To Neobule

A sorry life, forsooth, these wretched girls are undergoing,     Restrained from draughts of pleasant wine, from loving favors showing,     For fear an uncle's tongue a reprimand will be bestowing!     Sweet Cytherea's winged boy deprives you of your spinning,     And Hebrus, Neobule, his sad havoc is beginning,     Just as Minerva thriftily gets ready for an inning.     Who could resist this gallant youth, as Tiber's waves he breasted,     Or when the palm of riding from Bellerophon he wrested,     Or when with fists and feet the sluggers easily he bested?     He shot the fleeing stags with regularity surprising;     The way he intercepted boars was quite beyond surmising,--     No wonder that your thoughts this youth has been monopolizing!     So I repeat that with these maids fate is unkindly dealing,     Who never can in love's affair give license to their feeling,     Or share those sweet emotions when a gentle jag is stealing.