Şiir 9
O Love! how cold and slow to take my part,
Thou idle wanderer about my heart!
Why thy old faithful soldier wilt thou see
Oppress'd in thy own tents? they murder me;
Thy flames consume, thy arrows pierce thy friends;
5
Rather on foes pursue more noble ends.
Achilles' sword would certainly bestow
A cure as certain as it gave the blow.
Hunters, who follow flying game, give o'er
When the prey's caught, hope still leads on before;
10
We, thine own slaves, feel thy tyrannic blows.
While thy tame hand's unmov'd against thy foes.
On men disarm'd, how can you gallant prove ?
And I was long ago disarm'd by love.
Millions of dull men live, and scornful maids;
15
We'll own love valiant when he these invades.
Rome from each corner of the wide world snatch'd
A laurel, or't had been to this day thatch'd;
But the old soldier has his resting-place,
And the good batter'd horse is turn'd to grass:
20
