A TARDY APOLOGY
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I
Mæcenas, you will be my death,—though friendly you profess yourself,— If to me in a strain like this so often you address yourself: "Come, Holly, why this laziness? Why indolently shock you us? Why with Lethean cups fall into desuetude innocuous?" A god, Mæcenas! yea, a god hath proved the very curse of me! If my iambics are not done, pray, do not think the worse of me; Anacreon for young Bathyllus burned without apology, And wept his simple measures on a sample of conchology. Now, you yourself, Mæcenas, are enjoying this beatitude; If by no brighter beauty Ilium fell, you've cause for gratitude. A certain Phryne keeps me on the rack with lovers numerous; This is the artful hussy's neat conception of the humorous! |
A TARDY APOLOGY
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II
You ask me, friend, Why I don't send The long since due-and-paid-for numbers; Why, songless, I As drunken lie Abandoned to Lethean slumbers. Long time ago (As well you know) I started in upon that carmen; My work was vain,— But why complain? When gods forbid, how helpless are men! Some ages back, The sage Anack Courted a frisky Samian body, Singing her praise In metered phrase As flowing as his bowls of toddy. Till I was hoarse Might I discourse Upon the cruelties of Venus; 'T were waste of time As well of rhyme, For you've been there yourself, Mæcenas! Perfect your bliss If some fair miss Love you yourself and not your minæ; I, fortune's sport, All vainly court The beauteous, polyandrous Phryne! |