Book IV. Ode I. To Venus.

No more of War:—Dread Cytherea, cease; Thy feeble soldier sues for peace. Alas! I am not now that man of might, As when fair Cynara bade me fight. Leave, Venus, leave! consider my gray hairs Snow'd on by fifty tedious years. My forts are slighted, and my bulwarks down: Go, and beleaguer some strong town. Make thy attempts on Maximus; there's game 10To entertain thy sword and flame. There Peace and Plenty dwell: He's of the Court, Ignorant what 'tis to storm a fort: There sound a charge; he's generous and young, He's unconcern'd, lusty, and strong: He of thy silken banners will be proud, And of thy conquests talk aloud. His bags are full: the lad thou mayst prefer To be thy treasurer in war. He may erect gold statues to thy name, 20And be the trumpet of thy fame: Thy Deity the zealous youth will then invoke, And make thy beauteous altars smoke. With voice and instruments thy praise shall sound, Division he, and Love the ground; There, twice a day the gamesome company Of lads and lasses in debvoir to thee, Like Mars's priests their numbers shall advance, And sweetly sing, and nimbly dance. But as for me! I'm quite dispirited, 30I court nor maid, nor boy to bed! I cannot drink, nor bind a garland on, Alas! my dancing days are done! But hold—Why do these tears steal from my eyes? My lovely Ligurinus, why? Why does my falt'ring tongue disguise my voice With rude and inarticulate noise? O Ligurin! 'tis thou that break'st my rest, Methinks I grasp thee in my breast: Then I pursue thee in my passionate dreams 40O'er pleasant fields and purling streams.