Part 6 (1/2)

Redden no more thy bright young eyes to please her cruelty!

_To Pholoe_

I warn thee, Pholoe, when the G.o.ds chastise thy naughty pride, No incense burned at holy shrines will turn their wrath aside.

This Marathus himself, erewhile, made mock of lovers' moan, Nor knew how soon the vengeful G.o.d would mark him for his own.

He also laughed at sighs and tears, and oft would make delay, And oft a lover's fondest wish would baffle and betray.

But now on beauty's haughty ways he looks in fierce disdain; He scarce may pa.s.s a bolted door without a secret pain.

Beware, proud girl, some plague will fall, unless thy pride give way; Thou wilt in vain the G.o.ds implore to send thee back this day!

ELEGY THE TENTH

TO VENAL BEAUTY

Why, if my sighs thou wert so soon to scorn, Didst dare on Heaven with perjured promise call?

Ah! not unpunished can men be forsworn; Silent and slow the perjurer's doom shall fall.

Ye G.o.ds, be merciful! Oh! let it be That beauteous creatures who for once offend Your powers divine, for once may go scot-free, Escape your scourge, and make some happy end!

'Tis love of gold binds oxen to the plough, And bids their goading driver sweat and chide; The quest of gold allures the s.h.i.+p's frail prow O'er wind-swept seas, where stars the wanderers guide.

By golden gifts my love was made a slave.

Oh, that some G.o.d a lover's prayer might hear, And sink such gifts in ashes of a grave, Or bid them in swift waters disappear!

But I shall be avenged. Thy lovely grace The dust of weary exile will impair; Fierce, parching suns will mar thy tender face, And rude winds rough thy curls and cl.u.s.tering hair.

Did I not warn thee never to defile Beauty with gold? For every wise man knows That riches only mantle with a smile A thousand sorrows and a host of woes.

If snared by wealth, thou dost at love blaspheme, Venus will frown so on thy guilty deed, 'Twere better to be burned or stabbed, I deem, Or lashed with twisted scourge till one should bleed.

Hope not to cover it! That G.o.d will come Who lets not mortal secrets safely hide; That G.o.d who bids our slaves be deaf and dumb, Then, in their cups, the scandal publish wide.

This G.o.d from men asleep compels the cry That shouts aloud the thing they last would tell.

How oft with tears I told thee this, when I At thy white feet a shameful suppliant fell!

Then wouldst thou vow that never glittering gold Nor jewels rare could turn thine eyes from me, Nor all the wealth Campania's acres hold, Nor full Falernian vintage flowing free.

For oaths like thine I would have sworn the skies Hold not a star, nor crystal streams look clear: While thou wouldst weep, and I, unskilled in lies, Wiped from thy lovely blush the trickling tear.

Why didst thou so? save that thy fancy strayed To beauty fickle as thine own and light?

I let thee go. Myself the torches made, And kept thy secret for a live-long night.

Sometimes I led to sudden rendezvous The flattered object of thy roving joys.

Mad that I was! Till now I never knew How love like thine ensnares and then destroyes.

With wondering mind I versified thy praise; But now that Muse with blushes I requite.