Translations from Horace by Franklin P. Adams presented by Michael Gilleland American journalist and radio personality Franklin P. Adams (1881-1960) was an accomplished and witty translator of Latin poetry. Here are his translations from the Roman poet Quintus Horatius Flaccus (65-8 B.C.), better known as Horace. Odes 1.1 |  1.4 |  1.5 |  1.8 |  1.9 |  1.10 |  1.11 |  1.13 |  1.14 |  1.19 |  1.20 |  1.22 |  1.23 |  1.25 |  1.32 |  1.33 |  1.37 |  1.38 |  2.2 |  2.4 |  2.10 |  2.11 |  2.14 |  2.15 |  2.16 |  2.18 |  3.6 |  3.9 |  3.13 |  3.15 |  3.19 |  3.26 |  3.30 |  4.10 |  4.11 Epodes 2 |  14 |  15     Satires 1.9     Epistles 1.5 |  1.20     Art of Poetry Appendix     Horace to Maecenas     On a Wine of Horace's     The Complete Poet and Letter Writer     Two Agriculturists     Tipperary Translations from Latin Poetry by Franklin P. Adams Odes of Horace

Ode 1.1

Chacun a Son Gout

Maecenas of the bluest blood,
  My guard revered, my glory noble,
One man acquires Olympic mud
  Upon his racing automob'le,
And winning of an earthly prize
Exalts him to the well-known skies.

Another finds applause is sweet --
  The praise of Rome, as loud as fickle;
Another takes his joy in wheat,
  In watching it from seed to sickle;
And in his granary he stores
Sweepings from the Libyan threshing-floors.

The man who loves to plough the field
  Has no desire to plough the ocean;
His farm delights he will not yield
  To sailor joys. Perish the notion!
The trader trembles at the gale,
Yet, once on land, longs to set sail.

One there may be that doth recline
  Flushing his arid pipe thoracic
With beakers -- ay, with bowls! -- of wine;
  The brand? The best domestic massic.
Ewcline as I began to say,
Beneath a tree for half a day.

Some love the wars that mothers fear,
  The toot of trump, the blare of bugle;
Some like to hunt the boar or deer,
  Unmindful of the ties conjugal.
For me nor hunts nor war's alarms;
For me nor motorcars nor farms.

Ivy for me!  The grove for mine!
  Where nymphs and satyrs hold high revel.
Where I can join the gods divine,
  A bit above the lowbrow level.
And if you say: "Some bard, this guy!"
My soaring head shall touch the sky.

Ode 1.4

Spring Pome

The backbone of winter is shattered to pieces;
  The breezes are balmy that blow from the west;
The farmer his cows from the stable releases;
  The ploughman gets up from his fireside domest;
No more are the meadows all icy and snowy;
  Come columns on Mathewson, Sweeney and Kling;
The strawberry shortcake is heavy and doughy --
               'Tis Spring!

Now Venus, the w.k. Cytherean,
  Cavorts Isadorably under the moon,
Assisted by choruses gracile, nymphean,
  She dances a measure that's wholly jejune.
'Tis time to divert one's estraying attention
  To bonnets embowered with every old thing --
Fruits, myrtle and parsley -- again I must mention
               'Tis Spring!

'Tis time for the sacrifice sacred to Faunus --
  He may get our lambkin, he may get our goat.
O Sextius, ere death shall have wholly withdrawn us,
  Take this from Horatius, your favorite pote;
Soon Pluto will call you, at some unforeseen time,
  You'll go, be you journalist-jester or king,
You can't get away from it. But, in the meantime,
               'Tis Spring!

Mathewson, Sweeney, and Kling were famous baseball players of the day:

• Christy Mathewson (1880-1925), New York Giants
• Bill Sweeney (1886-1948), Boston Braves
• Johnny Kling (1875-1947), Chicago Cubs

Q.H.F. Moralizes on the Springtide

The backbone of winter is broken;
  The river is running with shad;
The phrases of baseball are spoken
  In pictures by Briggs or by Tad.
The cattle come out of the stable;
  The nymphs do the dip and the swing;
The rhubarb appears on the table;
        In short, it is spring.

In grottoes excessively shady
  We'll offer a lamb or a kid
To Pan; and to Rosie or Sadie
  A nellygunt two-dollar lid.
But -- pipe to the words of the poet:
  You'll die, be you beggar or king.
You simply can't beat it, although it
        Appears to be spring.

Though fortune may pamper and pet you,
  Though you be bewreathed and bepearled,
The jolly old Reaper will get you;
  You ain't got a chance in the world.
No Lycidas, no dice -- I give warning --
  In Pluto's domain -- not a thing.
But still -- we are living this morning,
        And gosh! it is Spring! 

Clare Briggs and Tad Dorgan were cartoonists.

"A nellygunt two-dollar lid" is an elegant $2 hat.

A Spring Lay of Ancient Rome

Winter's turned his cold and stony
  Countenance the other way;
Bathing has begun at Coney;
  Blow the zephyrs down the bay.

Cattle seek again the pasture,
  Life no longer is congealed;
Spring approaches; come and cast your
  Eye upon the verdant field.

Venus -- she of Cytherea --
  Leads the dance beneath the moon,
And the Graces tread in glee a
  Syncopated rigadoon.

"Say it with myrtle!" be your motto;
  Buy a nobby vernal lid.
Pray to Faunus in the grotto,
  Kill for him a lamb or kid.

Be you owner of a fortune
  Or as poor in kale as I'm,
Death (the Reaper) will importune
  You, and get you in your time.

Say "Farewell" -- ere Pluto call for
  You to bear you to his shades --
"Lycidas, whom the flappers fall for
  (Not to say the Roman blades)."

Thoughts on Spring

Gone the days of ten below;
Melted all the winter's snow,
Night- and day-boats sail the river;
Chugs again the farmer's flivver.

Grazes now the lowing cow;
And the rube resumes the plow,
Now, by lunar lumination,
Venus leads a gay saltation.

Twine the flowers, the myrtle green,
Round the redolent, shining bean!
Bring, regardless of the prices,
Lambs or kids for sacrifices.

Ah, the knock of death is sure
At the door of rich and poor;
As the shades of life grow deeper,
Comes the celebrated Reaper.

Life, my Sextius, is too short
For a lot of grief or sport.
Darkness, chilly and pneumonic,
Whelms you in the house Plutonic;

Where shall be no merry throws
Of the Galloping Dominoes;
Nor shall Lycidas, the cherished,
Glad the vision of the perished.

Ode 1.5

Horace the Wise

What lady-like youth in his wild aberrations
  Is putting cologne on his brow?
For whom are the puffs and the blond transformations?
  I wonder who's kissing you now.

Tee hee! I must laugh when I think of his finish,
  Not wise to your ways and your rep.
Ha! ha! how his fancy for you will diminish!
  I know, for I'm Jonathan Hep.

Good-by, My Lover, Good-by!

O pretty Pyrrha, false as fair,
For whom dost thou do up thy hair,
Thy crown of gold, thy shining tresses?
What gracile youth gives thee caresses?

Alas! How often shall he find
The faithlessness of womankind!
As who should say, in utter wonder,
"How fair it was! Who thought of thunder?"

Ah -- wretched they that think thee fair,
Enmeshed in thy seductive snare!
I vow, by Neptune, ne'er to woo thee
Again, for I am jerry to thee.

Pyrrha the Flirtatious

Who is the arrowcollar kid
  You're playing in the grot with?
For whom the zippy Leghorn lid?
  Whom do you do the trot with?

Ha! Get me giggling, while I think
  How smooth appears the ocean
To him, the unsuspecting gink --
  But oh! that wavy motion!

I weep for them that are not joe,
  That think you sweet and clever.
Spear it from one who's in the know:
  I'm off your lay forever.

A Warning

Tell me, my Pyrrha, what youth is now chasing thee?
Who is thy flowered and redolent slave?
Where's the cool grotto in which he's embracing thee?
Who is the cause of thy permanent wave?

Often, how often, he'll call thee perfidious!
Frequently rail at the mutable gods!
He who is thrall to thy graces insidious,
Playing a game against terrible odds!

Who for thy favour is eager and sedulous,
Thinking thee pliable, deeming thee kind,
Loving and worshipping thee -- the poor, credulous
Fish, to thy falsity utterly blind!

Here in the temple of Neptune, I dedicate
Weeds that are dripping with warning, and damp.
DANGER! LOOK OUT FOR THE SIREN! I'll predicate
Pyrrha's a plausible, beautiful vamp.

To a Coquette

What graceful youth, perfumed and slender,
Bids you, O Pyrrha, to surrender,
Embracing you for half an hour
Within the rose-encrusted bower?

Alas! how often will this youth
Sadden at seas no longer smooth!
And oh! how frequently he'll wonder
At waters rough with dark and thunder!

Doomed are the lads who when they meet
You think that you are honey-sweet;
As far as I'm concerned I'm through
With polyandrous girls like you.

A Roman Flirt

What slender lad, reeking with scent,
  Now gives thee roseate embraces?
For whom dost thou, in blandishment,
  Bind thy gold locks in simple graces?

Alas, how frequently he'll rue
  Thy heart so hard, thy soul so dowdy!
His heaven that seems forever blue
  Tomorrow will be blackly cloudy.

Forlorn are they who see thee shine;
  Blinded who gaze at thee unloathing.
I've hung upon the temple's line
  To dry, my sadly dripping clothing.

Ode 1.8

Getting Lydia's Number

Lydia, by the gods above,
  Tell me why, O maid magnetic,
You must ruin with your love
  Him that used to be athletic?

Tell me why, O maid magnetic,
  Sybaris will not cavort --
Him that used to be athletic,
  Him that used to be a sport?  

Sybaris will not cavort
  On the field or in the river --
Him that used to be a sport
  With the quoit or with the quiver!

On the field or in the river,
  On the court or on the links,
With the quoit or with the quiver --
  You're his Jonah, you're his Jinx!

On the court or on the links
  Sybaris was once a wonder,
You're his Jonah, you're his Jinx --
  Why delight to drag him under?

Sybaris was once a wonder
  You must ruin with your love.
Why delight to drag him under?
  Lydia, by the gods above!  

To a Roman Vamp

Tell me, Lydia, why you ruin
  Sybaris with your burning love?
Once he was a discus bruin;
  Once he loved the sun above.

Soft the sinew, gone the fibre
  Of his green, athletic youth;
Now he fears the yellow Tiber --
  He who might have rivalled Ruth!

Sulks he as the son of Thetis
  At the Trojan falling did;
This the burden of my treatise:
  Why don't you lay off him, Lyd?

