Classic Poem

What time I was your one best bet
And no one passed the wire before me,
Dear Lyddy, I cannot forget
How you would — yes, you would — adore me.
To others you would tie the can;
You thought of me with no aversion.
In those days I was happier than
A Persian.

LYDIA

Correct. As long as you were not
So nuts about this Chloi person,
Your flame for me burned pretty hot —
Mine was the door you pinned your verse on.
Your favourite name began with L,
While I thought you surpassed by no man —
Gladder than Ilia, the well-
Known Roman.

HORACE

On Chloi? Yes, I've got a case;
Her voice is such a sweet soprano;
Her people come from Northern Thrace;
You ought to hear her play piano.
If she would like my suicide —
If she'd want me a dead and dumb thing,
Me for a glass of cyanide,
Or something.

LYDIA

Now Calais, the handsome son
Of old Ornitus, has me going;
He says I am his honey bun,
He's mine, however winds are blowing;
I think that he is awful nice,
And, if the gods the signal gave him,
I'd just as lieve die once or twice
To save him.

HORACE

Suppose I'm gone on you again,
Suppose I've got ingrown affection
For you; I sort of wonder, then,
If you'd have any great objection.
Suppose I pass this Chloi up
And say: " Go roll your hoop, I'm rid o'ye! "
Would that drop sweetness in your cup?
Eh, Lydia?

LYDIA

Why, say — though he's fair as a star,
And you are like a cork, erratic
And light — and though I know you are
As blustery as the Adriatic,
I think I'd rather live with you
Or die with you, I swear to gracious.
So I will be your Mrs. Q.
Horatius.