You ask me if my villa lies
Exposed to north, east, west, or south:
I answer,--every wind that flies,
Flies at it, and with open mouth.
From every quarter winds assail,
But that which comes from _quarter_-day,
Though it four times a-year prevail,
It does but whistle, and not pay.
Some blow from far, and some hard by;
One, mortgage-wind, takes shortest journey,
Only across the way from Sly,
And blasts with "power of attorney."
But what is worse than windy racks is,
My windows leak at every pane,
And are not tight 'gainst rates and taxes.
My roof and doors _let_ in the rain--
The only _let_ my villa knows.
So that with taxes, wind, and wet,
From whatsoever point it blows,
My house is blown upon _unlet_.
Now, I hope my friend the Curate will admit so far to be rather a
lengthy translation. I say nothing of addenda--thus:--
"Winds blow, and crack your cheeks,"--alack,
Who said it, wanted house and halls,
Nor knew winds have no cheeks to crack,
In short crack nothing but my walls.
My friends console--"the winds will drop:"
'Tis equal trouble to my mind;
For if it tumbles on the top,
You know I cannot _raise the wind_.
To sum up all--for its location;--
The question's of importance vital;--
In Chancery--wretched situation;
A rascal there disputes my title.
CURATE.--You are coming it pretty strong, and quite blowing up Catullus
with your hurricane of winds. After all the household miseries in your
lines, a cheering glass may set things to rights a little. Here, then,
is what he says to his wine-server:--