The Softness of Sybaris

Lydia, by all the gods above,
Tell me why you aim your love
At a lad whose life was centered
In the tournaments he entered.

Now he never rides a horse;
Never goes around the course.
Never swims the Tiber River --
At athletics he's a flivver.

Once the discus he would throw;
Quoits he played; and, long ago,
Cobb was not a better batter.
...Tell me, Lydia, what's the matter?

The Slump in Sybaris

O Lydia, tell me why it is, by all the gods above,
You seek to ruin Sybaris with your incandescent love?
He used to like the scorching sun, and brave the wind and rain,
But now he views the open road with undisguised disdain.

He used to sit a prancing steed, he used to dive and swim;
No more the Tiber laves him, and no more the horse for him.
He used to pack a vicious hook, he used to love a fight;
His arms no more are black with blows, of scars his arms are white.

Time was when none so far as he the javelin could hurl;
Now he that held the record once is silly for a girl!
Concealed he lies, as once of old the brave Achilles did;
By all the gods above you, what's the matter with him, Lyd?

Ode 1.9

The Cold Wave of 32 B.C.

It is cold, O Thaliarchus, and Soracte's crest is white;
There is skating on the Tiber; there is No Relief in Sight.
Tell the janitor the radiator's absolutely cold...
Let us crack a quart of Sabine; I've a case of four-year old.

Here's to Folly, Thaliarchus! Here is "Banzai!", "Pros't!", and "How!"
We should fret about the future! We should corrugate the brow!
Any joy is so much velvet; Age impinges soon enough.
Why resolve to can the frivol? Why decide to chop the fluff?

On the well-known Campus Martius, as the shade of night descends,
There are ladies castlewalking with their unplatonic friends;
Many a sweetly smiling damsel -- need I fill up further space?
Hurry, O my Thaliarchus, let us go to that there place.

Should we should fret about the future? Should we corrugate the brow?

Cold Weather Stuff

               I

Soracte's crest is snowy, Thaliarchus;
  The weather bureau says, "Continued Cold."
Let's sit around the heater and -- in any merry metre --
  Imbibe a little stuff that isn't sold.

Why fret about the future, Thaliarchus?
  Gather ye roses (Herrick) while ye may!
There's nothing quite so pleasant as the brimming, vivid present;
  The time to do your living is Today.

It's evening on the Campus, Thaliarchus;
  The girls are out in couples -- yes, in twelves --
I'd make a tidy gamble if we took a little amble
  We might run into merriment ourselves.

               II

How shining white Soracte shines!
Ice are the streams, the woods are snowy.
Decant the best of Sabine wines!
Fill up the grate, the night is blowy.

As to the rest, leave that to them
Who keep the cypresses from shaking.
The sunrise of the next a.m.
Is not a thing of human making.

Youth yet is yours! Scorn not the dance!
Your daily exercise continue;
And don't say there is no Romance
As long as there is breath within you.

Come, Thaliarchus, let us go
And take a walk upon the Campus,
And give the girls the double-o,
And let them, Thaliarchus, vamp us.

"Fair and Colder"

                    I

How snowy white Soracte stands!
How still the streams with cold!
Pile the logs higher upon the fire!
Decant that four-year old!

Leave to the gods the other things!
The ash and cypress trees
Shall fall asleep when on the deep
Blows not the battling breeze.

Ask not about the morrow morn;
Take what the gods may give,
Nor scorn the dance and sweet romance --
Life is not long to live.

Come seek the Campus and the squares,
As fall the shades of night,
Where many a maid, all unafraid,
Laughs absolute delight.

              II

Soracte's snowy crest behold!
The forecast is "Continued Cold."
Come, turn the oil-burner up a notch,
And let us crack a quart of Scotch.

Fear not tomorrow's tragic tricks!
What boots who wins in '36?
Neglect not now the useful chance
For wine and women, song and dance.

And that reminds me: let us fare
To see the doings round the Square,
Where, if we play our cards aright,
We may find ladies out tonight.

Ode 1.10

Hymn to Mercury

Eloquent grandson, Mercury, of Atlas,
Thou who the human race has given speech to,
Set up for wrestlers the grace-giving arena --
              Thee will I sing of.

Messenger thou of Jove and all the gods art;
Father art thou of curvilinear lyres;
Clever art thou to hide in sportive stealing
              Whatso thou choosest.

Once in thy youth Apollo tried to fright thee
If thou wouldst not restore the golden cattle;
Finding himself, however, reft of quiver,
              Giggled Apollo.

Also through thee it was that Priam, richly
Laden with gifts, when Ilium forsaking,
Ran through the Atridae, and the Thessalian watchfires,
              And the foe's outposts.

Thou it is bringst the pious to the mansions,
Thou with thy golden wand the shades assemblest,
Favorite art thou of gods above the earth's surface,
              Also below it.

Ode 1.11

"Carpe Diem," or Cop the Day

It is not right for you to know, so do not ask, Leuconoe,
How long a life the gods may give or ever we are gone away;
Try not to read the Final Page, the ending colophonian,
Trust not the gypsy's tea-leaves, nor the prophets Babylonian.
Better to have what is to come enshrouded in obscurity
Than to be certain of the sort and length of our futurity.
Why, even as I monologue on wisdom and longevity
How Time has flown! Spear some of it! The longest life is brevity.

A Plea for the Present

Be not, I pray, so curious
For knowledge; it's injurious
            To know about the future
            And compute your
              Every chance.

'Twould be a source of pain for you
To find what years remain to you,
            To know your length of tether
            And the weather
              In advance.

Life? Don't have such a thirst of it;
The best you get's the worst of it!
            You can't be here forever,
            They assever.
              Watch your step!

While I've been oratorical,
Pa Tempus (metaphorical)
            Has, as it were, been guying
            Me by flying.
              -- Are you hep?  

Present Imperative

Nay query not, Leuconoë, the finish of the fable; 
Eliminate the worry as to what the years may hoard! 
You only waste your time upon the Babylonian Table -- 
(Slang for the Ouija board).

And as to whether Jupiter, the final, unsurpassed one, 
May add a lot of winters to our portion here below, 
Or this impinging season is to be our very last one -- 
Really, I'd hate to know.

Apply yourself to wisdom! Sweep the floor and wash the dishes, 
Nor dream about the things you'll do in 1928! 
My counsel is to cease to sit and yearn about your wishes, 
Cursing the throws of Fate.

My! how I have been chattering on matters sad and pleasant! 
(Endure with me a moment while I polish off a rhyme). 
If I were you, I think, I'd bother only with the present -- 
Now is the only time. 

On the Flight of Time

Look not, Leuconoë, into the future; 
  Seek not to find what the answer may be; 
Let no Chaldean clairvoyant compute your 
  Time of existence....It irritates me!

Better to bear whatever may happen soever 
  Patiently, playing it through like a sport, 
Whether the end of your breathing is Never, 
  Or, as is likely, your time will be short.

This is the angle, the true situation; 
  Get me, I pray, for I'm putting you hep: 
While I've been fooling with versification 
  Time has been flying....Both gates! Watch your step!

Carpe Diem

Ask me not, my little Lucy,
  What the gods may give to me,
Nor ought you be glad could you see
  What your future's going to be.

Better far to bear the blowy
  Breezes, come they slow or fast.
Jove may give us many snowy
  Winters; this may be the last.

Wisdom, Lucy. Take the present!
  Take the treasure of to-day!
Even as I write these pleasant
  Rhymes, this evening slips away.

On the Fleetness of Time

Do not ask, for none can tell you
  Ever what the end will be.
  All the ouijas of Chaldee
Rarely any future spell you.
Either Jupiter will knell you
  Soon or late. The moments flee.
  This my jazzy recipe:
Dance or ever the Reaper fell you.

O Leuconoe, let us hurry!
  Reap the harvest of to-day.
Only those who fret and worry
  Throw eternity away.
Here's the old Horatian habit:
Youth's elusive; better grab it.

On the Fleetness of Time

Leuconoe, no longer grope
About that silly horoscope;
To know the future, yours and mine,
Is dead against the laws divine.

Better it is for us to bear
To-morrow, be it foul or fair.
Filter your wines, for that is wise.
Who cares when this or that one dies?

Why even, as we converse to-day,
The jealous present slips away.
How futile mortal plot and plan!
Come, seize the present while you can!

Ode 1.13

Jealousy

What time thou yearnest for the arms
 Of Telephus, I fain would twist 'em;
When thou dost praise his other charms
 It just upsets my well-known system;
My brain is like a three-ring circus,
In short, it gets my capra hircus.

My reason reels, my cheeks grow pale,
 My heart becomes unduly spiteful,
My verses in the Evening Mail
 Are far from snappy and delightful.
I put a civil question, Lyddy:
Is that a way to treat one's stiddy?

What mean those marks upon thee, girl?
 Those prints of brutal osculation?
Great grief! that lowlife and that churl!
 That Telephus abomination!
Can him, O votary of Venus,
Else everything is off between us.

O triply beatific those
  Whose state is classified as married,
Untroubled by the green-eyed woes,
  By such upheavals never harried.
Ay, three times happy are the wed ones,
Who cleave together till they're dead ones.

To the Polyandrous Lydia

Oh Lydia, when I hear you rave
About the arms, the rosy neck
Of Telephus, the vamping knave,
I cry, "O, heck!"

No longer can I check mine ire;
Unheeded rise the tears that flow
Over my features, with the fire
Of passion's woe.

I weep when on your shoulder's white
I see the marks of drunken grips;
The traces of the madman's bite
Upon your lips.

Lydia, my love, attend my song;
Simple it is, nor hieroglyph:
He used you rough, he done you wrong --
The great big stiff!

Thrice happy Jack that holds his Jill
Close to his unpolygamous heart!
Thrice blessed those who cleave until
Death do them part!

Ode 1.14

To the Ship of State

Beware, O bark, the waves that wish to tear thee from these shores;
And bravely seek the harbor, for thy sides are reft of oars;
See how thy broken mast and yards are groaning in the gale!
Unsound, alas! thy ropeless hull! Unsafe thy shredded sail!

Thou hast no gods to call upon when Sable Care is thine;
The sailor trusts no showy sterns, though built of Pontic pine.
O ship that wert my woe, that art my love, avoid the seas
And shun the treacherous waters of the shining Cyclades.

Ode 1.19

Glycera Rediviva!

Venus, the cruel mother of
The Cupids (symbolising Love),
Bids me to muse upon and sigh
For things to which I've said "Good-bye!"

Believe me or believe me not,
I give this Glycera girl a lot:
Pure Parian marble are her arms --
And she has eighty other charms.

Venus has left her Cyprus home
And will not let me pull a pome
About the Parthians, fierce and rough,
The Scythian war, and all that stuff.

