What if, as auburn Phyllis' mate,You graft yourself on regal stem?Oh yes! be sure her sires were great;She weeps for them.Believe me, from no rascal scumYour charmer sprang; so true a flame,Such hate of greed, could never comeFrom vulgar dame.With honest fervour I commendThose lips, those eyes; you need not fearA rival, hurrying on to endHis fortieth year.Septimius, who with me would braveFar Gades, and Cantabrian landUntamed by Rome, and Moorish waveThat whirls the sand;Fair Tibur, town of Argive kings,There would I end my days serene,At rest from seas and travellings,And service seen.