Читать книгу A Satire Anthology - Wells Carolyn - Страница 4

IT chanced that I, the other day,

Was sauntering up the Sacred Way,

And musing, as my habit is,

Some trivial random fantasies,

When there comes rushing up a wight

Whom only by his name I knew.

“Ha! my dear fellow, how d’ye do?”

Grasping my hand, he shouted. “Why,

As times go, pretty well,” said I;

“And you, I trust, can say the same.”

But after me as still he came,

“Sir, is there anything,” I cried,

“You want of me?” “Oh,” he replied,

“I’m just the man you ought to know:

A scholar, author!” “Is it so?

For this I’ll like you all the more!”

Then, writhing to escape the bore,

I’ll quicken now my pace, now stop,

And in my servant’s ear let drop

Some words; and all the while I feel

Bathed in cold sweat from head to heel.

“Oh, for a touch,” I moaned in pain,

“Bolanus, of the madcap vein,

To put this incubus to rout!”

As he went chattering on about

Whatever he describes or meets —

The city’s growth, its splendour, size.

“You’re dying to be off,” he cries

(For all the while I’d been stock dumb);

“I’ve seen it this half-hour. But come,

Let’s clearly understand each other;

It’s no use making all this pother.

My mind’s made up to stick by you;

So where you go, there I go too.”

“Don’t put yourself,” I answered, “pray,

So very far out of your way.

I’m on the road to see a friend

Whom you don’t know, that’s near his end,

Away beyond the Tiber far,

Close by where Cæsar’s gardens are.”

“I’ve nothing in the world to do,

And what’s a paltry mile or two?

I like it: so I’ll follow you!”

Down dropped my ears on hearing this,

Just like a vicious jackass’s,

That’s loaded heavier than he likes,

But off anew my torment strikes:

“If well I know myself, you’ll end

With making of me more a friend

Than Viscus, ay, or Varius; for,

Of verses, who can run off more,

Or run them off at such a pace?

Who dance with such distinguished grace?

And as for singing, zounds!” says he,

“Hermogenes might envy me!”

Here was an opening to break in:

“Have you a mother, father, kin,

To whom your life is precious?” “None;

I’ve closed the eyes of everyone.”

Oh, happy they, I inly groan;

Now I am left, and I alone.

Quick, quick despatch me where I stand;

Now is the direful doom at hand,

Which erst the Sabine beldam old,

Shaking her magic urn, foretold

In days when I was yet a boy:

“Him shall no poison fell destroy,

Nor hostile sword in shock of war,

Nor gout, nor colic, nor catarrh.

In fulness of time his thread

Shall by a prate-apace be shred;

So let him, when he’s twenty-one,

If he be wise, all babblers shun.”