Virgil

Arms, and the man I sing, who, forc’d by fate, And haughty Juno’s unrelenting hate,

But sweet vicissitudes of rest and toil Make easy labour, and renew the soil.

Beneath the shade which beechen boughs diffuse, You, Tityrus, entertain your sylvan muse.

These words he spoke, but spoke not from his heart; His outward smiles conceal’d his inward smart.

What cannot endless labour, urged by need?

Good heaven! what dire effects from civil discord flow!

False tears and fawning words the city won.

Himself invented first the shining share, And whetted human industry by care;

The fruit is theirs, the labour only, mine.

Despair of life the means of living shows.

Thus all below, whether by Nature’s curse, Or Fate’s decree, degenerate still to worse.

Towers are for gods, but forests for the swain.

O sacred hunger of pernicious gold!

The sun reveals the secrets of the sky; And who dares give the source of light the lie?

All follow several games, and each his own.

What priestly rites, alas! what pious art, What vows avail to cure a bleeding heart!

Stars disappeared, and comets took their place.

Ah! cruel heaven, that made no cure for love!

Talk is her business, and her chief delight To tell of prodigies and cause affright.

The mother plant admires the leaves unknown Of alien trees, and apples not her own.