Now for a soldier Macer goes. Will Cupid take the field?
Will Love himself enlist, and bear on his soft breast a shield?

Through weary marches over land, through wandering waves at sea,
Armed cap-a-pie, will that small god the hero's comrade be?

O burn him, boy, I pray, that could thy blessed favors slight!
Back to the ranks the straggler bring beneath thy standard bright!

Yet, if to soldiers thou art kind, I too will volunteer,
I too will from a helmet drink, nor thirst in desert's fear.

Venus, good-bye! Now, off I go! Good-bye, sweet ladies all!
I am all valor, and delight to hear the trumpets call.

Large is my brag! But while with pride my project I recite,
I see her bolted door,—and then my boasting fails me quite.

Never to visit her again, with many an oath I swore;
But while I vowed, my feet had run unguided to her door.

Come now, ye lovers all! who serve in Cupid's hard campaign,
Let us together to the wars, and thus our peace regain!

This age of iron frowns on love and smiles on golden gain,—
On spoils of war which must be won by agony and pain.

For spoils alone our swords are keen, and deadly spears are hurled
While carnage, wrath, and swifter death fly broadcast through the world.

For spoils, with double risk of death the threatening seas we sail,
And climb the steel-beaked ship-of-war, so mighty and so frail!

The spoilers proud to boundless lands their bloody titles read,
And see innumerable flocks o'er endless acres feed

Fine foreign marbles they will bring; and all the city stare,
While one tall column for a house a thousand oxen bear.

They bind with bars the tameless sea; behind a rampart proud
Their little fishes swim in calm, when wintry storms are loud.

Ah! Love! Will not a Samian bowl hold all our mirth and wine?
And pottery of poor Cuman clay, with love, seem fair and fine?

Nay! Woe is me! Naught now but gold can please our ladies gay;
And so, since Venus asks for wealth, the spoils of war must pay.

My Nemesis shall roll in wealth; and promenade the town,
All glittering, with my golden gifts upon her gorgeous gown.

Her filmy web of Coan weave with golden broidery gleams;
Her swarthy slaves the Indian sun touched with its burning beams.

In rival hues to make her fair all conquered regions vie,
Afric its azure must bestow, and Tyre its purple dye.

O look—I tell what all men know—on that most favored lover!
Once in the market-place he sat, with both his soles chalked over.