Shrinks, as maiden should, from strife:But I'm for madness. What has dull'd the fireOf the Berecyntian fife?Why hangs the flute in silence with the lyre?Out on niggard-handed boys!Rain showers of roses; let old Lycus hear,Envious churl, our senseless noise,And she, our neighbour, his ill-sorted fere.You with your bright clustering hair,Your beauty, Telephus, like evening's sky,Rhoda loves, as young, as fair;I for my Glycera slowly, slowly die.O born in Manlius' year with me,Whate'er you bring us, plaint or jest,Or passion and wild revelry,Or, like a gentle wine-jar, rest;