Various - A Handbook for Latin Clubs
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Various >> A Handbook for Latin Clubs
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THE GOLDEN MEAN
Horace. Book II, Ode 10
Receive, dear friends, the truths I teach,
So shalt thou live beyond the reach
Of adverse Fortune's power;
Not always tempt the distant deep,
Nor always timorously creep
Along the treacherous shore.
He that holds fast the golden mean
And lives contentedly between
The little and the great,
Feels not the wants that pinch the poor,
Nor plagues that haunt the rich man's door,
Imbittering all his state.
The tallest pines feel most the power
Of wintry blasts; the loftiest tower
Comes heaviest to the ground;
The bolts that spare the mountain's side
His cloud-capt eminence divide,
And spread the ruin round.
The well-informed philosopher
Rejoices with a wholesome fear,
And hopes in spite of pain;
If winter bellow from the north,
Soon the sweet spring comes dancing forth,
And nature laughs again.
What if thine heaven be overcast?
The dark appearance will not last;
Expect a brighter sky.
The god that strings a silver bow
Awakes sometimes the Muses too,
And lays his arrows by.
If hindrances obstruct thy way,
Thy magnanimity display,
And let thy strength be seen:
But O! if Fortune fill thy sail
With more than a propitious gale,
Take half thy canvas in.
--William Cowper
TO THE READER
Martial
He unto whom thou art so partial,
O reader, is the well-known Martial,
The Epigrammatist: while living,
Give him the fame thou wouldst be giving
So shall he hear, and feel, and know it:
Post-obits rarely reach a poet.
--Lord Byron
ON PORTIA
Martial. Book I, xlii
When the sad tale, how Brutus fell, was brought,
And slaves refused the weapon Portia sought;
"Know ye not yet," she said, with towering pride,
"Death is a boon that cannot be denied?
I thought my father amply had imprest
This simple truth upon each Roman breast."
Dauntless she gulph'd the embers as they flamed
And, while their heat within her raged, exclaim'd
"Now, troublous guardians of a life abhorr'd,
Still urge your caution, and refuse the sword."
--George Lamb
TO POTITUS
Martial. Book X, lxx
That scarce a piece I publish in a year,
Idle perhaps to you I may appear.
But rather, that I write at all, admire,
When I am often robbed of days entire.
Now with my friends the evening I must spend:
To those preferred my compliments must send.
Now at the witnessing a will make one:
Hurried from this to that, my morning's gone.
Some office must attend; or else some ball;
Or else my lawyer's summons to the hall.
Now a rehearsal, now a concert hear;
And now a Latin play at Westminster.
Home after ten return, quite tir'd and dos'd.
When is the piece, you want, to be compos'd?
--John Hay
WHAT IS GIVEN TO FRIENDS IS NOT LOST
Martial
Your slave will with your gold abscond,
The fire your home lay low,
Your debtor will disown his bond
Your farm no crops bestow;
Your steward a mistress frail shall cheat;
Your freighted ship the storms will beat;
That only from mischance you'll save,
Which to your friends is given;
The only wealth you'll always have
Is that you've lent to heaven.
--_English Journal of Education_,
_Jan., 1856_
TO COTILUS
Martial
They tell me, Cotilus, that you're a beau:
What this is, Cotilus, I wish to know.
"A beau is one who, with the nicest care,
In parted locks divides his curling hair;
One who with balm and cinnamon smells sweet,
Whose humming lips some Spanish air repeat;
Whose naked arms are smoothed with pumice-stone,
And tossed about with graces all his own:
A beau is one who takes his constant seat
From morn till evening, where the ladies meet;
And ever, on some sofa hovering near,
Whispers some nothing in some fair one's ear;
Who scribbles thousand billets-doux a day;
Still reads and scribbles, reads, and sends away;
A beau is one who shrinks, if nearly pressed
By the coarse garment of a neighbor guest;
Who knows who flirts with whom, and still is found
At each good table in successive round:
A beau is one--none better knows than he
A race-horse, and his noble pedigree"--
Indeed? Why Cotilus, if this be so,
What teasing trifling thing is called a beau!
