Like a young filly ranging free Tigers and trees alike you sway, Yes, Cerberus' self, though on his crest Ixion veered 'twixt smile and sigh, Their hands to list the sounds you made. Tell Lyde of their doom and guilt; Of water ever poured and spilt Through leaking casks—a well-known tale— And of the Fates which never fail, Which e'en in hell on sinners wait : Wretches-what crime was e'er so great ? Wretches, each dared the murderous sword To raise against her wedded lord. One proved well worthy Hymen's fire A glorious traitor to her sire. One out of many she, and long Her name shall famous be in song. 'Husband, arise!' so ran her strain, Fly, lest you tread death's gloomy path, 'As lionesses seeking food, Fiercely they thirst to drink your blood; And cannot keep you fast nor slay. 'Me will my sire to fetters give, 'Go where your fate and fair gales lead you, XII. TO NEOBULE. Poor girls can't freely love, or drown their cares in winecups blithe; Or if they do, beneath some cruel guardian's tongue they'll writhe. 'Tis Cupid, Neobule, steals away your work and thread ; Tis Hebrus, handsome boy, who drives all study from your head. He beats Bellerophon on horse, and when he bathes his frame In Tiber's stream, in strength or speed no youth can match his fame; A cunning hunter he to hit stags through the open flying; And swift to start the boar concealed amid the jungle lying. XIII. TO THE FOUNTAIN OF BANDUSIA. Bandusian fount, whose waters shine Whose front displays a budding horn, From the fierce dogstar's raging heat And wandering flocks, a grateful shade. More famed than you no fountain flows; XIV. TO THE ROMAN PEOPLE. He who, like Hercules, they said A victor from the coasts of Spain. Come forth, and to the gods, chaste spouse, Mothers of maids and youths, who owe To me this shines a joyful day, Nor strife nor death I fear to face While Cæsar rules the human race. Go, wreaths, my boy, and perfumes bring, And fetch a cask-if such a thing Escaped from Spartacus its fate That takes from Marsian wars its date. Tell blithe Neæra too to haste And bind her yellow locks with taste; If surly porters cause delay And hinder her, come quick away. With whitening hair our passions cool, XV. TO CHLORIS. Old wife of Ibycus, 'tis time To cease your shameful course of crime, Is not the thing for Chloris too. Your daughter on young men may smile |