Vainly at me her tricksy boy His arrows shoots. The sweet annoy I never felt; though oft and oft He hover'd o'er me, and with soft, Sly, 'luring glances his torch wav'd, And look'd to find me swift enslav'd; Offer'd a quill from his own wing, E'en from his mother's swan--to sing; Ay, often Venus' love-wreaths weaving, On my brow the symbol leaving: He would laugh, and Poet style me, And with flatteries beguile me: 'Begone, begone, O wanton boy! Thy mother too, though Queen of Joy.' Thus did I speak. Naught of my song Shall thy tyranny prolong: Get thee, with thy torch and arrow, Unto the Veronian sparrow; _Catullus_ Or the Bilbilician win _Martial_ To embalm thy pleasant sin: Be thy assaults however vile, He on thee will smile, and smile: He, thy love-locks curious twining, Shall ne'er come short of thy inclining: He thine own poet is, and will Give thee full license to instill By jest and quip and jollity Whate'er it listeth thee to try. Alas, that genius so august Should pander to adult'rous lust! Alas, that he, poet so true, Should poet be, Cupid, to you! O, what harvest of rich thought Judean seed from him had brought, If, up-climbing holy mountains, He had drunk from hallow'd fountains! Mother and son, I see them now, As round her neck his arms he'd throw, Nestling with his azure eyes, Her bosom's splendour for his skies; Kissing, and kiss'd in sweet reply, As soft winds o'er violets die: While she all her love discloses, Murm'ring on his lips' twin roses: His lips like hers, and hers like his, Glued i' the rapture of their bliss. Visions like these would Martial give With dainty touch and fugitive. The heav'nly Weeper there would bow Before her Lord, and pay her vow: Now is uttered gentle sigh, And now great tears gleam in her eye: That, offspring of the stainless Light; This, of the Pyx's mystic rite: In his verse, tears, sighs should fall Delicate and musical: In fine, whate'er in mine were mean Should radiant grow as sunlight's sheen. Go, then, go, insatiate boy, Nor me longer seek t' annoy: I've said it, nor shall e'er unsay: Go to thy mother, and there play. Why wilt thou whisper flattery, And praise my Muse's witchery-- Verses that reck not of thy smarts-- And smite me with thy fire-tipp'd darts? Go, get thee gone! Thy haunt must be Where there's wanton revelry, And the young minx with toss o' curls Opes her lips to show her pearls; Opes her lips, with some gross jest A foolish lover to arrest. Thither go, where falsely-fair Beauty is bought and sold; and where, Flaunting with painted cheek, and eye A-flame to ev'ry devilry, Base women seek base men, and tingle