--Elton
THE HAPPY LIFE
Martial
_To Julius Martialis_
The things that make a life to please,
(Sweetest Martial), they are these:
Estate inherited, not got:
A thankful field, hearth always hot:
City seldom, law-suits never:
Equal friends, agreeing forever:
Health of body, peace of mind:
Sleeps that till the morning bind:
Wise simplicity, plain fare:
Not drunken nights, yet loos'd from care:
A sober, not a sullen spouse:
Clean strength, not such as his that plows;
Wish only what thou art, to be;
Death neither wish, nor fear to see.
--Sir Richard Fanshawe
TO A SCHOOLMASTER
Martial. Book X, lxii
Thou monarch of eight parts of speech,
Who sweep'st with birch a youngster's breech,
Oh! now awhile withhold your hand!
So may the trembling crop-hair'd band
Around your desk attentive hear,
And pay you love instead of fear;
So may yours ever be as full,
As writing or as dancing school.
The scorching dog-day is begun;
The harvest roasting in the sun;
Each Bridewell keeper, though requir'd
To use the lash, is too much tir'd.
Let ferula and rod together
Lie dormant, till the frosty weather.
Boys do improve enough in reason,
Who miss a fever in this season.
--John Hay
EPITAPH ON EROTION
Martial. Book X, lxi
Underneath this greedy stone,
Lies little sweet Erotion;[3]
Whom the Fates, with hearts as cold,
Nipp'd away at six years old.
Thou, whoever thou mayst be,
That hast this small field after me,
Let the yearly rites be paid
To her little slender shade;
So shall no disease or jar
Hurt thy house, or chill thy Lar;
But this tomb be here alone
The only melancholy stone.
--Leigh Hunt
[Footnote 3: A little girl who died at six years of age.]
_NON AMO TE_
Martial. I, 32
Non amo te, Sabidi, nec possum dicere quare:
Hoc tantum possum dicere, non amo te.[4]
[Footnote 4: This well known epigram is the original of one
equally famous in English, that written by Tom Brown on Dr. John
Fell, about 1670.
"I do not like thee, Dr. Fell.
The reason why I cannot tell;
But this I know and know full well
I do not like thee, Dr. Fell." ]
GRATITUDE
Some hae meat and canna eat,
And some wad eat that want it;
But we hae meat and we can eat
And sae the Lord be thanket.
--Burns
Translation
Sunt quibus est panis
nec amor tamen ullus edendi:
Sunt quibus hic amor est
deest tamen ipse cibus.
Panis at est nobis
et amor quoque panis edendi
Pro quibus est Domino
gratia habenda Deo.
--_The Lawrence Latinist_
A HYMN TO THE LARES
It was, and still my care is,
To worship ye, the Lares,
With crowns of greenest parsley,
And garlick chives not scarcely;
For favors here to warme me,
And not by fire to harme me;
For gladding so my hearth here,
With inoffensive mirth here;
That while the wassaile bowle here
With North-down ale doth troule here,
No sillable doth fall here,
To marre the mirth at all here.
For which, O chimney-keepers!
(I dare not call ye sweepers)
So long as I am able
To keep a country-table
Great be my fare, or small cheere,
I'll eat and drink up all here.
--Robert Herrick
ELYSIUM
Past the despairing wail--
And the bright banquets of the Elysian Vale
Melt every care away!
Delight, that breathes and moves forever,
Glides through sweet fields like some sweet river!
Elysian life survey!
There, fresh with youth, o'er jocund meads,
His merry west-winds blithely leads
The ever-blooming May!
Through gold-woven dreams goes the dance of the Hours,
In space without bounds swell the soul and its powers,
And Truth, with no veil, gives her face to the day.
And joy today and joy tomorrow
But wafts the airy soul aloft;
The very name is lost to Sorrow,
And Pain is Rapture tuned more exquisitely soft.
Here the Pilgrim reposes the world-weary limb,
And forgets in the shadow, cool-breathing and dim,
The load he shall bear never more;
Here the mower, his sickle at rest, by the streams
Lull'd with harp strings, reviews, in the calm of his dreams
The fields, when the harvest is o'er.
Here, He, whose ears drank in the battle roar,
Whose banners streamed upon the startled wind
A thunder-storm,--before whose thunder tread
The mountains trembled,--in soft sleep reclined,
By the sweet brook that o'er its pebbly bed
In silver plays, and murmurs to the shore,
Hears the stern clangour of wild spears no more.
--Schiller
ORPHEUS
Orpheus he went (as poets tell)
To fetch Euridice from hell;
And had her; but it was upon
This short, but strict, condition:
Backward he should not looke while he
Led her through hell's obscuritie.
