VII. To Mæcenas.
Quinque dies tibi pollicitus.
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IVE days I told you at my farm I'd stay,
And lo! the whole of August I'm away.
Well, but, Mæcenas, yon would have me live,
And, were I sick, my absence you'd forgive;
So let me crave indulgence for the fear
Of falling ill at this bad time of year,
When, thanks to early figs and sultry heat,
The undertaker figures with his suite,
When fathers all and fond mammas grow pale
At what may happen to their young heirs male,
And courts and levees, town-bred mortals' ills,
Bring fevers on, and break the seals of wills.
When winter strews the Alban fields with snow,
Down to the sea your chilly bard will go,
There keep the house and study at his ease,
All huddled up together, nose and knees:
With the first swallow, if you'll have him then,
He'll come, dear friend, and visit you again.
Not like the coarse Calabrian boor, who pressed
His store of pears upon a sated guest,
Have you bestowed your favours. "Eat them, pray."
"I've done." "Then carry all you please away."
