ODE XXXI.[1]
Reading edition
ODE XXXI.[1]
Armed with hyacinthine rod, (Arms enough for such a god,) Cupid bade me wing my pace, And try with him the rapid race. O'er many a torrent, wild and deep, By tangled brake and pendent steep. With weary foot I panting flew, Till my brow dropt with chilly dew. And now my soul, exhausted, dying, To my lip was faintly flying; And now I thought the spark had fled, When Cupid hovered o'er my head, And fanning light his breezy pinion, Rescued my soul from death's dominion;[2] Then said, in accents half-reproving. "Why hast thou been a foe to loving?"
[1] The design of this little fiction is to intimate, that much greater pain attends insensibility than can ever result from the tenderest impressions of love.
[2] "The facility with which Cupid recovers him, signifies that the sweets of love make us easily forget any solicitudes which he may occasion."—LA FOSSE.