'Still press thy gifts, though now he spurn;
'Heed not his coldness—soon he'll burn,
'E'en though thou chide.'
—And saidst thou thus, dread goddess? Oh,
Come then once more to ease my woe:
Grant all, and thy great self bestow,
My shield and guide!
John Herman Merivale, 1833.
HYMN TO APHRODITE.
Golden-throned beyond the sky,