The works of Virgil containing his Pastorals, Georgics and Aeneis : adorn'd with a hundred sculptures / translated into English verse by Mr. Dryden.
         Virgil.
      
       
         
           1697
        
      
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             The works of Virgil containing his Pastorals, Georgics and Aeneis : adorn'd with a hundred sculptures / translated into English verse by Mr. Dryden.
             Virgil.
             Virgil. Bucolica.
             Virgil. Georgica.
             Virgil. Aeneis.
             Dryden, John, 1631-1700.
          
           [47], 640 p., [122] leaves of plates : ill.
           
             Printed for Jacob Tonson,
             London :
             1697.
          
           
             "Life of Pub. Virgilius Maro"-- p. [5-22] (1st grouping)
             Reproduction of original in the Bodleian Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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           Virgil.
        
      
    
     
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                   Dryden's
                   VIRGIL
                   
                     Printed
                     for
                  
                   Iacob
                   Tonson
                
              
            
          
           
             
             
               THE
               WORKS
               OF
               VIRGIL
               :
               Containing
               His
               PASTORALS
               ,
               GEORGICS
               ,
               AND
               AENEIS
               .
            
             
               Translated
               into
               English
               Verse
               ;
               By
               Mr.
               DRYDEN
               .
            
             
               Adorn'd
               with
               a
               Hundred
               Sculptures
               .
            
             
               
                 
                   Sequiturque
                   Patrem
                   non
                   passibus
                   Aequis
                
                 .
              
               
                 Virg.
                 Aen.
                 2.
                 
              
            
             
               LONDON
               ,
               Printed
               for
               
                 Jacob
                 Tonson
              
               ,
               at
               the
               Judges-Head
               in
               Fleetstreet
               ,
               near
               the
               Inner-Temple-Gate
               ,
               MDCXCVII
               .
            
          
           
             
             
             
               TO
               THE
               RIGHT
               HONOURABLE
               Hugh
               Lord
               Clifford
               ,
               BARON
               of
               Chudleigh
               .
            
             
               
                 My
                 Lord
                 ,
              
            
             
               I
               
                 HAVE
                 found
                 it
                 not
                 more
                 difficult
                 to
                 Translate
              
               Virgil
               ,
               
                 than
                 to
                 find
                 such
                 Patrons
                 as
                 I
                 desire
                 for
                 my
                 Translation
                 .
                 For
                 though
              
               England
               
                 is
                 not
                 wanting
                 in
                 a
                 Learned
                 Nobility
                 ,
                 yet
                 such
                 are
                 my
                 unhappy
                 Circumstances
                 ,
                 that
                 they
                 have
                 confin'd
                 me
                 to
                 a
                 narrow
                 choice
                 .
                 To
                 the
                 greater
                 part
                 ,
                 I
                 have
                 not
                 the
                 Honour
                 to
                 be
                 known
                 ;
                 and
                 to
                 some
                 of
                 them
                 I
                 cannot
                 shew
                 at
                 present
                 ,
                 by
                 any
                 publick
                 Act
                 ,
                 that
                 grateful
                 Respect
                 which
                 I
                 shall
                 ever
                 bear
                 them
                 in
                 my
                 heart
                 .
                 Yet
                 I
                 have
                 no
                 reason
                 to
                 complain
                 of
                 Fortune
                 ,
                 since
                 in
                 the
                 midst
                 of
                 that
                 abundance
                 I
                 could
                 not
                 possibly
                 have
                 chosen
                 better
                 ,
                 than
                 the
                 Worthy
                 Son
                 of
                 so
                 Illustrious
                 a
                 Father
                 .
                 He
                 was
                 the
                 Patron
                 of
                 my
                 Manhood
                 ,
                 when
                 I
                 Flourish'd
                 in
                 the
                 opinion
                 of
                 the
                 World
                 ;
                 though
                 with
                 small
                 advantage
                 to
                 my
                 Fortune
                 ,
                 'till
                 he
                 awaken'd
                 the
                 remembrance
                 of
                 my
                 Royal
                 Master
                 .
                 He
                 was
                 that
              
               Pollio
               ,
               
                 or
                 that
              
               Varus
               ,
               
                 who
                 introduc'd
                 me
                 to
              
               Augustus
               :
               
                 And
                 tho'
                 he
                 soon
                 dismiss'd
                 himself
                 from
                 State-Affairs
                 ,
                 yet
                 in
                 the
                 short
                 time
                 of
                 his
                 Administration
                 he
                 shone
                 so
                 powerfully
                 upon
                 me
                 ,
                 that
                 like
                 the
                 heat
                 of
                 a
              
               Russian
               
                 -
                 Summer
                 ,
                 he
                 ripen'd
                 the
                 Fruits
                 of
                 Poetry
                 in
                 a
                 cold
                 Clymate
                 ;
                 and
                 gave
                 me
                 wherewithal
                 to
                 subsist
                 at
                 least
                 ,
                 in
                 the
                 long
                 Winter
                 which
                 succeeded
                 .
                 What
                 I
                 now
                 offer
                 to
                 your
                 Lordship
                 ,
                 is
                 the
                 wretched
                 remainder
                 of
                 a
                 sickly
                 Age
                 ,
                 worn
                 out
                 with
                 Study
                 ,
                 and
                 oppress'd
                 by
                 Fortune
                 :
                 without
                 other
                 support
                 than
                 the
                 Constancy
                 and
                 Patience
                 of
                 a
                 Christian
                 .
                 You
                 ,
                 my
                 Lord
                 ,
                 are
                 yet
                 in
                 the
                 flower
                 of
                 your
                 Youth
                 ,
                 and
                 may
                 live
                 to
                 enjoy
                 the
                 benefits
                 of
                 the
                 Peace
                 which
                 is
                 promis'd
              
               Europe
               :
               
                 I
                 can
                 only
                 hear
                 of
                 that
                 Blessing
                 :
                 for
                 Years
                 ,
                 and
                 ,
                 above
                 all
                 things
                 ,
                 want
                 of
                 health
                 ,
                 have
                 shut
                 me
                 out
                 from
                 sharing
                 in
                 the
                 happiness
                 .
                 The
                 Poets
                 ,
                 who
                 condemn
                 their
              
               Tantalus
               
                 to
                 Hell
                 ,
                 had
                 added
                 to
                 his
                 Torments
                 ,
                 if
                 they
                 had
                 plac'd
                 him
                 in
              
               Elysium
               ,
               
                 which
                 is
                 the
                 proper
                 Emblem
                 of
                 my
                 Condition
                 .
                 The
                 Fruit
                 and
                 the
                 Water
                 may
                 reach
                 my
                 Lips
                 ,
                 but
                 cannot
                 enter
                 :
                 And
                 if
                 they
                 cou'd
                 ,
                 yet
                 I
                 want
                 a
                 Palate
                 as
                 well
                 as
                 a
                 Digestion
                 .
                 But
                 it
                 is
                 some
                 kind
                 of
                 pleasure
                 to
                 me
                 ,
                 to
                 please
              
               
               
                 those
                 whom
                 I
                 respect
                 .
                 And
                 I
                 am
                 not
                 altogether
                 out
                 of
                 hope
                 ,
                 that
                 these
              
               Pastorals
               of
               Virgil
               
                 may
                 give
                 your
                 Lordship
                 some
                 delight
                 ,
                 though
                 made
                 English
                 by
                 one
                 ,
                 who
                 scarce
                 remembers
                 that
                 Passion
                 which
                 inspir'd
                 my
                 Author
                 when
                 he
                 wrote
                 them
                 .
                 These
                 were
                 his
                 first
                 Essay
                 in
                 Poetry
                 ,
                 (
                 if
                 the
              
               Ceiris
               
                 was
                 not
                 his
                 :
                 )
                 And
                 it
                 was
                 more
                 excusable
                 in
                 him
                 to
                 describe
                 Love
                 when
                 he
                 was
                 young
                 ,
                 than
                 for
                 me
                 to
                 Translate
                 him
                 when
                 I
                 am
                 Old.
                 He
                 died
                 at
                 the
                 Age
                 of
                 fifty
                 two
                 ,
                 and
                 I
                 began
                 this
                 Work
                 in
                 my
                 great
              
               Clymacterique
               .
               
