Or stolen garlands from a temple door--
What prayers and vigils would I not endure,
And weeping kiss the consecrated floor?

Had I deserved this stroke,--with pious pain
From shrine to shrine my suppliant knees should crawl;
I would to all absolving gods complain,
And smite my forehead on the marble wall.

Thou who thy gibes at love canst scarce repress,
Beware! The angry god may strike again!
I knew a youth who laughed at love's distress,
And bore, when old, the worst that lovers ken.

His poor, thin voice he did compel to woo,
And curled, for mockery, his scanty hair;
Spied on her door, as slighted lovers do,
And stopped her maid in any public square.

The forum-loungers thrust him roughly by,
And spat upon their breasts, such luck to turn:
Have mercy, Venus! Thy true follower I!
Why wouldst thou, goddess, thine own harvest burn!




ELEGY THE SIXTH

A LOVER'S CURSES