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Like a young filly ranging free
The plains, she loves her liberty;
No marriage bonds as yet her fate;
She's still too young to seek a mate.

Tigers and trees alike you sway,
And rivers in their course delay;
Your soothing arts had power to quell
The guardian of the gates of hell;

Yes, Cerberus' self, though on his crest
A hundred frightful serpents rest,
Though deadly breath and horrid gore
Forth from his three-tongued palate pour.

Ixion veered 'twixt smile and sigh,
And Tityus too—their urns stood dry
Awhile as Danaus' daughters stayed

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,
'Arise, or never wake again!

Fly, lest you tread death's gloomy path,
My father's and my sisters' wrath.

'As lionesses seeking food,

Fiercely they thirst to drink your blood;
But I was formed of softer clay,

And cannot keep you fast nor slay.

'Me will my sire to fetters give,
Because I bade my lover live,
Or banish far across the main,
E'en to Numidia's distant plain.

'Go where your fate and fair gales lead you,
While night and friendly Venus speed you;
Be ever blest! My mournful doom
Preserve on some recording tomb.'

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
More clear than crystal, worthy wine
And flowers, to-morrow I'll devote
In honour of your stream a goat,

Whose front displays a budding horn,
And marks for love and battle born;
In vain, for soon his wanton blood
Shall stain with red your cooling flood.

From the fierce dogstar's raging heat
Your waters form a safe retreat;
For weary oxen you have made,

And wandering flocks, a grateful shade.

More famed than you no fountain flows;
For I have praised the oak which grows
Above the caverned rocks, where leap
Your babbling waters from the steep.

XIV.

TO THE ROMAN PEOPLE.

He who, like Hercules, they said
Risked death to crown with bay his head,
Our Cæsar now returns again,

A victor from the coasts of Spain.

Come forth, and to the gods, chaste spouse,
Who lov'st thy lord alone, pay vows ;
Come, sister of the chief renowned,
And matrons with your fillets crowned;

Mothers of maids and youths, who owe
Their safety to the vanquished foe;
Ye boys and new-made wives take care,
From all ill-omened speech forbear.

To me this shines a joyful day,
And care and trouble fly away;

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,
We learn by time our wrath to rule;
I'd not have been so calm, I fear,
When Consul Plancus named the year.

XV.

TO CHLORIS.

Old wife of Ibycus, 'tis time

To cease your shameful course of crime,
With one foot in the grave, give o'er
To sport with maidens as before.
Throw not the darkness of your cloud
O'er stars that shine without a shroud.
What Pholoe may rightly do

Is not the thing for Chloris too.

Your daughter on young men may smile
And play the Bacchanal awhile.
On Nothus now she's pleased to doat,
And frisks like any wild she-goat.
But you're played out—a spindle suits
Your old age more than lyres and lutes.
How ill do flowers and cups of wine
With such a hag as you combine !

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