Set up, O slaves, a verdant shrine!
Uncork a quart of last year's wine!
Place incense here, and here verbenas,
And watch me while I jolly Venus!

Ode 1.20

Maecenas Is Invited to Have a Drink

Maecenas, let us have a drink;
I have a lot of Sabine ink,
Wine of a cheap domestic sort,
At four denarii the quart.

I brewed the wine myself the day
The cries of "Prosit!" and "Hooray!"
For you, from all the Roman pop.,
Echoed from stream to mountain-top.

Buy Caecuban, if so you will,
Or drink from the Calenian still,
Falernian, Formian at your home --
But not at his who writes this pome.

Ode 1.22

Advice

Take it from me: A guy who's square,
  His chances always are the best.
I'm in the know, for I've been there,
  And that's no ancient Roman jest.

What time he hits the hay to rest
  There's nothing on his mind but hair,
No javelin upon his chest --
  Take it from me, a guy who's square.

There's nothing that can throw a scare
  Into the contents of his vest;
His name is Eva I-Don't-Care;
  His chances always are the best.

Why, once, when I was way out West,
  Singing to Lalage, a bear
Came up, and I was some distressed --
  I'm in the know, for I've been there.

But back he went into his lair,
  (Cage, corner, den, retreat, nook, nest),
And left me to "The Maiden's Prayer" --
  And that's no ancient Roman jest.

In Newtonville or Cedar Crest,
  In Cincinnati or Eau Claire,
I'll warble till I am a pest,
  "My Lalage" -- no matter where --
    Take it from me!

Fuscus, my friend, take it from me --
  I know the world and what it's made of --
One on the square has naught to be
    Afraid of.

The Moorish bows and javelins? Nope.
  Such deadly things need not alarm him.
Why, even arrows dipped in dope
    Can't harm him!

He's safe in any clime or land,
  Desert or river, hill or valley;
Safe in all places on the Rand-
    McNally.

Why, one day in my Sabine grot,
  I sang for Lalage to hear me;
A wolf came in and he did not
    Come near me!

Ah, set me on the sunless plain,
 In China, Norway, or Matanzas,
Ay, place me anywhere from Maine
    To Kansas.

Still of my Lalage I'll sing,
 Where'er the Fates may chance to drop me;
And nobody nor anything
    Shall stop me.

The Dauntless Bard

O Fuscus, if your heart be true, 
  If you be but a righteous liver,
No Moorish bow need bother you,
  No arrows from a foeman's quiver.

Duluth, Winona, Kankakee,
  South Framingham and points adjacent --
It matters not where you may be,
  If but your conscience be complacent.

Why, once when I was singing of
  My Lalage -- need I repeat it? --
A wolf that heard my song of love
  Gave me a look and straightway beat it.

Put me where it is cold or hot,
  Where water's ice, or where it's b'iling,
I'll sing -- who likes my stuff or not --
  My Lalage so sweetly smiling. 

On the Indestructability of Reading Matter (To Carolyn Wells)

A lad whose life is pure and clean --
  His stuff is cosmic, sempiternal;
Whether in Harper's Magazine
  Or in the so-called Evening Journal.

He needs no 24-point blurb,
  His verses require no Gothic 10-point,
For folks to say, "Belive me, Herb,
  Some ooze comes off of that guy's pen point!"

I wrote some poetry at home --
  I lived, you know, at Sabine Junction --
A wolf came up and glimpsed my pome,
  And slammed the door with lupine unction.

A big, big, big, big wolf was he;
  (And if you crave corroboration,
Look up Ode 22 and see
  The difficulties of translation.)

Lived I where Kipling pens his rhymes;
  Or where Le Gallienne pens his stanzas;
And worked I for the London Times,
  Or for a sheet in Howell, Kansas --

Oh, ship me to some desert isle
  Or leave me in my Conning Tower,
Still shall I sing my Carrie's smile
  And love its cardiac motive power.

On an Upright Life

[Those whom the original verbiage may confuse are
advised to read only the italics: those who detest our
efforts may read only Q.H. Flaccus's words, set of
course in Roman; and the rest may combine them.]

(Integer vitae) A man who's on the level,
  (Non eget...arcu) He needn't have a fear;
(Nec venenatis) Not arrows of the devil
  (Fusce, pharetra) Can harm a conscience clear --

(Sive per Syrtes) Whether he's in Peoria,
  (Sive facturus) New York or Newtonville,
(Caucasum vel) East Orange or Emporia,
  (Lambit Hydaspes) Or Pocahontas, Ill.

(Namque...me lupus) For once, when I was singing,
  (Dum meam...Lalagen) A wolf came up to me;
(Terminum curis) He heard my lyric ringing,
  (Fugit inermem) And fled immejitlee.

(Quale portentum) Believe me, he was some wolf,
  (Daunias latis) Not wood from Noah's ark,
(Nec Jubae tellus) No little Daunian bum wolf
  (Arida nutrix) Like those in Central Park.

(Pone me pigris) O put me on the prairie,
  (Arbor aestiva) Or let me hire a hall,
(Quod latus mundi) Set me upon Mt. Airy,
  (Jupiter urget) Or anywhere at all.

(Pone sub curru) Still I, on the equator,
  (Solis...negata) At ninety in the shade,
(Dulce ridentem) Shall love -- a poor translator --
  (Dulce loquentem) My sweetly smiling maid.

The Clear Conscience

He who is upright in his way of living,
Stainless of guilt, needs never the protection
Darts of Morocco, or bows or poisoned arrows,
     Fuscus, can give him;

Whether his path be though the sultry Syrtes,
Or through the sunless Caucasus he travel,
Or through the countries watered by the famous
     River Hydaspes.

Once in the Sabine Woods when I was strolling
Far past my farm, unarmed and free of worry,
Singing of Lalage, the wolf that heard me
     Came up; and left me.

Monstrous was he, not such as martial Daunia
There in her spacious oaken forest nurses,
Not such as arid, lion-hearted Juba
     Greatly produces.

Place me upon the sun-divested prairie
Where not a tree lives in the breath of summer;
Or there is nothing ever but the forecast:
     Cloudy with showers.

Yes, you may place me on the old Equator
Where it is far too hot for habitation,
Yet I will love my Lalage forever,
     Smiling so sweetly.

Horace Flackhouse
By Our Own Ed Howe

  Horace Flackhouse has lived in town
all his life. He is seventy-two years
old. He has always paid his debts and 
kept single, though there have been 
rumors that Horace owed a lot of money,
and, since 1879, he has been reported
engaged on an average of once a year.
In 1878, Horace, who played the guitar,
was courting Lalage Quinn; and as he 
was serenading her one night, playing
"In Old Madrid," Old Man Quinn's
dog looked at him and ran away.

  Horace never married Lalage, but he
says that no matter where he is he will
go on serenading her.

Horace on the Campaign

He who is upright in his way of living,
Honest and fair, never needs the protection
Wisecracks or whisperings or poisoned phrases,
              Voter, can give him.

Whether his campaign be in California,
Maine or Alaska, Michigan or Utah,
Or through the valley bordered by the famous
              Father of Waters.

Once in the Weston woods, as I was walking
Near Lyons Plain, unarmed and free of worry,
Singing of Roosevelt, a vicious wolf that heard me
              Came up; and left me.

Monstrous and mad this terrorizing lupine,
Not such as you might look for in the Daunian
Forest of oaks, or in the Juban desert --
              No, he was viler.

Place me, a voter, on the Appalachians,
Stick me in Cleveland, Owosso, or Chicago,
Route me to Butte or send me to Seattle,
              Akron or Boston --

Yes, if you send me far across the oceans,
Anywhere at all within the the solar system,
Still will I shout the universal name of
              Franklin D. Roosevelt.

Ode 1.23

A Sealed Proposal

Nay, Chloe, dear, forget your fear,
  Nor like a frightened fawn outrun me;
No savage I to horrify --
            You shouldn't shun me.

Come, Chloe, queen, you're seventeen;
  There's many a precedent to back us.
Why shouldn't you be Mrs. Q.
             Horatius Flaccus?

Horace to Chloe

Dear Chloe, why so frightened by
  The harmless presence of Horatius?
I'm not a bear that wants to scare --
       Don't be fugacious.

Yet like a fawn you leave the lawn
  When I approach. If you would let me,
I'd say that you were twenty-two...
       There, do you get me?

To Chloe

Chloe, regard my song sententious
  And trust me as your soul's director:
No longer be a conscientious
             Objector.

No lion, I, to feast upon
  You, Chloe. Do not be so distant.
Forget your mother. Be a non-
             Resistant.

To Chloe

Fear me not, my Chloe, like a fawn that seeks its mother,
  Frightened of the forest, overfearful of the trees,
Tremulous with terror it is difficult to smother,
  Quivering at the rustle of the brier in the breeze.

Never mine the cruel wish to crush you like a lion,
  Never mine the wish to be a tiger in a rage.
Cut away from mother! Give your bridal-gown a try-on!
  Votes for women, Chloe! And remember, you're of age.

Advising Chloe

Why shun me, Chloe? Nor pistol nor bowie
  Is mine with intention to kill.
And yet like a llama you run to your mamma;
  You tremble as though you were ill.

No lion to rend you, no tiger to end you,
  I'm tame as a bird in a cage.
That counsel maternal can run for The Journal --
You get me, I guess...You're of age.

To Chloe

Like a frightened fawn, my Chloe,
  Looking for his timid dam,
Fearful of the breezes blowy,
  Come you never where I am.

Tiger am I not nor lion.
  Leave your ma; you're old enough.
Cast your wise and pretty eye on
  Him who wrote this tender stuff.

Ode 1.25

Silver Threads Among the Gold

Insistent lads no longer shake
Thy shutters, keeping thee awake,
And no one ever now knocks at
The once willing door into thy flat.

Less frequently the lover cries
"Sleep not, my Lydia! Come, arise!"
The time will come when, old, forlorn,
Thou'lt weep about thy lover's scorn.

On moonless nights the flames will rage
About thy heart; and, bent with age,
Thou'lt fret that lads delight in myrtle
And ivy more than in thy kirtle.

Lydia Passee

Less frequently than formerly young wooers shake thy shutters;
  No longer do they steal from thee the slumbrous hours of night;
The door that erst was eloquent no longer even stutters --
  Its merry, swinging hinge is mute; it's shut and bolted tight.

Less frequently thou hearest lovers sighing and complaining
  With "Sleepest thou, my Lydia, while I perish on the High Street?"
Ah, thou in turn shalt sob to learn that thee they are disdaining,
  As thou shalt be a lonely hag in some deserted by-street.

