A TARDY APOLOGY

You ask me, friend, Why I don't send The long since due-and-paid-for numbers; Why, songless, I As drunken lie Abandoned to Lethean slumbers.

Long time ago (As well you know) I started in upon that carmen; My work was vain,— But why complain? When gods forbid, how helpless are men!

Some ages back, The sage Anack Courted a frisky Samian body, Singing her praise In metered phrase As flowing as his bowls of toddy.

Till I was hoarse Might I discourse Upon the cruelties of Venus; 'T were waste of time As well of rhyme, For you've been there yourself, Mæcenas!

Perfect your bliss If some fair miss Love you yourself and not your minæ; I, fortune's sport, All vainly court The beauteous, polyandrous Phryne!