Part 11 (1/2)

TO MOTHER VENUS

O mother Venus, quit, I pray, Your violent a.s.sailing!

The arts, forsooth, that fired my youth At last are unavailing; My blood runs cold, I'm getting old, And all my powers are failing.

Speed thou upon thy white swans' wings, And elsewhere deign to mellow With thy soft arts the anguished hearts Of swains that writhe and bellow; And right away seek out, I pray, Young Paullus,--he's your fellow!

You'll find young Paullus pa.s.sing fair, Modest, refined, and tony; Go, now, incite the favored wight!

With Venus for a crony He'll outs.h.i.+ne all at feast and ball And conversazione!

Then shall that G.o.dlike nose of thine With perfumes be requited, And then shall prance in Salian dance The girls and boys delighted, And while the lute blends with the flute Shall tender loves be plighted.

But as for me, as you can see, I'm getting old and spiteful.

I have no mind to female kind, That once I deemed delightful; No more brim up the festive cup That sent me home at night full.

Why do I falter in my speech, O cruel Ligurine?

Why do I chase from place to place In weather wet and s.h.i.+ny?

Why down my nose forever flows The tear that's cold and briny?

TO LYDIA

Tell me, Lydia, tell me why, By the G.o.ds that dwell above, Sybaris makes haste to die Through your cruel, fatal love.

Now he hates the sunny plain; Once he loved its dust and heat.

Now no more he leads the train Of his peers on coursers fleet.

Now he dreads the Tiber's touch, And avoids the wrestling-rings,-- He who formerly was such An expert with quoits and things.

Come, now, Mistress Lydia, say Why your Sybaris lies hid, Why he shuns the martial play, As we're told Achilles did.

TO NEOBULE

A sorry life, forsooth, these wretched girls are undergoing, Restrained from draughts of pleasant wine, from loving favors showing, For fear an uncle's tongue a reprimand will be bestowing!

Sweet Cytherea's winged boy deprives you of your spinning, And Hebrus, Neobule, his sad havoc is beginning, Just as Minerva thriftily gets ready for an inning.

Who could resist this gallant youth, as Tiber's waves he breasted, Or when the palm of riding from Bellerophon he wrested, Or when with fists and feet the sluggers easily he bested?

He shot the fleeing stags with regularity surprising; The way he intercepted boars was quite beyond surmising,-- No wonder that your thoughts this youth has been monopolizing!

So I repeat that with these maids fate is unkindly dealing, Who never can in love's affair give license to their feeling, Or share those sweet emotions when a gentle jag is stealing.

AT THE BALL GAME

What G.o.ds or heroes, whose brave deeds none can dispute, Will you record, O Clio, on the harp and flute?