No; ask no more so soft a lyre
As mine to strain its simple wire,
And tell of wild Numantian wars,
Nor Hannibal and all our scars,
Nor yet of that Sicilian tide
With Carthaginian blood bedyed,
Nor of the fierce Pirithoan stir
That crushed the jovial ravisher,
Nor giant sieges of the sky,
Herculean strife, that shook on high
Old Saturn's glorious dynasty.

You, dear Maecenas, shall rehearse,
In prose much better than my verse,
The battles that our Caesar gains,
And threatening kings led up in chains: —
Me the fond Muse engrosses still
With my Licymnia's warbling skill,
And those two eyes of cordial fire,
That speak the faith which they inspire.
How lightsome in the dance is she,
How sparkling sweet her raillery,
And what a shape her arm of snow,
When upon days of sacred show
Entwined the glancing maidens go!

Would you, if you adored like me,
For all that Monarchs hold in fee,
Exchange, or even think to share,
One lock of such a charmer's hair,
When back she throws that sweep of bliss,
Her neck, to meet a headlong kiss,
Or cruel for relenting's sake,
Denies what you should rather take, —
Turning at last, with smile and start,
And kissing you with all her heart?