 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
80
VIRGIL.
As, for yourselves, O birds, no nest ye build,No fleecy coats, O nibbling flocks, ye wear,
With sweets for you, O bees, no hive is fill'd,
O steers, no self-enriching yoke ye bear;
Thus for thyself, great prince of pastoral song,
Toil'd not thy modest muse, but for all time;
Yea, to the world thy polish'd strains belong:
Was it then virtue in thee, or half crime,
A false humility, sublimely wrong,
To try to cheat thine Epic of its fame,
For that to thee perfection seem'd ill done,
Hurling thy laurels to the jealous flame?
O Mantua, thou wert rich in such a son,
Yea, had thy Virgil been thine only one.
| Three Hundred Sonnets | |