THE SISTERS

by: Aristaenetus

S yesterday I went to dine

With Pamphilus, a swain of mine,

I took my sister, little heeding

The net I for myself was spreading;

Though many circumstances led

To prove she'd mischief in her head.

For first her dress in every part

Was studied with the nicest art:

Deck'd out with necklaces and rings,

And twenty other foolish things;

And she had curl'd and bound her hair

With more than ordinary care:

And then, to show her youth the more,

A light, transparent robe she wore--

From head to heel she seem'd t' admire

In raptures all her fine attire:

And often turn'd aside to view

If others gazed with raptures too.--

At dinner, grown more bold and free,

She parted Pamphilus and me;

For veering round unheard, unseen,

She slyly drew her chair between.

Then with alluring, am'rous smiles,

And nods, and other wanton wiles,

And unsuspecting youth ensnared,

And rivall'd me in his regard.--

Next she affectedly would sip

The liquor that had touch'd his lip.

He, whose whole thoughts to love incline.

And heated with th' enliv'ning wine,

With interest repaid her glances,

And answered all her kind advances.

Thus sip they from the goblet's brink

Each other's kisses while they drink;

Which with the sparkling wine combined,

Quick passage to the heart did find.

Then Pamphilus an apple broke,

And at her bosom aim'd the stroke;

While she the fragment kiss'd and press'd,

And hid it wanton in her breast.

But I, be sure, was in amaze,

To see my sister's artful ways;

"These are returns," I said, "quite fit

To me, who nursed you when a chit.

For shame, lay by this envious art;--

In this to act a sister's part?"

But vain were words, entreaties vain,

The crafty witch secured my swain.--

By heavens, my sister does me wrong

But oh! she shall not triumph long;

Well Venus knows I'm not in fault--

'Twas she who gave the first assault;

And since our peace her treachery broke,

Let me return her stroke for stroke.

She'll quickly feel, and to her cost,

Not all their fire my eyes have lost--

And soon with grief shall she resign

Six of her swains for one of mine.

 

TRANSLATED BY RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN (1751-1816) AND MR. HALHED

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