Her favour it was fill’d the sail of the Trojan for Latium bound; Her favour that won her Aeneas a bride on Laurentian ground, And anon from the cloister inveigled the Virgin, the Vestal,
    to Mars; 70
As her wit by the wild Sabine rape recreated her Rome for its wars, With the Ramnes, Quirites, together ancestrally proud as they drew From Romulus down to our Caesar—­last, best of that bone, of that thew. Now learn ye to love who loved never—­now ye who have loved, love anew!

Rura fecundat voluptas:  rura Venerem sentiunt:  75
Ipse Amor puer Dionse rure natus dicitur. 
Hunc ager, cum parturiret ipsa, suscepit sinu: 
Ipsa florum delicatis educavit osculis.
Cras amet qui nunquam amavit; quique amavit cras,
amet.

Ecce jam super genestas explicant tauri latus, 80
Quisque tutus quo tenetur conjugali foedere: 
Subter umbras cum maritis ecce balantum greges;
Et canoras non tacere diva jussit alites.

Pleasure planteth a field; it conceives to the passion, 75
     the pang, of his joy. 
In a field was Dione in labour delivered of Cupid the
     Boy;
And the field in its fostering lap from her travail
     received him:  he drew
Mother’s milk from the delicate kisses of flowers;
     and he prosper’d and grew—­
Now learn ye to love who loved never—­now ye who have
     loved, love anew!

Lo! behold ye the bulls, with how lordly a flank 80
     they besprawl on the broom!—­
Yet obey the uxorious yoke, and are tamed to
     Dione her doom. 
Or behear ye the sheep, to the husbanding rams
     how they bleat to the shade! 
Or behear ye the birds, at the Goddess’ command
     how they sing unafraid!

Jam loquaces ore rauco stagna cycni perstrepunt; Adsonat Terei puella subter umbram populi, 85 Ut putes motus amoris ore dici musico, Et neges queri sororem de marito barbaro.  Ilia cantat, nos tacemus.  Quando ver venit meum?  Quando fiam uti chelidon, ut tacere desinam?  Perdidi Musam tacendo, nec me Apollo respicit; 90 Sic Amyclas, cum tacerent, perdidit silentium. Cras amet qui nunquam amavit; quique amavit cras amet.

Be it harsh as the swannery’s clamour that shatters the hush of the lake, Be it dulcet as where Philomela holds darkling the poplar awake, 85 So melting her soul into music, you’d vow ’twas her passion, her own, She plaineth—­her sister forgot, with the Daulian crime long-agone.  Hark!  Hush!  Draw around to the circle ...  Ah, loitering Summer!  Say when For me shall be broken the charm, that I chirp with the swallow again?  I am old; I am dumb; I have waited to sing till Apollo withdrew—­ 90 So Amyclae a moment was mute, and for ever a wilderness grew. Now learn ye to love who loved never—­now ye who have loved, love anew,
  To-morrow!—­to-morrow!

TO CHARLES THURSBY