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Eugene Field - To Mother Venus
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O mother Venus, quit, I pray,
  Your violent assailing!
The arts, forsooth, that fired my youth
  At last are unavailing;
My blood runs cold, I`m getting old,
  And all my powers are failing.

Speed thou upon thy white swans` wings,
  And elsewhere deign to mellow
With thy soft arts the anguished hearts
  Of swains that writhe and bellow;
And right away seek out, I pray,
  Young Paullus,--he`s your fellow!

You`ll find young Paullus passing fair,
  Modest, refined, and tony;
Go, now, incite the favored wight!
  With Venus for a crony
He`ll outshine all at feast and ball
  And conversazione!

Then shall that godlike nose of thine
  With perfumes be requited,
And then shall prance in Salian dance
  The girls and boys delighted,
And while the lute blends with the flute
  Shall tender loves be plighted.

But as for me, as you can see,
  I`m getting old and spiteful.
I have no mind to female kind,
  That once I deemed delightful;
No more brim up the festive cup
  That sent me home at night full.

Why do I falter in my speech,
  O cruel Ligurine?
Why do I chase from place to place
  In weather wet and shiny?
Why down my nose forever flows
  The tear that`s cold and briny?
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