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VI.

THE JOYS OF LOVE.

O me felicem! o nox mihi candida! et o tu!

O BLISS! O charming night! O couch thrice dear, From love-delights that all past joys outshone! What charming prattle when the lamp burnt clear! What loving dalliance when the light was gone!

Now with bare breasts she strove, and now delayed
My eager efforts; then the sweet coquette
Oped with her lips my sleep-closed eyes and said:
"Sluggard, is this the way you treat your pet?"

How twined our arms our struggling waists around!
How lip on lip imprest the lingering kiss!
Why in the dark the joys of love confound?
The eyes are aye the pioneers of bliss!

Lo! Paris burned as Helen robeless came
From Menelaus' chamber; and they say
Robeless Endymion kindled Dian's flame,
And with the robeless virgin-goddess lay.

But if, persistently, your robe you don,

My hands will rend it to invade your charms; Nay, should unwonted passion urge me on,

You'll have to show your mother bruisèd arms.

Yours are no drooping breasts that you should claim To be from Love's delightful warfare barred; Leave it to her to wear the blush of shame

Whose handsome form has been by travail marred.

While fate allows, let love delight our eyne;
A long night comes and no returning day.
Oh, would that Love around us both might twine
A clasping chain that would endure for aye!

The amorous doves be pattern of our joy,
That each with each in fond affection vie;
He errs who would love's frenzied flame destroy :
True love can never know satiety.

Sooner the soil shall mock the toiling swain
With bastard produce—sooner shall the sun
Urge on his sable steeds with slackened rein,
And rivers backward to their fountains run—

Sooner shall fishes roam the arid shore,—

Than I to other maid transfer my love: All my life long my charmer I'll adore; To her in death itself I'll faithful prove.

If nights like this she grant me e'er again,
A single year will be an age to me;
If many such, I'll be immortal then ;
Even one gives mortal immortality.

Were Love and Wine life's work, we'd mourn nor steel,
War-ships nor bones on Actian billows tost ;
Nor so would Rome, beset with triumphs, feel
Weary of her tresses streaming for the lost.

Surely of me posterity shall say

My cups ne'er vexed the gods: then, love, do you Stint not life's joys in youth's brief summer day; A world of kisses is a world too few.

For as the leaves from withered garlands fall
And strew the goblet, so shall we who bloom
In love to-day, ere morn, perchance, be thrall
To ruthless fate and prisoned in the tomb.

VII.

TO CYNTHIA.

Praetor ab Illyricis venit modo, Cynthia, terris.

FROM the Illyrian land the other day

Your friend the praetor has returned, I learn— To you a fruitful source of welcome prey,

To me of inexpressible concern.

If on the Thunder-cliffs thou'dst dashed his head,
O Neptune! what rare gifts I'd offer thee !
Now not with me the groaning board is spread;
Wide stands your door all night, but not for me.

Yet reap the proffered harvest if you're wise,
And fleece, while thick his wool, the silly sheep;

And when at last in beggary he lies,

For new Illyrias bid him cross the deep.

With neither rank nor honours Cynthia's ta'en;
She weighs her lovers' purses day by day.
But now, O Venus! aid me in my pain,

Let sore indulgence waste his strength away.

So any one with gifts may purchase love?

O Jove my darling pines for harlot-hire; For gems she bids me o'er the ocean rove, And bear her home the costly gifts of Tyre.

Would none were rich in Rome, and Caesar's self
Could be content in straw-built hut to dwell!
Our girls would never barter charms for pelf,
But every home of hoary virtue tell.

Not that for seven whole nights from me you lay—
Your fair arms round so foul a lecher thrown-
Nor that you've sinned, have I a word to say,
But that the fair to levity are prone.

A lubber, sudden-blest, in robes of shame,

Now rules my realm: yet think, in all your pride,

What bitter gifts to Eriphyle came !

What fearful flames consumed Iason's bride!

Will no wrong stem the ever-welling tear?

And must I still your faithlessness deplore? The theatres and parks have ceased to cheer For many a day, and song is song no more.

Yet shame, ah! shame—unless, perchance, 'tis true, That shameless love is deaf, as men have said. See him who lately with his guilty crew

The Actian sea with bootless din o'erspread.

Base passion bade him wheel with flying prow,
And to the world's far verge for refuge steer:
A double laurel wreathes our Caesar's brow;

The hand that conquered now has sheathed the spear.

What robes he gave you, and what emeralds rare,
What costly chrysoliths of golden gleam,
May furious tempests sweep athwart the air-
Be they as dust or water in the stream.

Not aye Jove calmly smiles on perjury,

And turns a deaf ear to the wretch's prayer.
Say, have ye heard the thunder rend the sky,
And seen the lightning sweeping down the air?

These not the frowning Pleiades have wrought;
Nor yet Orion on his stormy raids,—
The blood-red bolt descendeth not for nought:
Thus Jove is wont to punish perjured maids.

For he hath shed the bitter tears of woe,

Befooled by faithless maiden's perfidy:

Then prize no more Sidonian vestments so,

That you must fear when south winds gloom the sky.

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