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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 I 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 I've the ague.
Maid of Athens, ere we part,
By those tresses unconfined,. .
3. By that lip I long to taste; By that zone-encircled waist; By all the token-flowers that tell What words can never speak so well; By Love's alternate joy and woe, Zün põ, oss ayaww.