’Twould be a good deed done, if you could throw Your servant in his way; I mean, you know. Just to play second. In a month, I’ll swear, You’d make an end of every rival there.” “Oh, you mistake; we don’t live there in league; I know no house more sacred from intrigue; I’m never distanced in my friend’s good grace By wealth or talent; each man finds his place.” “A miracle! If ’twere not told by you, I scarce should credit it.” “And yet ’tis true.” “Ah, well, you double my desire to rise To special favor with a man so wise.” “You’ve but to wish it; ’twill be your own fault, If, with your nerve, you win not by assault. He can be won; that puts him on his guard, And so the first approach is always hard.” “No fear of me, sir. A judicious bribe Will work a wonder with the menial tribe. Say I’m refused admittance for to-day, I’ll watch my time; I’ll meet him in the way, Escort him, dog him. In this world of ours The path to what we want ne’er runs on flowers.” ’Mid all this prating met me, as it fell, Aristius, my good friend, who knew him well. We stop. Inquiries and replies go round: “Where do you hail from?” “Whither are you bound?” There as he stood, impassive like a clod, I pull at his limp arms, frown, wink, and nod, To urge him to release me. With a smile He feigns stupidity. I burn with bile. “Something there was you said you wished to tell To me in private.” “Aye, I mind it well; But not just now. ’Tis a Jews’ fast to-day: Affront a sect so touchy? Nay, friend, nay!” “Faith, I’ve no scruples.” “Ah, but I’ve a few! I’m weak, you know, and do as others do. Some other time--excuse me.” Wretched me, That ever man so black a sun should see! Off goes the rogue, and leaves me in despair, Tied to the altar, with the knife in air, When, by rare chance, the plaintiff in the suit Knocks up against us: “Whither now, you brute?” He roars like thunder. Then to me: “You’ll stand My witness, sir?” “My ear’s at your command.” Off to the court he drags him; shouts succeed; A mob collects--thank Phœbus, I am freed! --_Satires._ The humorist feels a sense of personal grievance against the Roman writers for that they wrote so wisely and so well, yet gave us so little that can be used as Humor for Humor’s sake. Petronius wrote engagingly, but with such indecency that he can scarce be quoted for polite society. His Trimalchio’s Dinner offers this: _AN INGENIOUS COOK_