Classic Poem

My Furius, my Aurelius dear,
Ye faithful friends, Catullus loves!
Ye, who his fortunes still would share;
Whether to farthest Ind he roves,
Where the loud Eastern billows roar,
And lash the hoarse-resounding shore;

Whether he treads Hircanian ground;
Or seeks the gentle Arab's home;
The Parthians, for the dart renown'd;
Or mid the Sacæ's doom'd to roam;
Or where, discolouring all the sea,
The sev'n-mouth'd Nile directs its way;

Whether o'er Alpine heights he goes,
Cæsar's proud trophies to survey;
Or, where, the Rhine thro' Gallia flows,
His devious footsteps chance to stray;
Or, where, dissever'd from the world,
Rude Britain's savage sons are hurl'd:

Ye, who to wander would agree,
O'er all these countries, with your friend;
Where'er the deities decree
My lot, resolv'd your aid to lend;
O, to the too lascivious fair,
These few, unwelcome tidings bear!

Tell her, with her adult'rous fry
To live, and, as she may, be blest;
Yet, to her arms tho' hundreds fly,
Hold none far dearer than the rest;
But wear each lover's strength away,
In brutal lust, in joyless play:

Bid her my flame regard no more,
A flame, that once unrivall'd shone!
'Tis by her guilt, her folly, o'er;
For ever like some flow'ret gone,
Which, springing on the meadow's side,
Felt the share's iron touch, and died.