                 But
                 having
                 perhaps
                 a
                 better
                 constitution
                 than
                 my
                 Author
                 ,
                 I
                 have
                 wrong'd
                 him
                 less
                 ,
                 considering
                 my
                 Circumstances
                 ,
                 than
                 those
                 who
                 have
                 attempted
                 him
                 before
                 ,
                 either
                 in
                 our
                 own
                 ,
                 or
                 any
                 Modern
                 Language
                 .
                 And
                 though
                 this
                 Version
                 is
                 not
                 void
                 of
                 Errours
                 ,
                 yet
                 it
                 comforts
                 me
                 that
                 the
                 faults
                 of
                 others
                 are
                 not
                 worth
                 finding
                 .
                 Mine
                 are
                 neither
                 gross
                 nor
                 frequent
                 ,
                 in
                 those
              
               Eclogues
               ,
               
                 wherein
                 my
                 Master
                 has
                 rais'd
                 himself
                 above
                 that
                 humble
                 Stile
                 in
                 which
              
               Pastoral
               
                 delights
                 ,
                 and
                 which
                 I
                 must
                 confefs
                 is
                 proper
                 to
                 the
                 Education
                 and
                 Converse
                 of
                 Shepherds
                 :
                 for
                 he
                 found
                 the
                 strength
                 of
                 his
                 Genius
                 b●times
                 ,
                 and
                 was
                 even
                 in
                 his
                 youth
                 preluding
                 to
                 his
              
               Georgics
               ,
               
                 and
                 his
              
               Aeneis
               .
               
                 He
                 cou'd
                 not
                 forbear
                 to
                 try
                 his
                 Wings
                 ,
                 though
                 his
                 Pinions
                 were
                 not
                 harden'd
                 to
                 maintain
                 a
                 long
                 laborious
                 flight
                 .
                 Yet
                 sometimes
                 they
                 bore
                 him
                 to
                 a
                 pitch
                 as
                 lofty
                 ,
                 as
                 ever
                 he
                 was
                 able
                 to
                 reach
                 afterwards
                 .
                 But
                 when
                 he
                 was
                 admonish'd
                 by
                 his
                 subject
                 to
                 descend
                 ,
                 he
                 came
                 down
                 gently
                 circling
                 in
                 the
                 air
                 ,
                 and
                 singing
                 to
                 the
                 ground
                 .
                 Like
                 a
                 Lark
                 ,
                 melodious
                 in
                 her
                 mounting
                 ,
                 and
                 continuing
                 her
                 Song
                 'till
                 she
                 alights
                 :
                 still
                 preparing
                 for
                 a
                 higher
                 flight
                 at
                 her
                 next
                 sally
                 ,
                 and
                 tuning
                 her
                 voice
                 to
                 better
                 musick
                 .
                 The
                 Fourth
                 ,
                 the
                 Sixth
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 Eighth
              
               Pastorals
               ,
               
                 are
                 clear
                 Evidences
                 of
                 this
                 truth
                 .
                 In
                 the
                 three
                 first
                 he
                 contains
                 himself
                 within
                 his
                 bounds
                 ;
                 but
                 Addressing
                 to
              
               Pollio
               ,
               
                 his
                 great
                 Patron
                 ,
                 and
                 himself
                 no
                 vulgar
                 Poet
                 ,
                 he
                 no
                 longer
                 cou'd
                 restrain
                 the
                 freedom
                 of
                 his
                 Spirit
                 ,
                 but
                 began
                 to
                 assert
                 his
                 Native
                 Character
                 ,
                 which
                 is
                 sublimity
                 .
                 Putting
                 himself
                 under
                 the
                 conduct
                 of
                 the
                 same
              
               Cumaean
               Sybil
               ,
               
                 whom
                 afterwards
                 he
                 gave
                 for
                 a
                 Guide
                 to
                 his
              
               Aeneas
               .
               
                 'T
                 is
                 true
                 he
                 was
                 sensible
                 of
                 his
                 own
                 boldness
                 ;
                 and
                 we
                 know
                 it
                 by
                 the
              
               Paulo
               Majora
               ,
               
                 which
                 begins
                 his
                 Fourth
              
               Eclogue
               .
               
                 He
                 remember'd
                 ,
                 like
                 young
              
               Manlius
               ,
               
                 that
                 he
                 was
                 forbidden
                 to
                 Engage
                 ;
                 but
                 what
                 avails
                 an
                 express
                 Command
                 to
                 a
                 youthful
                 Courage
                 ,
                 which
                 presages
                 Victory
                 in
                 the
                 attempt
                 ?
                 Encourag'd
                 with
                 Success
                 ,
                 he
                 proceeds
                 farther
                 in
                 the
                 Sixth
                 ,
                 and
                 invades
                 the
                 Province
                 of
                 Philosophy
                 .
                 And
                 notwithstanding
                 that
              
               Phoebus
               
                 had
                 forewarn'd
                 him
                 of
                 Singing
                 Wars
                 ,
                 as
                 he
                 there
                 confesses
                 ,
                 yet
                 he
                 presum'd
                 that
                 the
                 search
                 of
                 Nature
                 was
                 as
                 free
                 to
                 him
                 as
                 to
              
               Lucretius
               ,
               
                 who
                 at
                 his
                 Age
                 explain'd
                 it
                 according
                 to
                 the
                 Principles
                 of
              
               Epicurus
               .
               
                 In
                 his
                 Eighth
              
               Eclogue
               ,
               
                 he
                 has
                 innovated
                 nothing
                 ;
                 the
                 former
                 part
                 of
                 it
                 being
                 the
                 Complaint
                 and
                 Despair
                 of
                 a
                 forsaken
                 Lover
                 :
                 the
                 latter
                 ,
                 a
                 Charm
                 of
                 an
                 Enchantress
                 ,
                 to
                 renew
                 a
                 lost
                 Affection
                 .
                 But
                 the
                 Complaint
                 perhaps
                 contains
                 some
                 Topicks
                 which
                 are
                 above
                 the
                 Condition
                 of
                 his
                 Persons
                 ;
                 and
                 our
                 Author
                 seems
                 to
                 have
                 made
                 his
                 Herdsmen
                 somewhat
                 too
                 Learn'd
                 for
                 their
                 Profession
                 :
                 The
                 Charms
                 are
                 also
                 of
                 the
                 same
                 nature
                 ,
                 but
                 both
                 were
                 Copied
                 from
              
               Theocritus
               ,
               
                 and
                 had
                 receiv'd
                 the
                 applause
                 of
                 former
                 Ages
                 in
                 their
                 Original
                 .
                 There
                 is
                 a
                 kind
                 of
                 Rusticity
                 in
                 all
                 those
                 pompous
                 Verses
                 ;
                 somewhat
                 of
                 a
                 Holiday
                 Shepherd
                 strutting
                 in
                 his
                 Country
                 Buskins
                 .
                 The
                 like
                 may
                 be
                 observ'd
                 ,
                 both
                 in
                 the
              
               Pollio
               ,
               
                 and
                 the
              
               Silenus
               ;
               
                 where
                 the
                 Similitudes
                 are
                 drawn
                 from
                 the
                 Woods
                 and
                 Meadows
                 .
                 They
                 seem
                 to
                 me
                 to
                 represent
                 our
                 Poet
                 betwixt
                 a
                 Farmer
                 ,
                 and
                 a
                 Courtier
                 ,
                 when
                 he
                 left
              
               Mantua
               for
               Rome
               ,
               
                 and
                 drest
                 himself
                 in
                 his
                 best
                 Habit
                 to
                 appear
                 before
                 his
                 Patron
                 :
                 Somewhat
                 too
                 fine
                 for
                 the
                 place
                 from
                 whence
                 he
                 came
                 ,
                 and
                 yet
                 retaining
                 part
                 of
                 its
                 simplicity
                 .
                 In
                 the
                 Ninth
              
               Pastoral
               
                 he
                 Collects
                 some
                 Beautiful
                 passages
                 which
                 were
                 scatter'd
                 in
              
               Theocritus
               ,
               
                 which
                 he
                 cou'd
                 not
                 insert
                 into
                 any
                 of
                 his
                 former
              
               Eclogues
               ,
               
                 and
                 yet
              
               
               
                 was
                 unwilling
                 they
                 shou'd
                 be
                 lost
                 .
                 In
                 all
                 the
                 rest
                 he
                 is
                 equal
                 to
                 his
              
               Sicilian
               
                 Master
                 ,
                 and
                 observes
                 like
                 him
                 a
                 just
                 decorum
                 ,
                 both
                 of
                 the
                 Subject
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 Persons
                 .
                 As
                 particularly
                 in
                 the
                 Third
              
               Pastoral
               ;
               
                 where
                 one
                 of
                 his
                 Shepherds
                 describes
                 a
                 Bowl
                 ,
                 or
                 Mazer
                 ,
                 curiously
                 Carv'd
                 .
              
