Although his father's temple be fallen, and though of its pillars Scarcely a pair yet records ancient glory adored, Nevertheless the son's place of worship still stands, and forever Will there the ardent requests alternate with the thanks. Only one favor I beg of you, Graces (I ask it in secret-- Fervent my prayer and deep, out of a passionate breast): My little garden, my sweet one, protect it and do not let any Evil come near it nor me. Cupid will hold out his hand: O, and entrusting myself to the rascal, I beg you please may I Do so in pleasure with no danger or worry or fear. XVIII I cannot think I'd have gone with Julius Caesar to Britain; To the Popina right here, Florus would tug me with ease. Fogs of the dreary north remain a more baleful remembrance Than in the kitchens of Rome tribes of assiduous fleas. After today, I'll remember you even more kindly, tavernas, You osterias, as you are called, aptly by those here in Rome. That was the place I encountered my mistress today with the uncle Whom she so often deceives, so that she can have me. Here's where I sat at a table surrounded by good-natured Germans; Over on that side the girl, finding a seat for herself Next to her mother where, frequently shifting her bench, she arranged Nicely for me to perceive profile and curve of her neck; Speaks just a little more loudly than women in Rome are accustomed; Significant glance as she pours--misses the glass with the wine So that it spills on the table, and she with a delicate finger Over its surface can draw circles in damp arabesque: Her name entwining in mine, while my eyes most eagerly follow All that her fingertip writes. She is of course well aware That I am watching, so finally makes the V of the Roman Five, with a virgule before. Quickly, as soon as I've seen, She interlaces the circles, reducing them all to ornatest Patterns--but still the sweet IV stood as engraved in my eye. I sat there mutely and biting my passionate lips almost bloody Half from delight at the ruse, partly from stifled desire: Such a long time until dark, then another four hours of waiting. --Sun, who tarries on high, contemplating Rome: Greater never you've nor shall you in future see greater Than Rome, O sun, as your priest, Horace, enraptured foretold. Tarry no longer today. Go seek other realms beneath heaven. Sooner depart and leave Rome's seven famed hills to me. Please do the poet a favor and shorten the glorious hours Which the painter devours, eagerly filling his eyes. Cast now but one ardent glance, while descending, on noble facades and Cupolas, pillars, and--last--up at the obelisks. Then Hastily plunge to the ocean. Come view all the sooner tomorrow That which, for centuries now, gods have let you enjoy: