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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=391070" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>To Mother Venus</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">O mother Venus, quit, I pray,<br>Your violent assailing!<br>The arts, forsooth, that fired my youth<br>At last are unavailing;<br>My blood runs cold, I'm getting old,<br>And all my powers are failing.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Speed thou upon thy white swans' wings,<br>And elsewhere deign to mellow<br>With thy soft arts the anguished hearts<br>Of swains that writhe and bellow;<br>And right away seek out, I pray,<br>Young Paullus,--he's your fellow!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">You'll find young Paullus passing fair,<br>Modest, refined, and tony;<br>Go, now, incite the favored wight!<br>With Venus for a crony<br>He'll outshine all at feast and ball<br>And conversazione!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then shall that godlike nose of thine<br>With perfumes be requited,<br>And then shall prance in Salian dance<br>The girls and boys delighted,<br>And while the lute blends with the flute<br>Shall tender loves be plighted.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But as for me, as you can see,<br>I'm getting old and spiteful.<br>I have no mind to female kind,<br>That once I deemed delightful;<br>No more brim up the festive cup<br>That sent me home at night full.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Why do I falter in my speech,<br>O cruel Ligurine?<br>Why do I chase from place to place<br>In weather wet and shiny?<br>Why down my nose forever flows<br>The tear that's cold and briny?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Eugene+Field">Eugene Field</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=391070" data-title="To Mother Venus de Eugene Field" data-description="O mother Venus, quit, I pray,
Your violent assailing!
The arts, forsooth, that fired my youth
At last are unavailing;
My blood runs cold, I'm getting old,
And all my powers are failing.

Speed thou upon thy white swans' wings,
And elsewhere deign ..."></div>
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