How is it, you ask, that a rascal so low,
As Charinus could yet this one service bestow?
I'll explain. Was not Nero a monster confessed,
Yet are not his baths still accounted the best?
At this some base knave with a sly sneering nod
May remark — " To the gifts of our master and god
You prefer something else" — Nay, that is your vile fancy.
I preferred Nero's baths to the baths of a Nancy.

Your toga is filthy, your shoes white as snow;
But your toga hangs down so your feet do not show.
Pull it up, silly fellow, and let them appear:
As it is their effect is quite wasted, I fear.

Dear Thestylus, Voconius Victor's joy
And pleasant torment, most beloved boy,
I pray that fair without your locks you seem
And that your bard no maid more comely deem.
A little while his learned scrolls lay by
While to your lord I read my poetry.
So great Maecenas, who could Virgil hear,
Let Marsus' dark Melaenis charm his ear.

Your verses are full of a sugary grace,
As spotless and pure as a well-powdered face,
Not an atom of salt or suspicion of gall,
So how can they but on an audience pall!
Even food does not please if the cooking's too simple,
And cheeks lack in charm when they haven't a dimple.
A child may like apples and figs without savour:
But give me the sort that have got a sharp flavour.

Thou would'st embroil me with my Juvenal!
What wilt not dare? A tongue so treacherous
Might sour the love of Pylades to gall,
Or sever Theseus from Pirithous,
Pollux from Castor, rob Amphinomus
Or Agamemnon of a brother's heart;
No fouler thing can be, — I curse thee thus,
Mayst thou continue even what thou art!

Come , Phoebus, come; as when thou didst inspire
The second singer of our Roman quire
To thunderous strains of war. What shall I pray
From heaven that may befit this glorious day?
Only that Polla still her love may show
To his great shade, and he her love may know.

Smile , all ye Muses, on this sacred morn
When Lucan, bard of Phoebus, erst was born;
Since that great day 'tis only just, I deem,
Baetis should mingle with Castalia's stream.

This is the day which, proud of that great birth,
Gave Lucan to thee, Polla, and to earth.
Ah, cruel Nero! murder 'twas most foul.
This crime at least lies heavy on thy soul.

Though but a worthless log it seem to be,
Of old through seas, unknown before, it steered;
Unscathed it passed the Clashing Rocks, nor feared
The deadlier perils of the Scythian Sea,
And now, though Time, the Victor, vanquish thee,
Brave plank, what stately ship is so revered?

I' VE not a shilling left; what can I do
Save sell your presents? May I sell them you?