(_Quintus Horatius Flaccus loquitur._)
Maecenas sprang from royal line,
You spring a Line diurnal.
(Perhaps my joke is drawn too fine
For readers of your journal.)
But what I started out to say,
Across the gulf of ages,
Is that, in our old Roman day,
My patron paid me wages.
No barren wreath of fame was mine
When Mac approved my stuff,
But casks of good Falernian wine,
And slaves and gold enough.
And last, to keep the wolf away
And guard my age from harm,
He gave me in his princely way
My little Sabine farm.
But now, forsooth, your merry crew--
_O Tempora! O Mores!_--
What do they ever get from you--
Your Laura, Pan, Dolores?
They fill the Line with verse and wheeze,
To them your fame is due.
What do they ever get for these?
Maecenas? Ha! Ha! _You?_
So as I quaff my spectral wine,
At ease beside the Styx,
Would I contribute to the Line?
Nequaquam! Nunquam! Nix!
Campion.
* * *
Our compliments to Old Man Flaccus, whose witty message reminds us to
entreat contribs to be patient, as we are snowed under with offerings.
For a week or more we have been trying to horn into the column with some
verses of our own composing.
* * *