But ah! it happened as he made
His passage through that dreadful shade,
Revolve he did his loving eye,
For gentle feare, or jelousie,
And looking back, that look did sever
Him and Euridice forever.
--Robert Herrick
CERBERUS
Dear Reader, should you chance to go
To Hades, do not fail to throw
A "Sop to Cerberus" at the gate,
His anger to propitiate.
Don't say "Good dog!" and hope thereby
His three fierce Heads to pacify.
What though he try to be polite
And wag his tail with all his might,
How shall one amiable Tail
Against three angry Heads prevail?
The Heads _must_ win.--What puzzles me
Is why in Hades there should be
A watchdog; 'tis, I should surmise,
The _last_ place one would burglarize.
--Oliver Herford
THE HARPY
They certainly contrived to raise
Queer ladies in the olden days.
Either the type had not been fixed,
Or else Zooelogy got mixed.
I envy not primeval man
This female on the feathered plan.
We only have, I'm glad to say,
Two kinds of human birds today--
Women and warriors, who still
Wear feathers when dressed up to kill.
--Oliver Herford
CUPID AND THE BEE
Anacreon[5]
Young Cupid once a rose caressed,
And sportively its leaflets pressed.
The witching thing, so fair to view
One could not but believe it true,
Warmed, on its bosom false, a bee,
Which stung the boy-god in his glee.
Sobbing, he raised his pinions bright,
And flew unto the isle of light,
Where, in her beauty, myrtle-crowned,
The Paphian goddess sat enthroned.
Her Cupid sought, and to her breast
His wounded finger, weeping, pressed.
"O mother! kiss me," was his cry--
"O mother! save me, or I die;
A winged little snake or bee
With cruel sting has wounded me!"
The blooming goddess in her arms
Folded and kissed his budding charms;
To her soft bosom pressed her pride,
And then with truthful words replied:
"If thus a little insect thing
Can pain thee with its tiny sting,
How languish, think you, those who smart
Beneath my Cupid's cruel dart?
How fatal must that poison prove
That rankles on the shafts of Love."
[Footnote 5: Anacreon was a Greek society poet, living in the
sixth century B.C.]
THE ASSEMBLY OF THE GODS
O'er rolling stars, from heavenly stalls advancing,
The coaches soon were seen, and a long train
Of mules with litters, horses fleet and prancing,
Their trappings all embroidery, nothing plain;
And with fine liveries, in the sunbeams glancing,
More than a hundred servants, rather vain
Of handsome looks and of their stature tall,
Followed their masters to the Council Hall.
First came the Prince of Delos, Phoebus hight,
In a gay travelling carriage, fleetly drawn
By six smart Spanish chestnuts, shining bright,
Which with their tramping shook the aerial lawn;
Red was his cloak, three-cocked his hat, and light
Around his neck the golden fleece was thrown;
And twenty-four sweet damsels, nectar-sippers,
Were running near him in their pumps or slippers.
Pallas, with lovely but disdainful mien,
Came on a nag of Basignanian race;
Tight round her leg, and gathered up, was seen
Her gown, half Greek, half Spanish; o'er her face
Part of her hair hung loose, a natural screen,
Part was tied up, and with becoming grace;
A bunch of feathers on her head she wore,
And on her saddle-bow her falchion bore.
But Ceres and the God of Wine appeared
At once, conversing; and the God of Ocean
Upon a dolphin's back his form upreared,
Floating through waves of air with graceful motion;
Naked, all sea-weed, and with mud besmeared;
For whom his mother Rhea feels emotion,
Reproaching his proud brother, when she meets him,
Because so like a fisherman he treats him.
Diana, the sweet virgin, was not there;
She had risen early and o'er woodland green
Had gone to wash her clothes in fountain fair
Upon the Tuscan shore--romantic scene.
And not returning till the northern star
Had rolled through dusky air and lost its sheen,
Her mother made excuses quite provoking,
Knitting at the time, a worsted stocking.
Juno-Lucina did not go--and why?
She anxious wished to wash her sacred head.
Menippus, Jove's chief taster, standing by
For the disastrous Fates excuses made.
They had much tow to spin, and lint to dry,
And they were also busy baking bread.
The cellarman, Silenus, kept away,
To water the domestics' wine, that day.
