Epigram 44: Behold our host by love depriv’d of rest

Behold our host by love depriv’d of rest,
A secret wound deep-rankling in his breast ;
He breathes in sighs, oppress’d by power divine,
And thrice the thirsty earth has drank the wine.
Lo! from his neck the rosy garlands fade,
And on the ground the withering leaves are spread:
He burns, he burns; as I too surely know,
That oft have felt a lover’s pains and woe.
By mighty Pan and Bacchus’ greater name,
Beneath these embers lurks a spreading flame.