Amours

And tread the paths by Indian Bacchus trod,

To give his name to some distinguish'd star,

And be what Hercules and Caesar are.

Instead of yellow harvests, now we seek

For solid gold, and thro' earth's entrails break;

The wealth we thus acquire's the soldier's prey,

And dearly for the blood he spills we pay.

The courts deny admittance to the poor,

In vain the needy clients crowd the door;

The judges to the rich decree the cause,

And money only gives their force to laws.

'Tis money makes the judge with looks severe

Insult the poor, and give the rich his ear;

'Tis money buys the title, makes the knight,

And dignifies with quality the cit:

Let money do all this, and more; the bar

Let money govern, and direct the war.

Let peace, as money sets the terms, be made,

But let it not the rights of love invade.

Let us enjoy this privilege at least,

That if we must be poor, we may with love be bless'd:

For now-a-days there's not a dame in town

So coy, but if you've money she's your own.

What tho' her keeper may an Argus be ?

Blind him with money, and he'll nothing see.

What though her husband should by chance be by?

He'll leave the house, let you your money fly.

If there's a god above, to whom belongs

The cause of love, and slighted lovers wrongs,

Revenge the false one's mercenary scorn,

And let ill-gotten pelf to dirt return.

If Memnon's fate bewail'd with constant dew,

Does, with the day, his mother's grief renew,

If her son's death mov'd tender Thetis' mind

To swell with tears the waves, with sighs the wind;

Sad Cupid now despairs of conqu'ring hearts,

Throws by his empty quiver, breaks his darts:

Eases his useless bows from idle strings;

Nor flies, but humbly creeps with flagging wings.

He wants, of which he robb'd fond lovers, rest;

And wounds with furious hands his pensive breast.

Those graceful curls which wantonly did flow,

The whiter rivals of the falling snow,

Forget their beauty, and in discord lie,

Drunk with the fountain from his melting eye.

Nor Phoebus, nor the muses' queen, could give

Their son, their own prerogative, to live.

Orpheus, the heir of both his parents' skill,

Tam'd wond'ring beasts, not death's more cruel will.

Linus' sad strings on the dumb lute do lie.

In silence forc'd to let their master die.

His mother weeping does his eyelids close,

And on his urn, tears, her last gift, bestows.

His sister too, with hair dishevell'd, bears

Part of her mother's nature, and her tears.

With those, two fair, two mournful rivals come,

And add a greater triumph to his tomb:

Both hug his urn, both his lov'd ashes kiss,

And both contend which reap'd the greater bliss.

Thus Delia spoke (when sighs no more could last)

Renewing by remembrance pleasures past;

"When youth with vigour did for joy combine,

I was Tibullus' life, Tibullus mine;

1 entertained his hot, his first desire,

And kept alive, till age, his active fire."

To her then Nemesis (when groans gave leave)

"As I alone was lov'd, alone I'll grieve;

Spare your vain tears, Tibullus' heart was mine,

About my neck his dying arms did twine:

I snatch'd his soul, which true to me did prove;

Age ended yours, death only stopp'd my love."

If any poor remains survive the flames,

Except thin shadows, and more empty names;

Free in Elysium shall Tibullus rove,

Nor fear a second death should cross his love.

There shall Catullus, crown'd with bays, impart

To his far dearer friend his open heart.

There Gallus (if fame's hundred tongues all lie)

Shall, free from censure, no more rashly die.

Such shall our poet's bless'd companions be,

And in their deaths, as in their lives, agree.

But thou, rich urn, obey my strict commands,

Guard thy great charge from sacrilegious hands.

Thou, earth, Tibullus' ashes gently use,

And be as soft and easy as his muse.

Now Ceres' feast is come, the trees are blown,

And my Corinna now must lie alone.

And why, good Ceres, must thy feast destroy

Man's chief delight, and why disturb his joy ?

The world esteems you bountiful and good,

You led us from the field and from the wood,

And gave us fruitful corn, and wholesome food.

Till then poor wretched man on acorns fed;

Oaks gave him meat, and flow'ry fields a bed.

First Ceres made our wheat and barley grow,

And taught us how to plough, and how to mow;

Who then can think that she designs to prove

Our piety, by coldness in our love ?

Or make poor lovers sigh, lament, and groan,

Or charge her votaries to lie alone ?