t to dally.
With me he makes an awful dent;
I'd perish once or twice for Cally.

HORACE:

Suppose our former love should go
Into a new de luxe edition?
Suppose I tie a can to Chlo,
And let you play your old position?

LYDIA:

Why, then, you cork, you butterfly,
You sweet, philandering, perjured villain,
With you I'd love to live and die,
Tho' Cally boy were twice as killin'.

III

TO PYRRHA

"_Quis multa gracilis._"

What young tin whistle gent,
Bedaubed with barber's scent,--
What cheapskate waits on you
To woo,
O Pyrrha?

For whom the puff and rat
And transformation that
You bought a year ago
Or so,
O Pyrrha?

Peeved? Not a bit. Not I
I'm sorry for the guy.
He draws a lovely lime
This time,
O Pyrrha!

I've dipped. The wet ain't fine.
Hung on the votive line
My duds. The gods can see
I'm free.
Eh, Pyrrha!

IV

TO ARISTIUS FUSCUS

"_My sweetly-smiling, sweetly-speaking Lalage._"

Fuscus, take a tip from me:
This here job's no bed of roses,
Not the cinch it seems to be,
Not the pipe that one supposes.
What care I, tho', if I may
Lallygag with Lalage.

Every day there's ink to spill,
Tho' I may not feel like working.
Every day a hole to fill;
One must plug it--there's no shirking.
Oh, that I might all the day
Lallygag with Lalage!

People say, "Gee! what a snap,
Turning paragraphs and verses.
He's the band on Fortune's cap,
Gets a barrel of ses-_terces_."
Let them gossip, while I play
Hide and seek with Lalage.

People hand me out advice:
"Hod, you're doing too much drivel.
Write us something sweet and nice.
Stow the satire, chop the frivol."
But we have the rent to pay,
Lalage; eh, Lalage?

Ladies shy the saving sense
Write me patronizing letters;
And there are the writing gents,
Always out to knock their betters.
What cares Flaccus if he may
Lallygag with Lalage!

No, old top, the writing lay's
Not a bed of sweet geranium.
Brickbats mingle with bouquets
Shied at my devoted cranium.
Does it peeve yours truly? Nay.