"Tell me, gentle youth, I pray thee,

What in purchase shall I pay thee

For this little waxen toy,

Image of the Paphian boy?"

Thus I said, the other day,

To a youth who past my way:

"Sir," (he answered, and the while

Answered all in Doric style,)

"Take it, for a trifle take it;

'Twas not I who dared to make it;

No, believe me, 'twas not I;

Oh, it has cost me many a sigh,

And I can no longer keep

Little Gods, who murder sleep!"

"Here, then, here," (I said with joy,)

"Here is silver for the boy:

He shall be my bosom guest,

Idol of my pious breast!"

Now, young Love, I have thee mine,

Warm me with that torch of thine;

Make me feel as I have felt,

Or thy waxen frame shall melt:

I must burn with warm desire,

Or thou, my boy—in yonder fire.[2]

[1] It is difficult to preserve with any grace the narrative simplicity of this ode, and the humor of the turn with which it concludes. I feel, indeed, that the translation must appear vapid, if not ludicrous, to an English reader.

[2] From this Longepierre conjectures, that, whatever Anacreon might say, he felt sometimes the inconveniences of old age, and here solicits from the power of Love a warmth which he could no longer expect from Nature.