Nor she who roused to madness and despite 'Gainst Troy the hearts of the Achaean host, Who gave unto destruction Ilion's height; Nor she the squadrons of the Latin coast Who launched irate against the Teucrian race, Whose bitter pangs were ever Juno's boast; And no less she who hath a different praise And trophy for the steadfast purity Wherewith she kept her honour from disgrace; Nor she who mourned her dead Sychaeus, she On whom Mantuan Tityrus did cast Reproach for fond desire and vanity; Neither 'mongst all the fair ones that the past Ages produced, nor at this present hour Nor in the days to come find we at last; One who in wisdom, worth, or beauty's dower, Was or is equal to my shepherdess, Or claimeth o'er the world a sovereign's power. Ah happy he, if but the bitterness Of jealousy he knew not, who by thee, Silena, should be loved with faithfulness! Thou who hast to this height exalted me, Oh Love, with heavy hand hurl me not down Unto oblivion's deep obscurity. Seek thou a prince's, not a tyrant's crown.