HORACE TO PYRRHA

What perfumed, posie-dizened sirrah,

With smiles for diet,

Clasps you, O fair but faithless Pyrrha,

On the quiet?

For whom do you bind up your tresses,

As spun-gold yellow,—

Meshes that go, with your caresses,

To snare a fellow?

How will he rail at fate capricious,

And curse you duly!

Yet now he deems your wiles delicious,

You perfect, truly!

Pyrrha, your love's a treacherous ocean;

He'll soon fall in there!

Then shall I gloat on his commotion,

For I have been there!