A SONG TO A SINGER
Dura fida rubecula,
Cur moraris in arbore
Dum cadunt folia et brevi
Flavet luce November.
Quid boni tibi destinât
Hora crastina? quid petes
Antris ex hiemalibus?
Quid speras oriturum?
Est ut hospita te vocet
Myrtis, et reseret fores,
Ut te vere nitentibus
Emiretur ocellis.
Quod si contigerit tibi,
Ter beata vocaberis,
Invidenda volucribus,
Invidenda poetæ.
AGE AND GIRLHOOD
A dry cicale chirps to a lass making hay,
"Why creak'st thou, Tithonus?" quoth she. "I don't
play;
It doubles my toil, your importunate lay;
I've earned a sweet pillow, lo! Hesper is nigh;
I clasp a good wisp, and in fragrance I lie;
But thou art unwearied, and empty, and dry."