blets in hand--and at our leisure,
In verse as various as the measure,
Scribbling between our wine and laughter.
But when we parted, mark the after
Vexation;--conquered, and hard hit
By your all-overpowering wit,
I could not eat--nor yet would Sleep
His softly-soothing fingers keep
Upon my weary lids: all night}
I toss'd, I turned from left to right}
Impatient for the morning light,}
That I might talk with you, and be
Again in your society.
But when my limbs, as 'twere half dead,
Were lying on my restless bed,
I made these lines--which, my good friend,
That you may know my pains, I send.
Now, though so free, so bold to dare,
So apt to scoff--good sir, beware
Lest with the eye of your disdain
You view these lines, my vow, my pain.
Beware of Nemesis, beware!--
For Vengeance, should I cry aloud--
She hears--and punishes the proud.

GRATIAN.--Those last lines are very grave: are they not too much so for
the intended play of this mock anger? Let us have your version, Master
Curate.

CURATE.--I am sure you think one version quite enough. I did not
translate it; and believe we must now turn over many pages, and then I
have little more to offer.

GRATIAN.--(Turning over the leaves of Catullus.) Here I see is that
beautiful passage in his "Carmen Nuptiale."

"Ut flos in septis secretus nascitur hortis."

AQUILIUS.--Which did not escape the tasteful, though bold Ariosto. I
have made a weak attempt to translate the passage; and as it stands in
the middle of a long piece, I have taken it out as a sonnet. I will read
it:--

UT FLOS IN SEPTIS, &C.

As in enclosure of chaste garden ground,
The floweret grows--where nor unseemly tread
Of flocks or ploughshares bruise its tender head--
There soft airs soothe it with their gentle sound;
Suns give it strength, and nurturing showers abound,
And raise its tall stem from its sheltered bed;
And many a youth and maiden, passion-led,
With longing eyes admiring walk around:
Pluck'd from the stem that its pure grace supplied,
Nor youths nor maidens love it as before.
So the sweet maiden, in the queenly pride
Of her chaste beauty, many hearts adore;
But that her virgin charter laid aside,
Who lov'd, who cherish'd, cherish, love no more.

CURATE.--I remember Ariosto's translation--for translation it is; and