He seems to pass. But soon will backward fare Alone, and, coughing, at the threshold hide. What skill hath stolen love! Beware, beware! Thy boat is drifting on a treacherous tide. What worth a lovely wife, if others buy Thy treasure, if thy stoutest bolt betrays, If in thy very arms she breathes a sigh For absent joy, and feigns a slight _malaise?_ Give her in charge to me! I will not spare A master's whip. Her chain shall constant be. While thou mayst go abroad and have no care Who trims his curls, or flaunts his toga free. Whatever beaux accost her, all is well! Not the least hint of scandal shall be made. For I will send them far away, to tell In some quite distant street their amorous trade. All this a god decrees; a sibyl wise In prophet-song did this to me proclaim; Who when Bellona kindles in her eyes, Fears neither twisted scourge nor scorching flame. Then with a battle-axe herself will scar Her own wild arms, and sprinkle on the ground Blood, for Bellona's emblems of wild war, Swift-flowing from the bosom's gaping wound. A barb of iron rankles in her breast, As thus she chants the god's command to all: "Oh, spare a beauty by true love possessed, Lest some vast after-woe upon thee fall! "For shouldst thou win her, all thy power will fail, As from this wound flows forth the fatal gore, Or as these ashes cast upon the gale, Are scattered far and kindled never more." And, O my Delia, the fierce prophetess Told dreadful things that on thy head should fall:-- I know not what they were--but none the less I pray my darling may escape them all. Not for thyself do I forgive thee, no! 'Tis thy sweet mother all my wrath disarms,-- That precious creature, who would come and go, And lead thee through the darkness to my arms. Though great the peril, oft the silent dame Would join our hands together, and all night Wait watching on the threshold till I came, Nor ever failed to know my steps aright. Long be thy life! dear, kind and faithful heart! Would it were possible my life's whole year Were at the friendly hearth-stone where thou art! 'Tis for thy sake I hold thy daughter dear. Be what she will, she is not less thy child. Oh, teach her to be chaste! Though well she knows No free-born fillet binds her tresses wild Nor Roman stole around her ankles flows! My lot is servile too. Whate'er I see Of beauty brings her to my fevered eye. If I should be accused of crime, or be Dragged up the steep street, by the hair, to die:-- Even then there were no fear that I should lay Rude hands on thee my sweet! for if o'erswayed By such blind frenzy in an evil day, I should bewail the hour my hands were made.