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WHO will hear me? Whom shall I lament to?Who would pity me that heard my sorrows?Ah, the lip that erst so many rapturesUsed to taste, and used to give responsive,Now is cloven, and it pains me sorely;And it is not thus severely woundedBy my mistress having caught me fiercely,And then gently bitten me, intendingTo secure her friend more firmly to her:No, my tender lip is crack'd thus, onlyBy the winds, o'er rime and frost proceeding,Pointed, sharp, unloving, having met me.Now the noble grape's bright juice commingledWith the bee's sweet juice, upon the fireOf my hearth, shall ease me of my torment.Ah, what use will all this be, if with itLove adds not a drop of his own balsam?

Those mighty squadrons, too, are here,The partners of his cursed career,

This dear soil, a sun like this,--Lures the best of women too.And the Muses' breathings blestRouse the maiden's gentle breast,Tune the throat to minstrelsy,And with cheeks of beauteous dye,Bid it sing a worthy song,Sit the sister-band among;And their strains grow softer still,As they vie with earnest will.