Your trouble late made sick this heart of mine,And still I love you, still am ill at ease.O, shun the sea, where shineThe thick-sown Cyclades!When the false swain was hurrying o'er the deepHis Spartan hostess in the Idaean bark,Old Nereus laid the unwilling winds asleep,That all to Fate might hark,Speaking through him:—“Home in ill hour you takeA prize whom Greece shall claim with troops untold,Leagued by an oath your marriage tie to breakAnd Priam's kingdom old.Alas! what deaths you launch on Dardan realm!What tolls are waiting, man and horse to tire!See! Pallas trims her aegis and her helm,Her chariot and her ire.Vainly shall you; in Venus' favour strong,Your tresses comb, and for your dames divideOn peaceful lyre the several parts of song;Vainly in chamber hide