Only five days, I said, I should be gone; Yet August's past, and still I linger on. 'Tis true I've broke my promise. But if you Would have me well, as I am sure you do, Grant me the same indulgence, which, were I Laid up with illness, you would not deny, Although I claim it only for the fear Of being ill, this deadly time of year, When autumn's clammy heat and early fruits Deck undertakers out, and inky mutes; When young mammas, and fathers to a man, With terrors for their sons and heirs are wan; When stifling anteroom, or court, distils Fevers wholesale, and breaks the seals of wills. Should winter swathe the Alban fields in snow, Down to the sea your poet means to go, To nurse his ailments, and, in cosy nooks Close huddled up, to loiter o'er his books. But once let zephyrs blow, sweet friend, and then, If then you'll have him, he will quit his den, With the first swallow hailing you again. When you bestowed on me what made me rich, Not in the spirit was it done, in which Your bluff Calabrian on a guest will thrust His pears: "Come, eat, man, eat--you can, you must!" "Indeed, indeed, my friend, I've had enough." "Then take some home!" "You're too obliging." "Stuff! If you have pockets full of them, I guess, Your little lads will like you none the less." "I really can't--thanks all the same!" "You won't? Why then the pigs shall have them, if you don't." 'Tis fools and prodigals, whose gifts consist Of what they spurn, or what is never missed: Such tilth will never yield, and never could, A harvest save of coarse ingratitude. A wise good man is evermore alert, When he encounters it, to own desert; Nor is he one, on whom you'd try to pass For sterling currency mere lackered brass. For me, 'twill be my aim myself to raise Even to the flattering level of your praise; But if you'd have me always by your side, Then give me back the chest deep-breathed and wide, The low brow clustered with its locks of black, The flow of talk, the ready laugh, give back, The woes blabbed o'er our wine, when Cinara chose To teaze me, cruel flirt--ah, happy woes! Through a small hole a field-mouse, lank and thin, Had squeezed his way into a barley bin, And, having fed to fatness on the grain, Tried to get out, but tried and squeezed in vain. "Friend," cried a weasel, loitering thereabout, "Lean you went in, and lean you must get out." Now, at my head if folks this story throw, Whate'er I have I'm ready to forego; I am not one, with forced meats in my throat, Fine saws on poor men's dreamless sleep to quote. Unless in soul as very air I'm free, Not all the wealth of Araby for me. You've ofttimes praised the reverent, yet true Devotion, which my heart has shown for you. King, father, I have called you, nor been slack In words of gratitude behind your back; But even your bounties, if you care to try, You'll find I can renounce without a sigh.