Book II, Elegy 12

Whoe'er he was first painted Love in likeness of a boy, think'st thou not his hands had wondrous skill? He first saw that there is no wisdom in the lives of lovers, and that mighty blessings are lost through petty cares. He too with good reason gave him windy wings, and made him flit about the hearts of men; for of a truth we are ever tossed upon a shifting sea, and our breeze abides never in the same quarter. Rightly too is Love's hand armed with barbed arrows, and the Cnossian quiver hangs from his shoulders twain; for he strikes e'er from our fancied safety we may see the foe, nor does any go scatheless from the wound he deals.

In me his darts stick fast, for me he still wears the form of a boy; but of a truth he has lost his wings, for nowhither, alas! flies he forth from my bosom, and tireless he wages war within my blood.

What delight hast thou to dwell in this withered heart of mine? If thou hast aught of shame, elsewhere transfer thy warfare. Better far to assail those that have never felt the power of thy venomed shaft. 'Tis not I, but my wasted shadow, thou smitest: yet, if thou destroy me utterly, where wilt thou find one to chant such strains as these? (Slight though my Muse be, yet 'tis thy great renown.) Where wilt thou find one to sing the face, the hands, the dark eyes of my beloved, and how soft her footsteps fall?