Hence an old man who ought now to be near upon Acheron.
Behold him loving,—and for his brow flower-fillets preparing.
But I, since Love smote me with the dart that was changed,
I am fainting, and their hand the fates upon me are laying.
Spare, O boy; spare, O Death, holding the ensigns victorious,—
Make me the lover, the old man make him sink beneath Acheron.”
And carrying on the idea into the next Emblem (155),—
“Why, O Death, with thy wiles darest thou deceive Love the boy,
That thy weapons he should hurl, while he thinks them his own?”
Whitney’s “sportive tale, concerning death and love,” possesses sufficient merit to be given in full (p. 132),—