WOOER of young Nymphs who fly thee, Lightly o’er my sunlit lawn Trip, and go, nor injured by thee Be my weanling herds, O Faun: If the kid his doomed head bows, and Brims with wine the loving cup, When the year is full; and thousand Scents from altars hoar go up. Each flock in the rich grass gambols When the month comes which is thine; And the happy village rambles Fieldward with the idle kine: Lambs play on, the wolf their neighbour: Wild woods deck thee with their spoil; And with glee the sons of labour Stamp thrice on their foe, the soil. TO LYCE. OD. iv. 13. LYCE, the gods have listened to my prayer; The gods have listened, Lyce. Thou art grey, And still would’st thou seem fair; Still unshamed drink, and play, And, wine-flushed, woo slow-answering Love with weak Shrill pipings. With young Chia He doth dwell, Queen of the harp; her cheek Is his sweet citadel:— He marked the withered oak, and on he flew Intolerant; shrank from Lyce grim and wrinkled, Whose teeth are ghastly-blue, Whose temples snow-besprinkled:— Not purple, not the brightest gem that glows, Brings back to her the years which, fleeting fast, Time hath once shut in those Dark annals of the Past. Oh, where is all thy loveliness? soft hue And motions soft? Oh, what of Her doth rest, Her, who breathed love, who drew My heart out of my breast? Fair, and far-famed, and subtly sweet, thy face Ranked next to Cinara’s. But to Cinara fate Gave but a few years’ grace; And lets live, all too late, Lyce, the rival of the beldam crow: That fiery youth may see with scornful brow The torch that long ago Beamed bright, a cinder now. TO HIS SLAVE. OD. i. 38. PERSIAN grandeur I abhor; Linden-wreathèd crowns, avaunt: Boy, I bid thee not explore Woods which latest roses haunt: Try on nought thy busy craft Save plain myrtle; so arrayed Thou shalt fetch, I drain, the draught Fitliest ’neath the scant vine-shade. THE DEAD OX. GEORG. IV.