When sunset lengthen'd from each heightThe shadows, and unyoked the steer,Restoring in its westward flightThe hour to toilworn travail dear.What has not cankering Time made worse?Viler than grandsires, sires begetOurselves, yet baser, soon to curseThe world with offspring baser yet.Why weep for him whom sweet Favonian airsWill waft next spring, Asteria, back to you,Rich with Bithynia's wares,A lover fond and true,Your Gyges? He, detain'd by stormy stressAt Oricum, about the Goat-star's rise,Cold, wakeful, comfortless,The long night weeping lies.Meantime his lovesick hostess' messengerTalks of the flames that waste poor Chloe's heart(Flames lit for you, not her!)With a besieger's art;