Classic Poem

If to the conscious mind it yields delight
Each action past of virtue to revise,
To guard inviolate that faith we plight,
Nor ever with false lip to vouch the skies;

What bliss thy ill-stair'd passion will repay!
What years of rapture yet remain in store!
Since all that love could do, that tongue could say,
Catullus fondly did, and fondly swore!

And yet no traces of such wondrous love
In Lesbia's false, ungrateful breast are found;
Then wherefore droop? be firm; and quick remove
From her, whom heav'n forbids thy peace to wound!

At once to quench an ancient flame, I own,
Is truly hard; but still no efforts spare;
On this thy peace depends, on this alone;
Then possible, or not, o conquer there!

And you, just gods; if with a pitying eye
Ye ever deign'd man's countless ills to see,
Or stay'd in death's last hour the parting sigh;
Look down benignant on a wretch like me!

If pure my life, if free from guilty stains,
The poison rankling in this heart destroy;
Whose torpor chills the current of my veins,
And chases from my breast each sprightly joy.

I ask not her my passion to repay,
Or (which were vain) her chastity to guard;
O, heal my wounds, love's burning pangs allay!
Thus, ye kind gods, my piety reward!