Horace, creator; Conington, John, 1825-1869, editor

  • 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 sea
  • Stands 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!