Has Hylas fled the fountain's naiad queen,
Or who is this by Ianthis' waters seen?
Well is it that Alcides shrine is nigh
And that he can these wanton waves espy.
Serve then thy spring, Argynnus, nor have care
Of amorous nymphs: the god himself beware.

In Tibur's sunshine she was told
That ivory though stained and old
May win its whiteness back;
Alcides' hills have potent air;
A little while she sojourned there
And now returns jet black.

You ask me, dear Pudens, to make my corrections
Myself in your copy and cure imperfections.
You're really too kind and too easy to please,
When you want my own hand in such trifles as these.

At sixty years of age is he
A man of promise still:
Methinks he needs eternity
That promise to fulfil!

If for thy people's love thou hast a care,
And wilt a joyful issue grant to prayer,
Then, sire, give back our god: Rome grudges thee
To foreign lands though thou victorious be.
Our foemen have the Lord of Earth in sight,
And in thy face find terror and delight.

To pallid skin his verse is due,
To this alone we owe it;
He thought that interesting hue
Enough to make a poet.

You ask me why my books were never sent?
For fear you might return the compliment.

Thou who to Sarmate arrows ne'er wilt yield,
More trusty than the War God's Getic shield,
Woven from countless boars with talons bright
And proof against e'en Meleager's might,
Rejoice, good cuirass, in thy happy part
To guard our god and touch his beating heart.
Go thou unharmed and soon, the triumph won,
Restore our chief the palm-leaved gown to don.

Thy breastplate, dread as Pallas own, whereon
The Gorgon dare not gaze, now, Caesar, don!
Seems it but mortal armour? It shall be
A very Aegis when it touches thee.

AS HEPHEARDS youth dwelt on the plaines,
That passt the common sort of Swaines,
By how much had himselfe before
Beene nursed up in Colins lore;
Who, while his flocke, ybent to stray,
Glad of the Sunne-shine of the day,
Wandered the field, and were abroade dispers'd,
He tooke his Pipe and sate him downe and vers'd.