TO DIANA
| O virgin, tri-formed goddess fair, The guardian of the groves and hills, Who hears the girls in their despair Cry out in childbirth's cruel ills, And saves them from the Stygian flow! Let the pine-tree my cottage near Be sacred to thee evermore, That I may give to it each year With joy the life-blood of the boar, Now thinking of the sidelong blow. |
TO HIS LUTE
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If ever in the sylvan shade A song immortal we have made, Come now, O lute, I prithee come, Inspire a song of Latium! A Lesbian first thy glories proved; In arms and in repose he loved To sweep thy dulcet strings, and raise His voice in Love's and Liber's praise. The Muses, too, and him who clings To Mother Venus' apron-strings, And Lycus beautiful, he sung In those old days when you were young. O shell, that art the ornament Of Phoebus, bringing sweet content To Jove, and soothing troubles all,— Come and requite me, when I call! |