Horace, Ode XXXVIII. Lib. I. A Fragment.

A poem by Thomas Moore

persico odi, puer, adparatus;
displicent nexae philyra coronae;
mitte sectari, Rosa quo locorum
sera moretur.


TRANSLATED BY A TREASURY CLERK, WHILE WAITING DINNER FOR THE RIGHT HON. GEORGE ROBE.


Boy, tell the Cook that I hate all nicknackeries.
Fricassees, vol-au-vents, puffs, and gim-crackeries--
Six by the Horse-Guards!--old Georgy is late--
But come--lay the table-cloth--zounds! do not wait,
Nor stop to inquire, while the dinner is staying,
At which of his places Old Rose is delaying!