Give me the girl who's always willing,
Who can suffice for lovers three,
Whose price complete is just one shilling,
Who gives my man what she gives me.
Let Frenchmen in their arms enfold
Fine ladies with their silks and all,
They care for nothing else but gold,
Give me the girl who wears a shawl.

Foul Asian coast, his life hast thou betrayed,
On thee by guilty waves his corpse was tossed.
Close in her breast his loving spouse conveyed
The sacred urn, too soon the seas were crossed,
Too soon those ashes in the earth she laid,
And seemed twice widowed of a love twice lost.

Death snatched you away before your day and took you to Lethe's shore,
You could beat old Parr, but Methuselah might give you a month or more.
What a voice to be dumb — it could overcome the market's or schoolroom's clatter,
A revivalist hymn, or the river's brim with a million cranes a-chatter.
There was none like you foul tricks to do, as a witch you have left no double:
Be your covering slight and of sand so light that the dogs may have little trouble.

Who carved our master's bust from Latin stone
And so the Phidian ivory outshone?
'Tis Jove's own face; nay 'tis the world we see:
So the god thunders when from clouds he's free.
Athena gave thee more than that one crown;
She too this worshipped image once did own.

Tell me where now the golden garland lies
That Alban Pallas gave thee for thy prize. Carus:
See'st thou our master's face in marble wrought?
To grace his locks my crown took wings unsought. Martial:
The pious oak may grudge the olive now
Its glory; for it wreathes our victor's brow.

A RTEMIDORUS bought a pretty slave
And sold his lands to pay — the price was great —
But Calliodorus with the sum he gave
Became the master of the whole estate.
Who bears the name of Artemis should rate
Love at a price far meaner; and its charm,
To him that's called from beauty, prove a bait
Much more alluring than a dirty farm.

You praise the gourmet's baths; do you design
To share his water, or his food and wine?

While Caesar reigns, long may my country cot
And tiny house in Rome be mine; but lo,
Yon straining pole doth bring my garden-plot
Its scanty waters from the vale below;
But here, though nigh at hand the fountains flow
No quickening drop doth slake my parching home;
One rill divine a bard would love to owe
To him, the Muses' lord, the God of Rome.

L ATONA'S grandson, by whose potions mild
The Fates with too brief distaff are beguiled,
These locks, his lord's delight, thy boy sends now
To thee from Rome to pay his solemn vow,
And this bright glass has added to the hair
Whose verdict oft assured him he was fair.
Gone are his tresses bright; yet none the less
Preserve for him his youthful comeliness.

His mirror, beauty's wisdom, and his hair
To Aesculapius an offering
The boy our lord most loves to-day doth bear,
Who by his name recalls the hours of spring.
Happy the land that is with such gifts fee'd:
For him we would not take e'en Ganymede.