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Eugene Field - A Tardy Apology
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You ask me, friend,
      Why I don`t send
The long since due-and-paid-for numbers;
      Why, songless, I
      As drunken lie
Abandoned to Lethean slumbers.

      Long time ago
      (As well you know)
I started in upon that carmen;
      My work was vain,--
      But why complain?
When gods forbid, how helpless are men!

      Some ages back,
      The sage Anack
Courted a frisky Samian body,
      Singing her praise
      In metered phrase
As flowing as his bowls of toddy.

      Till I was hoarse
      Might I discourse
Upon the cruelties of Venus;
      `T were waste of time
      As well of rhyme,
For you`ve been there yourself, Maecenas!

      Perfect your bliss
      If some fair miss
Love you yourself and _not_ your minae;
      I, fortune`s sport,
      All vainly court
The beauteous, polyandrous Phryne!
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