Than drink, soft couch'd the quiet beach along,
The honey'd whispers of another's tongue.
For oft unguarded maidens break their word,
Nor heed the plighted vows that heaven has heard.
Nor that I fear thy truth, lest thou shouldst fall,
But Baia's lovers-I distrust them all.
Then if my words seem cold and void of cheer,
Oh, pardon me, for 'tis the fault of fear.
No mother's love could compensate for thine;
Nor life itself, with thee no longer mine;
For children, parents, thou art all to me,
And all life's joys are center'd but in thee;
Whate'er I speak, howe'er in joy or woe,
I mix with men, 'tis Cynthia makes me so;
Then quickly fly from Baia's wicked shore,
"Twill sever lovers, as it has before;
No friend to modest maidens can it prove;
Then perish Baia-'tis the bane of love!
WHY dost thou chide me for a stay-at-home,
As if some secret bound me still to Rome?
My love from me as many leagues divide
As Hypanis is far from Padus' tide.
No more fond Cynthia's love my bosom cheers,
No more her name sounds sweetly in my ears.
Yet once I pleased her well, but ah! how few
Had love like mine, so tender or so true.
Too bless'd was I: is then some God my foe?
Or have Caucasian poisons work'd us woe?
No more I'm hers, for with her flight has fled
All that deep love, how deep, how quickly dead!
Now must I languish weary nights alone,
With none to hear me as I make my moan;
Thrice happy he whose tears his mistress move,
The sight of these full oft will strengthen love;
Or he, who slighted, seeks another's thrall,
And finds in change an antidote to all;
But I may love but one, with her must dwell,
First of my loves was she, and last as well.
HOU wilt exult-I know thy mocking tone,
To think my love has fled, and I'm alone;
Yet shall thy taunts no echo find in me,
False friend, be never maiden false to thee.
Boast then thy conquests over maidens won,
In love's allegiance constant still to none.
Now madly love but one, grow pale, and yield,
And at the earliest onset quit the field.
Thy victim's anguish thou couldst scorn of yore,
Now learn from one the pangs so many bore;
"Tis she will bid thee all thy loves resign,
Thou must be true, if thou wouldst make her thine.
"Tis she has stemm'd the current of thy pride,
Love makes thee hers and binds thee to her side.
No wonder, she's well-nigh as Leda fair,
And Leda's daughters have less sweet an air;
More winning far than any Grecian dame,
Her voice alone could Heaven's great king inflame;
Then make the most of it, since thou must love,
No other heart of thee could worthy prove.
Thy mood is changed, then be she kind to thee,
And thy one love all thou wouldst have her be.
WHAT though by Tyber softly thou recline,
And drink from Mentor's cups the Lesbian
Mark each swift skiff that shoots amid the throng, Or heavy barge that slowly toils along;
Though the wide wood that spreads before thy eyes
Rivals Caucasian forest-trees in size;
Yet love so sweet as mine outvies thy state-
Love yields no place to wealth, however great.
Whether some blissful night she spends with me,
Or days' whole lengths prolong love's ecstasy;
Then all Pactolus' wealth, methinks, is mine,
And every pearl that decks the Indian brine.
Then kings, I know, are not so bless'd as I,
Be mine such bliss, till fate shall bid me die.
What joy has wealth, if love be cruel still ?
No wealth be mine, without kind Venus' will.
'Tis she can bend strong chieftains to her yoke,
And plant a rankling shaft in hearts of oak;
She breaks the doors of precious onyx stone,
And haunts the purple couch that princes own,
If she bid lovers toss the livelong night,
Think not that robes of silk can ease their plight.
Be she still kind, and I can well be bold
To scorn a crown, and all Phæacia's gold.
OFTEN fear'd thy weak capricious will, But treachery like this is deadlier still. With what relentless wrath is fate my foe! But thou art all unmoved amid my woe, Smoothing the locks that lay last night so trim, And spending hours o'er fashion's latest whim; While o'er thy breast all India's gems are pour'd, Like some fair bride that waits to meet her lord. Yet 'twas not thus Calypso wept of yore Reft of Ulysses on the lonely shore,
Long days she sat with locks unkempt and free, Long prayers she utter'd to the cruel sea, Though on her lover's face she'd look'd the last, She wept to think of all the blissful past. Alphesiboa slew her brethren twain;
A husband's love could break e'en kindred's chain.
Nor thus unmoved stood lone Hypsipyle,
And watch'd her lover o'er the stormy sea;
She never loved another, since the day
That Jason stole her pining heart away.
And still of chaste Evadne maidens tell,
Who sought death's fires with him she loved so well.
Do not examples, bright as these, bid thee
Swell the proud tale of woman's constancy?
Then swear no more to loves that never last,
Nor call on Heaven, that has forgot the past.
For me, rash girl, the bitter tears shall flow,
When troubles come, and Fortune strikes thee low.
Yet shall each mighty river cease to roll,
And seasons change their march around the pole,
E'er I for thee my anxious cares resign,
Be what thou wilt, thou must be ever mine, Or slight the influence of those speaking eyes, Which made me oft believe thy perjuries, On which, if false thy words, thou didst invoke The blasting vengeance of the lightning stroke, Eyes, thou couldst dare to raise to Heaven above, Without a fear thy guilty heart to move; Thou canst not say I made thee feign those fears, And dim thy eyes with counterfeited tears. These work'd my woe. Ye then, my love who share, Be warn'd, nor trust the smile that women wear.
WHO for mighty triumphs once thrown wide,
Told the sad tale how chaste Tarpeia died, While gilded chariots swept my courts along, And trembling captives wept amid the throng
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