_Ode X._

'Tell me, gentle youth, I pray thee, What in purchase shall I pay thee For this little waxen toy, Image of the Paphian boy?' Thus I said the other day, To a youth who pass'd my way: 'Sir,' he answer'd, and the while Answer'd all in Doric style, 'Take it, for a trifle take it; Think not yet that I could make it; Pray, believe it was not I; No--it cost me many a sigh, And I can no longer keep Little gods, who murder sleep!

Here, then, here,' (I said with joy) 'Here is silver for the boy: He shall be my bosom guest, Idol of my pious breast!' Little Love! thou now art mine, Warm me with that torch of thine; Make me feel as I have felt, Or thy waxen frame shall melt. I must burn in warm desire, Or thou, my boy, in yonder fire!