Poetry Archives

Thou know’st, my Julia, that it is thy turn
This morning’s incense to prepare and burn.
The chaplet and Inarculum  here be,
With the white vestures, all attending thee.
This day the queen-priest thou art made, t’ appease
Love for our very many trespasses.
One chief transgression is, among the rest,
Because with flowers her temple was not dressed;
The next, because her altars did not shine
With daily fires;  the last, neglect of wine;
For which her wrath is gone forth to consume
Us all, unless preserv’d by thy perfume.
Take then thy censer, put in fire, and thus,
O pious priestess!  make a peace for us.
For our neglect, Love did our death decree
That we escape.  Redemption comes by thee.