Book XVI, 211: On Love Asleep

Thou sleepest, thou who bringest sleepless care on mortals; thou sleepest, O child of the baneful daughter of the foam, not armed with thy fiery torch, nor sending from thy backward-bent, twanging bow the dart that none may escape. Let others pluck up courage, but I fear, thou overweening boy, lest even in thy sleep thou see a dream bitter to me.