For mighty wars I thought to tune my lute,
And make my measures to my subject suit.
Six feet for every verse the Muse designed; }
But Cupid, laughing, when he saw my mind, }
From every second verse a foot purloined. }
Who gave thee, boy, this arbitrary sway, }
On subjects, not thy own, commands to lay, }
Who Phœbus only and his laws obey? }
'Tis more absurd than if the Queen of Love
Should in Minerva's arms to battle move;
Or manly Pallas from that queen should take
Her torch, and o'er the dying lover shake:
In fields as well may Cynthia sow the corn,
Or Ceres wind in woods the bugle-horn:
As well may Phœbus quit the trembling string,
For sword and shield; and Mars may learn to sing.
Already thy dominions are too large;
Be not ambitious of a foreign charge.
If thou wilt reign o'er all, and every where,
The God of Music for his harp may fear.
Thus, when with soaring wings I seek renown,
Thou pluck'st my pinions, and I flutter down.
Could I on such mean thoughts my Muse employ,
I want a mistress, or a blooming boy.--
Thus I complained; his bow the stripling bent,
And chose an arrow fit for his intent.
The shaft his purpose fatally pursues;--
Now, poet, there's a subject for thy Muse!--
He said. Too well, alas, he knows his trade;
For in my breast a mortal wound he made.
Far hence, ye proud hexameters, remove,
My verse is paced and trammelled into love.
With myrtle wreaths my thoughtful brows inclose,
While in unequal verse I sing my woes.
FROM OVID'S AMOURS.