How fierce would he rage, if in cups he were sunk.
A lion in heat, he, despising all bounds;
No forest would hold him, nor dense jungle-grounds.
Of rhymes do I dream? ’Tis my love orders me[225]
Of love still to dream;—swain devoted to be:
“Thyself make thou happy. Rhymes leave, now, alone.
The rhyme I seek, thou art. I love thee, my own.185
What’s rhyme, that thou turnest thy thoughts thitherward?
Mere bramble on wall, hedging round our vineyard.
I care not for words, for asseverations;