Heaven's favourite, sooth, for thrice a yearHe comes and goes across the brineUndamaged. I in plenty hereOn endives, mallows, succory dine.O grant me, Phoebus, calm content,Strength unimpaird, a mind entire,Old age without dishonour spent,Nor unbefriended by the lyre!They call;—if aught in shady dellWe twain have warbled, to remainLong months or years, now breathe, my shell,A Roman strain,Thou, strung by Lesbos' minstrel hand,The bard, who 'mid the clash of steel,Or haply mooring to the strandHis batter'd keel,Of Bacchus and the Muses sung,And Cupid, still at Venus' side,And Lycus, beautiful and young,Dark-hair'd, dark-eyed.