HOW unhappy (though unmarried) is an uncle who, bereft
Of the solace of the wine-cup, is continually left
At the mercy of an energetic niece.
Neobule is unfailing in attendance at the Games,
Imperturbably regardless of the Muses or their claims
And relentless in denying me release.
Her equipment is amphibious: she can swim a mile or more;
Her appearance in the saddle I both envy and adore;
She's the super-Atalanta of the young.
She declines to ply her needle, and she never reads a book,
But she withers me completely with a single scorching look,
And she cows me with the lashing of her tongue.
- C. L. Graves.
WHEN Florus, who of old was burning
With zeal for literary lore,
Home from the Parthian front returning
Came round on crutches to my door,
I strove his ancient ardour to relume
And oust Bellona from the Muses' room.
Whether 'twas Sappho or Alcaeus
That tuned the authentic Lesbian lyre;
Was ever swineherd like Eumaeus;
Or whether we should more admire