O, Hortalus! with wasting cares opprest,
I live sequester'd from the tuneful Nine;
Nor can the Muse, while sorrow racks my breast,
Prompt the gay thought, or form the flowing line.

I a fond brother's heart-felt loss deplore,
Whose clay-cold feet dark Lethe's waters lave;
Beside fam'd Rhœteum, on the Trojan shore,
Rest his cold relicks in the peaceful grave.

E'en than my life, o brother, dearer far!
Say, never shall I view thy form again?
In love at least thou wilt be always dear;
Still shalt thou live in sorrow's tender strain.

Still will I sing thee, as the bird of eve
Sings sweetly-lorn upon her tufted seat;
Mid shades of darkest foliage pleas'd to grieve,
To mourn unhappy Itys' barb'rous fate!

Yet, midst my woes, I send this Roman song,
Anxious to grant my friend his least desire,
Which erst the Bard, from ancient Battus sprung,
Warbled melodious on the Grecian lyre:

Lest Hortalus should deem his lov'd behest
Escap'd the mem'ry of his willing slave:
As from some modest virgin's secret breast
Escapes the apple her kind lover gave,

Which there in fond forgetfulness she laid;
Till, all abrupt, her witless mother came;
When, starting back, the falling gift betray'd
Her hidden love, while blushes spoke her shame.