One bids him drag me forth; another shouts,
"Hang him! He thinks we are not gods! Ho, there! She's waited hours for you, you lout of louts!
And you, the while, are staggering heaven knows where.
"When her Sidonian night-cap she unties,
And opes her eyes where lovely languors rest, You'll breathe no perfumes from Arabian skies, But such as Love's own fingers have exprest.
"Spare, brothers, spare; he swears he'll now be true.
And lo! unto the very door we've come."
My stripped-off garment then they round me threw,
And said, "Go, learn to spend your nights at home."
'Twas morn: I wished to see if all alone
My Cynthia lay-lone lay my lovely queen.
I stood amazed; nor e'er her form had known
More fair, when, clad in robes of purple sheen,
She went to tell chaste Vesta what she'd dreamed,
Lest to herself or me it boded harm:
So fair to me the awakened sleeper seemed.
O beauty, how omnipotent thy charm!
"Why come to spy me with the morning sun?
What? do you think I'm prone to rove like you?
I'm not so fickle-quite content with one,
Yourself, or any other still more true.
"No trace of guilt will meet your jealous eyes, Nor to my couch hath stranger found his way.
See here, no pantings in my bosom rise,
The sure revealers of the amorous fray."
She spake; with her right hand my kiss opposed, Then in loose sandal darted from my sight. Thus prying eyes Love's hallowed temple closed; Since then I have not known one happy night.
Quo fugis? ah, demens, nulla est fuga! tu licet usque.
Ho, madman! whither now? escape there's none:
Fly to the Don, Love at thy heels will run ;
Mount winged Pegasus and scour the sky,
Thy course with wingèd feet like Perseus ply,
With winged sandals beat the hurrying gale,
Another Mercury-'twill nought avail.
Love ever hovers o'er the hapless head,
And on free necks alights with weight of lead.
A keen-eyed wardour he; thy stricken eyes
He'll never suffer from the ground to rise;
Yet shouldst thou ever sin, he's sure to lend
A ready ear, if timely vows ascend.
The happy hours we've spent let grey-beards blame;
We'll keep our old road, darling, all the same.
Their ears with musty proverbs let them fill;
But here, sweet pipe, 'tis meet that thou shouldst trill,
Erst in Maeander's stream unjustly thrown,
When Pallas out of shape her cheeks had blown.
Harsh one! wilt sail the Phrygian billows o'er,
And seek the Caspian's hoarse-resounding shore? *
The common gods with blood alternate soil,
And homeward bear with thee the baleful spoil?
What? blush to live content with one fair friend?
If sin there be, 'tis Love's, and there's an end.
Hence, churls ! If thou with me, sweet Cynthia, still
Wilt share some dewy grot on mossy hill,
There to the rocks thou'lt see the Sisters cling,
And ancient Jove's delightful love-raids sing,—
How he consumed in Semele's fond arms;
How pined away for Io's maiden charms;
How, too, in fine, on wanton wings of joy,
He fluttered bird-like to the walls of Troy.
If all resist the wingèd god in vain,
And all transgress, why me alone arraign?
Nor wilt thou make the Virgins blush for shame—
They, too, have felt the soul-consuming flame,
If haply 'mid Bistonian rocks of yore
One nymph Oeagrus' warm caresses bore.
Here, when they'll make thee leader in the dance,
And Bacchus midst us deftly whirls his lance,
I'll wear the sacred ivy wreath for thee—
My fount of song! my dream of poesy!
* Et petere Hyrcani litora rauca maris.—(Munro.)
Quaeris, cur veniam tibi tardior? Aurea Phoebi.
I'VE seen-hence, love, I come so late to thee-
Great Caesar open Phoebus' golden shrine,
Adorned with Punic columns fair to see,
And Danaids 'twixt them all along the line.
Here shone in marble, than himself more fair,
Phoebus with silent lyre, outpouring strains;
And round the altar stood four oxen rare,
Carved to the life-the fruit of Myron's pains.
Rose in the midst the polished marble shrine,
More, than Ortygia, dear to Phoebus' heart.
Swept o'er the roof the car of Sol divine;
While ivory folding-doors-a gem of art
Showed, this, the Gauls sheer from Parnassus flung; That, Niobe's slain children's woeful plight;
Last, 'tween his mother and his sister, sung
The Pythian god, in trailing garment dight.
Qui videt, is peccat: qui te non viderit ergo.
WHO sees thee, sins; who sees thee not, is free
From all temptation: keep our eyes from thee.*
Cynthia, why seek Praeneste's doubtful lore?
Or Telegonian Tusculum ?-nay, more,
Why to Herculean Tibur ride, I pray?
Why pace so oft the ancient Appian way? +
Would, when at leisure, thou wouldst walk with me!
For people bid me doubt thee when they see
Thee, votaress, with kindled torches rove,
And bear the holy lights to Trivia's grove.
Ha! Pompey's portico now palls for thee,
With pillared shade and purple tapestry-
Our closely-planted planes in even row,
The streams that from a sleeping Maro flow,
And showers by Tritons poured the city round,
With sudden spurts and gently-gurgling sound.
Poor dupe thy secret's out; such journeys cry-
'Tis not the city but my sight thou'dst fly.
Vain all thine efforts-vain thy schemings fell;
The bootless toils thou spread'st I know too well.
* Or-'Tis, therefore, with our eyes the guilt must be.
+ Appia cur totiens te via ducit anus?
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