No virtuous herb to reach that ill His heavenly arts of healing knew; For love made vain his famous skill, And all his art o'er-threw. Himself his herds afield he drove, Or where the cooling waters stray; Himself the willow baskets wove, And strained out curds and whey. Oft would his heavenly shoulders bear A calf adown some pathless place; And oft Diana met him there, And blushed at his disgrace. O often, if his voice divine Echoed the mountain glens along, Out-burst the loud, audacious kine, And bellowing drowned his song. His tripods prince and people found All silent to their troubled cry, His locks dishevelled and unbound Woke fond Latona's sigh. To see his pale, neglected brow, And unkempt tresses, once so fair,-- They cried, "O where is Phoebus now? "His glorious tresses, where?" "In place of Delos' golden fane, "Love gives thee but a lowly shed! "O, where are Delphi and its train? "The Sibyl, whither fled?" Happy the days, forever flown, When even immortal gods could dare Proudly to serve at Venus' throne, Nor blushed her chain to wear! "Irreverent fables!" I am told. But lovers true these tales receive: Rather a thousand such they hold, Than loveless gods believe. O Ceres, who didst charm away My Nemesis from life in Rome, May barren glebe thy pains repay And scanty harvest come! A curse upon thy merry trade! Young Bacchus, giver of the vine! Thy vine-yards have ensnared a maid Far sweeter than thy wine. Let herbs and acorns be our meat! Drink good old water! Better so Than that my fickle beauty's feet To those far hills should go! Did not our sires on acorns feed, And love-sick rove o'er hill and dale? Our furrowed fields they did not need, Nor did love's harvest fail. When passion did their hearts employ, And o'er them breathed the blissful hour, Mild Venus freely found them joy In every leafy bower. No chaperone was there, no door Against a lover's sighs to stand. Delicious age! May Heaven restore Its customs to our land! Nay, take me! In my lady's train Some stubborn field I fain would plough Lay on the lash and clamp the chain! I bear them meekly now. ELEGY THE FOURTH ON HIS LADY'S AVARICE A woman's slave am I, and know it well. Farewell, my birthright! farewell, liberty! In wretched slavery and chains I dwell, For love's sad captives never are set free. Whether I smile or curse, love just the same Brands me and burns. O, cruel woman, spare! O would I were a rock, to 'scape this flame Far off upon the frosty mountains there! Would I were flint, to front the tempest's power, Wave-buffeted on some wild, wreckful shore! My sad days bring worse nights, and every hour Fills me some cup of gall and brims it o'er.