_Ode Xvii._

Now the star of day is high, Fly, my girls, in pity fly, Bring me wine in brimming urns, Cool my lip, it burns, it burns! Sunn'd by the meridian fire, Panting, languid I expire! Give me all those humid flowers, Drop them o'er my brow in showers. Scarce a breathing chaplet now Lives upon my feverish brow;

Every dewy rose I wear Sheds its tears and withers there. But for you, my burning mind! Oh! what shelter shall I find? Can the bowl, or floweret's dew, Cool the flame that scorches you?