CARMEN AMOEBAEUM
I
Horace: Book III, Ode 9.
"Donec gratus eram tibi--"
HORACE
When I was your stiddy, my loveliest Lyddy,
And you my embraceable she,
In joys and diversions, the king of the Persians
Had nothing on me.
LYDIA
When I was the person you penned all that verse on,
Ere Chloe had caused you to sigh,
Not she whose cognomen is Ilia the Roman
Was happier than I.
HORACE
Ah, Chloe the Thracian--whose sweet modulation
Of voice as she lilts to the lyre
Is sweeter and fairer? Would but the Fates spare her
I'd love to expire.
LYDIA
Tush! Calais claims me and wholly inflames me,
He pesters me never with rhymes;
If they should spare Cally, I'd perish to_tal_ly
A couple of times.
HORACE
Suppose my affection in Lyddy's direction
Returned; that I gave the good-by
To Chloe the golden, and back to the olden?--
I pause for reply.
LYDIA
Cheer up, mine ensnarer! Be Calais fairer
Than stars, be you blustery and base,
I'll love you, adore you; in brief, I am for you
All over the place.
II
HORACE
What time I was your one best bet
And no one passed the wire before me,
Dear Lyddy, I cannot forget
How you would--yes, you would--adore me.
To others you would tie the can;
You thought of me with no aversion.
In those days I was happier than
A Persian.
LYDIA
Correct. As long as you were not
So nuts about this Chloe person,
Your flame for me burned pretty hot--
Mine was the door you pinned your verse on.
Your favourite name began with L,
While I thought you surpassed by no man--
Gladder than Ilia, the well-
Known Roman.
HORACE
On Chloe? Yes, I've got a case;
Her voice is such a sweet soprano;
Her people come from Northern Thrace;
You ought to hear her play piano.
If she would like my suicide--
If she'd want me a dead and dumb thing,
Me for a glass of cyanide,
Or something.
LYDIA
Now Calais, the handsome son
Of old Ornitus, has _me_ going;
He says I am his honey bun,
He's mine, however winds are blowing;
I think that he is awful nice,
And, if the gods the signal gave him,
I'd just as lieve die once or twice
To save him.
HORACE
Suppose I'm gone on you again,
Suppose I've got ingrown affection
For you; I sort of wonder, then,
If you'd have any great objection.
Suppose I pass this Chloe up
And say:"Go roll your hoop, I'm rid o' ye!"
Would that drop sweetness in your cup?
Eh, Lydia?
LYDIA
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.
