'Tis gain to mock your mother's bones,And night's still signs, and all the sky,And gods, that on their glorious thronesChill Death defy.Ay, Venus smiles; the pure nymphs smile,And Cupid, tyrant-lord of hearts,Sharpening on bloody stone the whileHis fiery darts.New captives fill the nets you weave;New slaves are bred; and those before,Though oft they threaten, never leaveYour godless door.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,