Amores I.1

Arms, and the violent deeds of war, I was making ready to sound forth — in weighty numbers, with matter suited to the measure. The second verse was equal to the first— but Cupid, they say, with a laugh stole away one foot.

"Who gave thee, cruel boy, this right over poesy? We bards belong to the Pierides; we are no company of thine. What if Venus should seize away the arms of golden-haired Minerva, if golden-haired Minerva should fan into flame the kindled torch of love? Who would approve of Ceres reigning on the woodland ridges, and of fields tilled under the law of the quiver-bearing Maid? Who would furnish forth Phoebus of the beautiful locks with sharp-pointed spear, and let Mars stir the Aonian Lyre? Thou hast an empire of thine own — great, yea, all too potent; why dost lay claim to new powers, ambitious boy? Or is everything, wheresoever, thine? Thine are the vales of Helicon? Is even the lyre of Phoebus scarce longer safely his own? My new page of song rose well with first verse in lofty strain, when that next one — of thy making — changes to slightness the vigour of my work; and yet I have no matter suited to lighter numbers — neither a boy, nor a maiden with long and well-kept locks."

Such was my complaint — when forthwith he loosed his quiver, and chose from it shafts that were made for my undoing. Against his knee he stoutly bent moonshape the sinuous bow, and " Singer," he said, " here, take that will be matter for thy song! "

Ah, wretched me! Sure were the arrows that yon boy had. I am on fire, and in my but now vacant heart Love sits his throne.

In six numbers let my work rise, and sink again in five. Ye iron wars, with your measures, fare ye well! Gird with the myrtle that loves the shore the golden locks on thy temples, O Muse to be sung to the lyre in elevens!