EAR Furius, you may rest assured,
My country-house is well secured.
How? With good timber, stone, and plaster,
From wind, and rain, and all disaster?
Ah, no! but by a certain skin,
Which is encased in painted tin,
It is secured for " money lent,”
To a curst son of Ten-per-Cent.
Y boy, that pours as none else can,
The bitter old Falernian,
Fill high our goblets-theirs and mine-
And with the very mightiest wine!
Posthumia is our queen to-night,
And brimming cups are her delight.
Nor is the juice that courses through
The vine, and gives the grape its hue,
More native there, than is the bowl
Congenial to her festive soul !
Then take the water hence, my boy,
'Tis death to wine, and death to joy!
Your deep-brow'd sages, they may quaff it,
But we aside shall ever daff it.
Great god Lyæus, none but he,
Shall in our mantling beakers be!
OME tell me, lads, who went to Spain,
To make a purse in Piso's train,
Verannius, best of friends, and you,
My excellent Fabullus, too,
Your looks are lean, your luggage light,
What cheer, what cheer? Has all gone right?
Or have you had of cold enough,
And hunger, with that wretched chuff,
And have you netted,-worse than worst,-
A good deal less than you disbursed?
Like me, who, following about
My prætor, was-in fact-clean'd out.
Oh Memmius, by your scurvy spite
You placed me in an evil plight!
And you, my friends, for aught I see,
Have suffer'd very much like me ;
For knave as Memmius was, I fear,
That he in Piso had his peer.
And so a fool's tale fitly ends!
This comes of courting noble friends.
But you, ye prætor scum, the shame
Of all that bear the Roman name,
May every god and goddess shower
Disasters on you hour by hour!
ORGETFUL, false to all that held thee dear,
No thought of pity for thy friend hast thou,
To our past loves, Alphenus, insincere,
Thou'rt ready to betray, undo me now.
Go, traitor, go! The gods with horror see
Such perfidy as thine, for they are just;
my distress thou, thou desertest me!
Alas, where shall we turn, where hang our trust?
Thou bad'st me yield thee up my love, thou didst,
Wooing my heart in thee its peace to find,
And now thou turn'st away, my grief amidst,
Thy words, thy deeds all scatter'd to the wind!
Thou mayst forget, but Heaven does not forget,
Nor Faith forget, who shall in season due
Force thee, in tears of all too late regret,
Thy wrong to friendship and to truth to rue.
IRMIO, thou fairest far beneath the sky
Of all the isles, and jutting shores, that lie
Deeply embosomed in calm inland lake,
Or where the waves of the vast ocean break;
Oh joy of joys, to gaze on thee once more!
I scarce believe that I have left the shore
Of Thynia, and Bithynia's parching plain,
And gaze on thee in safety once again!
Oh, what more sweet than when, from care set free, The spirit lays its burden down, and we,
With distant travel spent, come home and spread
Our limbs to rest along the wished-for bed:
This, this alone, repays such toils as these!
Smile, then, fair Sirmio, and thy master please,-
And you, bright Lydian waves, your dimples trim,
Let
every smile of home be wreathed for him!
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