               
                 
                   In
                   Medio
                   duo
                   signa
                   :
                   Conon
                   ,
                   &
                   quis
                   fuit
                   alter
                   ,
                
                 
                   Descripsit
                   radio
                   ,
                   totum
                   qui
                   Gentibus
                   orbem
                   .
                
              
               
                 He
                 remembers
                 only
                 the
                 name
                 of
              
               Conon
               ,
               
                 and
                 forgets
                 the
                 other
                 on
                 set
                 purpose
                 :
                 (
                 whether
                 he
                 means
              
               Anaximander
               or
               Eudoxus
               
                 I
                 dispute
                 not
                 ,
                 )
                 but
                 he
                 was
                 certainly
                 forgotten
                 ,
                 to
                 shew
                 his
                 Country
                 Swain
                 was
                 no
                 great
                 Scholar
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 After
                 all
                 ,
                 I
                 must
                 confess
                 that
                 the
                 Boorish
                 Dialect
                 of
              
               Theocritus
               
                 has
                 a
                 secret
                 charm
                 in
                 it
                 ,
                 which
                 the
              
               Roman
               
                 Language
                 cannot
                 imitate
                 ,
                 though
              
               Virgil
               
                 has
                 drawn
                 it
                 down
                 as
                 low
                 as
                 possibly
                 he
                 cou'd
                 ;
                 as
                 in
                 the
              
               Cujum
               pecus
               ,
               
                 and
                 some
                 other
                 words
                 ,
                 for
                 which
                 he
                 was
                 so
                 unjustly
                 blam'd
                 by
                 the
                 bad
                 Criticks
                 of
                 his
                 Age
                 ,
                 who
                 cou'd
                 not
                 see
                 the
                 Beauties
                 of
                 that
              
               merum
               Rus
               ,
               
                 which
                 the
                 Poet
                 describ'd
                 in
                 those
                 expressions
                 .
                 But
              
               Theocritus
               
                 may
                 justly
                 be
                 preferr'd
                 as
                 the
                 Original
                 ,
                 without
                 injury
                 to
              
               Virgil
               ,
               
                 who
                 modestly
                 contents
                 himself
                 with
                 the
                 second
                 place
                 ,
                 and
                 glories
                 only
                 in
                 being
                 the
                 first
                 who
                 transplanted
              
               Pastoral
               
                 into
                 his
                 own
                 Country
                 ;
                 and
                 brought
                 it
                 there
                 to
                 bear
                 as
                 happily
                 as
                 the
                 Cherry-trees
                 which
              
               Lucullus
               
                 brought
                 from
              
               Pontus
               .
            
             
               
                 Our
                 own
                 Nation
                 has
                 produc'd
                 a
                 third
                 Poet
                 in
                 this
                 kind
                 ,
                 not
                 inferiour
                 to
                 the
                 two
                 former
                 .
                 For
                 the
                 Shepherd's
                 Kalendar
                 of
              
               Spencer
               ,
               
                 is
                 not
                 to
                 be
                 match'd
                 in
                 any
                 Modern
                 Language
                 .
                 Not
                 even
                 by
              
               Tasso's
               Amynta
               ,
               
                 which
                 infinitely
                 transcends
              
               Guarinis
               's
               Pastor-Fido
               ,
               
                 as
                 having
                 more
                 of
                 Nature
                 in
                 it
                 ,
                 and
                 being
                 almost
                 wholly
                 clear
                 from
                 the
                 wretched
                 affectation
                 of
                 Learning
                 .
                 I
                 will
                 say
                 nothing
                 of
                 the
              
               Pifcatory
               Eclogues
               ,
               
                 because
                 no
                 modern
              
               Latin
               
                 can
                 bear
                 Criticism
                 .
                 'T
                 is
                 no
                 wonder
                 that
                 rolling
                 down
                 through
                 so
                 many
                 barbarous
                 Ages
                 ,
                 from
                 the
                 Spring
                 of
              
               Virgil
               ,
               
                 it
                 bears
                 along
                 with
                 it
                 the
                 filth
                 and
                 ordures
                 of
                 the
              
               Goths
               and
               Vandals
               .
               
                 Neither
                 will
                 I
                 mention
                 Monsieur
              
               Fontinelle
               ,
               
                 the
                 living
                 Glory
                 of
                 the
              
               French.
               
                 'T
                 is
                 enough
                 for
                 him
                 to
                 have
                 excell'd
                 his
                 Master
              
               Lucian
               ,
               
                 without
                 attempting
                 to
                 compare
                 our
                 miserable
                 Age
                 with
                 that
                 of
              
               Virgil
               ,
               or
               Theocritus
               .
               
                 Let
                 me
                 only
                 add
                 ,
                 for
                 his
                 reputation
                 ,
              
               
                 
                   —
                   Si
                   Pergama
                   dextrâ
                
                 
                   Defendi
                   possint
                   ,
                   etiam
                   hâc
                   defensa
                   fuissent
                   .
                
              
            
             
               But
               Spencer
               
                 being
                 Master
                 of
                 our
                 Northern
                 Dialect
                 ;
                 and
                 skill'd
                 in
              
               Chaucer
               
                 's
                 English
                 ,
                 has
                 so
                 exactly
                 imitated
                 the
              
               Doric
               of
               Theocritus
               ,
               
                 that
                 his
                 Love
                 is
                 a
                 perfect
                 Image
                 of
                 that
                 Passion
                 which
                 God
                 infus'd
                 into
                 both
                 Sexes
                 ,
                 before
                 it
                 was
                 corrupted
                 with
                 the
                 Knowledge
                 of
                 Arts
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 Ceremonies
                 of
                 what
                 we
                 call
                 good
                 Manners
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 My
                 Lord
                 ,
                 I
                 know
                 to
                 whom
                 I
                 dedicate
                 :
                 And
                 cou'd
                 not
                 have
                 been
                 induc'd
                 by
                 any
                 motive
                 to
                 put
                 this
                 part
                 of
              
               Virgil
               ,
               
                 or
                 any
                 other
                 ,
                 into
                 unlearned
                 Hands
                 .
                 You
                 have
                 read
                 him
                 with
                 pleasure
                 ,
                 and
                 I
                 dare
                 say
                 ,
                 with
                 admiration
                 in
                 the
                 Latine
                 ,
                 of
                 which
                 you
                 are
                 a
                 Master
                 .
                 You
                 have
                 added
                 to
                 your
                 Natural
                 Endowments
                 ,
                 which
                 without
                 flattery
                 are
                 Eminent
                 ,
                 the
                 superstructures
                 of
                 Study
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 knowledge
                 of
                 good
                 Authors
                 .
                 Courage
                 ,
                 Probity
                 ,
                 and
                 Humanity
                 are
                 inherent
                 in
                 you
                 .
                 These
                 Vertues
                 have
                 ever
                 been
                 habitual
                 to
                 the
                 Ancient
                 House
                 of
              
               Cumberland
               ,
               
                 from
                 whence
                 you
                 are
                 descended
                 ,
                 and
                 of
                 which
                 our
                 Chronicles
                 make
                 so
                 honourable
                 mention
                 in
                 the
                 long
                 Wars
                 betwixt
                 the
                 Rival
                 Families
                 of
              
               York
               and
               Lancaster
               .
               
