Trust in good verse, Tibullus feels death's pains,
Scarce rests of all what a small urn contains.40
Thee, sacred poet, could sad flames destroy?
Nor fearèd they thy body to annoy?
The holy gods' gilt temples they might fire,
That durst to so great wickedness aspire.
Eryx' bright empress turned her looks aside,
And some, that she refrained tears, have denied.
Yet better is't, than if Corcyra's Isle,
Had thee unknown interred in ground most vile.