With haughty frown I swore I could employ
Thine absence well. But all my pride is o'er!
Now am I lashed, as when a madcap boy
Whirls a swift top along the level floor.

Aye! Twist me! Plague me! Never shall I say
Such boast again. Thy scorn and anger spare!
Spare me!—by all our stolen loves I pray,
By Venus,—by thy wealth of plaited hair!

Was it not I, when fever laid thee low,
Whose holy rites and offerings set thee free?
Thrice round thy bed with brimstone did I go,
While the wise witch sang healing charms for thee.

Lest evil dreams should vex thee, I did bring
That worshipped wafer by the Vestal given;
Then, with loose robes and linen stole, did sing
Nine prayers to Hecate 'neath the midnight heaven.

All rites were done! Yet doth a rival hold
My darling, and my futile prayers deride:
For I dreamed madly of a life all gold,
If she were healed,—but Heaven the dream denied.

A pleasant country-seat, whose orchards yield
Sweet fruit to be my Delia's willing care,
While our full corn-crop in the sultry field
Stands ripe and dry! O, but my dreams were fair!

She in the vine-vat will our clusters press,
And tread the rich must with her dancing feet;
She oft my sheep will number, oft caress
Some pretty, prattling slave with kisses sweet.

She offers Pan due tributes of our wealth,
Grapes for the vine, and for a field of corn
Wheat in the ear, or for the sheep-fold's health
Some frugal feast is to his altar borne.

Of all my house let her the mistress be!
I am displaced and give not one command!
Then let Messala come! From each choice tree
Let Delia pluck him fruit with her soft hand!

To serve and please so worshipful a guest,
She spends her utmost art and anxious care;
Asks his least wish, and spreads her dainty best,
Herself the hostess and hand-maiden fair.

Mad hope! The storm-winds bore away that dream
Far as Armenia's perfume-breathing bids.
Great Venus! Did I at thy shrine blaspheme?
Am I accursed for rash and impious words?

Had I, polluted, touched some altar pure,
Or stolen garlands from a temple door—
What prayers and vigils would I not endure,
And weeping kiss the consecrated floor?

Had I deserved this stroke,—with pious pain
From shrine to shrine my suppliant knees should crawl;
I would to all absolving gods complain,
And smite my forehead on the marble wall.

Thou who thy gibes at love canst scarce repress,
Beware! The angry god may strike again!
I knew a youth who laughed at love's distress,
And bore, when old, the worst that lovers ken.

His poor, thin voice he did compel to woo,
And curled, for mockery, his scanty hair;
Spied on her door, as slighted lovers do,
And stopped her maid in any public square.

The forum-loungers thrust him roughly by,
And spat upon their breasts, such luck to turn:
Have mercy, Venus! Thy true follower I!
Why wouldst thou, goddess, thine own harvest burn!