Ay, lonely on a moonless night when the north wind blows in fury,
  And burning passion flames about a wounded heart that grieves.
For ivy green and myrtle, say the young men of the jury,
  Are more to be delighted in than winter's withered leaves.

Ode 1.32

Business of Bowing

Help me, my lute, if we have made,
What time I twanged thee in the shade,
  A song to make the people cry,
  Like "When the Swallows Homeward Fly"
Or Mr. Schubert's serenade --

If, I repeat, we've ever played
Some song for which the public paid,
  Yet said: "This Horace is some guy" --
         Help me, my lute!

Thine erstwhile owner, unafraid,
Sang Love and Wine...If we invade
  What themes soever, thou and I,
  Down here on Nassau Street, N.Y.,
I'll reckon on thy well-known aid...
         Help me, my lute! 

To His Lyre

If ever, as I struck thy strings,
  I've sounded one enduring note,
Let me, O Lyre, think up some things
  That folks will simply have to quote.

A Lesbian lyrist owned thee once;
  He used to sing a lot, he did,
Of dames and demijohns and stunts
  Like that. He was the Tuneful Kid.

Help me, mine ancient ukulele,
  Sing songs of sorrow and of joy,
Such as, composed and printed daily,
  Will make the public yell, "Oh, boy!"

To His Lyre

If ever, as I struck thy strings,
  My song has sounded sempiternal,
Help me, my Lyre, to glorious things
  For this matutinary journal.

Thine erstwhile owner versified
  War, Love, and Wine in panegyric;
And folks in Lesbos often cried,
  "That kid can chuck a nasty lyric!"

Then aid me, Lute, beginning now!
  Give theme for colophon or leader;
And someday there may grace my brow
  The laurel from some Grateful Reader.

Ode 1.33

On Fruitless Yearning

Sigh not, O Tibullus, in dolorous rhyme,
  That Glycera's heart is of stone.
You palpably think it is close to a crime
  That she is a younger man's own.

The lovely and low-browed Lycoris is keen
  On Cyrus, but he doesn't care;
He harrows his heart and he bothers his bean
  With Pholoe, sour and unfair.

But Pholoe feels not a quiver for Cy.
  A wolf for a she-goat might fall
(Thus Venus has fun with the marital tie)
  Before she saw Cyrus at all.

It's so with myself. Though a lady on me
  Has smiled, I'm as chill as the pole;
For Myrtale, bold as the Hadrian sea,
  Enmeshes mine innermost soul.

Ode 1.37

The End of Cleopatra

Now is the time to drain the cup
That cheers, with shouts of "Bottoms up!"
To feast; to tap it as you go
Upon the light unfettered toe.

Hitherto it had been a crime
To touch that Caecuban sublime
While still a wild and frenzied queen
Tried to disrupt the Roman scene.

That woman, with her rotten crew
Of crooks and lechers! crazy, too,
Rnough to nuture any hope,
For she is drugged with Fortune's dope.

Vanished the smile from her proud lips
When Caesar burned her pretty ships;
Altered her wine-deluded cheer
Into the rigorous fact of fear.

His galleys gave her ships a shove,
Even as the hawk pursues the dove,
Or as the hunter makes to flee
The hare o'er snowy Thessaly.

A noble queen, she showed no fear
For death upon the pointed spear;
And scorned to flee, forevermore
To dwell upon some hidden shore.

And gazed she with unruffled brow
Upon her castle, fallen now;
Bravely the asp she nursed, that she
Might grace no glorious victory.

Ode 1.38

The Simple Stuff

Nix on the Persian pretence!
  Myrtle for Quintus H. Flaccus!
Wreaths of the linden tree, hence!
Nix on the Persian pretence!
Waiter, here's seventy cents--
  Come, let me celebrate Bacchus!
Nix on the Persian pretence!
  Myrtle for Quintus H. Flaccus.

Simplicity

The Persian pomp and circumstance are things I do not like;
I shall not buy a motor-car while I possess a bike;
I will not buy a Panama to place upon my head,
A simple sennitt bonnet, boy, purchase for me instead.

For such a thatch will do for you as it has done for me --
An ordinary straw hat, for a dollar thirty-three.
Then to the coolest bar in town for some Milwaukee liquor,
Where I may watch the ball-game -- as it comes over the ticker.

Sennit is a straw or grass braid for hats.
Milwaukee liquor is of course beer.
It goes without saying that watching the ball-game in a bar in 1912 was utterly unlike watching it in a bar today. The scores came over a ticker-tape.

In a Manner of Writing

Ezra Pound's or Amy Lowell's

The Persian pompadours I hate, O boy!
Head-wreaths, with linden twined
Displease me.
Seek not the rose's dwelling place,
But myrtle, if I had my choice, for me.
And for you as well, you a servitor.
And for me, as under this lovely vine
I become, as Jack London says,
Jingled.

James Whitcomb Riley's

I don't keer fer Pezhunn ties an' clo'es 'at's wore by kings;
I wunt shoes f'm Terry Hut, an' Injunopplis things.
Don't wunt no criss-anthey-ums 'at grows in any store,
Wunt a little daisy jist like Ou'er Annie wore.
Noon-time an' June-time beneath a nellum tree --
Here in Injeanny is the
                        Place
                               Fer
                                    Me! 

Robert W. Service's

I've worked like the deuce and sweated profuse, till my brain and blood oozed forth,
And hoi polloi grow sick with joy at my rhymes of the ribald North;
I sing my song and they call it strong and virile and vivid and bright;
If Horace were here -- don't spill the beer! -- I'd show him the way to write!

Believe me kid, whether wop or yid, I hate a gazabe with lugs;
These velvety hats they drive me bats, and I think I am going bugs.
The plainest caps for a couple of yaps and yeggs like you and me --
A waiter you, and me with a stew in the shade of a Dago tree.

I've soused like sin with a jigger of gin where the veins of the Yukon flow,
I've loved and lost and damned the cost in the cities of sleet and snow;
I was never afraid to call a spade a murderous, hellish plow --
If Horace to-day would follow my way -- God! but I'd show him how!

"Persicos Odi"

Oh, boy! -- to quote a slangy line --
  This war-stock thing is wrong.
No Persian Copper shares for mine --
  They cramp a poet's song.

The market I shall never dent
  With International Tree.
I'll take my little four per cent. --
  The savings bank for me.

"Persicos Odi"

For me no high-powered touring car, no lacquered limousine;
No Persian carburetor, and no perfumed gasolene;
As my chauffeur I know you hate unnecessary fuss --
A little flivver runabout is good enough for us.

Simplicity

Lad, for overfancy clothing
I have but a healthy loathing
Nor can I see any reason
In the rose that's out of season.

I am one who deems it silly
To attempt to paint the lily;
Myrtle underneath the vine,
And some elderberry wine!

Source: So Much Velvet (1924), p. 33, reprinted in Column Book of F.P.A. (1928), p. 290, and in The Melancholy Lute (1936), p. 163

"Persicos Odi"

The pomp of the Persian I hold in aversion;
I hate his theatrical tricks;
His garlicky wreathings and lindeny tree-things --
Nix.

Boy, for me the myrtle while under this fertile
Old grapevine I mellowly sink
As you and bibacious old Quintus Horatius
Drink.

Ode 2.2

That For Money!

Sallust, I know you of old,
How you hate the sight of gold --
"Idle ingots that encumber
Mother Earth" -- I've got your number.

Why is Proculeius known
From Elmira to Malone?
For his money? Don't upset me!
For his love of folks -- you get me?

Choke the Rockefeller yen
For the clink of iron men!
Happiness it will not mint us,
Take it from your Uncle Quintus.

Fancy food and wealthy drink
Raise Gehenna with a gink;
Pastry, terrapin, and cheeses
Bring on gout and swell diseases.

Phraates upon the throne
Old King Cyrus used to own
Fails to hoodwink or deceive me,
Cyrus was some king, believe me!

Get me right: a man's-size prince
Knows that money is a quince.
When they see the Yellow Taffy,
Reg'lar Princes don't go daffy.

Ode 2.4

Xanthias Jollied

Nay, Xanthias, feel unashamed
  That she you love is but a servant.
Remember, lovers far more famed
  Were just as fervent.

Achilles loved the pretty slave
  Briseis for her fair complexion;
And to Tecmessa Ajax gave
  His young affection.

Why, Agamemnon at the height
  Of feasting, triumph, and anointment,
Left everything to keep, one night,
  A small appointment.

And are you sure the girl you love --
  This maid on whom you have your heart set
Is lowly -- that she is not of
  The Roman smart set?

A maiden modest as is she,
  So full of sweetness and forbearance,
Must be all right; her folks must be
  Delightful parents.

Her arms and face I can commend,
  And, as the writer of a poem,
I fain would compliment, old friend,
  The limbs below 'em.

Nay, be not jealous. Stop your fears.
  My tendencies are far from sporty.
Besides, the number of my years
  Is over forty.

Indorsing Xanthias's Choice

Don't let your yearning for your cook, O Xanth, give you the willies.
Remember how Briseis, though a slave, aroused Achilles;
The Telamonian Ajax young Tecmessa made a hit with;
And Agamemnon had a maid whom he was awful smit with.
Why, I would give you 8 to 5 -- and I am far from gambly --
That Phyllis is descended from some fine old Southern fam'ly.
Accept it from an occupant of this here conning steeple:
As nice a girl as she is must have come from Lovely People.
Look at her arms -- they're perfect! So the beauty of her face is;
And -- as an artist -- I indorse her -- well, her other graces.
Nay, be not jealous of the bard, my Xanthias! Remember
Your uncle will be forty-one the seventh of September.

Ode 2.10

Playing It Safe

Sail not too far to be safe, O Licinius!
  Neither too close to the shore should you steer.
Rashness is foolish, and how ignominious
           Cowardly fear!

He who possesses neither palace nor hovel
  (My little flat would be half way between)
Hasn't a house at which paupers must grovel
           Yet it is clean.

Shaken by winds is the pine that is tallest;
  Ever the summit is bared to the flash;
The bigger thou art, so the harder thou fallest --
           Cracketty crash!

He who in famine can hope for the manna,
  He who in plenty fears poverty's chafe --
He is the proper, the true Pollyanna,
           Playing it safe.

Jupiter, bringing the bleak, bitter, raw gust,
  Also remembers to take it away;
He is the god of December ... but August --
           April ... but May.

When you have creditors suing to pay them,
  Four-to-an-ace is the way to invest;
But when you win every pot, you should play them
           Close to your chest.

Ode 2.11

More Advice

O Quintius, never mind the things
  Across the Adriatic;
Let Scythian and Cantabrian kings
  Be never so emphatic,
Our board and room and clothes are paid for;
Why worry, then, what we were made for?

