Echoes from the Sabine Farm | Page 5

R.M.F.
TO QUINTIUS HIRPINUS. Odes, II. 11 E.F.
WINE, WOMEN, AND SONG. Odes, I. 18 E.F.
AN ODE TO FORTUNE. Odes, I. 35 E.F.
TO A JAR OF WINE. Odes, III. 21 E.F.
TO POMPEIUS VARUS. Odes, II. 1 E.F.
THE POET'S METAMORPHOSIS. Odes, II. 20 E.F.
TO VENUS. Odes, I. 30 E.F.
IN THE SPRINGTIME. I. Odes, I. 4 E.F.
IN THE SPRINGTIME. II. R.M.F.
TO A BULLY. Epode VI. E.F.
TO MOTHER VENUS.
TO LYDIA. Odes, I. 8 E.F.
TO NEOBULE. Odes, III. 12 R.M.F.
AT THE BALL GAME. Odes, V. 17. R.M.F.
EPILOGUE. E.F.
AN INVITATION TO M?CENAS
Dear, noble friend! a virgin cask?Of wine solicits your attention;?And roses fair, to deck your hair,?And things too numerous to mention.?So tear yourself awhile away?From urban turmoil, pride, and splendor,?And deign to share what humble fare?And sumptuous fellowship I tender.?The sweet content retirement brings?Smoothes out the ruffled front of kings.
The evil planets have combined?To make the weather hot and hotter;?By parboiled streams the shepherd dreams?Vainly of ice-cream soda-water.?And meanwhile you, defying heat,?With patriotic ardor ponder?On what old Rome essays at home,?And what her heathen do out yonder.?M?cenas, no such vain alarm?Disturbs the quiet of this farm!
God in His providence obscures?The goal beyond this vale of sorrow,?And smiles at men in pity when?They seek to penetrate the morrow.?With faith that all is for the best,?Let's bear what burdens are presented,?That we shall say, let come what may,?"We die, as we have lived, contented!?Ours is to-day; God's is the rest,--?He doth ordain who knoweth best."
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 dorée_,--?A Thyiad, who, when timbrel beats, cannot her joy restrain, But plays the kid, and laughs and giggles _à l'Américaine_.
'T is