My bow, my quiver, my artillery;
Chloe has beaten me quite out of th' field,
And leads me in captivity.
Great Venus! thou that know'st what I have been,
10How able, and how true a friend to smocks!
Revenge my quarrel on th' imperious quean,
And pay her with a pox!
Book IV. Ode I. To Venus.
No more of War:—Dread Cytherea, cease;