|42.||The Women Tell Me Every Day||9/19/2012|
|43.||They Tell How Atys, Wild With Love||9/19/2012|
|44.||Thou, Whose Soft And Rosy Hues||9/19/2012|
|47.||Vulcan! Hear Your Glorious Task||9/19/2012|
|48.||Wine And Song||9/19/2012|
|49.||Wine The Healer||9/19/2012|
|50.||Youth And Age||9/19/2012|
The Women Tell Me Every Day
The women tell me every day
That all my bloom has past away.
'Behold,' the pretty wantons cry,
'Behold this mirror with a sigh;
The locks upon thy brow are few,
And, like the rest, they're withering too!'
Whether decline has thinn'd my hair,
I'm sure I neither know nor care;
But this I know, and this I feel,
As onward to the tomb I steal,
That still as death approaches nearer,
The joys of life are sweeter, dearer;
And had I but an hour to live,
That little hour to bliss I'd give!
If thou dost the number know
Of the leaves on every bough,
If thou can'st the reckoning keep
Of the sands within the deep;
Thee of all men will I take,
And my Love's accomptant make.
Of Athenians first a score
Set me down; then fifteen more;
Add a regiment to these