A_nd yet, how strange! Our "world," today_,
T_ried in the scale, would scarce outweigh_
Y_our Roman cronies_;
W_alk in the Park,--you'll seldom fail_
T_o find a Sybaris on the rail_
B_y Lydia's ponies_,
O_r hap on Barrus, wigged and stayed_,
O_gling some unsuspecting maid_.
T_he great Gargilius, then, behold!_
H_is "long-bow" hunting tales of old_
A_re now but duller_;
F_air Neobule too! Is not_
O_ne Hebrus here,--from Aldershot?_
A_ha, you colour!_
B_e wise. There old Canidia sits_;
N_o doubt she's tearing you to bits_.
A_nd look, dyspeptic, brave, and kind_,
C_omes dear Maecenas, half behind_
T_erentia's skirting_;
H_ere's Pyrrha, "golden-haired" at will_;
P_rig Damasippus, preaching still_;
A_sterie flirting_,--
R_adiant, of course. We'll make her black_,--
A_sk her when Gyges' ship comes back_.
S_o with the rest. Who will may trace_
B_ehind the new each elder face_
D_efined as clearly_;
S_cience proceeds, and man stands still_;
O_ur "world" today's as good or ill_,--
A_s cultured_ (_nearly_),
A_s yours was, Horace! You alone_,
U_nmatched, unmet, we have not known_.
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