("His Friends" To Quintus Horatius Flaccus.)

"Haec decies repetita [non] placebit."--Ars Poetica.

Flaccus, you write us charming songs: No bard we know possesses In such perfection what belongs To brief and bright addresses;

No man can say that Life is short With mien so little fretful; No man to Virtue's paths exhort In phrases less regretful;

Or touch, with more serene distress, On Fortune's ways erratic; And then delightfully digress From Alp to Adriatic:

All this is well, no doubt, and tends Barbarian minds to soften; But, HORACE--we, we are your friends-- Why tell us this so often?

Why feign to spread a cheerful feast, And then thrust in our faces These barren scraps (to say the least) Of Stoic common-places?

Recount, and welcome, your pursuits: Sing Lyde's lyre and hair; Sing drums and Berecynthian flutes; Sing parsley-wreaths; but spare,--

O, spare to sing, what none deny, That things we love decay;-- That Time and Gold have wings to fly;-- That all must Fate obey!

Or bid us dine--on this day week-- And pour us, if you can, As soft and sleek as girlish cheek, Your inmost Caecuban;--

Of that we fear not overplus; But your didactic 'tap'-- Forgive us!--grows monotonous; Nunc vale! Verbum sap.

VERSES TO ORDER.