As I have said a thousand times,
  (Please pardon my repeating.
One has to, writing reams of rhymes.)
  The longest life is fleeting.
(Bromidic and unesoteric --
See Longfellow and Robert Herrick.)

The flowers forget the vernal green,
  The moon has many phases.
Why bother, then, the busy bean
  With the future's fog and hazes?
Nix on the worry! Us for Bacchus!
You, Quintius, and your Uncle Flaccus.

And while we're waiting for the drinks
  Here in the grotto shady,
There may appear the well-known minx,
  That lovely Lyde lady,
Who fixes up her hair so graceful --
Grab it from me, she beats an ace full.

Ode 2.14

Cheer Up, Postumus

O Postumus, dear Postumus, Old Father Time's a sprinter,
The summer of my life is spent, approaches now the winter;
Nor all my Wit nor Piety, to quote Omar Fitzgerald,
Can keep my obit from appearing in the Sabine Herald.

If for a daily sacrifice you killed three hundred cattle,
Think you that it would keep from you the Dread and Final Rattle?
Nix! Though you build eight colleges and lib'ries eighty-seven,
You can't avoid what Rhyme demands I designate as Heaven.

Your home, your wife, your family, your uncles, ay! and aunts --
You'll have to leave 'em all behind. (Have you enough insurance?)
And O, the cobwebbed Caecuban now aging in your cellar
You'll have to deed to someone who's a nice, deserving feller.

Source: Weights and Measures (1917), p. 87

As the New Year [18 B.C.] Dawned

O Postumus, alas! I hear the bells go tinkle-tinkle!
Zip! goes another flitting year! here comes another wrinkle!
And though I hate to hang the crape -- no skill and no endurance
Can keep your folks from putting in a claim for your insurance.

If daily you endow a school and forty-two Foundations,
Would that put off a single day your last disintegrations?
No! What though you be prince, or prune, a slacker or a hero,
The sum of all your wealth and woes is ultimately zero.

Some day you'll bid your wife good-bye, and -- this no prognosis --
That afternoon they'll say it was arterio-sclerosis;
And in a year, or maybe less, a man of greater merit
Shall spill upon your marble floors the wine he will inherit.

Ode 2.15

The Good Old Socialistic Days

With skyscrapers building a dozen a day,
  I am anxious, I View-with-Alarm;
And I'd like to know how there'll be room for the plow,
  And what's to become of the farm.

Time was when the olive was w.k.,
  Now myrtle and violet are in.
I urge on this nation of Rome, Conservation --
  This waste is a shame and a sin.

When Romulus reigned and when Cato was king,
  Conditions were never so tough;
The Morgans and such hadn't any too much,
  And the poorest had more than enough.

Return once again, O ye days that I sing,
  When Labor was wearing a crown!
O life was more spacious, grab this from Horatius,
  When Rome was a Socialist town.

Ode 2.16

Thoughts on Matters and Things

Grosphus, a guy who's sailing in a tempest
On the Aegean when the moon is hidden --
He wants a rest, while stewing in his stateroom,
     Weary and seasick.

Weary of war, what do the Thracians yearn for?
What seek the Medes, with quivers full of arrows?
What can't you buy with purple, gold or rubies?
     Rest is the answer.

Not Morgan's cash, nor Rockefeller's money,
No blue-and-brass can drive away the willies
Caused by the care of elegant apartments,
     Rugs and swell ceilings.

Wise the gazabe upon whose simple table
Old-fashioned truck like salt-and-pepper castors
Yet may be found. His bean is never bothered --
     Sleeps like a hallboy.

Why do we fuss for one thing and another?
Why do we hike to Saranac or Newport?
How can a human leave himself behind him?
     Answer: He cannot.

Worry can get a guy on the Olympic;
Worry can chase a colonel in the Army;
Swift as the wind, to use a new expression --
     Care is some sprinter.

Merry and bright, the citizen who's cheerful
Won't worry much about to-morrow's breakfast.
"No one," he smiles, "who faces Time the pitcher
     Wallops one thousand."

There was Achilles, cut off in his twenties,
And, au contraire, Tithonus was a hundred;
I may be lucky; you might be run over
     Most any morning.

You've got a farm with fancy sheep and heifers;
You've got a mare all curry-combed and glossy;
Purple silk socks and purple fancy weskits --
     You're a swell dresser.

And what has Fate, the undeceitful, slipped me?
Only a small apartment out in Harlem,
And, with a trick of turning snappy Sapphics,
     Scorn for the roughneck.

Ode 2.18

Horace on Contentment

Within my modest home nor ivory gleams,
  Nor in my room a golden ceiling glitters;
No pillars mine from Africa's extremes,
  No purple spun by lovely lady-knitters.
I'm poor but honest, and -- you'll give me credit --
Some poet, too. Some poet's right; you said it.

For further favors I do not implore
  The gods above nor any human being;
My Sabine farm's enough. I ask no more.
  I never argue with the fates' decreeing.
Day follows day. I never dared to doubt it.
Suppose I did? What could I do about it?

And yet the very marble newly hewn,
  The very stone you gaze at, eager, merry,
That stone may lie above you very soon
  In Forest Hills, the well-known ceme-tery.
And still, instead of charity and penance,
You raise the rent and dispossess your tenants.

But stay! Despite your wondrous wealth and fame,
  None is so sure as Pluto, so rapacious --
You cannot beat, you cannot tie his game;
  The grave that yawns for rich and poor is spacious.
(TRANSLATOR'S NOTE: Q.H. was euphemistic,
They used to say. I call him socialistic.)

Ode 3.6

The Good Old Days of 27 B.C.

For sins ancestral, O thou guiltless Roman, thou shalt suffer
  Till thou restore the temples that are crumbling, and the shrines;
The statues that are smoky go and polish with a buffer!
  Go scour the sooty sculpture till it shines!

It is by service to the gods alone that thou prevailest;
  With them beginneth everything; to them entrust the end!
Observe what woes to Italy, once the heartiest and the halest,
  The gods have sent -- continue still to send.

Monaeses and the Pacoran have beaten us in battle --
  To them the spoil of Rome upon their necklaces is sweet --
And worried now with politics and civil tittle-tattle,
  We fear the foreign soldiery and fleet.

Our times are overtroublous; there are scandals and divorces;
  We tremble for the children and we fret about the Home;
The River of Disaster, overflowing from these sources,
  Is threatening the government of Rome.

The Roman flapper joys in doing wild, Hellenic dances,
  She kalsomines her features and she rouges up her lips;
The married woman yearns for unconnubial romances --
  She's naughty to her tender finger-tips.

Not such the sires of Roman youth, who rising in their glory,
  Put Hannibal, Antiochus, and Pyrrhus off the map.
Gone are the peasant warriors and their brave, bucolic story!
  Return again, O simple Sabine yap!

O Time, is naught secure from thy malign disintegration?
  Our parents' days our grandsires and our granddams used to curse.
Compare us with our parents -- ponder our degeneration!
  And gosh, our kids are getting even worse!

Ode 3.9

When Horace "Came Back"

HORACE

When I was your stiddy, my loveliest Lyddy,
 And you my embraceable she,
In joys and diversions, the king of the Persians
        Had nothing on me.

LYDIA

When I was the person you penned all that verse on,
 Ere Chloe had caused you to sigh,
Not she whose cognomen is Ilia the Roman
        Was happier than I.

HORACE

Ah, Chloe the Thracian -- whose sweet modulation
 Of voice as she lilts to the lyre
Is sweeter and fairer? Would but the Fates spare her
         I'd love to expire.

LYDIA

Tush! Calais claims me and wholly inflames me,
 He pesters me never with rhymes;
If they should spare Cally, I'd perish totally
         A couple of times.

HORACE

Suppose my affection in Lyddy's direction
 Returned; that I gave the good-by
To Chloe the golden, and back to the olden? --
        I pause for reply.

LYDIA

Cheer up, mine ensnarer! Be Calais fairer
 Than stars, be you blustery and base,
I'll love you, adore you; in brief, I am for you
        All over the place.

HORACE

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 Chloe 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 Chloe? 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 Chloe 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.

The Reconciliation

HORACE

Lyddy, am I right or wrong?
Was I there? Did I belong?
Did you not -- you know you did --
Call me once the Headline Kid?
I had everybody stopped;
Persian potentates I topped;
Dun and Bradstreet, if you'd love me,
Wouldn't rate a king above me.

lYDIA

Friend Horatius, all that you
Say is absolutely true.
I was happy as a queen
When -- oh, you know what I mean.
When you gave no Chloe praise,
Them, ah, them was happy days!
When you used to coax and con me
Ilia's self had nothing on me.

HORACE

Thracian Chloe -- she's a bear --
Has Q.H. up in the air;
Her I lamp without fatigue;
Chloe leads the Flaccus League.
Listen, I'm a selfish guy,
But I'd really love to die
If I thought she'd get a giggle
At my mortuary wriggle.

LYDIA

Speaking, as you often do,
Of affection, I'm there, too.
Who is my idea of joy?
Calais -- and quantus boy.
Why, if I believed that he
Could elicit any glee
from the sentence Lydia non est,
I'd bichloride. I would, honest.

HORACE

Lyddy, listen, get me right:
Do you think that perhaps we might
Sort of start it up again
As 'twas in the glorious When?
If I tell this Chloe that
I am going to leave her, flat,
Do you think that you would let me
Write to you, and? -- well, you get me.

LYDIA

Listen, Horace, though you be
Roaring as the raging sea,
Though he be a Broadway sign,
I'm for you -- Q.H. for mine.
Whether you're the ocean's roar,
Angry and ferocious; or
Lighter than a cork, and giddy,
I am yours

              Sincerely,
                          LYDDY

The Doughboy's Horace

HORACE, PVT. --TH INFANTRY, A.E.F., WRITES:

While I was fussing you at home
You put the notion in my dome
That I was the Molasses Kid.
I batted strong. I'll say I did.

LYDIA, ANYBURG, U.S.A., WRITES:

While you were fussing me alone
To other boys my heart was stone.
When I was all that you could see
No girl had anything on me.

HORACE:

Well, say, I'm having some romance
With one Babette, of Northern France.
If that girl gave me the command
I'd dance a jig in No Man's Land.

LYDIA:

I, too, have got a young affair
With Charley -- say, that boy is there!
I'd just as soon go out and die
If I thought it'd please that guy.

HORACE:

Suppose I can this foreign wren
And start things up with you again?
Suppose I promise to be good?
I'd love you, Lyd. I'll say I would.

