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Poking Fun At Xanthias

Of your love for your handmaid you need feel no shame.

Don't apologize, Xanthias, pray;

Remember, Achilles the proud felt a flame

For Brissy, his slave, as they say.

Old Telamon's son, fiery Ajax, was moved

By the captive Tecmessa's ripe charms;

And Atrides, suspending the feast, it behooved

To gather a girl to his arms.

Now, how do you know that this yellow-haired maid

(This Phyllis you fain would enjoy)

Hasn't parents whose wealth would cast you in the shade,--

Who would ornament you, Xan, my boy?

Very likely the poor chick sheds copious tears,

And is bitterly thinking the while

Of the royal good times of her earlier years,

When her folks regulated the style!

It won't do at all, my dear boy, to believe

That she of whose charms you are proud

Is beautiful only as means to deceive,--

Merely one of the horrible crowd.

So constant a sweetheart, so loving a wife,

So averse to all notions of greed

Was surely not born of a mother whose life

Is a chapter you'd better not read.

As an unbiased party I feel it my place

(For I don't like to do things by halves)

To compliment Phyllis,--her arms and her face

And (excuse me!) her delicate calves.

Tut, tut! don't get angry, my boy, or suspect

You have any occasion to fear

A man whose deportment is always correct,

And is now in his forty-first year!