“Wake!” to her youthful spouse she cried,“Wake! or you yet may sleep too well:Fly—from the father of your bride,Her sisters fell:They, as she-lions bullocks rend,Tear each her victim: I, less hardThan these, will slay you not, poor friend,Nor hold in ward:Me let my sire in fetters layFor mercy to my husband shown:Me let him ship far hence away,To climes unknown.Go; speed your flight o'er land and wave,While Night and Venus shield you; goBe blest: and on my tomb engraveThis tale of woe.”How unhappy are the maidens who with Cupid may not play,Who may never touch the wine-cup, but must tremble all the dayAt an uncle, and the scourging of his tongue!Neobule, there's a robber takes your needle and your thread,