Or mourn the bridegroom early tornFrom his young bride, and set on highStrength, courage, virtue's golden morn,Too good to die.Antonius! yes, the winds blow free,When Dirce's swan ascends the skies,To waft him. I, like Matine bee,In act and guise,That culls its sweets through toilsome hours,Am roaming Tibur's banks along,And fashioning with puny powersA laboured song.Your Muse shall sing in loftier strainHow Caesar climbs the sacred height,The fierce Sygambrians in his train,With laurel dight,Than whom the Fates ne'er gave mankindA richer treasure or more dear,Nor shall, though earth again should findThe golden year.