His tripods prince and people found
All silent to their troubled cry,
His locks dishevelled and unbound
Woke fond Latona's sigh.
To see his pale, neglected brow,
And unkempt tresses, once so fair,--
They cried, "O where is Phoebus now?
"His glorious tresses, where?"
"In place of Delos' golden fane,
"Love gives thee but a lowly shed!
"O, where are Delphi and its train?
"The Sibyl, whither fled?"
Happy the days, forever flown,
When even immortal gods could dare
Proudly to serve at Venus' throne,
Nor blushed her chain to wear!
"Irreverent fables!" I am told.
But lovers true these tales receive:
Rather a thousand such they hold,
Than loveless gods believe.
O Ceres, who didst charm away
My Nemesis from life in Rome,
May barren glebe thy pains repay
And scanty harvest come!
A curse upon thy merry trade!
Young Bacchus, giver of the vine!
Thy vine-yards have ensnared a maid
Far sweeter than thy wine.
Let herbs and acorns be our meat!
Drink good old water! Better so
Than that my fickle beauty's feet
To those far hills should go!
Did not our sires on acorns feed,
And love-sick rove o'er hill and dale?
Our furrowed fields they did not need,
Nor did love's harvest fail.
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