Aye! Twist me! Plague me! Never shall I say
Such boast again. Thy scorn and anger spare!
Spare me!--by all our stolen loves I pray,
By Venus,--by thy wealth of plaited hair!
Was it not I, when fever laid thee low,
Whose holy rites and offerings set thee free?
Thrice round thy bed with brimstone did I go,
While the wise witch sang healing charms for thee.
Lest evil dreams should vex thee, I did bring
That worshipped wafer by the Vestal given;
Then, with loose robes and linen stole, did sing
Nine prayers to Hecate 'neath the midnight heaven.
All rites were done! Yet doth a rival hold
My darling, and my futile prayers deride:
For I dreamed madly of a life all gold,
If she were healed,--but Heaven the dream denied.
A pleasant country-seat, whose orchards yield
Sweet fruit to be my Delia's willing care,
While our full corn-crop in the sultry field
Stands ripe and dry! O, but my dreams were fair!
She in the vine-vat will our clusters press,
And tread the rich must with her dancing feet;
She oft my sheep will number, oft caress
Some pretty, prattling slave with kisses sweet.
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