The works of Anacreon, Sappho, Bion, Moschus and Musæus | ||
ODE LXI. ON GOLD.
When Gold, that Fugitive unkind,
With Pinions swifter than the Wind,
Flies from my willing Arms away,
(For Gold with me will never stay)
With careless Eyes his Flight I view,
Who would perfidious Foes pursue?
When from the glittering Mischief free,
What Mortal can compare with me?
All my Inquietudes of Mind
I give to murmur with the Wind:
Love sweetly tunes my melting Lyre
To tender Notes of soft Desire.
With Pinions swifter than the Wind,
Flies from my willing Arms away,
(For Gold with me will never stay)
With careless Eyes his Flight I view,
Who would perfidious Foes pursue?
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What Mortal can compare with me?
All my Inquietudes of Mind
I give to murmur with the Wind:
Love sweetly tunes my melting Lyre
To tender Notes of soft Desire.
But when the Vagrant finds I burn
With Rage, and slight him in his Turn,
He comes, my Quiet to destroy,
With the mad Family of Joy:
Adieu to Love, and soft Desire!
He steals me from my soothing Lyre.
With Rage, and slight him in his Turn,
He comes, my Quiet to destroy,
With the mad Family of Joy:
Adieu to Love, and soft Desire!
He steals me from my soothing Lyre.
O faithless Gold! Thou dear Deceit!
Say, wilt thou still my Fancy cheat?
This Lute far sweeter Transport brings,
More pleasing these love-warbled Strings:
For thou with Envy and with Wiles
Me of my dearest Love beguiles,
Dashing the Cup of sweet Desire,
And robb'st me of my golden Lyre.
Then, for with me thou wilt not stay,
To faithless Phrygians speed'st away,
Proud and assiduous to please
Those Sons of Perfidy and Ease.
Say, wilt thou still my Fancy cheat?
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More pleasing these love-warbled Strings:
For thou with Envy and with Wiles
Me of my dearest Love beguiles,
Dashing the Cup of sweet Desire,
And robb'st me of my golden Lyre.
Then, for with me thou wilt not stay,
To faithless Phrygians speed'st away,
Proud and assiduous to please
Those Sons of Perfidy and Ease.
Me from the Muse thou would'st detain,
But all thy tempting Arts are vain;
Ne'er shall my Voice forget to sing,
Nor this right Hand to touch the String:
Away to other Climes! Farewell!—
Leave me to tune the vocal Shell.
But all thy tempting Arts are vain;
Ne'er shall my Voice forget to sing,
Nor this right Hand to touch the String:
Away to other Climes! Farewell!—
Leave me to tune the vocal Shell.
The works of Anacreon, Sappho, Bion, Moschus and Musæus | ||