Chapter II

Sweet Phyllis, I have here a jar of old and precious wine, The years which mark its coming from the Alban hills are nine, And in the garden parsley, too, for wreathing garlands fair, And ivy in profusion to bind up your shining hair.

Now smiles the house with silver; the altar, laurel-bound, Longs with the sacrificial blood of lambs to drip around; The company is hurrying, boys and maidens with the rest; The flames are flickering as they whirl the dark smoke on their crest.

Yet you must know the joys to which you have been summoned here To keep the Ides of April, to the sea-born Venus dear,-- Ah, festal day more sacred than my own fair day of birth, Since from its dawn my loved Mæcenas counts his years of earth.

A rich and wanton girl has caught, as suited to her mind, The Telephus whom you desire,--a youth not of your kind. She holds him bound with pleasing chains, the fetters of her charms,-- Remember how scorched Phaëthon ambitious hopes alarms.

The winged Pegasus the rash Bellerophon has chafed, To you a grave example for reflection has vouchsafed,-- Always to follow what is meet, and never try to catch That which is not allowed to you, an inappropriate match.

Come now, sweet Phyllis, of my loves the last, and hence the best (For nevermore shall other girls inflame this manly breast); Learn loving measures to rehearse as we may stroll along, And dismal cares shall fly away and vanish at your song.

TO CHLOE

I

Why do you shun me, Chloe, like the fawn,
That, fearful of the breezes and the wood,
Has sought her timorous mother since the dawn,
And on the pathless mountain tops has stood?

Her trembling heart a thousand fears invites,
Her sinking knees with nameless terrors shake,--
Whether the rustling leaf of spring affrights,
Or the green lizards stir the slumbering brake.

I do not follow with a tigerish thought,
Or with the fierce Gætulian lion's quest;
So, quickly leave your mother, as you ought,
Full ripe to nestle on a husband's breast.

TO CHLOE

II

Chloe, you shun me like a hind
That, seeking vainly for her mother,
Hears danger in each breath of wind,
And wildly darts this way and t' other;

Whether the breezes sway the wood
Or lizards scuttle through the brambles,
She starts, and off, as though pursued,
The foolish, frightened creature scrambles.

But, Chloe, you're no infant thing
That should esteem a man an ogre;
Let go your mother's apron-string,
And pin your faith upon a toga!