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!

© Eugene Field