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 delicio