Of Nemesis my song must tell!
Without her name I make no verses well,
My metres limp and all fine words are vain!
Therefore, my darling, since the powers on high
Protect the poets,--O! a little while
On Apollo's servant smile!
So let me sing in words divine
An ode of triumph for young Messaline.
Before his chariot he shall bear
Towns and towers for trophies proud,
And on his brow the laurel-garland wear;
While, with woodland laurel crowned.
His legions follow him acclaiming loud,
"Io triumphe," with far-echoing sound.
Let my Messala of the festive crowd
Receive applause, and joyfully behold
His son's victorious chariot passing by!
Smile, Phoebus there! Thy flowing locks all gold!
Thy virgin sister, too, stoop with thee from the sky!
ELEGY THE SIXTH
LET LOVERS ALL ENLIST
Now for a soldier Macer goes. Will Cupid take the field?
Will Love himself enlist, and bear on his soft breast a shield?
Through weary marches over land, through wandering waves at sea,
Armed _cap-a-pie_, will that small god the hero's comrade be?
O burn him, boy, I pray, that could thy blessed favors slight!
Back to the ranks the straggler bring beneath thy standard bright!
Yet, if to soldiers thou art kind, I too will volunteer,
I too will from a helmet drink, nor thirst in desert's fear.
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