Now shall my verse request no aid,

For love alone shall be the patron of my lyre.

“In lofty strain, of earlier days,

I spread the king’s or hero’s praise,

And struck the martial chords with epic fire:

But farewell, hero! farewell, king!

Your deeds my lips no more shall sing,

For love alone shall be the subject of my lyre.

Love and age

The night was dark; the wind blew cold; Anacreon, grown morose and old, Sat by his fire, and fed the cheerful flame: Suddenly the cottage-door expands, And lo! before him Cupid stands, Casts round a friendly glance, and greets him by his name.

“What! is it thou?” the startled sire In sullen tone exclaimed, while ire With crimson flushed his pale and wrinkled cheek: “Wouldst thou again with amorous rage Inflame my bosom? Steeled by age, Vain boy, to pierce my breast thine arrows are too weak.

“What seek you in this desert drear? No smiles or sports inhabit here; Ne’er did these vallies witness dalliance sweet: Eternal winter binds the plains; Age in my house despotic reigns, My garden boasts no flower, my bosom boasts no heat.