Here you will find the Poem A Tardy Apology of poet Eugene Field
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!