No, old top, the writing lay’s Not a bed of sweet geranium. Brickbats mingle with bouquets Shied at my devoted cranium. Does it peeve yours truly? Nay. Nothing can—with Lalage.

Not a bed of sweet geranium.

Shied at my devoted cranium.

Does it peeve yours truly? Nay.

Nothing can—with Lalage.

  Paste this, Fuscus, in your hat: Not a pesky thing can peeve me. Take it, too, from Horace flat, She’s some gal, is Lal, believe me. So I coin this word to-day, “Lallygag”—from Lalage.

Not a pesky thing can peeve me.

She’s some gal, is Lal, believe me.

So I coin this word to-day,

“Lallygag”—from Lalage.

[Pg 62]

[Pg 62]

V

V

TO SYLVIA

  Were I on the Latin lay, Were I turning Odes to-day, You would draw a gem from me, Little maid of mystery!

  In an Ode I’d love to spout you; I am simply bug about you. That’s the way!—the fairest peach Is the one that’s out of reach.

  I have toasted in my time Many a peach (and many a lime), All of them, I must confess, Lacking your elusiveness.

  Lalage, my well known flame, Was considerable dame; Likewise Lydia and Phyllis, Chloë, Pyrrha, Amaryllis.

  Syl, if you had lived when they 

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