And if the honest truth were told,
Its heel confessed the need of darning;
"Gods!" low-bred Vulcan cried, "behold!
There! that's what comes of too much larning!"
Pale Proserpine came groping round,
Her pupils dreadfully dilated
With too much living underground,—
A residence quite overrated;
This kerchief's what you want, I know,—
Don't cheat poor Venus of her cestus,—
You'll find it handy when you go
To—you know where; it's pure asbestus.
Then Phoebus of the silverr bow,
And Hebe, dimpled as a baby,
And Dian with the breast of snow,
Chaser and chased—and caught, it may be:
One took the quiver from her back,
One held the cap he spent the night in,
And one a bit of bric-a-brac,
Such as the gods themselves delight in.
Then Mars, the foe of human kind,
Strode up and showed his suit of armor;
So none at last was left behind
Save Venus, the celestial charmer.
Poor Venus! What had she to sell?
For all she looked so fresh and jaunty,
Her wardrobe, as I blush' to tell,
Already seemed but quite too scanty.
Her gems were sold, her sandals gone,—
She always would be rash and flighty,—
Her winter garments all in pawn,
Alas for charming Aphrodite.
The lady of a thousand loves,
The darling of the old religion,
Had only left of all the doves
That drew her car one fan-tailed pigeon.
How oft upon her finger-tips
He perched, afraid of Cupid's arrow,
Or kissed her on the rosebud lips,
Like Roman Lesbia's loving sparrow!