You praise the gourmet's baths; do you design
To share his water, or his food and wine?

While Caesar reigns, long may my country cot
And tiny house in Rome be mine; but lo,
Yon straining pole doth bring my garden-plot
Its scanty waters from the vale below;
But here, though nigh at hand the fountains flow
No quickening drop doth slake my parching home;
One rill divine a bard would love to owe
To him, the Muses' lord, the God of Rome.

L ATONA'S grandson, by whose potions mild
The Fates with too brief distaff are beguiled,
These locks, his lord's delight, thy boy sends now
To thee from Rome to pay his solemn vow,
And this bright glass has added to the hair
Whose verdict oft assured him he was fair.
Gone are his tresses bright; yet none the less
Preserve for him his youthful comeliness.

His mirror, beauty's wisdom, and his hair
To Aesculapius an offering
The boy our lord most loves to-day doth bear,
Who by his name recalls the hours of spring.
Happy the land that is with such gifts fee'd:
For him we would not take e'en Ganymede.

C HLOE seven husbands had,
In the churchyard laid 'em,
On the stone the record sad,
All their names engraved 'em;
Then added — " Chloi's work you see.
O what delicious naivete!

Do you think that this man, whom your generous board
Has got you for friend, can true friendship afford?
It's your oysters and mullet he loves, sir, not you:
If my dinners were good, he would be my friend too.

Thou hast a name which tells of vernal hours
When Attic bees lay waste the short-lived flowers:
Which Venus with her pen would joy to write
Or broider with soft silk and needle bright;
Which should be made with pearls from India's land
Or amber balls warmed by a virgin's hand;
Which cranes with flying wing to heaven bear,
And finds its rightful place with Caesar here.

If I got my name from autumn, I Oporinos should be:
Winter stars would give another, then Chimerinos you'ld see:
Therinos the months of summer would for me as title bring:
Tell me now what you should call me when I take my name from Spring?

A NAME that's born with the primrose,
Wherefrom the year its best part knows,
Which draws from Attic flowers their scent
And phoenix perfumes subtly blent,
Sweeter than nectar's juice divine,
Which, Atys, thou wouldst wish were thine,
And he who holds for Jove his cup;
A name which in our court brings up
Venus and Cupid to the call,
Soft, delicate, and famed withal;
This in deft verse I fain would tell,
But, stubborn syllable, you rebel.
" Eiarinos" the poets write;
But they are Greeks who may indite

Y OU'RE very glad with friends to dine,
Yet there you bawl, backbite, and blether.
Such ways, good sir, you'd best resign:
Free speech and greed go ill together.