 | The rural lyre |  |
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FAMILIAR POEM FROM CAIUS FANNIUS TO PLAUTUS.
Plautus, why turn thy sister from thee? KnowTh'inhospitable world will, like a blast
Of pestilence, disfigure her fair mind;
And thou wilt prove a loser by her change.
I much suspect thou art thyself ensnar'd
By that old dame who trims the midnight lamp
To welcome thee from feasts the wise man shuns.
Hold not that beldam in thy heart's esteem:
She gives to Bacchus, and the woodland god
Her orgies.—Oh! I hate a woman coarse
In love.—Malanthus says thy sister weeps
When in the forum thou art made the jest
Of vulgar tribunes, and departs with speed,
Lest she should questioned be of Plautus. When
Thy sire felt death steal near his nobler heart,
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Seem'd gazing onward to the world of souls.
There did thy tears look pitiful; thy voice
Was rais'd in virtue's favour, as he breath'd
That sacred blessing thou wilt hear no more!
Did I not see thee take thy sister's hand,
Who, with two hundred talents weighed in gold,
Made thy good fortune. Plautus, much I grieve
Thou shouldst so prize the gold, and throw away
The jewel of thine house. Thy sister vies
With Venus, or the large-eyed wife of Jove!
And but that her embellishments reflect
Thy folly on the crowd, thou hadst not heard
From Caius Fannius.
| The rural lyre | |