The weary war where fierce Numantia bled,Fell Hannibal, the swoln Sicilian mainPurpled with Punic blood—not mine to wedThese to the lyre's soft strain,Nor cruel Lapithae, nor, mad with wine,Centaurs, nor, by Herculean arm o'ercome,The earth-born youth, whose terrors dimm'd the shineOf the resplendent domeOf ancient Saturn. You, Maecenas, bestIn pictured prose of Caesar's warrior featsWill tell, and captive kings with haughty crestLed through the Roman streets.On me the Muse has laid her charge to tellOf your Licymnia's voice, the lustrous hueOf her bright eye, her heart that beats so wellTo mutual passion true:How nought she does but lends her added grace,Whether she dance, or join in bantering play,Or with soft arms the maiden choir embraceOn great Diana's day.