are heard, and loving voices blend; And now the low delightful laugh betrays the lurking maid, While from her slowly yielding arms the forfeiture is paid.

TO DIANA

O virgin, tri-formed G.o.ddess fair, The guardian of the groves and hills, Who hears the girls in their despair Cry out in childbirth's cruel ills, And saves them from the Stygian flow!

Let the pine-tree my cottage near Be sacred to thee evermore, That I may give to it each year With joy the life-blood of the boar, Now thinking of the sidelong blow.

TO HIS LUTE

If ever in the sylvan shade A song immortal we have made, Come now, O lute, I prithee come, Inspire a song of Latium!

A Lesbian first thy glories proved; In arms and in repose he loved To sweep thy dulcet strings, and raise His voice in Love's and Liber's praise.

The Muses, too, and him who clings To Mother Venus' ap.r.o.n-strings, And Lycus beautiful, he sung In those old days when you were young.

O sh.e.l.l, that art the ornament Of Phoebus, bringing sweet content To Jove, and soothing troubles all,-- Come and requite me, when I call!