O Genius of this natal day,
May many a year thy gift declare!
Now bright and fair thy pinions soar away,--
Return, thou bright and fair!
ELEGY THE NINTH
TO PHOLOE AND MARATHUS
The language of a lover's eyes I cannot choose but see;
The oracles in tender sighs were never dark to me.
No art of augury I need, nor heart of victims slain,
Nor birds of omen singing forth the future's bliss or bane.
Venus herself did round my arm th' enchanted wimple throw,
And taught me--Ah! not unchastised!--what wizardry I know.
Deceive me then no more! The god more furiously burns
Whatever wight rebelliously his first commandment spurns.
_To Pholoe_
Fair Pholoe! what profits it to plait thy flowing hair?
Why rearrange each lustrous tress with fond, superfluous care?
Why tint that blooming cheek anew? Or give thy fingers, Girl!
To slaves who keep the dainty tips a perfect pink and pearl?
Why strain thy sandal-string so hard? or why the daily change
Of mantles, robes, and broideries, of fashions new and strange?
Howe'er thou hurry from thy glass in careless disarray,
Thou canst not miss the touch that steals thy lover's heart away!
Thou needst not ask some wicked witch her potion to provide,
Brewed of the livid, midnight herbs, to draw him to thy side.
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