But Tyber now thou feek'ft, to be at best, A ready crown and wealth in dow'r I bring, Who knew no crime, but too much love of thee. Nor did my parents against Troy combine. What thou deny'st my merit, give my love. And give me time to ftruggle with my woe. If not, know this, I will not fuffer long; "The cause of death, and sword by which she dy'd, "Eneas gave: the reft her arm fupply'd." FIRST BOOK OF OVID'S ART of LOVE. 'N Cupid's fchool whoe'er would take degree, IN Muft learn his rudiments, by reading me. A ftubborn God; but yet the God's a child: Like fierce Achilles in his pupillage: That hero, born for conqueft, trembling stood With art, and taught his warlike hands to wind He |