[BNP/E3, 79 – 39^v-38^v]

Thyself superior, now (alas!) wilt find,

Amid thy waning joy and waning gold,

       Thou learnedst in a sorry school

       That taught thee to disdain

The seeming-tender being whose iron rule

       Shall now wreak on thee horrid pain.

       Too late now wilt thou learn, too late,

       When thy voice is low and humble thy gait,

       When thy soul is crushed and thy dress sedate,

The greatest of all ills the gods on humans rain.

IV.

Ah, what avails all mourning? Thou art gone

[38^v]

From life and hope and gaudy loveliness,

From that deep rest that men call drunkenness.

       Ah, Corydon! Ah, Corydon!

       Thou, the first hope of all our race

Hast left the blessèd paths of peace and love.

Ah, wilt thou be content to rove

From shop to shop with her, thy mother-in-law,

       Or tremble full to hear at night,

        With horror deep and deep affright,

The wordy torrent from thy spouse’s jaw?

V.