ANDREW LANG, Ballads of Books, 1888
Catullus to his Book
My little book, that's neat and new,
Fresh polished with dry pumice stone,
To whom, Cornelius, but to you,
Shall this be sent, for you alone-
(Who used to praise my lines, my own)-
Have dared, in weighty volumes three,
(What labours, Jove, what learning thine!)
To tell the Tale of Italy,
And all the legend of our line.
So take, whate'er its worth may be,
My Book, but, Lady and Queen of Song,
This one kind gift I crave of thee,
That it may live for ages long!
Passer, deliciae meae puellae,
quicum ludere, quem in sinu tenere,
cui primum digitum dare appetenti
et acris solet incitare morsus,
cum desiderio meo nitenti
carum nescio quid libet iocari,
et solaciolum sui doloris,
credo, ut tum gravis adquiescat ardor:
tecum ludere sicut ipsa possem
et tristis animi levare curas!
Tam gratum est mihi quam ferunt puellae
pernici aureolum fuisse malum,
quod zonam soluit diu ligatam.
GEORGE GASCOIGNE, Posies, 1575-Weeds
The Praise of Philip Sparrow
Of all the birds that I do know,
Philip my Sparrow hath no peer:
For sit she high, or lie she low,
Be she far off, or be she near,
There is no bird so fair, so fine,
Nor yet so fresh as this of mine.
Come in a morning merrily,
When Philip hath been lately fed,
Or in an evening soberly,
When Philip list to go to bed:
It is a heaven to hear my Phip,
How she can chirp with cheery lip.
She never wanders far abroad,
But is at hand when I do call,
If I command she lays on load,
With lips, with teeth, with tongue and all:
She chants, she chirps, she makes such cheer,
That I believe she hath no peer.
And yet besides all this good sport,
My Philip can both sing and dance,
With new found toys of sundry sort,
My Philip can both prick and prance:
As if you say but "Fend cut Phip,"
Lord how the pet will turn and skip.
Her feathers are so fresh of hue,
And so well pruned every day,
She lacks none oil, I warrant you,
To trim her tail both trick and gay:
And though her mouth be somewhat wide,
Her tongue is sweet and short beside.
And for the rest I dare compare,
She is both tender, sweet, and soft:
She never lacketh dainty fare,
But is well fed and feedeth oft;
For if my Phip have list to eat,
I warrant you Phip lacks no meat.
And then if that her meat be good,
And such as like do love alway:
She will lay lips thereon, by the rood,
And see that none be cast away:
For when she once hath felt a fit,
Philip will cry still yet, yet, yet.
And to tell truth he were to blame,
Which had so fine a bird as she;
To make him all this goodly game,
Without suspect or jealousy:
He were a churl and knew no good,
Would see her faint for lack of food.
Wherefore I sing and ever shall,
To praise as I have often prov'd,
There is no bird amongst them all,
So worthy for to be belov'd.
Let other praise what bird they will,
Sweet Philip shall be my bird still.
From Pasquil's Night-Cap or Antidote for the Head-Ache, 1612
(Grosart, Occasional Issues, vol. 4, p. 103.)
But as for Skelton with his Laurel Crowne,
Whose ruffling rimes are emptie quite of marrow:
Or fond Catullus, which set grossely downe
The commendation of a sillie Sparrow;
Because their lines are void of estimation,
I passe them over without confutation.
Much would the Cuckoe thinke herselfe impared
If shee with Philip Sparrow were compared.
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