She seeks another yet, she holds him fast
Hast learnt, fond fool, no lesson from the past?
But me no place, no time can turn away,
In health and sickness, I am thine alway!
HY talk, why argue, now thy verse is
known,
"And Cynthia's poem read by all the town?”
Who would not quail at this? The nobly born
Must hide such loves, or reap the worldling's scorn.
Had Cynthia been more kind, then should not I
Be call'd the bard of immorality-
Nor hear the town my character defame,
And feel annoyance, though I hide her name.
Then wonder not I seek for cheaper stuff,
Their tongues are softer-reason good enough.
She ever asks, be angry as I can,
For a hand-cooler, or a peacock fan;
She'd have me beg for ivory dice, or buy
All of the Sacred street's gay trumpery.
No cost I mind; but shame if I were still
The dupe of one who fools me at her will!
AS this the pleasure that thou bidst me share?
Or is it well to find thee false as fair?
Scarce two short days have flown-thy task is
weary thee, and love's short race is run.
Nought but my songs and me thou once couldst praise;
How quick has flown the love of happier days!
Let others show the patience and the art,
The deep devotion of one constant heart;
Bid others fight with Lerna's snakes for thee,
Seek golden apples o'er the western sea;
Drain deadly cups, or, shipwreck'd, gulp the wave,
Nor shrink from any toil thou bidst them brave.
Then in the selfsame dangers test my love,
And my proud rival will but craven prove;
Boastful though now be he, and puff'd with pride,
Another year shall tear him from thy side.
But me a Sibyl's lifetime would not turn,
Nor toils Herculean, nor the gloomy urn
Wouldst thou but gather there my dust, and cry,
Farewell, true heart, that loved with constancy! "Yes, thou wert true, ah me! though lineage old
Was never thine, nor pomp of worldly gold;"
No wrongs can turn me- -'tis no load to bear
My love's caprices, be she only fair;
I can believe each wreck that beauty made,
Or count each loving heart by man betray'd.
Short time for Ariadne Theseus burn'd;
Soon false Demophoön from Phyllis turn'd;
Think how Medea follow'd o'er the wave
The traitor-heart love bade her stoop to save;
But she who feigns a love she does not feel,
And smiles on all alike—is hard as steel.
Court thou nor birth, nor wealth, if there be one
To weep thy ashes when life's race is run.
Be mine, this task, or better, thine the care,
For me to beat the breast and rend the hair.
cause of all my anguish, all my pain, Never to hear thee whisper, "Come again!"
Nor Calvus, nor Catullus could refuse
The nobler fame that waits thee from my muse.
Th' unharness'd veteran rests, his battles o'er,
The aged bull the furrow treads no more,
The ship fast moulders in the sandy dust,
The trophied buckler slumbers into rust;
But love like mine no age could e'er subdue,
Be mine Tithonus' life, and Nestor's too.
Better it were the tyrant's rack to pass;
Or groan, Perillus, in thy torturing brass;
Better the Gorgons' stony glance should kill,
Or the dark vulture batten at his will;
Yet will I never yield: by rust the blade,
By little drops the rock is softer made;
But love like mine no doorstep wears away,
Hard though it be, and deaf to all I say;
Injured and spurn'd, for pardon I implore,
My feet would stay me, but I seek thy door.
And thou, proud lover, now preferr'd to me,
Fool, to believe in woman's constancy!
Who thinks of safety, till the storm be o'er,
When ships are ofttimes wreck'd in sight of shore?
Who claims the prize, ere yet the race be done,
And seven fair courses round the pillar run?
When Love blows fair, his gales are faithless all,
The later 'tis deferr'd, the worse thy fall;
And thou, though she thou lovest love thee well,
Lock close thy breast, nor dare thy joys to tell,
For words of pride will bring, 'twas ever so,
As they have brought before, to lovers woe.
Go not too oft, though often she implore,
Or Heaven will grudge thy bliss, and all be o'er.
Were old simplicity again the rage,
I had not been the victim of the age,
But blest as thou; yet me the changing day
Shall never change, walk others as they may.
But ye, on many who regard bestow,
Make thus the boon of eyesight nought but woe,
Brunette or blonde, no matter which she be,
Ye find in either tint Love's witchery;
The melting charm of Greece, the Roman air,
The winning, and the queenly, both seem fair;
The purple silk, the poor plebeian gown-
From each and all the God his shaft has thrown.
Be she but one whose spells are o'er thee, still In one may lurk infinity of ill.
DREAM'D I saw thee shipwreck'd, Cynthia
mine,
With weary hand that strove to stem the brine;
Thy falsehoods all confess'd, thy wrongs to me,
Thy hair all soak'd and heavy from the sea-
Like her who, throned upon her fleecy car,
Gemm'd the blue billow as a golden star;-
How fear'd I, lest thy fate should name the wave,
And the rough sailor weep to plough thy grave;
What vows to Neptune then, what prayers I made
For Castor's guidance and Leucothea's aid!
Yet, with thy hand scarce clasp'd above the brine,
The name thy gasping lips would call was mine.
If Glaucus then that dying glance had seen,
Th' Ionian waves had own'd another queen,
And all the jealous Nereids chided thee,
Nesæa fair, and green Cymothoë.
But to thy aid I mark'd a dolphin come-
The same, methinks, that bore Arion home.
E'en as I stoop'd to plunge me in the main,
Fear snapp'd my sleep, and proved the vision vain.
Wonder ye, then, this fair one's mine alone,
And my good luck the talk of all the town?
For all Pactolus' wealth she'd never say,
"Begone, poor starveling poet, hence away!"
To read my lays all wealth would she refuse,
For none like her so keenly courts the Muse.
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