O mother Venus, quit, I pray, <br />Your violent assailing! <br />The arts, forsooth, that fired my youth <br />At last are unavailing; <br />My blood runs cold, I'm getting old, <br />And all my powers are failing. <br /> <br />Speed thou upon thy white swans' wings, <br />And elsewhere deign to mellow <br />With thy soft arts the anguished hearts <br />Of swains that writhe and bellow; <br />And right away seek out, I pray, <br />Young Paullus,--he's your fellow! <br /> <br />You'll find young Paullus passing fair, <br />Modest, refined, and tony; <br />Go, now, incite the favored wight! <br />With Venus for a crony <br />He'll outshine all at feast and ball <br />And conversazione! <br /> <br />Then shall that godlike nose of thine <br />With perfumes be requited, <br />And then shall prance in Salian dance <br />The girls and boys delighted, <br />And while the lute blends with the flute <br />Shall tender loves be plighted. <br /> <br />But as for me, as you can see, <br />I'm getting old and spiteful. <br />I have no mind to female kind, <br />That once I deemed delightful; <br />No more brim up the festive cup <br />That sent me home at night full. <br /> <br />Why do I falter in my speech, <br />O cruel Ligurine? <br />Why do I chase from place to place <br />In weather wet and shiny? <br />Why down my nose forever flows <br />The tear that's cold and briny?<br /><br />Eugene Field<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-mother-venus/
