"Integer vitæ scelerisque purus."
Fuscus, old scout, if a guy's on the level
That's all the arsenal he'll have to tote;
Up to St. Peter or down to the Devil,
No need to carry a gun in his coat.
Prowling around, as you know is my habit,
I met a wolf in the forest, and he
Beat it for Wolfville and ran like a rabbit.
(He was some wolf, too, receive it from me.)
Where I may happen to camp is no matter,—
Paris, Chicago, Ostend or St. Joe,—
Like the old dame in the nursery patter
I shall make music wherever I go.
Drop me in Dawson or chuck me in Cadiz,
Dump me in Kansas or plant me in Rome,—
I shall keep on making love to the ladies:
Where there's a skirt is my notion of home.
II
DUETTO
"Donec gratus eram."
HORACE:
What time my Lydia owned me lord
No Persian king had much on Horace;
And when you blew my bed and board
I was some sad, believe me, Mawruss.
LYDIA:
What time you loved no other She,
Before this Chloë person signed you,
I flourished like a green bay tree;
Now I'm the Girl You Left Behind You.
HORACE:
This Chloë dame that takes my eye
Has so peculiar an allurance
I would not hesitate to die
If she could cop my life insurance.
LYDIA:
Well, as for that, I know a gent
With whom it's some delight to dally.
With me he makes an awful dent;
I'd perish once or twice for Cally.
HORACE:
Suppose our former love should go
Into a new de luxe edition?
Suppose I tie a can to Chlo,
And let you play your old position?
LYDIA:
Why, then, you cork, you butterfly,
You sweet, philandering, perjured villain,
With you I'd love to live and die,
Tho' Cally boy were twice as killin'.
III
TO PYRRHA
"Quis multa gracilis."
What young tin whistle gent,
Bedaubed with barber's scent,—
What cheapskate waits on you
To woo,
O Pyrrha?
For whom the puff and rat
And transformation that
You bought a year ago
Or so,
O Pyrrha?
Peeved? Not a bit. Not I
I'm sorry for the guy.
He draws a lovely lime
This time,
O Pyrrha!
I've dipped. The wet ain't fine.
Hung on the votive line
My duds. The gods can see
I'm free.
Eh, Pyrrha!
IV
TO ARISTIUS FUSCUS
"My sweetly-smiling, sweetly-speaking Lalage."
Fuscus, take a tip from me:
This here job's no bed of roses,
Not the cinch it seems to be,
Not the pipe that one supposes.
What care I, tho', if I may
Lallygag with Lalage.
Every day there's ink to spill,
Tho' I may not feel like working.
Every day a hole to fill;
One must plug it—there's no shirking.
Oh, that I might all the day
Lallygag with Lalage!
People say, "Gee! what a snap,
Turning paragraphs and verses.
He's the band on Fortune's cap,
Gets a barrel of ses-terces."
Let them gossip, while I play
Hide and seek with Lalage.
People hand me out advice:
"Hod, you're doing too much drivel.
Write us something sweet and nice.
Stow the satire, chop the frivol."
But we have the rent to pay,
Lalage; eh, Lalage?
Ladies shy the saving sense
Write me patronizing letters;
And there are the writing gents,
Always out to knock their betters.
What cares Flaccus if he may
Lallygag with Lalage!
No, old top, the writing lay's
Not a bed of sweet geranium.
Brickbats mingle with bouquets
Shied at my devoted cranium.
Does it peeve yours truly? Nay.
Nothing can—with Lalage.
Paste this, Fuscus, in your hat:
Not a pesky thing can peeve me.
Take it, too, from Horace flat,
She's some gal, is Lal, believe me.
So I coin this word to-day,
"Lallygag"—from Lalage.
V
TO SYLVIA
Were I on the Latin lay,
Were I turning Odes to-day,
You would draw a gem from me,
Little maid of mystery!
In an Ode I'd love to spout you;
I am simply bug about you.
That's the way!—the fairest peach
Is the one that's out of reach.
I have toasted in my time
Many a peach (and many a lime),
All of them, I must confess,
Lacking your elusiveness.
Lalage, my well known flame,
Was considerable dame;
Likewise Lydia and Phyllis,
Chloë, Pyrrha, Amaryllis.
Syl, if you had lived when they did
You'd have had those damsels faded.
(That will give you, girl, some notion
Of your Flaccus's devotion.)
Yep. If I were doing Odes
In my quondam favorite modes,
With your image to qui-vive me
I'd tear off some Ode, believe me!