LYDIA:

Though Charley's good and handsome -- oh, boy!
And you're a stormy, fickle doughboy,
Go give the Hun his final whack,
And I'll marry you when you come back.

February 14, 22 B.C.

          HORACE

In the happier years gone by me
  In a well-remembered day,
Yours the custom was to eye me
  In a not unflattering way.
When than I none was than-whicher,
  When none other dared to fling
Arms about you, I was richer
  Than the noted Persian king.

          LYDIA

Those the days when sweet the savor
  Of mine overbrimming cup,
When no Chloe found your favor,
  When I was not runner-up.
As I scan my memorabilia,
  I observe with girlish glee
That the famous Roman Ilia
  Hadn't anything on me.

          HORACE

Now the roomy heart Horatian,
  Beating loudly in this breast,
By the sweetly singing Thracian
  Chloe's utterly possessed.
If I thought that lovely lass'd
  Like to see me dead, I'd take
Half a pint of prussic acid
  Gladly for her shining sake.

          LYDIA

What a fascinating game is
  Love! My current cause for joy --
Thurian Calais his name is --
  He is Ornytus's boy.
If I thought he'd like to view me
  Moribund; that he would laugh
At my corse, I'd pour into me
  All the poison I could quaff.

          HORACE

If no longer I should find her
  As I used to find her -- fair;
If I casually consigned her
  To the celebrated air;
This affair -- if I could quit it;
  If I gazed again on you;
Do you think that we could hit it
  Off the way we used to do?

          LYDIA

Yes. Though Calais is brighter
  Than a coruscating star;
Madder than the sea, and lighter
  Than a piece of cork you are,
Horace, you're the only guy for
  Me. The others I resign.
You're the one I'd live for, die for --
  And I'll be your Valentine.

Ode 3.13

"What Flavour?"

Worthy of flowers and syrups sweet, 
  O fountain of Bandusian onyx, 
To-morrow shall a goatling's bleat 
  Mix with the sizz of thy carbonics.

A kid whose budding horns portend 
  A life of love and war--but vainly! 
For thee his sanguine life shall end-- 
  He'll spill his blood, to put it plainly.

And never shalt thou feel the heat 
  That blazes in the days of Sirius, 
But men shall quaff thy soda sweet, 
  And girls imbibe thy drinks delirious.

Fountain whose dulcet cool I sing, 
  Be thou immortal by this Ode (a 
Not wholly meretricious thing), 
  Bandusian fount of ice-cream soda!

A Prohibition Ode

O shining crystal fountain, deserving flowers and wine,
To-morrow shall a sacrifice -- a tender kid -- be thine;
A firstling kid whose horns, that start to sprout his brow above,
Are frankly symbolistic of the arts of war and love.

Alas! what futile emblems! for the goatling's vivid blood
Shall make thy fair limpidity a darkly crimson flood.
Thee blazing Sirius cannot touch in summer's fervid heat;
To cattle weary of the plow, and wandering flocks thou'rt sweet.

Yes, thou among the fountains shall go flowing down to fame;
The song I sing shall glorify Bandusia's liquid name.
The oak that spreads its welcome shadows where thy waters spring
Shall bear thy glory's burden through the simple song I sing.

Ode 3.15

To Be Quite Frank

Your conduct, naughty Chloris, is
Not just exactly Horace's
 Ideal of a lady
 At the shady
   Time of life;
You mustn't throw your soul away
On foolishness, like Pholoe --
 Her days are folly-laden --
 She's a maiden,
   You're a wife.

Your daughter, with propriety,
May look for male society,
 Do one thing and another
 In which mother
   Shouldn't mix;
But revels Bacchanalian
Are -- or should be -- quite alien
 To you a married person,
 Something worse'n
   Forty-six!

Yes, Chloris, you cut up too much,
You love the dance and cup too much,
  Your years are quickly flitting --
  To your knitting,
    Right about!
Forget the incidental things
That keep you from parental things --
  The World, the Flesh, the Devil,
  On the level,
    Cut 'em out!

To an Aged Cut-up

               I

Dear Mrs. Ibycus, accept a little sound advice,
  Your manners and your speech are over-bold;
To chase around the sporty way you do is far from nice;
  Believe me, darling, you are growing old.

Now Pholoe may fool around (she dances like a doe!)
  A debutante has got to think of men;
But you were twenty-seven over thirty years ago --
  You ought to be asleep at half-past ten.

O Chloris, cut the ragging and the roses and the rum --
  Delete the drink, or better, chop the booze!
Go buy a skein of yarn and make the knitting needles hum,
  And imitate the art of Sister Suse.

               II

Chloris, lay off the flapper stuff;
What's fit for Pholoe, a fluff,
Is not for Ibycus's wife --
A woman at your time of life!

Ignore, old dame, such pleasures as
The shimmy and "the Bacchus Jazz";
Your presence with the maidens jars --
You are the cloud that dims the stars.

Your daughter Pholoe may stay
Out nights upon the Appian Way;
Her love for Nothus, as you know,
Makes her as playful as a doe.

No jazz for you, no jars of wine,
No rose that blooms incarnadine.
For one thing only are you fit:
Buy some Lucerian wool -- and knit!

Ode 3.19

An Invitation to a Drinkfest

You tell when Inachus was born;
  You say when Codrus was a boy;
Of Aeacus you sing, nor scorn
  To tell about the wars of Troy.

But what's the cost of Chian wine?
  Who'll heat the water for my dip?
Under whose roof do I recline?
  When shall I lose this case of grippe?

A drink! Three cyathi (or nine)!
  Hurry, my boy, and bring it soon!
We'll toast (I like the following line)
  Murena, midnight, and the moon.

To revel now is my desire;
  I'll take my joyance in a jag.
Why mute the pipe and hush the lyre?
  Come, play that Berecyntian Rag!

I hate the hands that hang the crape!
  For me the souls that hang expense!
Fling flowers around! Uncork the grape,
  And laugh at Lycus's laments!

To you the radiant Rhode turns;
  (Your hair has witched that lovely gell).
My lingering love for Glycera burns --
  My Glycera ... You know me, Tel.

Cocktail Party

Of Inachus you know the date,
Of Codrus, dying for the state,
The Trojan wars, the Aeacan line,
But what's the cost of Chian wine?

You say not who'll turn on the steam,
Beneath whose roof am I to dream,
At what o'clock I shall enfold
Myself in blankets from the cold.

A health, my lad, and bring it soon!
Murena, midnight, and the moon!
And we shall mix the mellow wine
With cyathi three, or maybe nine.

The bard who loves all Muses, he
Shall ask for cyathi three times three;
But more than three the Graces nude
Forbid, lest any one be stewed.

A blithesome bard, I crave carouse
And merry music, liquor's spouse.
Why hangs the pipe beside the lute?
Why mute the Berecynthian flute?

I scorn a skimpy hand! Oh, fling
The roses wide! Let's laugh and sing!
And let old Lycus hear our whirl,
As well as his too youthful girl.

O Telephus, those locks of thine
Like to the star of evening shine!
To thee the radiant Rhode turns.
For Glycera my bosom burns.

Ode 3.26

Q.H.F. Swears Off

Till recently I used to call
  On any frail who would receive me.
I frivoled with them one and all --
  I was some fusser, too, believe me.

But now to Venus I shall give
  My xylophone and tennis racquet.
For me no longer while I live,
  The roles of Faversham and Hackett.

However, Venus, O thou queen,
  Take up thy lash or stick or Bowie,
And let it fall upon the bean
  Of naughty, haughty, beauty Chloe.

When Q.H.F. Sang "Good-Bye, Girls"

I used to be the one who was frantic for fun;
  Than I there was no one insaner.
I used to be keen for a call on a queen....
          A hardy campaigner.

No more shall I fall! I shall hang on this wall
  My luteand my weapons of warfare;
To Venus I bow as these offerings I vow.
          Is anything more fair?

O goddess, one favour I seek as I pray --
  No boon ostentatious or showy --
Just for once, O I beg of thee, take
          A wallop at Chloe. 

An Orison to Venus

Till recently I fought the frays
  Of love as valiantly as any,
For I was thrall to all the fays --
  My skirmishes were many.

But now shall have the wall that guards
  The left of sea-born Aphrodite
The lyre and arms that were this bard's,
  Now done with battles mighty.

O queen of Cyprus full of cash,
  Goddess of Memphis, warm, unsnowy,
Swat once with thine uplifted lash
  The supercilious Chloe!

Ode 3.30

Look you, the monument I have erected
  High as the pyramids, royal, sublime,
During as brass -- it shall not be affected
  E'en by the elements coupled with Time.

Part of me, most of me never shall perish;
  I shall be free from Oblivion's curse;
Mine is a name that the future will cherish --
  I shall be known by my excellent verse.

I shall be famous all over this nation,
  Centuries after my self shall have died;
People will point to my versification --
  I, who was born on the Lower East Side!

Come, then, Melpomene, why not admit me?
  I want a wreath that is Delphic and green,
Seven, I think, is the size that will fit me --
  Slip me some laurel to wear on my bean.

The Monument of Q. Horatius Flaccus*

Reader, the monument that I've
Erected ever shall survive
As long as brass; and it shall stay
Despite the stormiest, wildest day.
Though winds assail, yet shall it stand
High as the pyramids, and grand.
Eternally my name will be
Triumphant in posterity.
Recurrent will my praises sound;
I shall be terribly renowned.
Born though I was of folk obscure,
Unknown, I spilled Some Lit'rature.
Now, O Melpomene, my queen,
Entwine the laurel on my bean!

*From the Evening Mail, Dec. 31, 1913.

This translation is an acrostic, whose initial letters spell "Read the Tribune." FPA quit the Evening Mail and went to work at the Tribune -- this was in his final Evening Mail column.

I added a comma after "queen" in the penultimate line.

His Monument

The monument that I have built is durable as brass,
And loftier than the Pyramids which mock the years that pass.
Nor blizzard can destroy it, nor furious rain corrode --
Remember, I'm the bard that built the first Horatian ode.

I shall not altogether die; a part of me's immortal.
A part of me shall never pass the mortuary portal;
And when I die my fame shall stand the nitric test of time --
The fame of me of lowly birth, who built the lofty rhyme!

Ay, fame shall be my portion when no trace there is of me,
For I first made Aeolian songs the songs of Italy.
Accept I pray, Melpomene, my modest meed of praise,
And crown my thinning, graying locks with wreaths of Delphic bays!

Ode 4.10

On the Ephemeralness of Beauty

O cruel thou, while yet the best
Is thine of Beauty's fair bequest,
When that thy pride shall have a fall,
Thy locks decrease to none at all;
When pale hath grown thy rosy cheek,
And dull becomes thy glance, and weak --
Whene'er thou gazest in the glass,
Then shalt thou, sighing, say: "Alas!
Why, when my heart was young and gay,
Lacked I the wisdom of to-day?
Or, now that faltering is my step,
Why have I lost my pristine pep?"

