"Away vain arts of love! false aids to win the fair! "Henceforth a cloak of filthy shag shall be my only wear! "Her door is shut! She doth deny one moment's interview! "I'll wear my toga loose no more, as happier lovers do." _To Marathus_ Have done, dear lad! In vain thy tears! She will not heed thy plea! Redden no more thy bright young eyes to please her cruelty! _To Pholoe_ I warn thee, Pholoe, when the gods chastise thy naughty pride, No incense burned at holy shrines will turn their wrath aside. This Marathus himself, erewhile, made mock of lovers' moan, Nor knew how soon the vengeful god would mark him for his own. He also laughed at sighs and tears, and oft would make delay, And oft a lover's fondest wish would baffle and betray. But now on beauty's haughty ways he looks in fierce disdain; He scarce may pass a bolted door without a secret pain. Beware, proud girl, some plague will fall, unless thy pride give way; Thou wilt in vain the gods implore to send thee back this day! ELEGY THE TENTH TO VENAL BEAUTY Why, if my sighs thou wert so soon to scorn, Didst dare on Heaven with perjured promise call? Ah! not unpunished can men be forsworn; Silent and slow the perjurer's doom shall fall. Ye gods, be merciful! Oh! let it be That beauteous creatures who for once offend Your powers divine, for once may go scot-free, Escape your scourge, and make some happy end! 'Tis love of gold binds oxen to the plough, And bids their goading driver sweat and chide; The quest of gold allures the ship's frail prow O'er wind-swept seas, where stars the wanderers guide. By golden gifts my love was made a slave. Oh, that some god a lover's prayer might hear, And sink such gifts in ashes of a grave, Or bid them in swift waters disappear! But I shall be avenged. Thy lovely grace The dust of weary exile will impair; Fierce, parching suns will mar thy tender face, And rude winds rough thy curls and clustering hair. Did I not warn thee never to defile Beauty with gold? For every wise man knows That riches only mantle with a smile A thousand sorrows and a host of woes. If snared by wealth, thou dost at love blaspheme, Venus will frown so on thy guilty deed, 'Twere better to be burned or stabbed, I deem, Or lashed with twisted scourge till one should bleed. Hope not to cover it! That god will come Who lets not mortal secrets safely hide; That god who bids our slaves be deaf and dumb, Then, in their cups, the scandal publish wide. This god from men asleep compels the cry That shouts aloud the thing they last would tell. How oft with tears I told thee this, when I At thy white feet a shameful suppliant fell! Then wouldst thou vow that never glittering gold Nor jewels rare could turn thine eyes from me, Nor all the wealth Campania's acres hold, Nor full Falernian vintage flowing free.