Yet would I live, and die with thee.
Book III. Ode XII.
No more Love's subjects, but his slaves they be,
That dare not o'er a glass of wine be free,
But quit, for fear of friends, their liberty.
Fond Neobule! thou art lazy grown,
Away thy needle, web, and distaff thrown,
Thou hop'st thy work by Hebrus will be done.
A sturdy youth, and a rank rider he,