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.