For much more useful are such trifling tasks
Than that which sad misfortune this day asks:
To weep o’er thy deaf grave, dear maiden mine,
And wail the harshness of grim Proserpine4.
But now I have no choice of subject: then
I shunned a theme scarce fitting riper men,
And now disaster drives me on by force
To songs unheeded by the great concourse
Of mortals. Verses that I would not sing
The living, to the dead I needs must bring.