What boy who can shoot with his father's strong bow? If rivers should turn and up mountains swift flow, Since you, whose first years with such promise were fraught, And to sell all the many rare books that you bought XXX. TO VENUS. O Venus, Knidos', Paphos' queen, There bring your glowing boy, and bring And bid the Nymphs to hasten too, XXXI. TO APOLLO. What seeks the poet at Apollo's shrine ? What prays he from the goblet pouring wine? Nor for the flocks that scorched Calabria yields. Nor lands which silent Liris undermines. Their vines let dressers prune with sharpened blade, To me, Apollo, grant, I pray, the wealth XXXII. TO HIS LYRE. They need us now, my lyre—if e'er Alcæus tuned thee first, of old, He sang of Liber and the Muse, O pride of Phoebus, shell, the theme XXXIII. CROSS PURPOSES. Don't bother because she is harsh and untrue, Lycoris, the narrow-browed, shamelessly runs For wolves shall transgress nature's law, And be mated with ewes ere she'll yield to the man, Thus Venus delights aye in thwarting our plan, For myself when a far nobler love had been mine, I was fettered by Myrtale's gaze ; Fair Myrtale, wilder than even the brine That breaks on Calabrian bays. XXXIV. RECANTATION. I've not troubled the gods with my prayers, I much fear, Of late, of my senses bereft ; But now they compel me my vessel to veer And sail o'er the course that I left. For Jove, who I thought never flashes on high D The earth all inert it was shaken with fright, The gods, if they please, can confound high and low, XXXV. TO FORTUNE. Goddess, of pleasant Antium Queen, To thee with strong entreaties flee Poor tillers of the soil, And all court thee, who rul'st the sea Scythian and Dacian, towns and hordes, And mothers stern of barbarous lords, And purple chiefs of fame ; Lest by thy foot destructive spurned, The stately column break, And peaceful men to arms be turned, Before thee aye Necessity, With wedge and key doth tread ; And in her brazen clasp we see The hook and molten lead. Thee worship Hope and Faith white drest, When in thy wrath thou doff'st thy vest, But fickle crowds and harlots now Retire, and false friends fly; They've drained the cask and cannot bow Beneath adversity. Guard Cæsar, Fortune, when he goes To fight with Britons far; Guard too his young recruits, dread foes To meet in Eastern war. Alas! I blush at all our crimes, Brother by brother slain ! What shun we in these impious times? What do we not profane? Have youths to spoil the shrines refused? Ah! goddess, whet anew 'Gainst foreign foes the swords we used In our own blood to imbue. |