In vain; for deafer than Icarian seasHe hears, untainted yet. But, lady fair,What if Enipeus pleaseYour listless eye? beware!Though true it be that none with surer seatO'er Mars's grassy turf is seen to ride,Nor any swims so fleetAdown the Tuscan tide,Yet keep each evening door and window barr'd;Look not abroad when music strikes up shrill,And though he call you hard,Remain obdurate still.The first of March! a man unwed!What can these flowers, this censer mean?Or what these embers, glowing redOn sods of green?You ask, in either language skill'd!A feast I vow'd to Bacchus free,A white he-goat, when all but kill'dBy falling tree.