While, Macer, you Achilles' choler sing,And Greece before the walls of Ilium bring;While feats of arms in Phrygian fields you tell,And how old Tory by Grecion vengeance fell;I my soft hours in softer songs employ,And all my leisure give to love and joy.When to high acts, my voice I strive to raise,Love laughs at my attempt, and mocks my lays;"Begone!" I often to my mistress cry,But have not courage, yet, myself to fly.