Ode 4.11

R.S.V.P.

Phyllis, I've a keg of fine fermented grape juice,
Alban wine that's been nine years in the cellar.
Ivy chaplets? Sure. Also, in the garden,
        Plenty of parsley.

See my little shack -- why, you'd hardly know it.
All the rooms are swept, Sunday-like and shiny;
Flowers all around, altar simply famished --
        Hungry for lamb stew.

Neighbours all are coming over to the party,
All the busy boys, all the giggling girlies,
Whiffs of certain things wafted from the kitchen --
        Simply delicious.

Oh, of course. You ask why the fancy fireworks,
Why the awning out, why the stylish doings.
Well, I'll tell you why. It's Maecenas' birthday --
    13th of April.

Telephus? Oh, tush! Pass him up completely!
Telly's such a swell; Telly doesn't love you;
Telly is a trifler; Telly's running round with
    Some other fairy.

Phyllie, don't mismate; those that do regret it.
Phaeton -- you know his unhappy story;
Poor Bellerophon, too, you must remember,
    Pegasus shook him.

If these few remarks, rather aptly chosen,
Make a hit with you, come, don't make me jealous.
Let me sing you songs of my own composing.
    Oh, come on over!

From: Horace
To: Phyllis
Subject: Invitation

Phyllis, I've a jar of wine,
(Alban, B.C. 49),
Parsley wreaths, and, for your tresses,
Ivy that your beauty blesses.

Shines my house with silverware;
Frondage decks the altar stair --
Sacred vervain, a device
For a lambkin's sacrifice.

Up and down the household stairs
What a festival prepares!
Everybody's superintending --
See the sooty smoke ascending!

What, you ask me, is the date
Of the day we celebrate?
13th April, month of Venus --
Birthday of my boss, Maecenas.

Let me, Phyllis, say a word
Touching Telephus, a bird
Ranking far too high above you;
(And the loafer doesn't love you).

Lessons, Phyllie, may be learned
From Phaeton -- how he was burned!
And recall Bellerophon was
One equestrian who thrown was.

Phyllis, of my loves the last,
My philandering days are past.
Sing you, in your clear contralto,
Songs I write for the rialto.

Epode 2

The Farmer Leads a Happy Life

"Happy is he who lives his life
Far from the town's ignoble strife;
He drives the plural of an ox,
And never thinks of bonds and stocks.

"To him the bugler's reveille,
The storms that toss an angry sea,
Political doors that do not swing,
The Forum -- they don't mean a thing.

"He loves his lofty poplar trees;
His honey comes from native bees;
Deep purple is his heavy vine;
And pedigreed are his lowing kine.

"The barren branches off he snips;
He also grafts the fruitful slips;
And -- though alliteration's cheap --
He shears the shy but shaggy sheep.

"When autumn shows her plenteous shape
He gathers in the bursting grape,
And picks, with not unfructuous glee,
The pear from many a grafted tree.

"To pay Priapus he will smoke
And lie beneath a shady oak,
Or, on his lawn by breezes fanned,
Sylvanus, guardian of his land.

"His high-banked river rolls along;
His birdies sing incessant song;
His fountains drip a plashing stream,
Lulling to sleep, perchance to dream.

"When winter's frost and snow and rain
Preclude the thought of fruit and grain,
He utilizes chilly snaps
To hunt, and set his nets and traps.

"Tantivy! when the frost is hoar
He chases the ferocious boar;
Or snares, in the denuded brush,
The frightened hare or hungry thrush.

"Who wouldn't be oblivious of
The alleged delights of so-called Love?
And if a modest wife there be
To keep his house...and two or three...

"A Sabine wife, in love with land,
Or some Apulian, strong and tanned,
Whose hearths with aged logs are fired
When Pop comes home, distrait and tired?

"Who waters the cows and gives them hay,
And milks them wholly twice a day,
Who taps a cask of home-made wine
And cooks a costless meal that's fine;

"No Lucrine oysters do I wish,
No turbot, scar, or fancy fish
(If winter, with his thundering host,
Should so divert them to our coast);

"No Ionian cock nor guinea hen
For me, but something else again
Are olives taken from my trees;
No table offers more than these;

"And sorrel, loved of mead and hill,
And mallows, good for hale and ill,
And lamb slain at the Terminal Feast,
Or kid unkilled by lupine beast.

"Boy, what a supper! What a sight
To see the sheep come home at night,
The weary oxen homeward fare,
Dragging along the inverted share!

"And native slaves..." So Alfius said,
To Agriculture newly wed.

         *      *     *

But he made his creditors quickly pay
The cash he re-lent at the earliest day.

Epode 14

What Cut into Horace's Work

"What is the cause of this tardy inpiring --
  Too many juleps traversing your throat?"
Thus, my Maecenas, your ceaseless inquiring.
  hop it, old top, it arouses my goat.

Blame not the stuff that is sacred to Bacchus;
  Cupid's the reason that pome isn't done.
He is some deity, flip it to Flaccus,
  Keeps me from finishing work I've begun.

Well, Old Anacreon had the bacillus;
  Burning affection kept him on the rack.
He couldn't work when he thought of Bathyllus
  (Read what was written on that by Anack).

As to your Beautiful Lady, Maecenas,
  Helen herself was no fairer a frail.
Phryne the flirt, but consid'rable Venus,
  Keeps me from work for THE EVENING MAIL.

The Stalling of Q.H.F.

Maecenas, you appal me
  With your demand for rhyme,
Because -- the names you call me! --
  My stuff's not done on time!
You think I'm steeped in slumber
And that you have my number.

Oh, well, you've got to know it,
  You ask me why I shirk;
It's Love that keeps this poet
  From getting down to work;
It's Cupid that's upset me;
It's -- well, I guess you get me.

How fain was to philander
  Anacreon the great!
And -- far from me to slander --
  You like to keep a date.
So, while I'm thrall to Phryne,
My pomes continue tiny.

The Bard's Excuse

Maecenas, you wonder what spell I am under
  And why I continue to stall;
You cannot help thinking that I have been drinking --
       I haven't at all.

My verses are thinnish? I simply can't finish
  The creaking iambics I start...
The god's interference has caused my arrearance --
       (The god of the heart.)

Bathyllus of Samos excited the famous
  Anacreon, maker of rhymes;
Why, you took a trip in your car with a pippin
       A couple of times.

And so my cessation from versification,
  For Phryne's the girl I adore.
(In which I have plenty of company -- twenty
       Or twenty-one more).   

The Shirking Poet

Maecenas, how you worry me
  Demanding daily rhyme!
You harass me and hurry me;
  You press me all the time;
You think that I am keeping
A date; or that I'm sleeping.

No craving incorporeal
  Is keeping me from work;
An urge that's amatorial
  Makes me a slacking shirk.
The bow-boy, sure and sightless,
Is causing me to write less.

A company illustrious
  I find the lovers' crew.
Anacreon was industrious --
  And you, Maecenas, you!
And so, if Phryne love me,
You'll get no verses of me.

The Stalling of Q.H.F.

Maecenas, you fret, you worry me
  Demanding I turn out a rhyme;
Insisting on reasons, you hurry me;
  You want my iambics on time.
You say my ambition's diminishing;
  You ask why my poem's not done.
The god it is keeps me from finishing
        The stuff I've begun.

Be not so persistent, so clamorous.
  Anacreon burned with a flame
Candescently, crescently amorous.
  You rascal, you're doing the same!
Was no fairer the flame that burned Ilium.
  Cheer up, you're a fortunate scamp,
...Consider avuncular William
        And Phryne, the vamp. 

To Maecenas

Maecenas, you ask why my versified task
  I frankly, defiantly shirk;
You think a Lethean decoction might be an
  Excuse for the slump in my work.

It's Cupid whose curse puts a crimp in my verse;
  It's Love that has muted my lyre.
Well, didn't Anacreon burn with a -- sacre! --
  Undying, unquenchable fire?

He'd frequently tell as he sang to the shell
  How deeply, how hotly he burned.
You needn't act haughty yourself. You've been naughty.
  You've sighed and you've ached and you've burned.

Be glad that the dame who arouses your flame
  Is fairer than Helen of Troy.
For Phryne, a teaser, I fret. But O Caesar!
  O my! O Maecenas! O boy!

Epode 15

The Last Laugh

"How sweet the moonlight sleeps," I quoted,
  "Upon this bank!" that starry night --
The night you vowed you'd be devoted --
  I'll tell the world you held me tight.

The night you said until Orion
  Should cease to whip the wintry sea,
Until the lamb should love the lion,
  You would, you swore, be all for me.

Some day, Neaera, you'll be sorry.
  No mollycoddle swain am I.
I shall not sit and pine, by gorry!
  Because you're with some other guy!

No, I shall turn my predilection
  Upon some truer, fairer Jane;
And all your prayer and genuflexion
  For my return shall be in vain.

And as for you, who choose to sneer, O,
  Though deals in lands and stocks you swing,
Though handsome as a movie hero,
Though wise you are -- and everything;

Yet, when the loss of her you're mourning,
  How I shall laugh at all your woe!
How I'll remind you of this warning,
  And laugh, "Ha! ha! I told you so!"

Satire 1.9

Horace and the Bore

I'm ankling, as I do, one day,
Along the good old Sacred Way,
Thinking of business or some dame --
A guy comes up; I know his name
And nothing else. He grabs my hand
With nerve to beat the well-known band,
And says to me, "Hello, old kick!
And how is every little trick?"
"I'm well," I say. "There's nothing new;
I can't complain; the same to you."

He sticks, and so I say: "Good-by!
Don't take any wooden denarii."
"Surely you know me," says the bore,
"I've got a lot of learned lore."
"Well, that's just dandy," I reply,
"That makes your average pretty high."
Faster I walk upon the pave
And see my valet, the lucky slave,
I wish I had his temper quick
So I could brain these bores who stick.

This cluck keeps talking Jove knows what,
But do I answer? I do not.
So he says: "Listen, I'm aware
You're anxious to give me the air.
No use, I'll stick around all day.
I'll foot your dogsteps. Whither away?

Say I: "Don't let me spoil your plan;
I'm going far to see a man
Whose name is F. O'Brien Schreiber;
He's sick, and lives across the Tiber."
"Of, that's all right," goes on his talk,
"I've lots of time, and I love to walk..."
So there I am, like some young jack
With a load too heavy for his back.

