Ay, then indeed you'll rather wish to bear
The fearful tortures of the infernal wheel,
Than still within your heart Love's arrows feel,
And not have power to cross the angry fair.
On lover ne'er such facile wings have grown
That he has soared unchecked on every hand.
Then be not duped by maid, however bland;
She wounds more deeply when she's all your own.
For ne'er from her you may your eyes remove,
Or ope them, save on Love's account alone,
Who will not leave you till you're skin and bone.
Ah! fly the ceaseless blandishments of love.
'Gainst these, since rocks and oaks can not endure,
Can you, an airy shadow, hope to win?
If you're ashamed, at once avow your sin :
In love confession's often half the cure.
O jocunda quies, primo cum testis amori.
O HAPPY night! when I beheld thee prove,
'Mid tears of joy, the rosy dawn of love!
Sweet night, whose pleasant memories never pall,
How oft I'll in my vows those hours recall,
When in thy love's embrace I saw thee lie,
And melt away in speechless ecstasy!
Although my drowsy eyes with sleep were gone,
And midway in her course the red moon shone,
Yet from your sport I could not think to go,
Such passion did your mutual prattle show.
But since thou fear'dst not to confide in me,
In token of my gratitude to thee,
I'll keep thy secret, friend, with right good will,
And show I can do something better still.
Lovers, though parted, I can join once more,
Wide open throw cold Beauty's lazy door,
And soothe the sorrows of a bleeding heart—
Such healing balm my counsel doth impart.
'Twas Cynthia taught me what to seek and shun;
So Love for me, you see, has something done.
Of wrangling with an angry maid beware; Proud words and dogged silence, too, forbear;
Treat not her quest with look of cold disdain,
Nor let her kindly words be breathed in vain.
Once scorned, she meets you with a face of fire;
Once hurt, she cannot curb her righteous ire.
The calmer and the milder you can be,
The better the effect you'll often see.
With one true maid that youth will happy prove
Whose bosom knows no respite from her love.
Ecquid te mediis cessantem, Cynthia, Baiis.
SAY, Cynthia, as thou bask'st in Baian bowers
Where lies along the shore Alcides' Way,
And view'st, maychance, where famed Misenum towers, 'Neath old Thesprotus' realm, the smiling bay*
Do still thy nights of me remembrance claim?
Doth corner in thy heart for me remain?
Or breathes some foe his feigned unholy flame,
To lure my Cynthia from her poet's strain?
On Lucrine's bosom rather drift and dream,
And the light skiff with tiny paddles guide,
Or bathe alone in Teuthras' limpid stream,
And cleave with pliant arms the yielding tide,
Et modo Thesproti mirantem subdita regno.-(Cdd.)
Than to man's suasive whispers lend thine ear,
While softly seated on the silent shore:
Thus falls the giddy girl, no guardian near,
Nor love's attested gods remembers more.
Full well I know thine honour's free from stain,
But love still broods o'er what it holds most dear: Forgive me, therefore, if my verse give pain,
And only blame an anxious lover's fear.
Could I with greater care my mother tend,
Or value life itself, if reft of thee?
For thou alone art parent, kindred, friend—
Yea, life itself, and life's delight to me.
Then whether grief its melancholy hue,
Or joy its sunshine, to my face impart,
Whate'er I am, I'll ever say is due
To Cynthia Cynthia, darling of my heart.
Cynthia-Cynthia,
Oh then at once from tainted Baiae fly,
Whose shores the source of many a rupture prove!—
Shores ruinous to maiden purity:
Ah! perish Baiae's waters, bane of love!
TO A FRIEND ON CYNTHIA'S ABSENCE.
Quid mihi desidiae non cessas fingere crimen?
WHY charge me still with inactivity,
As if from Cynthia's side I would not go? *
Lo! Cynthia sleeps as far from where I lie
As Hypanis from the Venetian Po.
No more she holds me clasped in fond embrace,
Nor with sweet accents glads my listening ear.
I once was dear; nor bosoms e'er bore trace
Of happier loves than ours, or more sincere.
Does heaven, with envy stung, our hearts estrange?
Does Promethean herb our union rend?
I'm altered; distance, too, doth maidens change:
How soon doth love to sore disfavour tend!
Now first I'm forced long nights' lone hours to bear—
My very sighs are painful to my ears;
Blest he who still may weep before his fair,
For love rejoices in a lover's tears.
Blest he who, scorned, may after others range,
For love transferred may find felicity:
None else I'll love-I cannot, cannot change;
Cynthia my first, my latest love shall be.
* Quod faciat nobis Cynthiaamore moram ?—(Mueller.)
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