Anacreon Bion. Moschvs. Kisses, by Secundus. Cvpid crvcified, by Ausonius. Venvs vigils, Incerto Authore [by Thomas Stanley] |
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 | Anacreon |  |
I.
[When Venus to Cythera's top convey'd]
When
Venus to Cythera's top convey'd
Sleeping Ascanius, 'mongst soft violets layd,
Showres of pale Roses on the Boy she strew'd,
And with sweet Waters all the Place bedew'd;
She then her old Adonian Fire retains,
The well-known flame steals gently through her vains;
How oft her Nephew offer'd she t'imbrace!
How often said, such my Adonis was!
But fearing to disturb his soft Repose,
Thousands of Kisses on the Flowers bestows;
The breath which from her Lip the Rose receives
Whispers kinde Warmth into its glowing Leaves;
And from her quickning Touch new Kisses rise,
Whose ripe Encrease her full Joy multiplies
Then round the Earth, the Goddess by a Pair
Of milk-white Swans drawn through the fleeting Air,
Sows Kisses all the way, and as they fell
On the fat Glebe, thrice murmurs a Dark Spell.
Hence a kinde Harvest for sick Lovers grows,
Hence springs the onely cure of all my woes.
Sleeping Ascanius, 'mongst soft violets layd,
Showres of pale Roses on the Boy she strew'd,
And with sweet Waters all the Place bedew'd;
She then her old Adonian Fire retains,
The well-known flame steals gently through her vains;
How oft her Nephew offer'd she t'imbrace!
How often said, such my Adonis was!
But fearing to disturb his soft Repose,
Thousands of Kisses on the Flowers bestows;
The breath which from her Lip the Rose receives
Whispers kinde Warmth into its glowing Leaves;
And from her quickning Touch new Kisses rise,
Whose ripe Encrease her full Joy multiplies
Then round the Earth, the Goddess by a Pair
Of milk-white Swans drawn through the fleeting Air,
Sows Kisses all the way, and as they fell
On the fat Glebe, thrice murmurs a Dark Spell.
Hence a kinde Harvest for sick Lovers grows,
Hence springs the onely cure of all my woes.
Dear Kisses! you that scorched Hearts renew,
Born of the Rose pregnant with sacred Dew,
Upon your Poet deathless Verse distill,
That may endure long as Medusa's Hill,
Or whilst Love, mindfull still of Romes dear Race,
Shall with his Numbers their soft Language grace.
Born of the Rose pregnant with sacred Dew,
Upon your Poet deathless Verse distill,
That may endure long as Medusa's Hill,
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Shall with his Numbers their soft Language grace.
| Anacreon | |