To NEOBULE. Ode XII.
He blames her, that being taken with the Love of Liparus, she led a sloathful life.
'Tis wretched Lot neither Love's sweets to tast,
Nor, Sorrows wash with sweetest Wine, but fear
An Uncles swadling Tongue; perplex'd; at last
VENUS wing'd Boy from thee does Distaff bear.
NEOBULE, thy Web's choice private art,
Young LIPARUS his Form hath banish'd quite;
Who excels Bellerophon for th' Horseman's part,
Not overcome by Race, nor sturdy Fight,
Or nointed when doth swim through Tiber's Flood:
Skillful for Dart, when flying Stags invades
From roused Heard through open Fields; as good
And swift t'assault the Boar from sculking Shades.
