XI.
Oh Ponte Molle, thou bridge of renown,
Near thee many draughts have I swallowed down,
From bottles in wicker-work braided.
Oh Ponte Molle, what is the cause
That I between my glasses now pause,
Can hardly to drink be persuaded?
Oh Ponte Molle, 'tis strange in truth,
That the lovely days of my vanished youth
And love's old dream are recurring.