Nor whether there be any patch left of us

After we cross the infernal ripples,

nor if the thunder fall from predestination;

Nor anything else of importance.

Upon the Actian marshes Virgil is Phoebus’ chief of police,

He can tabulate Caesar’s great ships.

He thrills to Ilian arms,

He shakes the Trojan weapons of Aeneas,

And casts stores on Lavinian beaches.

Make way, ye Roman authors,

clear the street O ye Greeks,

For a much larger Iliad is in the course of construction

(and to Imperial order)

Clear the streets O ye Greeks!

And you also follow him “neath Phrygian pine shade:

Thyrsis and Daphnis upon whittled reeds,

And how ten sins can corrupt young maidens;

Kids for a bribe and pressed udders,

Happy selling poor loves for cheap apples.

Tityrus might have sung the same vixen;

 Prev. P 29/99 next