                 Your
                 Forefathers
                 have
                 asserted
                 the
                 Party
                 which
                 they
                 chose
                 'till
                 death
                 ,
                 and
                 dy'd
                 for
                 its
                 defence
                 in
                 the
                 Fields
                 of
                 Battel
                 .
                 You
                 have
                 besides
                 the
                 fresh
                 remembrance
                 of
                 your
                 Noble
                 Father
                 ;
                 from
                 whom
                 you
                 never
                 can
                 degenerate
                 .
              
               
                 
                 
                   —
                   Nec
                   imbellem
                   ,
                   feroces
                
                 
                   Progenerant
                   Aquilam
                   Columbae
                   .
                
              
               
                 It
                 being
                 almost
                 morally
                 impossible
                 for
                 you
                 to
                 be
                 other
                 than
                 you
                 are
                 by
                 kind
                 ;
                 I
                 need
                 neither
                 praise
                 nor
                 incite
                 your
                 Vertue
                 .
                 You
                 are
                 acquainted
                 with
                 the
              
               Roman
               
                 History
                 ,
                 and
                 know
                 without
                 my
                 information
                 that
                 Patronage
                 and
                 Clientship
                 always
                 descended
                 from
                 the
                 Fathers
                 to
                 the
                 Sons
                 ;
                 and
                 that
                 the
                 same
              
               Plebeian
               
                 Houses
                 ,
                 had
                 recourse
                 to
                 the
                 same
                 Patrician
                 Line
                 ,
                 which
                 had
                 formerly
                 protected
                 them
                 :
                 and
                 follow'd
                 their
                 Principles
                 and
                 Fortunes
                 to
                 the
                 last
                 .
                 So
                 that
                 I
                 am
                 your
                 Lordship
                 's
                 by
                 descent
                 ,
                 and
                 part
                 of
                 your
                 Inheritance
                 .
                 And
                 the
                 natural
                 inclination
                 ,
                 which
                 I
                 have
                 to
                 serve
                 you
                 ,
                 adds
                 to
                 your
                 paternal
                 right
                 ,
                 for
                 I
                 was
                 wholly
                 yours
                 from
                 the
                 first
                 moment
                 ,
                 when
                 I
                 had
                 the
                 happiness
                 and
                 honour
                 of
                 being
                 known
                 to
                 you
                 .
                 Be
                 pleas'd
                 therefore
                 to
                 accept
                 the
                 Rudiments
                 of
              
               Virgil
               
                 's
                 Poetry
                 :
                 Coursely
                 Translated
                 I
                 confess
                 ,
                 but
                 which
                 yet
                 retains
                 some
                 Beauties
                 of
                 the
                 Author
                 ,
                 which
                 neither
                 the
                 barbarity
                 of
                 our
                 Language
                 ,
                 nor
                 my
                 unskilfulness
                 cou'd
                 so
                 much
                 sully
                 ,
                 but
                 that
                 they
                 appear
                 sometimes
                 in
                 the
                 dim
                 mirrour
                 which
                 I
                 hold
                 before
                 you
                 .
                 The
                 Subject
                 is
                 not
                 unsuitable
                 to
                 your
                 Youth
                 ,
                 which
                 allows
                 you
                 yet
                 to
                 Love
                 ,
                 and
                 is
                 proper
                 to
                 your
                 present
                 Scene
                 of
                 Life
                 .
                 Rural
                 Recreations
                 abroad
                 ,
                 and
                 Books
                 at
                 home
                 ,
                 are
                 the
                 innocent
                 Pleasures
                 of
                 a
                 Man
                 who
                 is
                 early
                 Wise
                 ;
                 and
                 gives
                 Fortune
                 no
                 more
                 hold
                 of
                 him
                 ,
                 than
                 of
                 necessity
                 he
                 must
                 .
                 'T
                 is
                 good
                 ,
                 on
                 some
                 occasions
                 to
                 think
                 beforehand
                 as
                 little
                 as
                 we
                 can
                 ;
                 to
                 enjoy
                 as
                 much
                 of
                 the
                 present
                 as
                 will
                 not
                 endanger
                 our
                 futurity
                 ;
                 and
                 to
                 provide
                 our selves
                 of
                 the
              
               Vertuoso
               
                 's
                 Saddle
                 ,
                 which
                 will
                 be
                 sure
                 to
                 amble
                 ,
                 when
                 the
                 World
                 is
                 upon
                 the
                 hardest
                 trott
                 .
                 What
                 I
                 humbly
                 offer
                 to
                 your
                 Lordship
                 ,
                 is
                 of
                 this
                 nature
                 .
                 I
                 wish
                 it
                 pleasant
                 ,
                 and
                 am
                 sure
                 't
                 is
                 innocent
                 .
                 May
                 you
                 ever
                 continue
                 your
                 esteem
                 for
              
               Virgil
               ;
               
                 and
                 not
                 lessen
                 it
                 ,
                 for
                 the
                 faults
                 of
                 his
                 Translatour
                 ;
                 who
                 is
                 with
                 all
                 manner
                 of
                 Respect
                 ,
                 and
                 sense
                 of
                 Gratitude
                 ,
              
            
             
               
                 My
                 Lord
                 ,
              
               
                 Your
                 Lordship
                 's
                 most
                 Humble
                 ,
                 and
                 most
                 Obedient
                 Servant
                 ,
                 JOHN
                 DRYDEN
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               THE
               LIFE
               OF
               
                 Pub.
                 Virgilius
                 Maro
              
               .
            
             
               VIRGIL
               was
               born
               at
               Mantua
               ,
               which
               City
               was
               built
               no
               less
               than
               Three
               Hundred
               Years
               before
               Rome
               ;
               and
               was
               the
               Capital
               of
               the
               New
               Hetruria
               ,
               as
               himself
               ,
               no
               less
               Antiquary
               ,
               than
               Poet
               ,
               assures
               us
               .
               His
               Birth
               is
               said
               to
               have
               happen'd
               in
               the
               first
               Consulship
               of
               Pompey
               the
               Great
               ,
               and
               
                 Lic
                 .
                 Crassus
              
               ;
               but
               since
               the
               Relater
               of
               this
               presently
               after
               contradicts
               himself
               ;
               and
               
               Virgil's
               manner
               of
               Addressing
               to
               Octavius
               ,
               implies
               a
               greater
               difference
               of
               Age
               than
               that
               of
               Seven
               Years
               ,
               as
               appears
               by
               his
               First
               Pastoral
               ,
               and
               other
               places
               ;
               it
               is
               reasonable
               to
               set
               the
               Date
               of
               it
               something
               backward
               :
               And
               the
               Writer
               of
               his
               Life
               having
               no
               certain
               Memorials
               to
               work
               upon
               ,
               seems
               to
               have
               pitched
               upon
               the
               two
               most
               Illustrious
               Consuls
               he
               could
               find
               about
               that
               time
               ,
               to
               signalize
               the
               Birth
               of
               so
               Eminent
               a
               Man.
               But
               it
               is
               beyond
               all
               Question
               ,
               that
               he
               was
               Born
               on
               ,
               or
               near
               the
               Fifteenth
               of
               October
               .
               Which
               Day
               was
               kept
               Festival
               in
               honour
               of
               his
               Memory
               ,
               by
               the
               Latin
               ,
               as
               the
               Birth-Day
               of
               Homer
               was
               by
               the
               Greek
               Poets
               .
               And
               so
               near
               a
               resemblance
               there
               is
               ,
               betwixt
               the
               Lives
               of
               these
               two
               famous
               Epic
               Writers
               ,
               that
               Virgil
               seems
               to
               have
               follow'd
               the
               Fortune
               of
               the
               other
               ,
               as
               well
               as
               the
               Subject
               and
               manner
               of
               his
               Writing
               .
               For
               Homer
               is
               said
               to
               have
               been
               of
               very
               mean
               Parents
               ,
               such
               as
               got
               their
               Bread
               by
               Day-labour
               ;
               so
               is
               
                 Virgil.
                 Homer
              
               is
               said
               to
               be
               
                 Base
                 Born
              
               ;
               so
               is
               Virgil.
               The
               former
               to
               have
               been
               born
               in
               the
               open
               Air
               ,
               in
               a
               Ditch
               ,
               or
               by
               the
               Bank
               of
               a
               River
               ;
               so
               is
               the
               latter
               .
               There
               was
               a
               Poplar
               Planted
               near
               the
               place
               of
               
