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.
Nix On the Fluffy Stuff
AD CYNTHIAM
Propertius: Book I, Elegy 2.
"Quid iuvat ornato procedere, vita, capillo
Et tenues Coa veste movere sinus?"
Why, my love, the yellow trinkets
In your tresses' purer gold?
Why the Syrian perfume? Think it's
Nice to be thus aureoled?
Why the silken robes that rustle?
Why the pigment on the map?
Think you all that fume and fuss'll
Ever charm a chap?
Mother Earth is unaffected—
Is her beauty therefore less?
Is she gray or ill-complected?
I should call her some success.
Soft the murmur of the river,
Bright the shore that lines the sea—
Is the universe a flivver?
No, take it from me.