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Read Ebook: Tobogganing on Parnassus by Adams Franklin P Franklin Pierce
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Ebook has 483 lines and 17409 words, and 10 pages
AD PHYLLIDEM
Phyllis, I've a keg of fine fermented grape juice, Alban wine that's been nine years in the cellar. Ivy chaplets? Sure. Also, in the garden, Plenty of parsley.
See my little shack--why, you'd hardly know it. All the rooms are swept, Sunday-like and shiny; Flowers all around, altar simply famished-- Hungry for lamb stew.
Neighbours all are coming over to the party, All the busy boys, all the giggling girlies, Whiffs of certain things wafted from the kitchen-- Simply delicious.
Oh, of course. You ask why the fancy fireworks, Why the awning out, why the stylish doings. Well, I'll tell you why. It's Maecenas' birthday 13th of April.
Telephus? Oh, tush! Pass him up completely! Telly's such a swell; Telly doesn't love you; Telly is a trifler; Telly's running round with Some other fairy.
Phyllie, don't mismate; those that do regret it. Phaeton--you know his unhappy story; Poor Bellerophon, too, you must remember, Pegasus shook him.
If these few remarks, rather aptly chosen, Make a hit with you, come, don't make me jealous. Let me sing you songs of my own composing, Oh, come on over!
Advice
AD ARIUSTUM FUSCUM
Horace: Book I, Ode 22.
Fuscus, my friend, take it from me-- I know the world and what it's made of-- One on the square has naught to be Afraid of.
The Moorish bows and javelins? Nope. Such deadly things need not alarm him. Why, even arrows dipped in dope Can't harm him!
He's safe in any clime or land, Desert or river, hill or valley; Safe in all places on the Rand- McNally.
Why, one day in my Sabine grot, I sang for Lalage to hear me; A wolf came in and he did not Come near me!
Ah, set me on the sunless plain, In China, Norway, or Matanzas, Ay, place me anywhere from Maine To Kansas.
Still of my Lalage I'll sing, Where'er the Fates may chance to drop me; And nobody nor anything Shall stop me.
When Horace "Came Back"
CARMEN AMOEBAEUM
"Donec gratus eram tibi--"
HORACE
When I was your stiddy, my loveliest Lyddy, And you my embraceable she, In joys and diversions, the king of the Persians Had nothing on me.
LYDIA
HORACE
Ah, Chloe the Thracian--whose sweet modulation Of voice as she lilts to the lyre Is sweeter and fairer? Would but the Fates spare her I'd love to expire.
LYDIA
HORACE
Suppose my affection in Lyddy's direction Returned; that I gave the good-by To Chloe the golden, and back to the olden?-- I pause for reply.
LYDIA
Cheer up, mine ensnarer! Be Calais fairer Than stars, be you blustery and base, I'll love you, adore you; in brief, I am for you All over the place.
HORACE
What time I was your one best bet And no one passed the wire before me, Dear Lyddy, I cannot forget How you would--yes, you would--adore me. To others you would tie the can; You thought of me with no aversion. In those days I was happier than A Persian.
LYDIA
Correct. As long as you were not So nuts about this Chloe person, Your flame for me burned pretty hot-- Mine was the door you pinned your verse on. Your favourite name began with L, While I thought you surpassed by no man-- Gladder than Ilia, the well- Known Roman.
HORACE
On Chloe? Yes, I've got a case; Her voice is such a sweet soprano; Her people come from Northern Thrace; You ought to hear her play piano. If she would like my suicide-- If she'd want me a dead and dumb thing, Me for a glass of cyanide, Or something.
LYDIA
HORACE
Suppose I'm gone on you again, Suppose I've got ingrown affection For you; I sort of wonder, then, If you'd have any great objection. Suppose I pass this Chloe up And say:"Go roll your hoop, I'm rid o' ye!" Would that drop sweetness in your cup? Eh, Lydia?
LYDIA
Why, say--though he's fair as a star, And you are like a cork, erratic And light--and though I know you are As blustery as the Adriatic, I think I'd rather live with you Or die with you, I swear to gracious. So I will be your Mrs. Q. Horatius.
Nix On the Fluffy Stuff
AD CYNTHIAM
Propertius: Book I, Elegy 2.
Why, my love, the yellow trinkets In your tresses' purer gold? Why the Syrian perfume? Think it's Nice to be thus aureoled? Why the silken robes that rustle? Why the pigment on the map? Think you all that fume and fuss'll Ever charm a chap?
Mother Earth is unaffected-- Is her beauty therefore less? Is she gray or ill-complected? I should call her some success. Soft the murmur of the river, Bright the shore that lines the sea-- Is the universe a flivver? No, take it from me.
Castor loved the lady Phoebe For no bought or borrowed wile; Hillaira--wasn't she be- Loved without excessive style? Hippodamia slaved no fashions-- All that braver, elder time Is replete with simple passions Difficult to rhyme.
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