Bring larger bowls and give my sorrows wine,
By heaviest slumbers be my brain possessed!
Soothe my sad brows with Bacchus' gift divine,
Nor wake me while my hapless passions rest!

For Delia's jealous master at her door
Has set a watch, and bolts it with stern steel.
May wintry tempests strike it o'er and o'er,
And amorous Jove crash through with thunder-peal!

My sighs alone, O Door, should pierce thee through,
Or backward upon soundless hinges turn.
The curses my mad rhymes upon thee threw,—
Forgive them!—Ah! in my own breast they burn!

May I not move thee to remember now
How oft, dear Door, thou wert love's place of prayer?
While with fond kiss and supplicating vow,
I hung thee o'er with many a garland fair?

In vain the prayer! Thine own resolve must break
Thy prison, Delia, and its guards evade.
Bid them defiance for thy lover's sake!
Be bold! The brave bring Venus to their aid.

'Tis Venus guides a youth through doors unknown;
'Tis taught of her, a maid with firm-set lips
Steals from her soft couch, silent and alone,
And noiseless to her tryst securely trips.

Her art it is, if with a husband near,
A lady darts a love-lorn look and smile
To one more blest; but languid sloth and fear
Receive not Venus' perfect gift of guile.

Trust Venus, too, t' avert the wretched wrath
Of footpad, hungry for thy robe and ring!
So safe and sacred is a lover's path,
That common caution to the winds we fling.

Oft-times I fail the wintry frost to feel,
And drenching rains unheeded round me pour,
If Delia comes at last with mute appeal,
And, finger on her lip, throws wide the door.

Away those lamps! Thou, man or maid, away!
Great Venus wills not that her gifts be scanned.
Ask me no names! Walk lightly there, I pray!
Hold back thy tell-tale torch and curious hand!

Yet fear not! Should some slave our loves behold,
Let him look on, and at his liking stare!
Hereafter not a whisper shall be told;
By all the gods our innocence he'll swear.

Or should one such from prudent silence swerve
The chatterer who prates of me and thee
Shall learn, too late, why Venus, whom I serve,
Was born of blood upon a storm-swept sea.

Nay, even thy husband will believe no ill.
All this a wondrous witch did tell me true:
One who can guide the stars to work her will,
Or turn a torrent's course her task to do.

Her spells call forth pale spectres from their graves,
And charm bare bones from smoking pyres away:
'Mid trooping ghosts with fearful shriek she raves,
Then sprinkles with new milk, and holds at bay.

She has the power to scatter tempests rude,
And snows in summer at her whisper fall;
The horrid simples by Medea brewed
Are hers; she holds the hounds of Hell in thrall.

For me a charm this potent witch did weave;
Thrice if thou sing, then speak with spittings three,
Thy husband not one witness will believe,
Nor his own eyes, if our embrace they see!

But tempt not others! He will surely spy
All else—to me, me only, magic-blind!
And, hark! the hag with drugs, she said, would try
To heal love's madness and my heart unbind.

One cloudless night, with smoky torch, she burned
Black victims to her gods of sorcery;
Yet asked I not love's loss, but love returned,
And would not wish for life, if robbed of thee.