Classic Poem

Venus, I pray, do not flay me or tear me now;
?Why should you rouse me to passion again?
I am too old to let Cupid ensnare me now;
?See, there are hundreds of likelier men.
Spare me, oh spare me now!
Venus, go otherwhere; pass on and pardon me;
?I am no longer the man that I was.
Thoughts of poor Cynara rise like a guard on me,
?These and my fiftieth year make me pause—
Do not be hard on me.
Young Paulus Maximus, he is the man for you;
?High-born and fair, with an eloquent turn.
He is the sort who will do all he can for you;
?Altars he'll raise to you, incense he'll burn;
Fires he'll fan for you.
Sweetly the smoke of his worship will rise to you,
?And, twice a day, nimble feet will advance—
Maidens and boys, as a pleasant surprise to you,
?Beating the ground in the Salian dance,
While the heart flies to you …
Yes, I have altered. The sighs and alarms for me,
?Little indeed do I think of them now.
Wine-cups and drinking-bouts—these have no charms for me;
?I crave no flowers to bind on my brow,
No, nor soft arms for me.
But—what is this! Can you tell, Ligurine dear,
?Why in my dreams do our hands interclasp?
Or, like a hunter in chase of a shiny deer,
?Why do I seek you, who fly from my grasp?
And—why this briny tear?