While, Macer, you Achilles' choler sing,And Greece before the walls of Ilium bring;While feats of arms in Phrygian fields you tell,And how old Tory by Grecion vengeance fell;I my soft hours in softer songs employ,And all my leisure give to love and joy.When to high acts, my voice I strive to raise,Love laughs at my attempt, and mocks my lays;"Begone!" I often to my mistress cry,But have not courage, yet, myself to fly.Whene'er she sees me in this sullen fit,She fondles me, and, on my knee will sit:"Enough of this (say I), for shame give o'er,Enough of love, we'll play the fool no more."" Ah, is it then a shame to love?" she cries,And chides, and melts me with her weeping eyes.Around my neck her snowy arms she throws,And to my lips with stifling kisses grows.How can I all this tenderness refuse ?At once my wisdom, and my will I lose;