Book I, Elegy 19

No more now, my Cynthia, fear I the sad world of death; I care not for the doom that at the last must feed the fires of funeral; this fear alone is bitterer than death itself, that I should go down to the grave unloved by thee. Not with such light touch has Love cleaved to mine eyes that my dust should forget thee and lie loveless. Even in the dark underworld the hero son of Phylacus could not forget his sweet wife, but, yearning to enfold his dear one with phantom hands, the Thessalian returned in ghostly wise to his ancient home. There, whatsoe'er I be, as Cynthia's lover shall my shade be known; strong love o'erpasses even the shores of doom. There let the fair queens of old, whom the spoils of Troy gave to Argive husbands, come in a troop to greet me! Yet the beauty of none of these shall please me more than thine, and though the doom of old age delay thy coming long — may earth be kind and grant this boon! — yet shall the sight of thine ashes be dear to my weeping eyes: and like love long mayst thou that livest feel, when I am dust; then wheresoe'er death find me, it shall have lost its sting. Yet, Cynthia, I have a fear that thou mayst spurn my tomb, and some cruel passion part thee from my dust, and force thee, though loth, to dry thy falling tears. Continued threats may bend the will even of a loyal maid. Wherefore, while yet may be, let us love and be merry together. Eternity itself is all too brief for love.