Why, say--though he's fair as a star,
And you are like a cork, erratic
And light--and though I know you are
As blustery as the Adriatic,
I think I'd rather live with you
Or die with you, I swear to gracious.
So I will be your Mrs. Q.
Horatius.



Nix On the Fluffy Stuff

AD CYNTHIAM

Propertius: Book I, Elegy 2.

_"Quid iuvat ornato procedere, vita, capillo
Et tenues Coa veste movere sinus?"_


Why, my love, the yellow trinkets
In your tresses' purer gold?
Why the Syrian perfume? Think it's
Nice to be thus aureoled?
Why the silken robes that rustle?
Why the pigment on the map?
Think you all that fume and fuss'll
Ever charm a chap?