TO CHLOE

I

Why do you shun me, Chloe, like the fawn, That, fearful of the breezes and the wood, Has sought her timorous mother since the dawn, And on the pathless mountain tops has stood?

Her trembling heart a thousand fears invites, Her sinking knees with nameless terrors shake,-- Whether the rustling leaf of spring affrights, Or the green lizards stir the slumbering brake.

I do not follow with a tigerish thought, Or with the fierce Gaetulian lion's quest; So, quickly leave your mother, as you ought, Full ripe to nestle on a husband's breast.

TO CHLOE

II

Chloe, you shun me like a hind That, seeking vainly for her mother, Hears danger in each breath of wind, And wildly darts this way and t' other;

Whether the breezes sway the wood Or lizards scuttle through the brambles, She starts, and off, as though pursued, The foolish, frightened creature scrambles.

But, Chloe, you're no infant thing That should esteem a man an ogre; Let go your mother's ap.r.o.n-string, And pin your faith upon a toga!

III

A PARAPHRASE

How happens it, my cruel miss, You're always giving me the mitten?

You seem to have forgotten this: That you no longer are a kitten!

A woman that has reached the years Of that which people call discretion Should put aside all childish fears And see in courtship no transgression.

A mother's solace may be sweet, But Hymen's tenderness is sweeter; And though all virile love be meet, You'll find the poet's love is metre.

IV

A PARAPHRASE, CIRCA 1715

Since Chloe is so monstrous fair, With such an eye and such an air, What wonder that the world complains When she each am'rous suit disdains?

Close to her mother's side she clings, And mocks the death her folly brings To gentle swains that feel the smarts Her eyes inflict upon their hearts.

Whilst thus the years of youth go by, Shall Colin languish, Strephon die?

Nay, cruel nymph! come, choose a mate, And choose him ere it be too late!

V

A PARAPHRASE, BY DR. I.W.

Why, Mistress Chloe, do you bother With prattlings and with vain ado Your worthy and industrious mother, Eschewing them that come to woo?

Oh, that the awful truth might quicken This stern conviction to your breast: You are no longer now a chicken Too young to quit the parent nest.

So put aside your froward carriage, And fix your thoughts, whilst yet there's time, Upon the righteousness of marriage With some such G.o.dly man as I'm.

VI

A PARAPHRASE, BY CHAUCER

Syn that you, Chloe, to your moder sticken, Maketh all ye yonge bacheloures full sicken; Like as a lyttel deere you ben y-hiding Whenas come lovers with theyre pityse chiding.

Sothly it ben faire to give up your moder For to beare swete company with some oder; Your moder ben well enow so farre shee goeth, But that ben not farre enow, G.o.d knoweth; Wherefore it ben sayed that foolysh ladyes That marrye not shall leade an aype in Hadys; But all that do with G.o.de men wed full quicklye When that they be on dead go to ye seints full sickerly.

TO MaeCENAS

Than you, O valued friend of mine, A better patron _non est_!

Come, quaff my home-made Sabine wine,-- You'll find it poor but honest.

I put it up that famous day You patronized the ballet, And the public cheered you such a way As shook your native valley.

Caecuban and the Calean brand May elsewhere claim attention; But _I_ have none of these on hand,-- For reasons I'll not mention.

ENVOY

So, come! though favors I bestow Cannot be called extensive, Who better than my friend should know That they're at least expensive?

TO BARINE