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.
