We loved of yore, in warfare bold Nor laurelless. Now all must go;Let this left wall of Venus show
The arms, the tuneless lyre of old.
Here let them hang, the torches cold,The portal-bursting bar, the bow,We loved of yore.
But thou, who Cyprus sweet dost hold,And Memphis free from Thracian snow, Goddess and queen, with vengeful blow,
Smite, — smite but once that pretty scold We loved of yore.