It is but folly, then, to fume and fret, If one light lass that old deception wrought; O that I too might evermore forget To speak my heart's true thought! O that my long, long nights brought peace and thee! That nought but thee my waking eyes did fill! Thou wert most false and cruel, woe is me! False! But I love thee still. _L'Envoi_ How well fresh water mixes with old wine! Bacchus loves water-nymphs. Bring water, boy! What care I where she sleeps? This night of mine Shall I in sighs employ? Make the cup strong, I tell you! Stronger there! Wine only! While the Syrian balm o'er-flows! Long would I revel with anointed hair, And wear this wreath of rose. BOOK IV ELEGY THE THIRTEENTH A LOVER'S OATH No! ne'er shall rival lure me from thine arms! (In such sweet bond did our first sighs agree!) Save for thine own I see no woman's charms; No maid in all the world is fair but thee. Would that no eyes but mine could find thee fair! Displease those others! Save me this annoy! I ask not envy nor the people's stare:-- Wisest is he who loves with silent joy. With thee in gloomy woods my life were gay, Where pathway ne'er was found for human feet, Thou art my balm of care, in dark my day, In wildest waste, society complete. If Heaven should send a goddess to my bed, All were in vain. My pulse would never rise. I swear thee this by Juno's holy head-- Greatest to us of all who hold the skies. What madness this? I give away my case! Swear a fool's oath! Thy tears my safety won. Now wilt thou flirt, and tease me to my face-- Such mischief has my babbling fully done. Now am I but thy slave: yet thine remain, My mistress' yoke I never shall undo. To Venus' altar let me drag my chain! She brands the proud, and smiles on lovers true. OVID'S LAMENT FOR TIBULLUS' DEATH If tears for their dead sons, in deep despair, Mothers of Memnon and Achilles shed, If gods in mortal grief have any share, O Muse of tears! bow down thy mournful head! Tibullus, thy true minstrel and best fame, Mere lifeless clay, on tall-built pyre doth blaze; While Eros, with rent bow, extinguished flame, And quiver empty, his wild grief displays. Behold, he comes with trailing wing forlorn, And smites with desperate hands his bosom bare! Tears rain unheeded o'er his tresses turn, And many a trembling sob his soft lips bear. Thus for a brother Eros mourned of yore, Aeneas, in Iulus' regal hall; Not less do Venus' eyes this death deplore Than when she saw her slain Adonis fall. Yet poets are sacred! Simple souls have deemed That ranked with gods we sons of song may stand, See one and all by sullen Death blasphemed, And violated by his shadowy hand!