               Virgil's
               Birth
               ,
               which
               suddenly
               grew
               up
               to
               an
               unusual
               heighth
               and
               bulk
               ,
               and
               to
               which
               the
               Superstitious
               Neighbourhood
               attributed
               marvellous
               Vertue
               .
               Homer
               had
               his
               Poplar
               too
               ,
               as
               Herodotus
               relates
               ,
               which
               was
               visited
               with
               great
               Veneration
               .
               Homer
               is
               describ'd
               by
               one
               of
               the
               Ancients
               ,
               to
               have
               been
               of
               a
               slovenly
               and
               neglected
               Meen
               and
               Habit
               ,
               so
               was
               Virgil.
               Both
               were
               of
               a
               very
               delicate
               and
               sickly
               Constitution
               :
               Both
               addicted
               to
               Travel
               ,
               and
               the
               study
               of
               Astrology
               :
               Both
               had
               their
               Compositions
               usurp'd
               by
               others
               :
               Both
               Envy'd
               and
               traduc'd
               during
               their
               Lives
               .
               We
               know
               not
               so
               much
               as
               the
               true
               Names
               of
               either
               of
               them
               with
               any
               exactness
               :
               For
               the
               Criticks
               are
               not
               yet
               agreed
               how
               the
               word
               
                 [
                 Virgil
              
               ]
               should
               be
               Written
               ;
               and
               of
               
               Homer's
               Name
               there
               is
               no
               certainty
               at
               all
               .
               Whosoever
               
               shall
               consider
               this
               Parallel
               in
               so
               many
               particulars
               ;
               (
               and
               more
               might
               be
               added
               )
               would
               be
               inclin'd
               to
               think
               ,
               that
               either
               the
               same
               Stars
               Rul'd
               strongly
               at
               the
               Nativities
               of
               them
               both
               ,
               or
               what
               is
               a
               great
               deal
               more
               probable
               ;
               that
               the
               Latin
               Grammarians
               wanting
               Materials
               for
               the
               former
               part
               of
               
               Virgil's
               Life
               ,
               after
               the
               
                 Legendary
                 Fashion
              
               ,
               supply'd
               it
               out
               of
               Herodotus
               ;
               and
               like
               ill
               Face-Painters
               ,
               not
               being
               able
               to
               hit
               the
               true
               Features
               ,
               endeavour'd
               to
               make
               amends
               by
               a
               great
               deal
               of
               impertinent
               Landscape
               and
               Drapery
               .
            
             
               Without
               troubling
               the
               Reader
               with
               needless
               Quotations
               ,
               now
               ,
               or
               afterwards
               ;
               the
               most
               probable
               Opinion
               is
               ,
               that
               Virgil
               was
               the
               Son
               of
               a
               Servant
               ,
               or
               Assistant
               to
               a
               wandring
               Astrologer
               ;
               who
               practis'd
               Physic
               .
               For
               
                 Medicus
                 ,
                 Magus
              
               ,
               as
               Juvenal
               observes
               ,
               usually
               went
               together
               ;
               and
               this
               course
               of
               Life
               was
               follow'd
               by
               a
               great
               many
               Greeks
               and
               Syrians
               ;
               of
               one
               of
               which
               Nations
               it
               seems
               not
               improbable
               ,
               that
               
               Virgil's
               Father
               was
               .
               Nor
               could
               a
               Man
               of
               that
               Profession
               have
               chosen
               a
               fitter
               place
               to
               settle
               in
               ,
               than
               that
               most
               Superstitious
               Tract
               of
               Italy
               ;
               which
               by
               her
               ridiculous
               Rites
               and
               Ceremonies
               as
               much
               enslav'd
               the
               Romans
               ,
               as
               the
               Romans
               did
               the
               Hetrurians
               by
               their
               Arms.
               This
               Man
               therefore
               having
               got
               together
               some
               Money
               ,
               which
               Stock
               he
               improv'd
               by
               his
               Skill
               in
               Planting
               and
               Husbandry
               ,
               had
               the
               good
               Fortune
               ,
               at
               last
               ,
               to
               Marry
               his
               Masters
               Daughter
               ,
               by
               whom
               he
               had
               Virgil
               ;
               and
               this
               Woman
               seems
               ,
               by
               her
               Mothers
               side
               ,
               to
               have
               been
               of
               good
               Extraction
               ;
               for
               she
               was
               nearly
               related
               to
               
                 Quintilius
                 Varus
              
               ,
               whom
               Paterculus
               assures
               us
               to
               have
               been
               an
               Illustrious
               ,
               tho'
               not
               Patrician
               Family
               ;
               and
               there
               is
               honourable
               mention
               made
               of
               it
               in
               the
               History
               of
               the
               second
               Carthaginian
               War.
               It
               is
               certain
               ,
               that
               they
               gave
               him
               very
               good
               Education
               ,
               to
               which
               they
               were
               inclin'd
               ;
               not
               so
               much
               by
               the
               Dreams
               of
               his
               Mother
               ,
               and
               those
               presages
               which
               Donatus
               relates
               ,
               as
               by
               the
               early
               indications
               which
               he
               gave
               of
               a
               sweet
               Disposition
               ,
               and
               Excellent
               Wit.
               He
               passed
               the
               first
               Seven
               Years
               of
               his
               Life
               at
               Mantua
               ,
               not
               Seventeen
               ,
               as
               Scaliger
               miscorrects
               his
               Author
               ;
               for
               the
               
                 initia
                 aetatis
              
               can
               hardly
               be
               supposed
               to
               extend
               so
               far
               .
               From
               thence
               he
               removed
               to
               Cremona
               ,
               a
               Noble
               Roman
               Colony
               ,
               and
               afterwards
               to
               Milan
               .
               In
               all
               which
               places
               he
               prosecuted
               his
               Studies
               with
               great
               application
               ;
               he
               read
               over
               ,
               all
               the
               best
               Latin
               ,
               and
               Greek
               Authors
               ,
               for
               which
               he
               had
               convenience
               by
               the
               no
               remote
               distance
               of
               Marseils
               ,
               that
               famous
               Greek
               Colony
               ,
               which
               maintain'd
               its
               Politeness
               ,
               and
               Purity
               of
               Language
               ,
               in
               the
               midst
               of
               all
               those
               Barbarous
               Nations
               amongst
               which
               it
               was
               seated
               :
               And
               some
               Tincture
               of
               the
               latter
               seems
               to
               have
               descended
               from
               them
               down
               to
               the
               Modern
               French.
               He
               frequented
               the
               most
               Eminent
               Professors
               of
               the
               Epicurean
               Philosophy
               ,
               which
               was
               then
               much
               in
               vogue
               ,
               and
               will
               be
               always
               in
               declining
               and
               sickly
               States
               .
               But
               finding
               no
               satisfactory
               Account
               from
               his
               Master
               Syron
               ,
               he
               pass'd
               over
               to
               the
               
                 Academick
                 School
              
               ,
               to
               which
               he
               adher'd
               the
               rest
               of
               his
               Life
               ,
               and
               deserv'd
               ,
               from
               a
               great
               Emperour
               ,
               the
               Title
               of
               the
               Plato
               of
               Poets
               .
               He
               compos'd
               at
               leisure
               hours
               a
               great
               number
               of
               Verses
               ,
               on
               various
               Subjects
               ;
               and
               desirous
               rather
               of
               a
               great
               ,
               than
               early
               Fame
               ,
               he
               permitted
               his
               Kinsman
               ,
               and
               Fellow-student
               Varus
               ,
               to
               derive
               the
               Honour
               of
               one
               of
               his
               Tragedies
               to
               himself
               .
               Glory
               neglected
               in
               proper
               time
               and
               place
               ,
               returns
               often
               with
               large
               Increase
               ,
               and
               so
               he
               found
               it
               :
               For
               Varus
               afterwards
               prov'd
               a
               great
               Instrument
               of
               his
               Rise
               :
               In
               short
               ,
               it
               was
               here
               that
               he
               form'd
               the
               Plan
               ,
               and
               collected
               the
               Materials
               of
               all
               those
               excellent
               Pieces
               which
               he
               afterwards
               finish'd
               ,
               or
               was
               forc'd
               to
               leave
               less
               perfect
               by
               his
               Death
               .
               But
               whether
               it
               were
               the
               Unwholsomness
               of
               his
               Native
               Air
               ,
               
               of
               which
               he
               somewhere
               complains
               ,
               or
               his
               too
               great
               abstinence
               ,
               and
               Night-watchings
               at
               his
               Study
               ,
               to
               which
               he
               was
               always
               addicted
               ,
               as
               Augustus
               observes
               ;
               or
               possibly
               the
               hopes
               of
               improving
               himself
               by
               Travel
               ,
               he
               resolv'd
               to
               Remove
               to
               the
               more
               Southern
               Tract
               of
               Italy
               ;
               and
               it
               was
               hardly
               possible
               for
               him
               not
               to
               take
               Rome
               in
               his
               Way
               ;
               as
               is
               evident
               to
               any
               one
               who
               shall
               cast
               an
               Eye
               on
               the
               Map
               of
               Italy
               :
               And
               therefore
               the
               late
               
