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day as roguish Cupid from
A hive was stealing honey-comb,
Sorely wept—and blew his fingers Stamped on the ground in pretty passion :
Near the hive no more he lingers, But flies
and shews his grief
Venus, his sorrows to beguile,
As he sat sobbing on her knee, Said to him, with a rosy smile,
“ You are yourself just like the bee. Have you forgot the thousand smarts You wreak on mortals with
darts ? The tiny insect stings, 'tis true ; And such another monster you !”
LIB. V. 20.
TOULD we but live, my dearest brother,
For ourselves and one another, Disposers of our proper leisure, In blameless holiday and pleasure, We ne'er would haunt the great man's levée, Nor law-courts soured with pleadings heavy, Content in quiet to reside, Far from the imaginings of pride. For literary friends and talkLight exercise in shady walkAt proper times in proper places The gladiators and the racesThe bath—the stroll by Virgo's sourceWould satisfy our tastes of course : Such would our haunts be, such our neighbours, Such our extemporary labours.
Now, whilst we live for those alone
The day that never can return :
1842. FROM TASSO.
PROLOGUE TO THE AMINTA.
(Enter Love habited as a shepherd.)
HO could divine that in this human shape,
Veiled in these shepherd's weeds, a God lay hid ? No wood-god, or inferior rural power, But the most potent of the Gods above; Who can the red right hand of Mars disarm, And from the grasp of Neptune shake the trident, And quench the thunderbolts of Jove himself. Certes, in this disguise not readily Could Venus recognise her offspring Love. For from my mother am I fain to fly To hiding-places. She would make, forsooth, A slave of Love, to do her bidding only, Nor let me loose my shafts but when she lists ! She would confine me within kingly courts To aim at crowns and sceptres—bid me trust To lesser loves, my humbler ministers, The care of waging war, in woods and groves,
On churlish breasts : but I, in truth, no child,
But there are certain countermarks by which