A Roman "Round-Robin."

("His Friends" To Quintus Horatius Flaccus.)     "Hc decies repetita [non] placebit."--Ars Poetica.     Flaccus, you write us charming songs:     No bard we know possesses     In such perfection what belongs     To brief and bright addresses;     No man can say that Life is short     With mien so little fretful;     No man to Virtue's paths exhort     In phrases less regretful;     Or touch, with more serene distress,     On Fortune's ways erratic;     And then delightfully digress     From Alp to Adriatic:     All this is well, no doubt, and tends     Barbarian minds to soften;     But, HORACE--we, we are your friends--     Why tell us this so often?     Why feign to spread a cheerful feast,     And then thrust in our faces     These barren scraps (to say the least)     Of Stoic common-places?     Recount, and welcome, your pursuits:     Sing Lyd's lyre and hair;     Sing drums and Berecynthian flutes;     Sing parsley-wreaths; but spare,--     O, spare to sing, what none deny,     That things we love decay;--     That Time and Gold have wings to fly;--     That all must Fate obey!     Or bid us dine--on this day week--     And pour us, if you can,     As soft and sleek as girlish cheek,     Your inmost Ccuban;--     Of that we fear not overplus;     But your didactic 'tap'--     Forgive us!--grows monotonous;     Nunc vale! Verbum sap.