A woman's slave am I, and know it well.
Farewell, my birthright! farewell, liberty!
In wretched slavery and chains I dwell,
For love's sad captives never are set free.

Whether I smile or curse, love just the same
Brands me and burns. O, cruel woman, spare!
O would I were a rock, to 'scape this flame
Far off upon the frosty mountains there!

Would I were flint, to front the tempest's power,
Wave-buffeted on some wild, wreckful shore!
My sad days bring worse nights, and every hour
Fills me some cup of gall and brims it o'er.

What use are songs? Her greedy hands disdain
Apollo's gift. She says some gold is due.
Farewell, ye Muses, I have sung in vain!
Only in quest of her I followed you.

I sing no wars; nor how the moon and sun
In heavenly paths their circling chariots steer.
To win my lady's smiles my numbers run;
Farewell, ye Muses, if ye fail me here!

Let deeds of bloody crime now make me bold!
No longer at her bolted door I whine;
But I will find that necessary gold,
Though I steal treasure from some holy shrine.

Venus I first will violate; for she
Compelled my crime, and did my heart enthrall
To beauty that requires a golden fee.
Yes, Venus' shrine shall suffer worst of all.

Curse on that man who finds the emerald green,
And Tyrian purples for our flattered girls!
He makes them greedy. Now they must be seen
In Coan robe and gleaming Red Sea pearls.

It spoils them all. Now bolts and barriers hold
Their doors, and watch-dogs threaten through the dark;
But let the lover overflow with gold,—
All bolts fly back and not a dog will bark.

What God did beauty unto gold degrade,
And mix one bliss with many a woe and shame?
Tears, quarrels, curses were the gifts he made;
And Love bears now a very evil name.

False girl, who dost for riches thrust aside
Love's honest vow, may winds and flames conspire
To wreck thy wealth, while all thy beaux deride
The loss, nor throw one bowl-full on the fire!

O when dark Death shall be thy final guest,
No lover true will shed the faithful tear,
Nor bring an offering where thy ashes rest,
Nor lay one garland on thy lonely bier I

But some warm-hearted lass who loved not gain
Shall live a hundred years, yet be much mourned;
Her tomb shall be some lover's holiest fane,
With annual gift of all sad flowers adorned.

"Farewell, true heart!" his trembling lips will say,
"Let peace untroubled bless thy relics dear!"
Oft will he visit, and departing pray,
"Light lie this earth on her whose rest is here!"

Nay, it is vain such serious songs to breathe:
I must be modern, if I would prevail.
How much? Just all my ancestors bequeath?
Come, Lares! You are advertised for sale.

Let Circe and Medea bring the lees
Of some foul cup! Let Thessaly prepare
Its direst poison! Bring hippomanes,
Fierce philtre from the frantic, brooding mare!
For if my mistress mix it with a smile,
I drain a draught a thousand times as vile.