Miscellanies, in Verse and Prose | ||
From Catullus.
Miser Catulle, &c.
Ah! poor Catullus, Love's last game give o'er;
Trust but thy eyes, and dream of Her no more!
Once I was bless'd; the Sun serenely shin'd;
Gay were his beams, for Lesbia once was kind.
41
So lov'd by me as none shall e'er be lov'd:
Each day was ours, and each improv'd our joy;
So fond was I, nor was my Lesbia coy.
Oh! truly bless'd! but now the Sun that shin'd,
Is lost in clouds; for Lesbia grows unkind:
Then cease in vain to follow those who fly;
But, wouldst thou cease to love, die, poor Catullus, die!
Miscellanies, in Verse and Prose | ||