Must be all right; her folks must be
Delightful parents.

Her arms and face I can commend,
And, as the writer of a poem,
I fain would compliment, old friend,
The limbs below 'em.

Nay, be not jealous. Stop your fears.
My tendencies are far from sporty.
Besides, the number of my years
Is over forty.



Horace the Wise

AD PYRRHAM

Horace: Book I, Ode 5.

_"Quis multa gracilis te puer in rosa"_


What lady-like youth in his wild aberrations
Is putting cologne on his brow?
For whom are the puffs and the blond transformations?
I wonder who's kissing you now.
[Footnote: Paraphraser's note: Horace beat the modern song
writers to this. The translation is literal