IMITATION OF CATULLUS; TO HIMSELF by THOMAS MOORE

CEASE the sighing fool to play;
Cease to trifle life away;
Nor vainly think those joys thine own,
Which all, alas! have falsely flown!
What hours, Catullus, once were thine!
How fairly seem'd thy day to shine,
When lightly thou didst fly to meet
The girl, who smiled so rosy sweet --
The girl thou lov'dst with fonder pain
Than e'er thy heart can feel again!
You met -- your souls seem'd all in one --
Sweet little sports were said and done --
Thy heart was warm enough for both,
And hers, indeed, was nothing loath.
Such were the hours that once were thine;
But, ah! those hours no longer shine!
For now the nymph delights no more
In what she loved so dear before;
And all Catullus now can do,
Is to be proud and frigid too;
Nor follow where the wanton flies,
Nor sue the bliss that she denies.
False maid! he bids farewell to thee,
To love, and all love's misery.
The hey-day of his heart is o'er,
Nor will he court one favour more;
But soon he'll see thee droop thy head,
Doom'd to a lone and loveless bed,
When none will seek the happy night,
Or come to traffic in delight!
Fly, perjured girl! -- but whither fly?
Who now will praise thy cheek and eye?
Who now will drink the syren tone,
Which tells him thou art all his own?
Who now will court thy wild delights,
Thy honey kiss, and turtle bites?
Oh! none. -- And he who loved before
Can never, never love thee more!

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