Longing attended on sight; then with fruition was bless’d. 
Think’st thou the goddess had long been thinking of love and its pleasures

When she, in Ida’s retreats, own’d to Anchises her flame? 
Had but Luna delayd to kiss the beautiful sleeper,

Oh, by Aurora, ere long, he had in envy been rous’d!  Hero Leander espied at the noisy feast, and the lover

Hotly and nimbly, ere long, plunged in the night-cover’d flood.  Rhea Silvia, virgin princess, roam’d near the Tiber,

Seeking there water to draw, when by the god she was seiz’d.  Thus were the sons of Mars begotten!  The twins did a she-wolf

Suckle and nurture,—­and Rome call’d herself queen of the world,
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Alexander, and Caesar, and Henry, and Fred’rick, the mighty,

On me would gladly bestow half of the glory they earn’d, Could I but grant unto each one night on the couch where I’m lying;

But they, by Orcus’s night, sternly, alas! are held down.  Therefore rejoice, oh thou living one, blest in thy love-lighted homestead,

Ere the dark Lethe’s sad wave wetteth thy fugitive foot.
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These few leaves, oh ye Graces, a bard presents, in your honour,

On your altar so pure, adding sweet rosebuds as well, And he does it with hope.  The artist is glad in his workshop,

When a Pantheon it seems round him for ever to bring.  Jupiter knits his godlike brow,—­her’s, Juno up-lifteth;

Phoebus strides on before, shaking his curly-lock’d head Calmly and drily Minerva looks down, and Hermes the light one,

Turneth his glances aside, roguish and tender at once.  But tow’rds Bacchus, the yielding, the dreaming, raiseth Cythere

Looks both longing and sweet, e’en in the marble yet moist.  Of his embraces she thinks with delight, and seems to be asking

“Should not our glorious son take up his place by our side?”
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Amor is ever a rogue, and all who believe him are cheated!

To me the hypocrite came:  “Trust me, I pray thee, this once.  Honest is now my intent,—­with grateful thanks I acknowledge

That thou thy life and thy works hast to my worship ordain’d.  See, I have follow’d thee thither, to Rome, with kindly intention,

Hoping to give thee mine aid, e’en in the foreigner’s land.  Every trav’ller complains that the quarters he meets with are wretched

Happily lodged, though, is he, who is by Amor receiv’d. 
Thou dost observe the ruins of ancient buildings with wonder,

Thoughtfully wandering on, over each time-hallow’d spot. 
Thou dost honour still more the worthy relics created

By the few artists—­whom I loved in their studios to seek. 
I ’twas fashion’d those forms! thy pardon,—­I boast not at present;

Presently thou shalt confess, that what I tell thee is true. 
Now that thou serv’st me more idly, where are the beauteous figures,