I LOVE you, Quintus, and revere your birthday, holding it as dear,
Aye dearer than mine own;
And if both March and April are marked in love's loyal calendar
With pearls and precious stone,
Your April I must rank above my March because one gave me love,
The other life alone.

That which in his despite you sought from heaven,
To die before your brother, has been given.
But Tullus grudges you the Stygian shade
And in his elder's grave would fain be laid.
You dwell at peace in the Elysian zone,
Now first rejoicing that you are alone;
And if for Pollux Castor comes again,
You'll say — " Seek not high heaven to regain."

My puny epigrams befit,
So you declare, my puny wit;
I am too stupid I admit
To wade like you in blood

Through twelve long books — my genius sets
T'wards finished marble statuettes,
The while your lofty soul begets
A giant built of mud.

This is the gown which my fond readers know,
For oft I've sung its praises. Long ago
It was a poet's gift, Parthenian hight,
And in it clothed I walked a splendid knight.
Then it was new and worthy of its giver,
Its glossy wool as shining as a river.
To-day the meanest pauper would decline,
To wear it, 'tis indeed so " snow-flake fine."
What will not time and length of days destroy?
Your once grand gown is now like you, my boy.

A QUARTER of your goods you vowed to leave me,
And swore by all the gods you'd not deceive me;
I thought you speaking truly when you said it, —
For who would doubt what he desires to credit? —
So sent you gifts to foster your intentions;
Amongst them was a boar of huge dimensions
Like Meleager's. Half the town you fêted
Till even greediest epicures were sated;
Yet — who'd believe it? — I was not invited,
No scraps of ribs or tail my gift requited;
If not one single ounce of pig I merit,
What of the pounds I hoped I might inherit?

What is the use of Gellius saying
That he is building when he's laying
Door-mats or fitting keys and latches
Or changing window-panes and catches?
Can any reason lie behind it?
Ask for a loan and you will find it;
It is the best of all excuses;
To say " I'm building" has its uses.

A SOLDIER you have borne the Getic sky,
And watched the sluggish Wain with careful eye.
But now you travel further from us still
Even to Prometheus and his storied hill.
How will you cry when those grim rocks you see,
Whereon he suffered — " Yet more hard was he."
And then will add — " Who could such pains endure,
Was fit to mould the race of man, be sure.

You know the Hercules that Vindex bought,
So fair is he that once I asked the god
Whose chisel, thus inspired, the statue wrought;
He laughed — that is his wont — and with a nod
Towards the base; " Knowst thou not Greek?" says he,
" And thou a bard? His name yon letters tell!"
They said " Lysippus" or my thought should be
That none but Pheidias could have wrought so well.

This mighty god in shape of bronze so small,
Whose lion's skin upon the stones doth fall,
While to the stars he looks with upturned face
Holding in either hand a cup and mace,
No Roman work or fresh in fame is he,
Lysippus' gift and handicraft you see.
This god the board of Pella's monarch showed
Ere death came quickly in the world subdued;
By him young Hannibal at the altars swore;
He bade fierce Sulla to lay down his power.
Now from the threats of courts he holds aloof
And gladly dwells beneath a private roof,

For ever may Myrina's wealth be thine,
Phoebus, and swan-song give thee joy divine,
The Muses do thy will in loyal truth,
Thy Pythian priestess ever say thy sooth,
And may the Palace — glory far above
These lesser joys — still worship thee and love,
If thou wilt ask and Caesar grant thy plea,
The fasces for my Stella; then to thee
Will I, thy debtor, build an altar fair
With rustic greenery, and offer there
A yearling steer bedecked with gilded horn;
Delay no more, he is already born.