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If, when the wintry tempest roared,
He sped to Hero, nothing loth, And thus of old thy current poured,
Fair Venus! how I pity both!
For me, degenerate modern wretch,
Though in the genial month of May, My dripping limbs I faintly stretch,
And think I've done a feat to-day.
But since he crossed the rapid tide,
According to the doubtful story, To woo,—and-Lord knows what beside,
And swam for Love, as 1 for Glory;
"Twere hard to say who fared the best:
Sad mortals! thus the Gods still plague you! He lost his labour, I my jest:
For he was drowned, and l’ve the ague.
Ζάη με, σας αγαπώ.
Maid of Athens, ere we part,
Give, oh, give me back my
heart! Or, since that has left my breast, Keep it now, and take the Hear my vow before I go, Ζώη με, σας αγαπώ.
By those tresses unconfined,
By that lip I long to taste;