He's not my friend who hawks in every place
A waxwork parody of my poor face;
Nor were I flattered if some silly wight
A stupid poem in my praise should write:
The gift would make me blush, and I should dread
To travel with my poet, all unread,
Down to the street where spice and pepper's sold,
And all the wares waste paper's used to fold.
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II. To Julius Florus.
Flore bono claroque.
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EAR Florus, justly high in the good grace
Of noble Nero, let's suppose a case;
A man accosts you with a slave for sale,
Born, say, at Gabii, and begins his tale:
"See, here's a lad who's comely, fair, and sound;
I'll sell him, if you will, for sixty pound.
He's quick, and answers to his master's look,
Knows Greek enough to read a simple book;
Set him to what you like, he'll learn with ease;
Soft clay, you know, takes any form you please;
His voice is quite untrained, but still, I think,
You'll like his singing, as you sit and drink.
Excuse professions; they're but stale affairs,
Which chapmen use for getting off their wares.
m
