Flirts on you from her mop, but not so clean.
You fly, invoke the gods; then, turning, stop
To rail; she singing still, whirls on her mop.
Not yet the dust had shunned the unequal strife,
But, aided by the wind, fought still for life,
And wafted with its foe by violent gusts,
’Twas doubtful which was rain and which was dust.
Ah! where must needy poet seek for aid
When dust and rain at once his coat invade?
Sole coat; where dust, cemented by the rain,