Great are thy gifts and greater yet shall be —
For thou alone, dear Sire, canst conquer thee.
But 'tis not they that our affection move;
It is because of thee thy gifts we love.

Weep for your crime, weep o'er the Lucrine lake,
Ye Naiads, till your cries e'en Thetis wake.
For Eutychos 'neath Baiae's waves you drew
And for my Castricus his comrade slew,
Who was his comfort and his chiefest joy,
Loved by our bard as Virgil loved his boy.

Did the nymph see thee naked in the mere
And give Alcides back his Hylas dear?
Or does the goddess in thy love delight
And for thy arms neglect Hermaphrodite?
Whate'er the cause of rape so sudden be,
Let earth, I pray, and wave be kind to thee.

Me kindly Rome loves, quotes my books, and buys them;
But till that critic feigning to despise them
Blushed and turned pale, then yawned and looked confounded,
I never felt my fame was surely grounded.

As Glycera was perfect, so
Lycoris is to me,
How can the past be present, tho'
Their futures may agree?

" Love," " Loved," ah, Time's omnipotence!
His grammar rules are crude;
By merely altering a tense
He brings a change of mood.

You want me, dear lady, to be always ready.
But love, you must know, is a thing most unsteady.
Your words and your gestures invite me to go
To extremities with you. Your face — that says. " No."

  Giul. I HUNGER for her, and am all athirst!
Her scorn affronts me, and doth make me mad.
Mine eyes— these eyes, are wet with heavy drops!
Would'st think me such a fool?
  Ferd. If she disdain thee,
Love, and be quiet, coz.
  Giul. How? What? Be still?
Dost think I am a wild beast tamed by wrongs?
If one, I am the hyæna!—for he sheds tears,
And bites the while he's howling:—but, I'm quiet!
  Ferd. I thought thou lov'dst a rose cheek'd-girl, and merry;
A laugher of sixteen summers; such there are:
But she is paler than a primrose morning,

  Iol. I laugh at thy base verse.
  Jul. That is not well.
You should have mercy on my desperate pain.
Disdain'st thou? Well,—so be it! I will love
Through all misfortune; even through thy disdain.
I've striven—for years—against this frightful woe,
Though thou didst never know't. The lonely Night
Has seen me wander midst her silent hours,
Darker than they, with my too great despair;
And the poor rhymes, which thou dost scorn so much,
Were dug out of my heart!—ay, forced, at times,
Through burning, blinding tears! Dost thou despise

Her voice is soft; not shrill and like the lark's,
But tenderer,—graver,—almost hoarse at times;
As though the earnestness of love prevailed,
And quelled all shriller music.

The blessings of the skies all wait abouTher:
Health, Grace, inimitable Beauty, wreathed
Round every motion:—On her lip, the rose
Has left its sweetness, (for what bee to kiss?)
And from the darkening Heaven of her eyes,
A starry Spirit looks out:—Can it be Love?

AY , still he loves
The lion-tressed Bellona, like a bride;
Woos her with blows; and when his limbs all sweat
With struggling through the iron ranks of war,
Down doth he tumble on the tired ground,
Wipes his red forehead; cries ‘How brave is this!’
And dreams all night of bloody victory!