Book II, Elegy 33

Once more those dismal rites have returned to plague us: now for ten nights hath Cynthia sacrificed. And a curse upon the rites which the daughter of Inachus hath sent from the warm Nile to the matrons of Italy! The goddess that so oft hath sundered such ardent lovers, whoe'er she may have been, was always a bitter goddess. Yet, lo, in truth thou didst learn in thy secret loves with Jove what it is to tread many paths of wandering, when Juno bade thee wear horns upon thy girlish brow and lose thy speech in the harsh bellowings of kine. Ah! how oft didst thou gall thy mouth with oak-leaves, and in thy stall didst chew once more the arbutus, on which thou hadst fed! Hast thou become so haughty a goddess since Jupiter took away from thee thy wild shape? Hast thou not worshippers enough among the swart Egyptians? Why didst thou come such a long journey to Rome? What profits it thee that maids should sleep alone? Nay, believe me, thy horns will sprout again, or we will chase thee, cruel goddess, from our city! There ne'er was love lost 'twixt Tiber and Nile.

But thou, Cynthia, since my woes have more than appeased thee, let us, whom these nights kept idle, thrice make love's journey together.

Thou hearest me not and lettest my words become a mockery, though Icarus' oxen are wheeling their slow-moving stars to the setting; thou drinkst unmoved; has midnight no power to weary thee? or is thy hand never tired of casting the dice? A curse on him that first introduced the pure juice of the grape and first spoilt wholesome water by mixing wine therein!

Icarus, justly wast thou slain by the farmers of Cecrops' land; thou hast found how rueful is the scent of the vine. Thou also, centaur Eurytion, didst perish through wine-bibbing, and thou, Polyphemus, wast undone by the Ismarian grape. Wine marreth beauty, wine spoils our prime; and thanks to wine a mistress oft knows not her lover.

Woe is me: deep draughts have changed thee not a whit: drink on; thou art beautiful, the wine does thee no hurt, when garlands hang over thy brow and droop into thy cups, and thou readest my verses with utterance soft and low. Let the board be drowned still deeper in floods of Falernian and more lusciously foam the wine in thy cup of gold! Yet no woman ever betakes her willingly to a lonely bed; there is a somewhat that Love compels all to seek. Woman's heart is kinder always towards absent lovers; long possession takes from the worth of the persistent wooer.