For oaths like thine I would have sworn the skies Hold not a star, nor crystal streams look clear: While thou wouldst weep, and I, unskilled in lies, Wiped from thy lovely blush the trickling tear. Why didst thou so? save that thy fancy strayed To beauty fickle as thine own and light? I let thee go. Myself the torches made, And kept thy secret for a live-long night. Sometimes I led to sudden rendezvous The flattered object of thy roving joys. Mad that I was! Till now I never knew How love like thine ensnares and then destroyes. With wondering mind I versified thy praise; But now that Muse with blushes I requite. May some swift fire consume my moon-struck lays, Or flooding rivers drown them out of sight! And thou, O thou whose beauty is a trade, Begone, begone! Thy gains bring cursed ill. And thou, whose gifts my frail and fair betrayed, May thy wife rival thine adulterous skill! Languid with stolen kisses, may she frown, And chastely to thy lips drop down her veil! May thy proud house be common to the town, And many a gallant at thy bed prevail! Nor let thy gamesome sister e'er be said To drain more wine-cups than her lovers be, Though oft with wine and rose her feast is red Till the bright wheels of morn her revels see! No one like her to pass a furious night In varied vices and voluptuous art! Well did she train thy wife, who fools thee quite, And clasps, with practised passion, to her heart! Is it for thee she binds her beauteous hair, Or in long toilets combs each dainty tress? For thee, that golden armlet rich and rare, Or Tyrian robes that her soft bosom press? Nay, not for thee! some lover young and trim Compels her passion to allure his flame By all the arts of beauty. 'Tis for him She wastes thy wealth and brings thy house to shame. I praise her for it. What nice girl could bear Thy gouty body and old dotard smile? Yet unto thee did my lost love repair-- O Venus! a wild beast were not so vile! Didst thou make traffic of my fond caress, And with another mock my kiss for gain? Go, weep! Another shall my heart possess, And sway the kingdom where thou once didst reign. Go, weep! But I shall laugh. At Venus' door I hang a wreath of palm enwrought with gold; And graven on that garland evermore, Her votaries shall read this story told: _"Tibullus, from a lying love set free, O Goddess, brings his gift, and asks new grace of thee."_ ELEGY THE ELEVENTH WAR IS A CRIME Whoe'er first forged the terror-striking sword, His own fierce heart had tempered like its blade. What slaughter followed! Ah! what conflict wild! What swifter journeys unto darksome death! But blame not him! Ourselves have madly turned On one another's breasts that cunning edge Wherewith he meant mere blood of beast to spill.