THE SEVENTH POEM.
[At last the natal odious Morn draws nigh]
I
At last the natal odious Morn draws nigh,
When to your cold, cold Villa I must go;
There, far, too far from my Cerinthus Sigh:
Oh why, Messala! will you plague me so?
II
Let studious Mortals prize the sylvan Scene;
And ancient Maidens hide them in the Shade;
Green Trees perpetually give me the Spleen;
For Crowds, for Joy, for Rome, Sulpicia's made!
III
Your too officious Kindness gives me Pain.
How fall the Hail-stones! hark! how howls the Wind!
Then know, to grace your Birth-day should I deign,
My Soul, my All, I leave at Rome behind.
