Elegia XIII.
Ad Auroram ne properet.
Now o'er the sea from her old love comes she
That draws the day from heaven's cold axletree.
Aurora, whither slid'st thou? down again!
And birds for[204] Memnon yearly shall be slain.
Now in her tender arms I sweetly bide,
If ever, now well lies she by my side.
The air is cold, and sleep is sweetest now,
And birds send forth shrill notes from every bough.