If I were called to diverse feasts above,
This way by Caesar and that way by Jove,
Though heaven were near, the palace far away,
These were the words that to the gods I'ld say —
" Seek some one else to be the Thunderer's guest.
I have my Jove on earth: je suis, je reste ."

Your guests must write you rhymes
Before they may fall to:
It's very hard sometimes —
" Well, any stuff will do."

You used to send me gifts, now having won
My favour, as you think, you send me none;
'Tis best to feed a captive now and then,
The boar ill-fed is like to force his den.

Seven goblets of Opimian, a bumper full was each,
I quaffed, and that will make a man a trifle thick of speech.
You chose this hour to come and say, " My Nasta I have freed,
He was my father's servant, pray just sign and seal the deed."
My seal is busy: if you call to-morrow 'twill be right,
The seal upon a cork is all that it can mark to-night.

Fair were the pageants given in days of yore,
To Caesar owe we deeper obligations;
Our eyes confess they owe him much, far more
Our grateful ears — he banned the recitations!

An astrologer said that you would not last long,
And I really imagine he was not far wrong,
For, wishing to leave not one penny behind,
In a year you have thrown your estate to the wind;
A very nice fortune you've managed to spend,
So I think we may say that you've had a quick end.

" UNPOLISHED " — so that scribbler sneers,
While he that reads and he that hears,
Approve my little books;
I do not care a single jot,
My fame is for my guests and not
To please my rival cooks.

Poor John in his youth was so very sharp-set,
He married a grand dame for what he could get.
To-day he discovers there's plenty to do;
For he has both to feed her and fondle her too.

The servants once who stood at Caesar's board
In the proud palace were by Rome abhorred.
But now your men to all, Sire, are so dear
That our own households are our second care;
So deferential are they and so kind,
Such modest calm in every face we find.
Each page takes pattern by his master's ways
And not his own, but Caesar's, mood displays.

Seven husbands she got,
Made away with the lot,
And has buried them all — but I know
That as you're number eight,
She has not long to wait
Before she rejoins them — below.