Odes 1.5 (Creech): Quis Multa Gracilis

WHat tender Youth upon a Rosy bed
With Odours flowing round his head
Shall ruffle Thee, and loose a heart?
For what fond Youth wilt Thou prepare
The lovely Mazes of thy Hair,
And spread Charms neat without the help of Art?

How oft unhappy shall he grieve to find
The fickle baseness of your Mind?
When he that ne're felt storms before
Shall see black Heaven spread o're with Clouds,
And threatning Tempests toss the Floods,
Whilst Helpless He in vain looks back for Shore.

Now fondly, now He rifles all thy Charms,
He wantons in thy pleasing Arms
And boasts his happiness Compleat:
He thinks that You will alwaies prove
As fair, and constant to his Love;
And knows not how, how soon those smiles may cheat.

Ah wretched those who love, yet ne're did try
The smiling treachery of thy Eye!
But I'me secure, my danger's o're,
My Table shows the Cloaths I vow'd
When midst the storm to please the God
I have hung up, and now am safe on shore.