The mother dreads you for her son,The thrifty sire, the new-wed bride,Lest, lured by you, her precious oneShould leave her side.

The rain, it rains not every dayOn the soak'd meads; the Caspian mainNot always feels the unequal swayOf storms, nor on Armenia's plain,Dear Valgius, lies the cold dull snowThrough all the year; nor northwinds keenUpon Garganian oakwoods blow,And strip the ashes of their green.You still with tearful tones pursueYour lost, lost Mystes; Hesper seesYour passion when he brings the dew,And when before the sun he flees.Yet not for loved AntilochusGrey Nestor wasted all his yearsIn grief; nor o'er young TroilusHis parents' and his sisters' tears