A THING , I am told, happened yesterday night,
Which I cannot approve, for I don't think it right
I'm informed you received such a tempest of knocks
As the pantaloon gets when they play Box and Cox.
And, what's more surprising, folk now are repeating
'Twas Caecilius gave you that most unkind beating.
You declare it's not true; and I hope it as well,
But the fellow has witnesses, so people tell.

Whenever I meet you, wherever I go,
Ten times in one hour it is — " How do you do?"
That " How do you do?" is your first word each day:
It is plain that there is not much doing your way.

" WHY does friend Johnson wear that gloomy look?"
" Good cause," you say, " this very morn I took
My wife's corpse to the grave." " Oh dear, oh dear,
Your rich old wife, no more we'll see her here.
And all her money now is yours to spend!
I am indeed distressed, my worthy friend."

My lad, it's a captain's good lady you're meeting,
Though you think if you're caught you'll get off with a beating.
He's a sword and he'll use it. " Not legal" — you say.
Well, are they quite legal, your goings-on, pray?

You know my name, " The little feasting hall"?
Take roses, unguents, wine, and feast withal;
But gaze with me at Caesar's dome which saith,
" A God was I — and died! Forget not death."

Your glossy clothes are superfine,
You mock my old ones and abhor them;
At least, if threadbare, they're mine own,
I didn't cheat the tailor for them.

Just watch the fellow yonder stroll along!
The costliest of clothes he loves to wear,
And after him there comes a motley throng
Of clients spruce and slaves with curly hair.
His chair is gay and decked with curtains fair;
Say you the smartest dandy in the town?
Just now to buy a meal of plainest fare
He pawned his only ring for half-a-crown.

Those Libyan rogues accuse your wife of greed,
And call her avaricious; yes, indeed!
But such a charge of rankest falsehood savours;
She rather is too generous with her favours.

I OFFERED love — you ask for awe;
Then I'll obey you and revere;
But don't forget the ancient saw
That love will never dwell with fear.

Your wife is not lacking in prudence or spite,
And that she has shown very plain;
She has bidden an eunuch to watch you at night,
And thinks then you chaste will remain.