Classic Poem

HORACE, EPOD. XV. AD NEÆRAM .

'T WAS night, and heav'n intent, with all its eyes
 Gaz'd on the dear deceitful maid;
A thousand pretty things she said,
 A thousand artful tricks she play'd,
From me, deluded me, her falsehood to disguise.

She clasp'd me in her soft encircling arms,
 She press'd her glowing cheek to mine:
The clinging ivy or the curling vine
 Did never yet so closely twine;
Who could be man, and bear the lustre of her charms?

And thus she swore: ‘By all the pow'rs above,
 When winter storms shall cease to roar,
When summer suns shall shine no more,
 When wolves their cruelty give o'er,
Neæra then, and not till then, shall cease to love.

Ah! false Neæra! perjur'd fair! but know,
 I have a soul too great to bear
A rival's proud insulting air;
 Another may be found as fair,
As fair, ungrateful Nymph! and far more just than you,

Shouldst thou repent, and at my feet be laid,
 Dejected, penitent, forlorn,
And all thy former follies mourn,
 Thy proffer'd passion I would scorn:
The gods shall do me right on that devoted head.

And you, spruce sir! who insolently gay
 Exulting laugh at my disgrace,
Boast with vain airs, and stiff grimace,
 Your large estate, your handsome face,
Proud of a fleeting bliss, the pageant of a day:

You too shall soon repent this haughty scorn,
 When, fickle as the sea or wind,
The prostitute shall change her mind,
 To such another coxcomb kind;
Then shall I clap my wings, and triumph in my turn.