For mighty wars I thought to tune my lute, And make my measures to my subject suit. Six feet for every verse the Muse designed; } But Cupid, laughing, when he saw my mind, } From every second verse a foot purloined. } Who gave thee, boy, this arbitrary sway, } On subjects, not thy own, commands to lay, } Who Phœbus only and his laws obey? } 'Tis more absurd than if the Queen of Love Should in Minerva's arms to battle move; Or manly Pallas from that queen should take Her torch, and o'er the dying lover shake: In fields as well may Cynthia sow the corn, Or Ceres wind in woods the bugle-horn: As well may Phœbus quit the trembling string, For sword and shield; and Mars may learn to sing. Already thy dominions are too large; Be not ambitious of a foreign charge. If thou wilt reign o'er all, and every where, The God of Music for his harp may fear. Thus, when with soaring wings I seek renown, Thou pluck'st my pinions, and I flutter down. Could I on such mean thoughts my Muse employ, I want a mistress, or a blooming boy.-- Thus I complained; his bow the stripling bent, And chose an arrow fit for his intent. The shaft his purpose fatally pursues;-- Now, poet, there's a subject for thy Muse!-- He said. Too well, alas, he knows his trade; For in my breast a mortal wound he made. Far hence, ye proud hexameters, remove, My verse is paced and trammelled into love. With myrtle wreaths my thoughtful brows inclose, While in unequal verse I sing my woes. FROM OVID'S AMOURS. BOOK I. ELEG. 4. _To his Mistress, whose Husband is invited to a Feast with them. The Poet instructs her how to behave herself in his company._