Cantata

BENEATH a verdant Lawrel's ample Shade,
His Lyre to mournful Numbers strung,
Horace, immortal Bard, supinely laid.
To Venus thus address'd the Song :
Ten thousand little Loves around
List'ning, dwelt on ev'ry Sound.
Ariet.

Potent Venus, bid Thy Son
Sound no more His dire Alarms.
Youth on silent Wings is flown :
Graver Years come rolling on.
Spare my Age, unfit for Arms :

Safe and humble let Me rest,
From all am'rous Care releas'd.
Potent Venus, bid Thy Son
Sound no more His dire Alarms.
Recit.
Yet, Venus, why do I each Morn prepare
The fragrant Wreath for Cloe's Hair?

Why, why do I all Day lament, and sigh.
Unless the beauteous Maid be nigh ?
And why all Night pursue Her in my Dreams,
Thro' Flow'ry Meads, and Crystal Streams ?
Recit.
Thus sung the Bard ; and thus the Goddess spoke :
Submissive bow to Love's imperious Yoke.

Ev'ry State, and ev'ry Age
Shall own My Rule, and fear My Rage :
Compell'd by Me Thy Muse shall prove,
That all the World was born to love.

Ariet.
Bid Thy destin'd Lyre discover
Soft Desire, and gentle Pain :
Often praise, and always love Her :
Thro' her Ear her Heart obtain.
Verse shall please, and Sighs shall move Her :
Cupid does with Phoebus reign.