Where'er the goddess came a harvest grew.Ida was grey with corn, the furious boarGrew fat with wheat, and wonder'd at the store:The Cretans wish'd that such all years would prove,They wish'd that Ceres would be long
in love.Well then, since then 'twas hard for you to lieAll night alone, why at your feast must I ?Why must I mourn, when you rejoice to knowYour daughter safe, and queen of all below?'Tis holy-day, and calls for wine and love;Come, let's the height of mirth and humor prove,These gifts will please our master pow'rs above. Elegy XI: To his Mistress, that he cannot help loving her.So much I've suffer'd, and so long, no more