Not now dull beasts, but luckless maids engage His enmity; brave men are brave no more; Youth's strength he wastes, and drives fond, foolish age To blush and sigh at scornful beauty's door. Love-lured, the virgin, guarded and discreet, Slips by the night-watch at her lover's call, Feels the dark path-way with her trembling feet, And gropes with out-spread hands along the wall. Oh! wretched are the wights this god would harm! But blest as gods whom Love with smiles will sway! Come, boy divine! and these dear revels charm-- But fling thy burning brands, far, far away! Sing to this god, sweet shepherds! Ask aloud Your flocks' good health; then each, discreetly mute, His love's!--Nay, scream her name! Yon madcap crowd Screams louder, to its wry-necked Phrygian flute. On with the sport! Night's chariot appears: The stars, her children, follow through the sky: Dark Sleep comes soon, on wings no mortal hears, With strange, dim dreams that know not where they fly. ELEGY THE SECOND A BIRTHDAY WISH Burn incense now! and round our altars fair With cheerful vows or sacred silence stand! To-day Cerinthus' birth our rites declare, With perfumes from the blest Arabian land. Let his own Genius to our festal haste, While fresh-blown flowers his heavenly tresses twine And balm-anointed brows; so let him taste Our offered loaf and sweet, unstinted wine! To thee Cerinthus may his favoring care Grant every wish! O claim some priceless meed! Ask a fond wife thy life-long bliss to share-- Nay! This the great gods have long since decreed! Less than this gift were lordship of wide fields, Where slow-paced yoke and swain compel the corn; Less, all rich gems the womb of India yields, Where the flushed Ocean rims the shores of Morn. Thy vow is granted! Lo! on pinions bright, The Love-god comes, a yellow cincture bearing, To bind thee ever to thy dear delight, In nuptial knot, all other knots outwearing. When wrinkles delve, and o'er the reverend brow Fall silver locks and few, the bond shall be But more endeared; and thou shall bless this vow O'er children's children smiling at thy knee. ELEGY THE THIRD MY LADY RUSTICATES To pleasures of the country-side My lady-love is lightly flown; And now in cities to abide Betrays a heart of stone. Venus herself henceforth will choose Only in field and farm to walk, And Cupid but the language use Which plough-boy lovers talk. O what a ploughman I could be! How deep the furrows I would trace, If while I toiled, I might but see My mistress' smiling face! A farmer true, I'd guide my team Of barren steers o'er fruitful lands, Nor murmur at the noon-day beam, Or my soft, blistered hands. Once fair Apollo fed the flocks Of King Admetus, like a swain; Little availed his flowing locks, His lyre was little gain.