On starry benches sit the famous warriors
Of the immortal kingdom, in a ring;
Now drums and cymbals, echoing to the barriers,
Announce the coming of the gorgeous king;
A hundred pages, valets, napkin-carriers
Attend, and their peculiar offerings bring.
And after them, armed with his club so hard,
Alcides, captain of the city guard.
With Jove's broad hat and spectacles arrived
The light-heeled Mercury; in his hand he bore
A sack, in which, of other means deprived,
He damned poor mortals' prayers, some million score;
Those he disposed in vessels, well contrived,
Which graced his father's cabinet of yore;
And, wont attention to all claims to pay,
He regularly signed them twice a day.
Then Jove himself, in royal habit dressed,
With starry diadem upon his head,
And o'er his shoulders an imperial vest
Worn upon holidays.--The king displayed
A sceptre, pastoral shape, with hooked crest:
In a rich jacket too was he arrayed,
Given by the inhabitants of Sericane,
And Ganymede held up his splendid train.
--A. Tassoni
A MODEL YOUNG LADY OF ANTIQUITY
(Pliny, the Younger, writes the following in a letter relative to
the death of Minicia Marcella, the daughter of his friend, Fundanus.)
Tristissimus haec tibi scribo, Fundani nostri filia minore defuncta,
qua puella nihil umquam festivius, amabilius, nec modo longiore vita
sed prope immortalitate dignius vidi. Nondum annos quattuor decem
impleverat, et iam illi anilis prudentia, matronalis gravitas erat, et
tamen suavitas puellaris cum virginali verecundia. Ut illa patris
cervicibus inhaerebat! Ut nos amicos paternos et amanter et modeste
complectabatur! ut nutrices, ut paedagogos, ut praeceptores, pro suo
quemque officio diligebat! quam studiose, quam intellegenter lectitabat!
ut parce custoditeque ludebat! Qua illa temperantia, qua patientia, qua
etiam constantia novissimam valetudinem tulit! Medicis obsequebatur,
sororem, patrem adhortabatur, ipsamque se destitutam corporis viribus
vigore animi sustinebat. Duravit hic illi usque ad extremum nec aut
spatio valetudinis aut metu mortis infractus est, quo plures
gravioresque nobis causas relinqueret et desiderii et doloris. O triste
plane acerbumque funus! O morte ipsa mortis tempus indignius! Iam
destinata erat egregio iuveni, iam electus nuptiarum dies, iam nos
vocati. Quod gaudium quo maerore mutatum est! Nec possum exprimere
verbis quantum anima vulnus acceperim, cum audivi Fundanum ipsum,
praecipientem, quod in vestes margarita gemmas fuerat erogaturus, hoc
in tus et unguenta et odores impenderetur.
--C. Pliny. _Epist._ v, 16
Translation
I have the saddest news to tell you. Our friend Fundanus has lost his
youngest daughter. I never saw a girl more cheerful, more lovable, more
worthy of long life--nay, of immortality. She had not yet completed her
fourteenth year, and she had already the prudence of an old woman, the
gravity of a matron, and still, with all maidenly modesty, the sweetness
of a girl. How she would cling to her father's neck! how affectionately
and discreetly she would greet us, her father's friends! how she loved
her nurses, her attendants, her teachers,--everyone according to his
service. How earnestly, how intelligently, she used to read! How modest
was she and restrained in her sports! And with what self-restraint, what
patience--nay, what courage--she bore her last illness! She obeyed the
physicians, encouraged her father and sister, and, when all strength of
body had left her, kept herself alive by the vigor of her mind. This
vigor lasted to the very end, and was not broken by the length of her
illness or by the fear of death; so leaving, alas! to us yet more and
weightier reasons for our grief and our regret. Oh the sadness, the
bitterness of that death! Oh the cruelty of the time when we lost her,
worse even than the loss itself! She had been betrothed to a noble
youth; the marriage day had been fixed, and we had been invited. How
great a joy changed into how great a sorrow! I cannot express in words
how it went to my heart when I heard Fundanus himself (this is one of
the grievous experiences of sorrow) giving orders that what he had meant
to lay out on dresses, and pearls, and jewels, should be spent on
incense, unguents, and spices.
--Tr. Alfred J. Church
TO LESBIA'S SPARROW
Lugete, o Veneres Cupidinesque,
Et quantumst hominum venustiorum.