                 French
                 Editor
              
               of
               his
               Works
               is
               mistaken
               ,
               when
               he
               asserts
               that
               he
               never
               saw
               Rome
               ,
               'till
               he
               came
               to
               Petition
               for
               his
               Estate
               :
               He
               gain'd
               the
               Acquaintance
               of
               the
               Master
               of
               the
               Horse
               to
               Octavius
               ,
               and
               Cur'd
               a
               great
               many
               Diseases
               of
               Horses
               ,
               by
               methods
               they
               had
               never
               heard
               of
               :
               It
               fell
               out
               ,
               at
               the
               same
               time
               ,
               that
               a
               very
               fine
               Colt
               ,
               which
               promised
               great
               Strength
               and
               Speed
               ,
               was
               presented
               to
               
                 Octavius
                 :
                 Virgil
              
               assur'd
               them
               ,
               that
               he
               came
               of
               a
               faulty
               Mare
               ,
               and
               would
               prove
               a
               Jade
               ,
               upon
               trial
               it
               was
               found
               as
               he
               had
               said
               ;
               his
               Judgment
               prov'd
               right
               in
               several
               other
               instances
               ,
               which
               was
               the
               more
               surprizing
               ,
               be-because
               the
               Romans
               knew
               least
               of
               Natural
               Causes
               of
               any
               civiliz'd
               Nation
               in
               the
               World
               :
               And
               those
               Meteors
               ,
               and
               Prodigies
               which
               cost
               them
               incredible
               Sums
               to
               expiate
               ,
               might
               easily
               have
               been
               accounted
               for
               ,
               by
               no
               very
               profound
               Naturalist
               .
               It
               is
               no
               wonder
               ,
               therefore
               ,
               that
               Virgil
               was
               in
               so
               great
               Reputation
               ,
               as
               to
               be
               at
               last
               Introduced
               to
               Octavius
               himself
               .
               That
               Prince
               was
               then
               at
               variance
               with
               
                 Marc.
                 Antony
              
               ,
               who
               vex'd
               him
               with
               a
               great
               many
               Libelling
               Letters
               ,
               in
               which
               he
               reproaches
               him
               with
               the
               baseness
               of
               his
               Parentage
               ,
               that
               he
               came
               of
               a
               Scrivener
               ,
               a
               Ropemaker
               ,
               and
               a
               Baker
               ,
               as
               Suetonius
               tells
               us
               :
               Octavius
               finding
               that
               Virgil
               had
               passed
               so
               exact
               a
               judgment
               upon
               the
               Breed
               of
               Dogs
               ,
               and
               Horses
               ,
               thought
               that
               he
               possibly
               might
               be
               able
               to
               give
               him
               some
               Light
               concerning
               his
               own
               .
               He
               took
               him
               into
               his
               Closet
               ,
               where
               they
               continu'd
               in
               private
               a
               considerable
               time
               .
               Virgil
               was
               a
               great
               Mathematician
               ,
               which
               ,
               in
               the
               Sense
               of
               those
               times
               ,
               took
               in
               Astrology
               :
               And
               if
               there
               be
               any
               thing
               in
               that
               Art
               ,
               which
               I
               can
               hardly
               believe
               ;
               if
               that
               be
               true
               which
               the
               Ingenious
               
                 De
                 le
                 Chambre
              
               asserts
               confidently
               ;
               that
               from
               the
               Marks
               on
               the
               Body
               ,
               the
               Configuration
               of
               the
               Planets
               at
               a
               Nativity
               may
               be
               gathered
               ,
               and
               the
               Marks
               might
               be
               told
               by
               knowing
               the
               Nativity
               ,
               never
               had
               one
               of
               those
               Artists
               a
               fairer
               Opportunity
               to
               shew
               his
               skill
               ,
               than
               Virgil
               now
               had
               ;
               for
               Octavius
               had
               Moles
               upon
               his
               Body
               ,
               exactly
               resembling
               the
               Constellation
               call'd
               
                 Vrsa
                 Major
              
               .
               But
               Virgil
               had
               other
               helps
               :
               The
               Predictions
               of
               Cicero
               ,
               and
               Catulus
               ,
               and
               that
               Vote
               of
               the
               Senate
               had
               gone
               abroad
               ,
               that
               no
               Child
               Born
               at
               Rome
               ,
               in
               the
               Year
               of
               his
               Nativity
               ,
               should
               be
               bred
               up
               ;
               because
               the
               Seers
               assur'd
               them
               that
               an
               Emperour
               was
               Born
               that
               Year
               .
               Besides
               this
               ,
               Virgil
               had
               heard
               of
               the
               Assyrian
               ,
               and
               Egyptian
               Prophecies
               ,
               (
               which
               in
               truth
               ,
               were
               no
               other
               but
               the
               
                 Jewish
                 ,
              
               )
               that
               about
               that
               time
               a
               great
               King
               was
               to
               come
               into
               the
               World.
               Himself
               takes
               notice
               of
               them
               ,
               Aen.
               6.
               where
               he
               uses
               a
               very
               significant
               Word
               ,
               (
               now
               in
               all
               Liturgies
               )
               
                 hujus
                 in
                 adventu
              
               ,
               so
               in
               another
               place
               ,
               
                 adventante
                 Dea.
              
               
            
             
               
                 
                   At
                   his
                   foreseen
                   approach
                   already
                   quake
                   ,
                
              
               
                 Assyrian
                 
                   Kingdoms
                   ,
                   and
                
                 Moeotis
                 Lake
                 .
              
               
                 Nile
                 
                   hears
                   him
                   knocking
                   at
                   his
                   seven-fold
                   Gates
                   —
                
              
            
             
               Every
               one
               knows
               whence
               this
               was
               taken
               :
               It
               was
               rather
               a
               mistake
               ,
               than
               impiety
               in
               Virgil
               ,
               to
               apply
               these
               Prophesies
               to
               the
               Person
               of
               Octavius
               ,
               it
               being
               a
               usual
               piece
               of
               flattery
               for
               near
               a
               Hundred
               Years
               together
               ,
               to
               attribute
               them
               to
               their
               Emperours
               ,
               and
               other
               great
               Men.
               Upon
               the
               whole
               
               matter
               ,
               it
               is
               very
               probable
               ,
               that
               Virgil
               Predicted
               to
               him
               the
               Empire
               at
               this
               time
               .
               And
               it
               will
               appear
               yet
               the
               more
               ,
               if
               we
               consider
               that
               he
               assures
               him
               of
               his
               being
               receiv'd
               into
               the
               Number
               of
               the
               Gods
               ,
               in
               his
               First
               Pastoral
               ,
               long
               before
               the
               thing
               came
               to
               pass
               ;
               which
               Prediction
               seems
               grounded
               upon
               his
               former
               Mistake
               .
               This
               was
               a
               secret
               ,
               not
               to
               be
               divulg'd
               at
               that
               time
               ,
               and
               therefore
               it
               is
               no
               wonder
               that
               the
               slight
               Story
               in
               Donatus
               was
               given
               abroad
               to
               palliate
               the
               matter
               .
               But
               certain
               it
               is
               ,
               that
               Octavius
               dismissed
               him
               with
               great
               Marks
               of
               esteem
               ,
               and
               earnestly
               recommended
               the
               Protection
               of
               
