NOTE.--The remaining poems of our selection are all associated with the famous passion for Lesbia. LOVE IS ALL Let us, Lesbia darling, still Live our life, and love our fill; Heeding not a jot, howe'er Churlish dotards chide or stare! Suns go down, but 'tis to rise Brighter in the morning skies; But when sets our little light, We must sleep in endless night. A thousand kisses grant me, sweet: With a hundred these complete; Lip me a thousand more, and then Another hundred give again. A thousand add to these, anon A hundred more, then hurry one Kiss after kiss without cessation, Until we lose all calculation; So envy shall not mar our blisses By numbering up our tale of kisses. Translation of Sir Theodore Martin. ELEGY ON LESBIA'S SPARROW Loves and Graces, mourn with me, Mourn, fair youths, where'er ye be! Dead my Lesbia's sparrow is, Sparrow that was all her bliss, Than her very eyes more dear; For he made her dainty cheer; Knew her well, as any maid Knows her mother; never strayed From her bosom, but would go Hopping round her to and fro. And to her, and her alone, Chirruped with such pretty tone. Now he treads that gloomy track Whence none ever may come back. Out upon you, and your power, Which all fairest things devour, Orcus's gloomy shades, that e'er Ye took my bird that was so fair! Ah, the pity of it! Thou Poor bird, thy doing 'tis, that now My loved one's eyes are swollen and red, With weeping for her darling dead. Translation of Sir Theodore Martin. "FICKLE AND CHANGEABLE EVER" Never a soul but myself, though Jove himself were to woo her, Lesbia says she would choose, might she have me for her mate. Says--but what woman will say to a lover on fire to possess her, Write on the bodiless wind, write on the stream as it runs. Translation of Sir Theodore Martin. TWO CHORDS I Hate and love--the why I cannot tell. But by my tortures know the fact too well. Translation of Sir Theodore Martin. LAST WORD TO LESBIA O Furius and Aurelius! comrades sweet! Who to Ind's farthest shore with me would roam, Where the far-sounding Orient billows beat Their fury into foam; Or to Hyrcania, balm-breathed Araby, The Sacian's or the quivered Parthian's land, Or where seven-mantled Nile's swoll'n waters dye The sea with yellow sand; Or cross the lofty Alpine fells, to view Great Cæsar's trophied fields, the Gallic Rhine, The paint-smeared Briton race, grim-visaged crew, Placed by earth's limit line: To all prepared with me to brave the way, To dare whate'er the eternal gods decree-- These few unwelcome words to her convey Who once was all to me.