Passer mortuus est meae puellae,
Passer, deliciae meae puellae,
Quem plus illa oculis suis amabat:
Nam mellitus erat suamque norat
Ipsa tam bene quam puella matrem,
Nec sese a gremio illius movebat,
Sed circumsiliens modo huc modo illuc
Ad solam dominam usque pipiabat.
Qui nunc it per iter tenebricosum
Illuc unde negant redire quemquam.
At vobis male sit, malae tenebrae
Orci, quae omnia bella devoratis:
Tam bellum mihi passerem abstulistis.
O factum male! io miselle passer!
Tua nunc opera meae puellae
Flendo turgiduli rubent ocelli.
--Catullus
Translation
Each Love, each Venus, mourn with me!
Mourn, every son of gallantry!
The sparrow, my own nymph's delight,
The joy and apple of her sight;
The honey-bird, the darling dies,
To Lesbia dearer than her eyes,
As the fair one knew her mother,
So he knew her from another.
With his gentle lady wrestling,
In her snowy bosom nestling;
With a flutter and a bound,
Quiv'ring round her and around;
Chirping, twitt'ring, ever near,
Notes meant only for her ear.
Now he skims the shadowy way,
Whence none return to cheerful day.
Beshrew the shades! that thus devour
All that's pretty in an hour.
The pretty sparrow thus is dead;
The tiny fugitive is fled.
Deed of spite! poor bird!--ah! see,
For thy dear sake, alas! for me!--
My nymph with brimful eyes appears,
Red from the flushing of her tears.
--Elton
CICERO
The following tribute to Cicero was written by Catullus, the Roman
lyric poet (87-54 B.C.)
Disertissime Romuli nepotum,
Quot sunt quotque fuere, Marce Tulli,
Quot que post aliis erunt in annis,
Gratius tibi maximas Catullus
Agit, pessimus omnium poeta,
Tanto pessimus omnium poeta
Quanto tu optimus omnium patronum.
Translation
Tully, most eloquent, most sage
Of all the Roman race,
That deck the past or present age,
Or future days may grace.
Oh! may Catullus thus declare
An overflowing heart;
And, though the worst of poets, dare
A grateful lay impart!
'Twill teach thee how thou hast surpast
All others in thy line;
For, far as he in his is last,
Art thou the first in thine.
--Charles Lamb
_DE PATIENTIA_
Patiendo fit homo melior,
Auro pulchrior,
Vitro clarior,
Laude dignior,
Gradu altior,
A vitiis purgatior,
Virtutibus perfectior,
Iesu Christo acceptior,
Sanctis quoque similior,
Hostibus suis fortior,
Amicis amabilior.
--Thomas a Kempis
THE FAVORITE PRAYER OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS[6]
O Domine Deus!
Speravi in te;
O care mi Iesu!
Nunc libera me:
In dura catena
In misera poena
Desidero te;
Languendo, gemendo,
Et genuflectendo
Adoro, imploro,
Ut liberes me!
Translation
My Lord and my God! I have trusted in Thee;
O Jesus, my Savior belov'd, set me free:
In rigorous chains, in piteous pains,
I am longing for Thee!
In weakness appealing, in agony kneeling,
I pray, I beseech Thee, O Lord, set me free!
[Footnote 6: From the Prayer-book of Queen Mary, and believed to
be her composition. Said to have been uttered by the queen just
before her execution.]
_ULTIMA THULE_
American pride has often gloried in Seneca's "Vision of the West"
written more than 1800 years ago.
Venient annis
Saecula seris, quibus Oceanus
Vincula rerum laxet, et ingens
Pateat tellus, Tethysque novos
Detegat orbes, nec sit terris
Ultima Thule.
--Seneca
Translation
A time will come in future ages far
When Ocean will his circling bounds unbar,
And, opening vaster to the Pilot's hand,
New worlds shall rise, where mightier kingdoms are,
Nor Thule longer be the utmost land.
THE ROMAN OF OLD
Oh, the Roman was a rogue,
He erat, was, you bettum;
He ran his automobilis
And smoked his cigarettum;
He wore a diamond studibus
And elegant cravatum,
A maxima cum laude shirt
And such a stylish hattum.
He loved the luscious hic-haec-hoc,
And bet on games and equi:
At times he won: at others, though,
He got it in the nequi.
He winked (quousque tandem?)