               Virgil's
               Affairs
               to
               Pollio
               ,
               then
               Lieutenant
               of
               the
               
                 Cis-Alpine
                 Gaule
              
               ,
               where
               
               Virgil's
               Patrimony
               lay
               .
               This
               Pollio
               from
               a
               mean
               Original
               ,
               became
               one
               of
               the
               most
               Considerable
               Persons
               of
               his
               time
               :
               A
               good
               General
               ,
               Orator
               ,
               States-man
               ,
               Historian
               ,
               Poet
               ,
               and
               Favourer
               of
               Learned
               Men
               ;
               above
               all
               ,
               he
               was
               a
               Man
               of
               Honour
               in
               those
               critical
               times
               :
               He
               had
               join'd
               with
               Octavius
               ,
               and
               Antony
               ,
               in
               revenging
               the
               Barbarous
               Assassination
               of
               
                 Julius
                 Caesar
              
               :
               When
               they
               two
               were
               at
               variance
               ,
               he
               would
               neither
               follow
               Antony
               ,
               whose
               courses
               he
               detested
               ,
               nor
               join
               with
               Octavius
               against
               him
               ,
               out
               of
               a
               grateful
               Sense
               of
               some
               former
               Obligations
               .
               Augustus
               ,
               who
               thought
               it
               his
               interest
               to
               oblige
               Men
               of
               Principles
               ,
               notwithstanding
               this
               ,
               receiv'd
               him
               afterwards
               into
               Favour
               ,
               and
               promoted
               him
               to
               the
               highest
               Honours
               .
               And
               thus
               much
               I
               thought
               fit
               to
               say
               of
               Pollio
               ,
               because
               he
               was
               one
               of
               
               Virgil's
               greatest
               Friends
               .
               Being
               therefore
               eas'd
               of
               Domestick
               cares
               ,
               he
               pursues
               his
               Journey
               to
               Naples
               :
               The
               Charming
               situation
               of
               that
               Place
               ,
               and
               view
               of
               the
               beautiful
               
               Villa's
               of
               the
               Roman
               Nobility
               ,
               equalling
               the
               Magnificence
               of
               the
               greatest
               Kings
               ;
               the
               Neighbourhood
               of
               the
               Baiae
               ,
               whither
               the
               Sick
               resorted
               for
               recovery
               ,
               and
               the
               States-man
               when
               he
               was
               Politickly
               Sick
               ;
               whither
               the
               wanton
               went
               for
               Pleasure
               ,
               and
               witty
               Men
               for
               good
               Company
               ;
               the
               wholesomness
               of
               the
               Air
               ,
               and
               improving
               Conversation
               ,
               the
               
                 best
                 Air
                 of
                 all
              
               ,
               contributed
               not
               only
               to
               the
               re-establishing
               his
               Health
               ;
               but
               to
               the
               forming
               of
               his
               Style
               ,
               and
               rendring
               him
               Master
               of
               that
               happy
               turn
               of
               Verse
               ,
               in
               which
               he
               much
               surpasses
               all
               the
               Latins
               ,
               and
               in
               a
               less
               advantageous
               Language
               ,
               equals
               even
               Homer
               himself
               .
               He
               propos'd
               to
               use
               his
               Talent
               in
               Poetry
               ,
               only
               for
               Scaffolding
               to
               Build
               a
               convenient
               Fortune
               ,
               that
               he
               might
               Prosecute
               with
               less
               interruption
               ,
               those
               Nobler
               Studies
               to
               which
               his
               elevated
               Genius
               led
               him
               ,
               and
               which
               he
               describes
               in
               these
               admirable
               Lines
               .
            
             
               
                 
                   Me
                   verò
                   primùm
                   dulces
                   ante
                   omnia
                   Musae
                
              
               
                 
                   Quarum
                   sacra
                   fero
                   ingenti
                   perculsus
                   amore
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Accipiant
                   ,
                   caelique
                   vias
                   ,
                   &
                   sidera
                   monstrent
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Defectus
                   Solis
                   varios
                   ,
                   Lunaeque
                   labores
                   :
                
              
               
                 
                   Vnde
                   tremor
                   terris
                
                 ,
                 &c.
                 
              
            
             
               But
               the
               current
               of
               that
               Martial
               Age
               ,
               by
               some
               strange
               Antiperistasis
               drove
               so
               violently
               towards
               Poetry
               ,
               that
               he
               was
               at
               lest
               carried
               down
               with
               the
               stream
               .
               For
               not
               only
               the
               Young
               Nobility
               ,
               but
               Octavius
               ,
               and
               
                 Pollio
                 ,
                 Cicero
              
               in
               his
               Old
               Age
               ,
               
                 Julius
                 Caesar
              
               ,
               and
               the
               Stoical
               Brutus
               ,
               a
               little
               before
               ,
               would
               needs
               be
               tampering
               with
               the
               Muses
               ;
               the
               two
               latter
               had
               taken
               great
               care
               to
               have
               their
               Poems
               curiously
               bound
               ,
               and
               lodg'd
               in
               the
               most
               famous
               Libraries
               ;
               but
               neither
               the
               Sacredness
               of
               those
               places
               ,
               nor
               the
               greatness
               of
               their
               Names
               ,
               cou'd
               preserve
               ill
               Poetry
               .
               Quitting
               therefore
               the
               Study
               of
               the
               Law
               ,
               after
               having
               pleaded
               but
               one
               Cause
               with
               indifferent
               Success
               ,
               he
               resolv'd
               to
               push
               his
               Fortune
               this
               way
               ,
               which
               he
               seems
               to
               have
               discontinu'd
               for
               some
               time
               ,
               and
               that
               may
               be
               the
               reason
               why
               the
               
               Culex
               ,
               his
               first
               Pastoral
               ,
               now
               extant
               ,
               has
               little
               besides
               the
               novelty
               of
               the
               Subject
               ,
               and
               the
               Moral
               of
               the
               Fable
               ,
               which
               contains
               an
               exhortation
               to
               gratitude
               ,
               to
               recomend
               it
               ;
               had
               it
               been
               as
               correct
               as
               his
               other
               pieces
               ,
               nothing
               more
               proper
               and
               pertinent
               cou'd
               have
               at
               that
               time
               bin
               addressed
               to
               the
               Young
               Octavius
               ,
               for
               the
               Year
               in
               which
               he
               Presented
               it
               ,
               probably
               at
               the
               Baiae
               ,
               seems
               to
               be
               the
               very
               same
               ,
               in
               which
               that
               Prince
               consented
               (
               tho'
               with
               seeming
               reluctance
               )
               to
               the
               Death
               of
               Cicero
               ,
               under
               whose
               Consulship
               he
               was
               Born
               ,
               the
               preserver
               of
               his
               Life
               ,
               and
               chief
               instrument
               of
               his
               advancement
               .
               There
               is
               no
               reason
               to
               question
               its
               being
               genuine
               ,
               as
               the
               late
               French
               Editor
               does
               ;
               its
               meaness
               ,
               in
               comparison
               of
               
               Virgil's
               other
               Works
               ,
               (
               which
               is
               that
               Writers
               only
               Objection
               )
               confutes
               himself
               :
               For
               Martial
               ,
               who
               certainly
               saw
               the
               true
               Copy
               ,
               speaks
               of
               it
               with
               contempt
               ;
               and
               yet
               that
               Pastoral
               equals
               ,
               at
               least
               ,
               the
               address
               to
               the
               Dauphin
               which
               is
               prefix'd
               to
               the
               late
               Edition
               .
               Octavius
               ,
               to
               unbend
               his
               mind
               from
               application
               to
               publick
               business
               ,
               took
               frequent
               turns
               to
               Baiae
               ,
               and
               Sicily
               ;
               where
               he
               compos'd
               his
               Poem
               call'd
               Sicelides
               ,
               which
               Virgil
               seems
               to
               allude
               to
               ,
               in
               the
               Pastoral
               beginning
               
