ANACREON, ODE NINTH.

Lovely courier of the sky! Whence and whither dost thou fly? Scattering, as thy pinions play, Liquid fragrance all the way; Is it business? is it love? Tell me, tell me, gentle dove!

Soft Anacreon's vows I bear, Vows to Myrtalè the fair; Graced with all that charms the heart, Blushing nature, smiling art. Venus, courted by an ode, On the bard her dove bestow'd: Vested with a master's right, Now Anacreon rules my flight; His the letters that you see, Weighty charge, consign'd to me: Think not yet my service hard, Joyless task without reward; Smiling at my master's gates, Freedom my return awaits; But the liberal grant in vain Tempts me to be wild again. Can a prudent dove decline Blissful bondage such as mine? Over hills and fields to roam, Fortune's guest without a home; Under leaves to hide one's head, Slightly shelter'd, coarsely fed: Now my better lot bestows Sweet repast, and soft repose: Now the generous bowl I sip, As it leaves Anacreon's lip: Void of care and free from dread, From his fingers snatch his bread; Then with luscious plenty gay, Round his chamber dance and play; Or from wine as courage springs, O'er his face extend my wings; And when feast and frolic tire, Drop asleep upon his lyre. This is all, be quick and go, More than all thou canst not know; Let me now my pinions ply, I have chatter'd like a pye.