But set no store by writers,
Ashamed I saw you wait.
But, Chloe, though you shun me,
Your later mood has won me
To own, the ill you've done me
Adds glory to the State.
C. L. Graves.
XII
HOW strange they seem, those hours of eld,
When on the slightest provocation,
Dear Bibulus, we were impelled
To unrestrained potation!
Alike when Sirius burned on high,
And when the days grew short and bleaker,
We dipped our noses, you and I,
Deep in the brimming beaker.
We talked of poetry and love—
Our hearts were sensitive as tinder—
And praised, all other bards above,
The majesty of Pindar.
But Oh! How little did I think
That I should come, the festive Flaccus,
To follow Pindar's rule of drink
And turn my back on Bacchus!
And yet when mighty Caesar banned
The wine-jar, and himself foreswore it,
41
