English

Far o'er the town thy window looks,
Fair library, nor hears its din:
Shrine of the graver Muse's books,
Can gay Thalia venture in?

Upon thy lowest shelf may stand
These seven scrolls of wit and mirth
Purged throughly by the author's hand —
'Tis this alone that gives them worth —

Yet guard them well, be proud in them,
Though small my gift of love may be,
The world shall hail it as the gem
Of Julius' far-famed library.

I' VE not a shilling left; what can I do
Save sell your presents? May I sell them you?

In Tibur's sunshine she was told
That ivory though stained and old
May win its whiteness back;
Alcides' hills have potent air;
A little while she sojourned there
And now returns jet black.

E ROS and Linus are debauched, you say.
Their private life is no concern to you;
If Matho's mistress costs him thousands, pray,
Does that expense deplete your revenue?
And, seeing you can snore the whole night through,
What matter though Sertorius drink till day?
Is Lupus deep in debt? If you refuse
To give or lend to him you will not lose.
Your own concerns that need attending to
You carefully ignore and thrust away —
Your clothes unpaid for still, tho' far from new,
That no one now will trust you for a day;

At sixty years of age is he
A man of promise still:
Methinks he needs eternity
That promise to fulfil!

To pallid skin his verse is due,
To this alone we owe it;
He thought that interesting hue
Enough to make a poet.

You ask me why my books were never sent?
For fear you might return the compliment.

Thy breastplate, dread as Pallas own, whereon
The Gorgon dare not gaze, now, Caesar, don!
Seems it but mortal armour? It shall be
A very Aegis when it touches thee.

DERE'S lighds oopon de Appian,
Dey shine de road entlang;
Und from ein hundert tombs dere brumms
A wild Lateinisch song;
It rings from Nero's goldnen haus;
Evoe! - here he coom!
Fly oud, ye moenads, from your craves!-
Hans Breitmann's got to Rome!

For vhile de lamp holts oud to purn,
Or von goot shpark ish dere,
Dere's hope for all of dem whose lives
Ish doun in Lempriere.
Von real, shenuine heathen
Is coom at'last to home;
Ye shleepin gotts, lift oop your hets-

In a field of goldnen parley
Goot King Gambrinus shlept,
Und treamin' pout de dursty volk,
Dey say he gried und vept.
" In all mine land of Nederland,
Dere crows no mead or wein,
Und wasser I couldt nefer get
Indo dis troat of mein.

" Now hear me on, ye headen gotts!
Und all de Christian too;
Der Bacchus und der Shoopider,
Und Marie tressed in plue!