At puellas on the Forum,
And sometimes even made
Those goo-goo oculorum!
He frequently was seen
At combats gladiatorial,
And ate enough to feed
Ten boarders at Memorial:
He often went on sprees,
And said on starting homus,
"Hic labor, opus est,
Oh, where's my hic-haec-domus?"
Although he lived in Rome--
Of all the arts the middle--
He was (excuse the phrase)
A horrid individ'l;
Ah, what a different thing
Was the homo (dative homini)
Of far away B.C.
From us of Anno Domini!
--_Harvard Lampoon_
_ICH BIN DEIN_
The _Journal of Education_ commends this ingenious poem, written
in seven languages--English, French, German, Greek, Latin, Spanish,
and Italian--as one of the best specimens of Macaronic verse in
existence, and worthy of preservation by all collectors.
_In tempus_ old a hero lived,
_Qui_ loved _puellas deux_;
He no _pouvait pas_ quite to say
Which one _amabat mieux_.
_Dit-il lui-meme un beau matin_,
"_Non possum_ both _avoir_,
_Sed si_ address Amanda Ann,
Then Kate _y yo_ have war.
Amanda _habet argent_ coin,
_Sed_ Kate has _aureas_ curls;
_Et_ both _sunt_ very _agathae_
_Et_ quite _formosae_ girls."
_Enfin_ the _joven anthropos_,
_Philoun_ the _duo_ maids,
Resolved _proponere ad_ Kate
_Devant cet_ evening's shades,
_Procedens_ then to Kate's _domo_,
_Il trouve_ Amanda there,
_Kai_ quite forgot his late resolves,
Both _sunt_ so goodly fair,
_Sed_ smiling on the new _tapis_,
Between _puellas_ twain,
_Coepit_ to tell _suo_ love _a_ Kate
_Dans un poetique_ strain.
_Mais_, glancing ever _et_ anon
At fair Amanda's eyes,
_Illae non possunt dicere_
_Pro_ which he meant his sighs.
Each _virgo_ heard the demi-vow,
_Con_ cheeks as _rouge_ as wine,
_Ed_ offering, each, a milk-white hand,
Both whispered, "_Ich bin dein._"
_MALUM OPUS_
Prope ripam fluvii solus
A senex silently sat;
Super capitum ecce his wig,
Et wig super, ecce his hat.
Blew Zephyrus alte, acerbus,
Dum elderly gentleman sat;
Et a capite took up quite torve
Et in rivum projecit his hat.
Tunc soft maledixit the old man,
Tunc stooped from the bank where he sat,
Et cum scipio poked in the water,
Conatus servare his hat.
Blew Zephyrus alte, acerbus,
The moment it saw him at that;
Et whisked his novum scratch wig
In flumen, along with his hat.
Ab imo pectore damnavit,
In coeruleus eye dolor sat;
Tunc despairingly threw in his cane,
Nare cum his wig and his hat.
_L'Envoi_
Contra bonos mores, don't swear
It est wicked you know (verbum sat)
Si this tale habet no other moral
Mehercle! You're gratus to that.
--James A. Morgan
_FELIS_
A cat sedebat on our fence
As laeta as could be;
Her vox surgebat to the skies,
Canebat merrily.
My clamor was of no avail,
Tho' clare did I cry.
Conspexit me with mild reproof,
And winked her alter eye.
Quite vainly ieci boots, a lamp,
Some bottles and a book;
Ergo, I seized my pistol, et
My aim cum cura took.
I had six shots, dixi, "Ye gods,
May I that felis kill!"
Quamquam I took six of her lives
The other three sang still.
The felis sang with major vim,
Though man's aim was true,
Conatus sum, putare quid
In tonitru I'd do.
A scheme advenit in my head
Scivi, 'twould make her wince--
I sang! Et then the hostis fled
Non eam vidi since.
--_Tennessee University Magazine_
_AMANTIS RES ADVERSAE_
A homo ibat, one dark night
Puellas visitare
Et mansit there so very late
Ut illi constet cura.
Pueri walking by the house
Saw caput in fenestra,
Et sunt morati for a while
To see quis erat in there.
Soon caput turned its nasum round
In viam puerorum;
Agnoscunt there the pedagogue,
Oh! maximum pudorem!
Progressus puer to the door
Cum magna quietate,
Et turned the key to lock him in
Moratus satis ante.
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