  Archilochus. Neobule, yesternight Saw I thee in beauty dight, On thy head a myrtle spray Cast its shadow as the day By the stars was put to flight. Twining on thy temples white Roses gave the myrtle light, Sign thou wilt not say me nay, Neobule. Loosened from its coilÈd height Streamed thy hair in thy despite On thy shoulders soft to stray And to bid the bard essay Never but of thee to write, Neobule. Neobule. Sorry poet, who dost dare Cast bold glances on my hair, Let thy most presumptuous eyes Seek another enterprise, Ceasing now to linger there. Hearken, I can tell thee where Grow the bushes that will spare Rods to teach thee humbler guise, Sorry poet. Know I not that I am fair? Need thy halting verse declare What my mirror daily cries? Rid me of thy silly sighs, Rid me of thy hateful stare, Sorry poet. Archilochus. Neobule, poets see Dreams of things that are to be. Vengeance is the poet's trade, Come, iambus, to my aid 'Gainst the fools who scoff at me. All the world will laugh with glee When they mark my verses free Grasp thee like a pillory, And thy scorn with scorn repaid, Neobule. E'en in death thou canst not flee From the doom the Fates decree. When my satire's keenest blade Cuts thee to the heart, fond maid, I shall laugh, but what of thee, Neobule? |
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