He starts again: "Believe me or not,
Viscus and Varus aren't so hot,
For where's the lad can make more rhyme
Than I in the same amount of time?
Who dances better? And I sing
About as well as anything."
I sneak a word in: "Listen, brother:
Got any family? Got a mother,
An aunt, or anyone who'd give
One damn whether you die or live?"

"Not one; all, all are laid away."
(The lucky stiffs! Oh, happy they!
But I'm alive. That is my lot.
Why don't you put me on the spot?
Into my coffin by a bore cast,
My epitaph the Sabellian forecast:
"Here lies a boy whom guns can't kill,
Whom no disease has e'er made ill.
But oh, this boy will perish young,
Done to his death by a babbling tongue.
Be warned, my son, when talkers harry you,
Run off as fast as your feet will carry you.")

Well, when we come to the vestal shrine --
It being then 10:39 --
He says he has to go to court
Or lose his case. "O.K., old sport,"
I say. But he says: "Listen, please,
Wait here, I beg you on my knees."
"I know no law," I say, "good-by.
You know I've got to see this guy."

He says: "I don't know what to do:
Give up my law case, Quint, or you?"
"Oh, give me up!" I say. "Oh, no,"
Says he. So on and on we go.
And then he says, "Say, just between us,
What is your contract with Maecenas?"
He picks his friends; wise in his dome;
No better, finer man in Rome."
"Why not give me a recommend?
You'd be supreme with me as friend."

"It's different over there," I said,
"From how you've got it in your head.
There's not a house whose life is cleaner,
No home where everything's serener.
Let one be wealthier than I or wiser,
Nobody cares -- nor he nor I, sir."
"Almost too good," says he, for truth."
"Well, so it is," I tell the youth.
"Aha!" says he, "in me you rouse
A wish to know your patron's house."
"Just try it," I say, "he's quite a guy.
He's hard to know, but just you try."
"I'll bribe the slaves, and if the door
Slams in my face, I'll ask for more;
And if I can't get in, I'll meet
Maecenas somewhere on the street.
I'll meet that man if but to bow to.
You can meet kings if you know how to."

As chatters on this boring Babbitt,
We meet, as Ol' Gal Luck would have it,
Fuscus Aristius. "Hello, old goat!"
"Hello, yourself!" I pull his coat,
I wink, I sigh. See him pretend
To get me wrong! A hell of a friend!
I say, trying to get him to connive at
My lie, "You want to talk in private?"

"Sure, any time," I hear him say,
"But this is a Jewish holiday."
"What of it?" I ask. "Well, I refuse,"
He says; "why scandalize the Jews?
Some day we'll try again," says he.
Why should this day be dark for me?
For off the rugged rascal ran
And left me with that terrible man.

But ha! The plaintiff meets this fellow
And sees him and begins to bellow:
"Where are you going, you crook? Come here,
You dog, you swine, you racketeer!"
Off goes the bore to court. How loud
The yelling of the gathering crowd!
And did I join that mob, or follow?
No. I genuflected to Apollo.

Epistle 1.5

A Bid to a House-Party

Torquatus, if you can recline
On this cheap furniture of mine,
If you are of a mind to dare
My frugal vegetable fare,
If six-year wine may pass your throat --
Then come and visit this here pote.
My house is clean, though far from sporty;
I'll look for you about 5:40.

Some years ago to-morrow morn
Was old Augustus Caesar born.
It is a legal holiday
And so we needn't leave the hay
Till noon. To-night we'll fool around
Discussing light things and profound:
Girls, poetry and aviation,
And eke the future of the nation.

What use is all my coin to me
Without a friend or two or three?
The guy who's cagey with his kale
Should beat it quick to Bloomingdale.
A little wine's the proper dope,
It makes you talk and sing and hope,
Peace it promotes, for who would bicker
When plied with wine? Hooray for licker!

The gifted author of this pome
Shall tend to everything at home;
The dishes will be clean and fine,
And how the knives and forks will shine!
Three other chaps I shall invite
(Five-handed games -- are they all right?)
Nor care nor woe shall agitate us,
Come on, old scout, come on, Torquatus1

Epistle 1.20

Q.H.F's Address to His Book

Ho, ambitious little book!
Wan and wistful is your look,
Think you that a lyricist
E'er could lead The Bookman's list?
Get you gone, and, booklet, learn,
Once away there's no return.
Verses fashioned for a colyum,
Who told you you were a volume?

How you will be torn and squeezed,
When the reader is appeased!
Moths and bookworms will devour
All those lines of light and power!
Should arrive one c2k
Whether I am grave or gay,
Say that he who runs this Steeple
Came from free and honest people.

Tell him I am short and stout,
Nor recluse nor gadabout;
Tell him that I have, alack!
Silver threads among the Black.
Tell him, though my temper's warm,
Quickly vanishes my storm,
And my years -- THAT I remember --
Five-and-forty next December!

Art of Poetry

Horace's The Art of Poetry

          (1-32)
          
Now if a painter to his art were wed,
  Would he a horse's neck, a fish's tail,
Join with the drawing of a human head,
  And then expect the painting not to fail?
Would you, my friends, restrain your loud derision
If you were asked to look on such a vision?

Believe me, Pisos, many a book and song
  Are fashioned on such helter-skelter themes --
Formless and vain and mixed together wrong,
  Jumbled and hazy as a sick man's dreams.
"But poetry and arts pertaining thereto,"
You say, "should take what liberty they dare to."

That I concede, but let me have a word:
License I give, and liberty I take.
But wild and tame will not unite; the bird,
  I hold, cannot be coupled with the snake.
And I am one who will always disparage
In life and letters, a lamb-and-tiger marriage.

Some poets make a glittering, gaudy show
  In introductions, promising too much,
As when they speak about the river's flow,
  Diana's altars, and the woods, and such;
Perhaps a rainbow when the shower passes,
A purling stream, perhaps, through summer grasses.

If cypresses are the only thing you know,
  What profits you your skill in painting trees
When what you are essaying now to show
  Is shipwreck on the green and angry seas?
Your aiming by your target be directed.
In brief, be simple, short, and unaffected.

But poets -- most of us -- are led by lure;
  We often lose the reason for the rhyme;
And so when you'd be brief, you are obscure,
  Bombastic when you wish to be sublime.
You want your verses smooth and full of virtue,
And, lo! your spirit and your nerves desert you.

He who is overcautious and who fears
  The threatening storm will stay along the shore;
While he who dares to soar in rarer spheres
  Puts fish on land, or in the sea the boar.
Too cautious do not be, nor too meticulous,
For that's a certain way to be ridiculous.

          (32-44)

Though not without a certain skill,
  The Aemilian sculptor who can make
The nails and waving hair does ill,
  If that the rest of it be fake.
Rather would I have no ambition
Than fashion such a composition.

O ye that would caress the Muse,
  Or sweet or sturdy be your song,
Learn what she'll take, and what refuse,
  And is she weak, or is she strong?
Bright be your flame, nor aught can dim it,
If you but know your Muse's limit.

For ye that well select your theme
  Need have no silly, foolish fear;
Your words will shine, your phrases gleam.
  Your method will be crystal clear.
Think what to say at once, and say it;
And as to what can wait, delay it.           

Appendix

Horace to Maecenas

The Bard Asked His Patron for Baseball Tickets

Maecenas, in many an ode
  I've jollied and flattered and praised you,
    In metre Glyconic, alcaic, adonic,
         I've mentioned you dozens of times.
The virtues that I have bestowed
  On you! and the heights where I've raised you!
    You pander and pet me, but what does it get me?
         I want some reward for my rhymes.

I've called you a great little guy
  Right n.p.r.m., top o' colyum;
    I've pinned some verbenas on you, Bill Maecenas,
         And all that I got was a drink --
A pint of Old Caecuban Rye!
  My verses to you'd fill a volume.
    You used to command me, but now, y'understand me,
         I've quit being Marcus O'Gink.

Maecenas, you get me, I hope.
  I want a reply to my queries;
    They're plain and vocalic, in 8-point italic,
         And clear as a midsummer sky.
This, then, is the drift of my dope:
  Do I get a seat for The Series?
    Am I to be present next Sat. if it's pleasant?
         Maecenas, I pause for reply.   

On a Wine of Horace's

What time I read your mighty line,
  O Mr. Q. Horatius Flaccus,
In praise of many an ancient wine --
  You twanged a wicked lyre to Bacchus! --
I wondered, like a Yankee hick,
If that old stuff contained a kick.

So when upon a Paris card
  I glimpsed Falernian, I said: "Waiter,
I'll emulate that ancient bard,
  And pass upon his merits later."
Professor Mendell, quelque sport,
Suggested that we split a quart.

O Flaccus, ere I ceased to drink
  Three glasses and a pair of highballs,
I could not talk; I could not think;
  For I was pickled to the eyeballs.
If you sopped up Falernian wine,
How did you ever write a line?

The Complete Poet and Letter Writer

A cagey and cautious old poet was Quintus
  H. Flaccus, a bard of renown,
His metrical traffic, Alcaic and Sapphic,
  He sang to the girls of the town.
His oding to Lydia, to Lyde, to Chloe,
  Was amorous, fearless, and bold;
Distinctly unchilly his poem to Phyllie,
  His verses to Venus uncold.

But license is granted the wearer of laurel;
  The poet may publicly burn
For that one or this one, caress one, and kiss one
  In print with a rhythmical turn.
Oh, cautious and cagey was Quintus Horatius,
  How prudent a poet to pen
His metrical missiles to girls, his Epistles
  In prose -- you remember -- to men!

Two Agriculturists

When Horace wrote his glistening odes
  Up in the quiet Sabine hills,
He worried not about the roads,
  He bothered not about the bills.

His ilex trees gave pleasant shade;
  No bugs devoured his olive-bark;
His garden knew no weeding spade;
  His lawn was velvet as a park.

From Tivoli's hills his water sprang;
  No thought he gave to watt or ohm.
At harvest time a labor gang
  For board and keep would come from Rome.

And if he craved a certain sum,
  And if the gods seemed less than just,
He'd get another fortune from
  The Maecenas Mortgage, Land and Trust.

Antiqua tempora! Good old times!
  Like Horace, my joys are peace's.
Like Horace, I write many rhymes --
  And there the similarity ceases. 

Tipperary

  O thou Torquatus, the space to Tipperarium
is (many) thousand of paces, a wide distance in
the travelling. The space to Tipperarium is
(many) thousand of paces toward the propinquity
to the most sweet virgin of whom knowledge is to
me. Farewell, O (thou) Piccadillium! Fare-
well, O rectangle of (the consul) Lestertius! The
space to Tipperarium is (many) thousand of
paces, yet, moreover, my heart at that location is
present.