How will he rail at fate capricious, And curse you duly; Yet now he deems your wiles delicious-- _You_ perfect truly! Pyrrha, your love's a treacherous ocean-- He'll soon fall in there! Then shall I gloat on his commotion, For _I_ have been there! HORACE I, 20. 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. Cæcuban 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 Can not be called extensive, Who better than my friend should know That they're, at least, expensive! HORACE II, 7. Pompey, what fortune gives you back To the friends and the gods who love you-- Once more you stand in your native land, With your native sky above you! Ah, side by side, in years agone, We've faced tempestuous weather, And often quaffed The genial draft From an amphora together! When honor at Phillippi fell A pray to brutal passion, I regret to say that my feet ran away In swift Iambic fashion; You were no poet-soldier born, You staid, nor did you wince then-- Mercury came To my help, which same Has frequently saved me since then. But now you're back, let's celebrate In the good old way and classic-- Come, let us lard our skins with nard And bedew our souls with Massic! With fillets of green parsley leaves Our foreheads shall be done up, And with song shall we Protract our spree Until the morrow's sun-up. HORACE I, 11. Seek not, Lucome, to know how long you're going to live yet-- What boons the gods will yet withhold, or what they're going to give yet; For Jupiter will have his way, despite how much we worry-- Some will hang on for many a day and some die in a hurry, The wisest thing for you to do is to embark this diem Upon a merry escapade with some such bard as I am; And while we sport, I'll reel you off such odes as shall surprise ye-- To-morrow, when the headache comes--well, then I'll satirize ye! HORACE I, 13. When, Lydia, you (once fond and true, But now grown cold and supercilious) Praise Telly's charms of neck and arms-- Well, by the dog! it makes me bilious! Then, with despite, my cheeks wax white, My doddering brain gets weak and giddy, My eyes o'erflow with tears which show That passion melts my vitals, Liddy! Deny, false jade, your escapade, And, lo! your wounded shoulders show it! No manly spark left such a mark-- (Leastwise he surely was no poet!)