Neobule.
Sorry poet, who dost dare
Cast bold glances on my hair,
Let thy most presumptuous eyes
Seek another enterprise,
Ceasing now to linger there.
Hearken, I can tell thee where
Grow the bushes that will spare
Rods to teach thee humbler guise,
Sorry poet.
Know I not that I am fair?
Need thy halting verse declare
What my mirror daily cries?
Rid me of thy silly sighs,
Rid me of thy hateful stare,
Sorry poet.
Archilochus.
Neobule, poets see
Dreams of things that are to be.
Vengeance is the poet's trade,
Come, iambus, to my aid
'Gainst the fools who scoff at me.
All the world will laugh with glee
When they mark my verses free
Grasp thee like a pillory,
And thy scorn with scorn repaid,
Neobule.
E'en in death thou canst not flee
From the doom the Fates decree.
When my satire's keenest blade
Cuts thee to the heart, fond maid,
I shall laugh, but what of thee,
Neobule?
Le Temps Passé
Those brave old days when King Abuse did reign
We sigh for, but we shall not see again.
Then Eldon sowed the seed of equity
That grew to bounteous harvest, and with glee
A Bar of modest numbers shared the grain.
Then lived the pleaders who could issues feign,
Who blushed not to aver that France or Spain
Was in the Ward of Chepe;[I] no more can be
Those brave old days.
O'er pauper settlements men fought amain,
And golden guineas followed in their train,
John Doe then flourished like a lusty tree,
And Richard Roe brought many a noble fee,
We mourn in unremunerated pain
Those brave old days.