To PRIAPUSThis place, O youths, I protect, nor less this turfbuilded cottage,Roofed with its osier-twigs and thatched with its bundles of sedges;I from the dried oak hewn and fashioned with rustical hatchet,Guarding them year by year while more are they evermore thriving.For here be owners twain who greet and worship my Godship,He of the poor hut lord and his son, the pair of them peasants:This with assiduous toil aye works the thicketty herbageAnd the coarse water-grass to clear afar from my chapel:That with his open hand ever brings me offerings humble.Hung up in honour mine are flowery firstlings of spring-tide,Wreaths with their ears still soft the tender stalklets a-crowning;Violets pale are mine by side of the poppy-head pallid;With the dull yellow gourd and apples sweetest of savour;Lastly the blushing grape disposed in shade of the vine-tree.Anon mine altar (this same) with blood (but you will be silent!)Bearded kid and anon some horny-hoofed nanny shall sprinkle.Wherefore Priapus is bound to requite such honours by service,Doing his duty to guard both vineyard and garth of his lordling.Here then, O lads, refrain from ill-mannered picking and stealing:Rich be the neighbour-hind and negligent eke his Priapus:Take what be his: this path hence leadeth straight to his ownings.

To PRIAPUSI thuswise fashionèd by rustic artAnd from dried poplar-trunk (0 traveller!) hewn,This fieldlet, leftwards as thy glances fall,And my lord's cottage with his pauper garthProtect, repelling thieves' rapacious hands.In spring with vari-coloured wreaths I'm crown'd,In fervid summer with the glowing grain,Then with green vine-shoot and the luscious bunch,And glaucous olive-tree in bitter cold.The dainty she-goat from my pasture bearsHer milk-distended udders to the town:Out of my sheep-cotes ta'en the fatted lambSends home with silver right-hand heavily charged;And, while its mother lows, the tender calfBefore the temples of the Gods must bleed.Hence of such Godhead, (traveller !) stand in awe,Best it befits thee off to keep thy hands.Thy cross is ready, shaped as artless yard;"I'm willing, 'faith" (thou say'st) but 'faith here comesThe boor, and plucking forth with bended arm Makes of this tool a club for doughty hand.

To AURELIUS THE SKINFLINTAurelius, father of the famisht crew,Not sole of starvelings now, but wretches whoWere, are, or shall be in the years to come,My love, my dearling, fain art thou to strum.Nor privately; for nigh thou com'st and jestestAnd to his side close-sticking all things questest.'Tis vain: while lay'st thou snares for me the worst,By . . . . I will teach thee first.An food-full thus do thou, my peace I'd keep:But what (ah me ! ah me !) compels me weepAre thirst and famine to my dearling fated.Cease thou so doing while as modest rated,Lest to thy will thou win—but . . . .

To VARUS ABUSING SUFFENUSVarus, yon wight Suffenus known to theeFairly for wit, free talk, urbanity,The same who scribbles verse in amplest store—Methinks he fathers thousands ten or moreIndited not as wont on palimpsest,But paper-royal, brand-new boards, and bestFresh bosses, crimson ribbands, sheets with leadRuled, and with pumice-powder all well polished.These as thou readest, seem that fine, urbaneSuffenus, goat-herd mere, or ditcher-swainOnce more, such horrid change is there, so vile.What must we wot thereof? a Droll erst while,Or (if aught) cleverer, he with converse meets,He now in dullness, dullest villain beatsForthright on handling verse, nor is the wight Ever so happy as when verse he write:So self admires he with so full delight.In sooth, we all thus err, nor man there beBut in some matter a Suffenus seeThou canst: his lache allotted none shall lack Yet spy we nothing of our back-borne pack.