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The goddess with a blush her love betrays,
Can Tethys win thee? wherefore shouldst thou lave
grassy turf shall yield thee sweeter rest;
flame, And all her countless offspring feel the same; For Cupid now through every region strays, Brightening his faded fires with solar rays; His new strung bow sends forth a deadlier sound, And his new pointed shafts more deeply wound; Nor Dian's self escapes him now untried, Nor even Vesta at her altar side; His mother too repairs her beauty's wane, And seems sprung newly from the deep again. Exulting youths the hymeneal sing, With Hymen's name roofs, rocks, and valleys ring; He, new attired, and by the season drest, Proceeds, all fragrant, in his saffron vest. Now many a golden-cinctured virgin roves To taste the pleasures of the fields and groves, All wish, and each alike, some favourite youth
Hers, in the bonds of hymeneal truth.
the seaman hails the starry sphere,
At least thou, Phoebus! moderate thy speed ! Let not the vernal hours too swift proceed, Command rough winter back, nor yield the pole Too soon to night's encroaching, long control !
TO CHARLES DEODATI,
Who, while he spent his Christmas in the country, sent the Author a poetical epistle, in which he requested that his verses, if not so good as usual, might be excused on account of the many feasts to which his friends invited him, and which would not allow him leisure to finish them as he wished.
With no rich viands overcharged, I send [friend. Health, which perchance you want, my pamper'd But wherefore should thy muse tempt mine
away From what she loves, from darkness into day? Art thou desirous to be told how well I love thee, and in verse ? verse cannot tell. For verse has bounds, and must in measure move; But neither bounds nor measure knows
love. How pleasant, in thy lines described, appear December's harmless sports, and rural cheer! French spirits kindling with cærulean fires, And all such gambols as the time inspires !
Think not that wine against good verse offends, The muse and Bacchus have been always friends; Nor Phoebus blushes sometimes to be found With ivy, rather than with laurel, crown'd. The Nine themselves ofttimes have join'd the song, And revels of the Bacchanalian throng; Not even Ovid could in Scythian air Sing sweetly-why? no vine would flourish there.
Anacreon's muse? Wine, and the rose that sparkling wine bedews. Pindar with Bacchus glows-his every line Breathes the rich fragrance of inspiring wine, While, with loud crash o'erturn'd, the chariot lies, And brown with dust the fiery courser flies. The Roman lyrist steep'd in wine his lays So sweet in Glycera’s and Chloe's praise. Now too the plenteous feast and mantling bowl Nourish the vigour of thy sprightly soul; The flowing goblet makes thy numbers flow, And casks not wine alone, but verse bestow. Thus Phoebus favours, and the arts attend, Whom Bacchus and whom Ceres both befriend. What wonder, then, thy verses are so sweet, In which these triple powers so kindly meet ! The lute now also sounds, with gold inwrought, And, touch'd with flying fingers nicely taught, In tapestried halls, high roof'd, the sprightly lyre Directs the dancers of the virgin choir. If dull repletion fright the muse away, Sights gay as these may more invite her stay; And, trust me, while the ivory keys resound, Fair damsels sport, and perfumes steam around, Apollo's influence, like ethereal flame, Shall animate, at once, thy glowing frame, And all the muse shall rush into thy breast, By love and music's blended powers possest. For numerous powers light elegy befriend, Hear her sweet voice, and at her call attend;
What in brief numbers