M'Cenas, You Will Be My Death,--Though Friendly You Profess Yourself,-- If To Me In A Strain Like This So Often You Address Yourself: "Come, Holly, Why This Laziness? Why Indolently Shock You Us? Why With Lethean Cups Fall Into Desuetude Innocuous?" A God, M'Cenas! Yea, A God Hath Proved The Very Curse Of Me! If My Iambics Are Not Done, Pray, Do Not Think The Worse Of Me; Anacreon For Young Bathyllus Burned Without Apology, And Wept His Simple Measures On A Sample Of Conchology. Now, You Yourself, M'Cenas, Are Enjoying This Beatitude; If By No Brighter Beauty Ilium Fell, You've Cause For Gratitude. A Certain Phryne Keeps Me On The Rack With Lovers Numerous; This Is The Artful Hussy'S Neat Conception Of The Humorous!