On me the Muse has laid her charge to tellOf your Licymnia's voice, the lustrous hueOf her bright eye, her heart that beats so wellTo mutual passion true:How nought she does but lends her added grace,Whether she dance, or join in bantering play,Or with soft arms the maiden choir embraceOn great Diana's day.Say, would you change for all the wealth possestBy rich Achaemenes or Phrygia's heir,Or the full stores of Araby the blest,One lock of her dear hair,While to your burning lips she bends her neck,Or with kind cruelty denies the dueShe means you not to beg for, but to take,Or snatches it from you?Black day he chose for planting thee,Accurst he rear'd thee from the ground,The bane of children yet to be,The scandal of the village round.