Tobogganing on Parnassus

Franklin P. Adams

Capitolo 9

Me in the moment in which light I die once or twice
        To save him/it.

HORACE

Supposes me I/you/they have gone again on you,
 Supposes that I have the introverted affection
For You;  I order of wonders, then,
 If you had some great objection.
Supposes me I pass this Chloe on
 And it says:  "Goes to roll Your circle, I am rid or' the ye!"
That sweetness of drop in Your cup?
       Eh, Lydia?

LYDIA

Because, says--although he is equitable as a star,
 And you are as a cork, eccentric
It is light--and although I know that you are
 Stormy as the Adriatic,
I think that I would live rather with You
 Or it dies with you, I swear to attractive.
Then I will be Your Mrs. Q.
       Horatius.



Rejects On the Downy Stuff

AD CYNTHIAM

Propertius:  You book me, Elegy 2.

_"Quid adorned iuvat to proceed, life, capillo
  Does Tenues of Et Coa dress movere breast?"_


Because, my love, the yellow pendants
  In Your tresses' purer gold?
Because the Syrian perfume? You think it is
  Nice to be so aureoled?
Because the silky bathrobes that rustle?
  Because the pigment on the map?
You think you everybody that it smokes and it gets excited he/she wants
       Never enchantments a crack?

Earth of mother is subject not to influences--
  Is its beauty therefore less?
Is it grey or sick-complected?
  I should call her/it some success.
Soft the murmur of the river,
  Bright the beach that flanks the sea--
Is the universe a flivver?
        No, picks him/it up from me.

Castor loved Mrs Phoebe
 For any wiles bought or taken in loan;
Hillaira--it was not her it is-
 Beloved without excessive style?
Hippodamia didn't work as a slave ways--
 Everybody that braver time, more old man
It is full of the simple passions
        Difficult to rhyme.

No, my Cynthia, sweet and smile-ish,
 Pick him/it up from Your proper Propert,
You don't test to be so elegant,
 You don't try the skirt of harem.
I am never yours Sincerely,
 Over the shade of a doubt,
The Your forever, if you want only
       You cut the frivol.



Catullus, Considerable Lover

(A Pasteurization of Ode VII.)
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