O Mother Venus, quit, I pray,
Your violent assailing;
The arts, forsooth, that fired my youth
At last are unavailing—
My blood runs cold—I'm getting old
And all my powers are failing!
Speed thou upon thy white swan's wings
And elsewhere deign to mellow
With my soft arts the anguished hearts
Of swain that writhe and bellow;
And right away, seek out, I pray,
Young Paullus—he's your fellow.
You'll find young Paullus passing fate,
Modest, refined, and toney—
Go, now, incite the favored wight!
With Venus for a crony.
He'll outshine all at feast and ball
And conversazione!
Then shall that godlike nose of thine
With perfumes be requited,
And then shall prance in Salian dance
The girls and boys delighted,
And, while the lute blends with the flute,
Shall tender loves be blighted.
But as for me—as you can see—
I'm getting old and spiteful;
I have no mind to female kind
That once I deemed delightful—
No more brim up the festive cup
That sent me home at night full.
Why do I falter in my speech,
O cruel Ligurine?
Why do I chase from place to place
In weather wet and shiny?
Why down my nose forever flows
The tear that's cold and briny? |