Şiir 13
Light are these toils, and little is the pain
To rise to work, and rest at night again;
But who that e'er knew love's transporting joys,
Could from the arms of youth and beauty rise?
Oft have I wish'd that night would keep her ground,
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And all her stars be at thy rising found;
Oft have I wish'd the winds would stop thy way,
Repel thy car, or clouds involve the day.
Dost thou in envy lash each lazy steed,
And whirl thy chariot with unwonted speed?
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Black was thy son, and in his hue's express'd
The gloomy passions of his parent's breats;
He, born of Cephalus, his ravish'd sire,
Is a known proof of thy adult'rous fire.
Thou, by his colour, wouldst thy crime conceal;
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Ah, that to Tithon I the tale could tell!
Search all the records of Heaven's lechers round,
A fouler story cannot there be found.
In Cephalus' embraces when you lay,
And oft by theft renew'd your wanton play;
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