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A line-o'-verse or two
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Suppose I tie a can to Chlo,
And let you play your old position?
LYDIA:
Why, then, you cork, you butterfly,
You sweet, philandering, perjured villain,
With you I’d love to live and die,
Tho’ Cally boy were twice as killin’.
III
TO PYRRHA
“Quis multa gracilis.”
What young tin whistle gent,
Bedaubed with barber’s scent, —
What cheapskate waits on you
To woo,
O Pyrrha?
For whom the puff and rat
And transformation that
You bought a year ago
Or so,
O Pyrrha?
Peeved? Not a bit. Not I
I’m sorry for the guy.
He draws a lovely lime
This time,
O Pyrrha!
I’ve dipped. The wet ain’t fine.
Hung on the votive line
My duds. The gods can see
I’m free.
Eh, Pyrrha!
IV
TO ARISTIUS FUSCUS
“My sweetly-smiling, sweetly-speaking Lalage.”
Fuscus, take a tip from me:
This here job’s no bed of roses,
Not the cinch it seems to be,
Not the pipe that one supposes.
What care I, tho’, if I may
Lallygag with Lalage.
Every day there’s ink to spill,
Tho’ I may not feel like working.
Every day a hole to fill;
One must plug it – there’s no shirking.
Oh, that I might all the day
Lallygag with Lalage!
People say, “Gee! what a snap,
Turning paragraphs and verses.
He’s the band on Fortune’s cap,
Gets a barrel of ses-terces.”
Let them gossip, while I play
Hide and seek with Lalage.
People hand me out advice:
“Hod, you’re doing too much drivel.
Write us something sweet and nice.
Stow the satire, chop the frivol.”
But we have the rent to pay,
Lalage; eh, Lalage?
Ladies shy the saving sense
Write me patronizing letters;
And there are the writing gents,
Always out to knock their betters.
What cares Flaccus if he may
Lallygag with Lalage!
No, old top, the writing lay’s
Not a bed of sweet geranium.
Brickbats mingle with bouquets
Shied at my devoted cranium.
Does it peeve yours truly? Nay.
Nothing can – with Lalage.
Paste this, Fuscus, in your hat:
Not a pesky thing can peeve me.
Take it, too, from Horace flat,
She’s some gal, is Lal, believe me.
So I coin this word to-day,
“Lallygag” – from Lalage.
V
TO SYLVIA
Were I on the Latin lay,
And let you play your old position?
LYDIA:
Why, then, you cork, you butterfly,
You sweet, philandering, perjured villain,
With you I’d love to live and die,
Tho’ Cally boy were twice as killin’.
III
TO PYRRHA
“Quis multa gracilis.”
What young tin whistle gent,
Bedaubed with barber’s scent, —
What cheapskate waits on you
To woo,
O Pyrrha?
For whom the puff and rat
And transformation that
You bought a year ago
Or so,
O Pyrrha?
Peeved? Not a bit. Not I
I’m sorry for the guy.
He draws a lovely lime
This time,
O Pyrrha!
I’ve dipped. The wet ain’t fine.
Hung on the votive line
My duds. The gods can see
I’m free.
Eh, Pyrrha!
IV
TO ARISTIUS FUSCUS
“My sweetly-smiling, sweetly-speaking Lalage.”
Fuscus, take a tip from me:
This here job’s no bed of roses,
Not the cinch it seems to be,
Not the pipe that one supposes.
What care I, tho’, if I may
Lallygag with Lalage.
Every day there’s ink to spill,
Tho’ I may not feel like working.
Every day a hole to fill;
One must plug it – there’s no shirking.
Oh, that I might all the day
Lallygag with Lalage!
People say, “Gee! what a snap,
Turning paragraphs and verses.
He’s the band on Fortune’s cap,
Gets a barrel of ses-terces.”
Let them gossip, while I play
Hide and seek with Lalage.
People hand me out advice:
“Hod, you’re doing too much drivel.
Write us something sweet and nice.
Stow the satire, chop the frivol.”
But we have the rent to pay,
Lalage; eh, Lalage?
Ladies shy the saving sense
Write me patronizing letters;
And there are the writing gents,
Always out to knock their betters.
What cares Flaccus if he may
Lallygag with Lalage!
No, old top, the writing lay’s
Not a bed of sweet geranium.
Brickbats mingle with bouquets
Shied at my devoted cranium.
Does it peeve yours truly? Nay.
Nothing can – with Lalage.
Paste this, Fuscus, in your hat:
Not a pesky thing can peeve me.
Take it, too, from Horace flat,
She’s some gal, is Lal, believe me.
So I coin this word to-day,
“Lallygag” – from Lalage.
V
TO SYLVIA
Were I on the Latin lay,
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