Nor such trite petty sin could aught impart
To suit the blacker relish of thy heart.

But I was fool'd.-Thy guilt can e'en descend
To spoil a female or betray a friend.

Thine avarice lets no sin that's offer'd go,
Still grasps the high, but ne'er neglects the low;
While amply gorged with crimes of highest price,
Still finds some pleasure in the smallest vice.

UPON LESBIA'S ABUSE OF HIM.

LESBIA still rails at me when by, Still does the same though far I fly; Yet Lesbia loves me, or I'll die.

You ask me how I tell:

How! why for ever do not I

Retort her words? yet let me die

But I love Lesbia well.

ON SMYRNA ;"

A POEM WRITTEN BY CINNA.

SMYRNA, my
Cinna's poem, which nine years
His Muse hath labour'd, now at length appears;
While brisk Hortensius hath conceived, and done,
And given the world five thousand lines in one.
Far Atrax' waves will hear of Smyrna's name,
And latest ages still keep Smyrna's fame;
The while Volusius' Annals soon forgot

Shall wrap up herrings and in Padua rot.

The smaller labours of poetic art

Still please my feelings most and touch my heart; But let the crowd's applauses still be cast

On long Antimachus and dull bombast.

TO CALVUS.

ON THE DEATH OF QUINTILIA.

CALVUS, if any joy from mortal tears

Can touch the feelings of the silent dead;

When dwells regret on loves of former years,
Or weeps o'er friendships that have long been fled,

Oh! then far less will be Quintilia's woe
At early death and fate's severe decree,
Than the pure pleasure she will feel to know

How well, how truly she was loved by thee!

TO VETTIUS.

WHATE'ER is said that's rude and gross
To the most silly and verbose,

May well with meaning just and true
Be, foul-mouth'd Vettius, said to you.
Your rugged tongue might sound and whole
Lick e'en the ploughboy's filthy sole.

If all you know, 't would give you joy
To blast, to injure, and destroy,
But ope your mouth the wish to teach,

And no one can outlive the speech.