“Your pamphlets will be thrown, thrown often into a chair

“Where a girl waits alone for her lover;

“Why wrench your page out of its course?

“No keel will sink with your genius

“Let another oar churn the water,

“Another wheel, the arena; mid-crowd is as bad as mid-sea.”

He had spoken, and pointed me a place with his plectrum:

Orgies of vintages, an earthern image of Silenus

Strengthened with rushes, Tegaean Pan,

The small birds of the Cytharean mother,

their Punic faces dyed in the Gorgon’s lake;

Nine girls, from as many countrysides

bearing her offerings in their unhardened hands,

Such my cohort and setting. And she bound ivy to his thyrsos;

Fitted song to the strings;

Roses twined in her hands.

And one among them looked at me with face offended,

Calliope:

“Content ever to move with white swans!

“Nor will the noise of high horses lead you ever to battle;

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