Dame Fortune plays me many a prank. 
  When she is kind, oh, how I go it! 
But if again she’s harsh,—­why, then
  I am a very proper poet! 
When favoring gales bring in my ships,
  I hie to Rome and live in clover;
Elsewise I steer my skiff out here,
  And anchor till the storm blows over. 
Compulsory virtue is the charm
Of life upon the Sabine farm!

CHLORIS PROPERLY REBUKED

Chloris, my friend, I pray you your misconduct to forswear;
The wife of poor old Ibycus should have more savoir faire. 
A woman at your time of life, and drawing near death’s door,
Should not play with the girly girls, and think she’s en rapport.

What’s good enough for Pholoe you cannot well essay;
Your daughter very properly courts the jeunesse doree,—­
A Thyiad, who, when timbrel beats, cannot her joy restrain,
But plays the kid, and laughs and giggles a l’Americaine.

’T is more becoming, Madame, in a creature old and poor,
To sit and spin than to engage in an affaire d’amour. 
The lutes, the roses, and the wine drained deep are not for you;
Remember what the poet says:  Ce monde est plein de fous!

TO THE FOUNTAIN OF BANDUSIA

O fountain of Bandusia! 
  Whence crystal waters flow,
With garlands gay and wine I’ll pay
  The sacrifice I owe;
A sportive kid with budding horns
  I have, whose crimson blood
Anon shall dye and sanctify
  Thy cool and babbling flood.

O fountain of Bandusia! 
  The Dog-star’s hateful spell
No evil brings into the springs
  That from thy bosom well;
Here oxen, wearied by the plow,
  The roving cattle here
Hasten in quest of certain rest,
  And quaff thy gracious cheer.

O fountain of Bandusia! 
  Ennobled shalt thou be,
For I shall sing the joys that spring
  Beneath yon ilex-tree. 
Yes, fountain of Bandusia,
  Posterity shall know
The cooling brooks that from thy nooks
  Singing and dancing go.

TO THE FOUNTAIN OF BANDUSIA

O fountain of Bandusia! more glittering than glass,
And worthy of the pleasant wine and toasts that freely pass;
More worthy of the flowers with which thou modestly art hid,
To-morrow willing hands shall sacrifice to thee a kid.

In vain the glory of the brow where proudly swell above
The growing horns, significant of battle and of love;
For in thy honor he shall die,—­the offspring of the herd,—­
And with his crimson life-blood thy cold waters shall be stirred.

The Dog-star’s cruel season, with its fierce and blazing heat,
Has never sent its scorching rays into thy glad retreat;
The oxen, wearied with the plow, the herd which wanders near,
Have found a grateful respite and delicious coolness here.