Long from the monarch of the stars The daughters of the mud received Support and aid; nor dearth nor wars, Meanwhile, their teeming nation grieved.
Dear prince, a special favourite of the skies, Pray let my incense from your altars rise. With these her gifts, if rather late my muse, My age and labours must her fault excuse.
A bush, duck, and bat, having found that in trade, Confined to their country, small profits were made, Into partnership entered to traffic abroad, Their purse, held in common, well guarded from fraud.
The gods, for that themselves are good, The like in mortal monarchs would. The prime of royal rights is grace; To this even sweet revenge gives place.
Love bears a world of mystery— His arrows, quiver, torch, and infancy: It's not a trifling work to sound A sea of science so profound:
A temple I reserved you in my rhyme: It might not be completed but with time. Already its endurance I had grounded On this charming art, divinely founded;
A Scythian philosopher austere, Resolved his rigid life somewhat to cheer, Performed the tour of Greece, saw many things, But, best, a sage,—one such as Virgil sings,— A simple, rustic man, that equaled kings;
"Between elephant and beast of horned nose About precedence a dispute arose, Which they determined to decide by blows. The day was fixed, when came a messenger To say the ape of Jupiter