So my truant eyes admireThe banks, the desolate forests. O great KingWho the Naiads dost inspire,And Bacchants, strong from earth huge trees to wring!Not a lowly strain is mine,No mere man's utterance. O, 'tis venture sweetThee to follow, God of wine,Making the vine-branch round thy temples meet!For ladies' love I late was fit,And good success my warfare blest,But now my arms, my lyre I quit,And hang them up to rust or rest.Here, where arising from the seaStands Venus, lay the load at last,Links, crowbars, and artillery,Threatening all doors that dared be fast.O Goddess! Cyprus owns thy sway,And Memphis, far from Thracian snow;Raise high thy lash, and deal me, pray,That haughty Chloe just one blow!