                 Sicelides
                 Musae
              
               ;
               this
               gave
               him
               opportunity
               of
               refreshing
               that
               Princes
               Memory
               of
               him
               ,
               and
               about
               that
               time
               he
               wrote
               his
               Aetna
               .
               Soon
               after
               he
               seems
               to
               have
               made
               a
               Voyage
               to
               Athens
               ,
               and
               at
               his
               return
               presented
               his
               Ceiris
               ,
               a
               more
               elaborate
               Piece
               ,
               to
               the
               Noble
               and
               Eloquent
               Messala
               .
               The
               forementioned
               Author
               groundlesly
               taxes
               this
               as
               supposititious
               :
               For
               besides
               other
               Critical
               marks
               ,
               there
               are
               no
               less
               than
               Fifty
               ,
               or
               Sixty
               Verses
               ,
               alter'd
               indeed
               and
               polish'd
               ,
               which
               he
               inserted
               in
               the
               Pastorals
               ,
               according
               to
               his
               fashion
               :
               and
               from
               thence
               they
               were
               called
               Eclogues
               ,
               or
               
                 Select
                 Bucolics
              
               :
               We
               thought
               fit
               to
               use
               a
               Title
               more
               intelligible
               ,
               the
               reason
               of
               the
               other
               being
               ceas'd
               ;
               and
               we
               are
               supported
               by
               
               Virgil's
               own
               authority
               ,
               who
               expresly
               calls
               them
               
                 Carmina
                 Pastorum
              
               .
               The
               French
               Editor
               is
               again
               mistaken
               ,
               in
               asserting
               ,
               that
               the
               Ceiris
               is
               borrow'd
               from
               the
               Ninth
               of
               
                 Ovid's
                 Metamorphosis
              
               ;
               he
               might
               have
               more
               reasonably
               conjectur'd
               it
               ,
               to
               be
               taken
               from
               Parthenius
               ,
               the
               Greek
               Poet
               ,
               from
               whom
               Ovid
               borrow'd
               a
               great
               part
               of
               his
               Work.
               But
               it
               is
               indeed
               taken
               from
               neither
               ,
               but
               from
               that
               Learn'd
               ,
               unfortunate
               Poet
               
                 Apollonius
                 Rhodius
              
               ,
               to
               whom
               Virgil
               is
               more
               indebted
               ,
               than
               to
               any
               other
               Greek
               Writer
               ,
               excepting
               Homer
               .
               The
               Reader
               will
               be
               satisfied
               of
               this
               ,
               if
               he
               consult
               that
               Author
               in
               his
               own
               Language
               ,
               for
               the
               Translation
               is
               a
               great
               deal
               more
               obscure
               than
               the
               Original
               .
            
             
               Whilst
               Virgil
               thus
               enjoy'd
               the
               sweets
               of
               a
               Learn'd
               Privacy
               ,
               the
               Troubles
               of
               Italy
               cut
               off
               his
               little
               Subsistance
               ;
               but
               by
               a
               strange
               turn
               of
               Human
               Affairs
               ,
               which
               ought
               to
               keep
               good
               Men
               from
               ever
               despairing
               ;
               the
               loss
               of
               his
               Estate
               prov'd
               the
               effectual
               way
               of
               making
               his
               Fortune
               .
               The
               occasion
               of
               it
               was
               this
               ;
               Octavius
               ,
               as
               himself
               relates
               ,
               when
               he
               was
               but
               Nineteen
               Years
               of
               Age
               ,
               by
               a
               Masterly
               stroke
               of
               Policy
               ,
               had
               gain'd
               the
               Veteran
               Legions
               into
               his
               Service
               ,
               (
               and
               by
               that
               step
               ,
               out-witted
               all
               the
               Republican
               Senate
               :
               )
               They
               grew
               now
               very
               clamorous
               for
               their
               Pay
               :
               The
               Treasury
               being
               Exhausted
               ,
               he
               was
               forc'd
               to
               make
               Assignments
               upon
               Land
               ,
               and
               none
               but
               in
               Italy
               it self
               would
               content
               them
               .
               He
               pitch'd
               upon
               Cremona
               as
               the
               most
               distant
               from
               Rome
               ;
               but
               that
               not
               suffising
               ,
               he
               afterwards
               threw
               in
               part
               of
               the
               State
               of
               
                 Mantua
                 .
                 Cremona
              
               was
               a
               Rich
               and
               noble
               Colony
               ,
               setled
               a
               little
               before
               the
               Invasion
               of
               Hannibal
               .
               During
               that
               Tedious
               and
               Bloody
               War
               ,
               they
               had
               done
               several
               important
               Services
               to
               the
               Common-Wealth
               .
               And
               when
               Eighteen
               other
               Colonies
               ,
               pleading
               Poverty
               and
               Depopulation
               ,
               refus'd
               to
               contribute
               Money
               ,
               or
               to
               raise
               Recruits
               ;
               they
               of
               Cremona
               voluntarily
               
               paid
               a
               double
               Quota
               of
               both
               :
               But
               past
               Services
               are
               a
               fruitless
               Plea
               ;
               Civil
               Wars
               are
               one
               continued
               Act
               of
               Ingratitude
               :
               In
               vain
               did
               the
               Miserable
               Mothers
               ,
               with
               their
               famishing
               Infants
               in
               their
               Arms
               ,
               fill
               the
               Streets
               with
               their
               Numbers
               ,
               and
               the
               Air
               with
               Lamentations
               ;
               the
               Craving
               Legions
               were
               to
               be
               satisfi'd
               at
               any
               rate
               .
               Virgil
               ,
               involv'd
               in
               the
               common
               Calamity
               ,
               had
               recourse
               to
               his
               old
               Patron
               Pollio
               ,
               but
               he
               was
               ,
               at
               this
               time
               ,
               under
               a
               Cloud
               ;
               however
               ,
               compassionating
               so
               worthy
               a
               Man
               ,
               not
               of
               a
               make
               to
               struggle
               thro'
               the
               World
               ,
               he
               did
               what
               he
               could
               ,
               and
               recommended
               him
               to
               Mecaenas
               ,
               with
               whom
               he
               still
               kept
               a
               private
               Correspondence
               .
               The
               Name
               of
               this
               great
               Man
               being
               much
               better
               known
               than
               one
               part
               of
               his
               Character
               ,
               the
               Reader
               ,
               I
               presume
               ,
               will
               not
               be
               displeas'd
               if
               I
               supply
               it
               in
               this
               place
               .
            
             
               Tho'
               he
               was
               of
               as
               deep
               Reach
               ,
               and
               easie
               dispatch
               of
               Business
               as
               any
               in
               his
               time
               ,
               yet
               he
               designedly
               liv'd
               beneath
               his
               true
               Character
               .
               Men
               had
               oftentimes
               medled
               in
               Publick
               Affairs
               ,
               that
               they
               might
               have
               more
               ability
               to
               furnish
               for
               their
               Pleasures
               :
               Mecaenas
               ,
               by
               the
               honestest
               Hypocrisie
               that
               ever
               was
               ,
               pretended
               to
               a
               Life
               of
               Pleasure
               ,
               that
               he
               might
               render
               more
               effectual
               Service
               to
               his
               Master
               .
               He
               seem'd
               wholly
               to
               amuse
               himself
               with
               the
               Diversions
               of
               the
               Town
               ,
               but
               under
               that
               Mask
               he
               was
               the
               greatest
               Minister
               of
               his
               Age.
               He
               would
               be
               carried
               in
               a
               careless
               ,
               effeminate
               posture
               thro'
               the
               Streets
               in
               his
               Chair
               ,
               even
               to
               the
               degree
               of
               a
               Proverb
               ,
               and
               yet
               there
               was
               not
               a
               Cabal
               of
               ill
               dispos'd
               Persons
               which
               he
               had
               not
               early
               notice
               of
               ;
               and
               that
               too
               in
               a
               City
               as
               large
               as
               London
               and
               Paris
               ,
               and
               perhaps
               two
               or
               three
               more
               of
               the
               most
               populous
               put
               together
               .
               No
               Man
               better
               understood
               that
               Art
               so
               necessary
               to
               the
               Great
               ;
               the
               Art
               of
               
                 declining
                 Envy
              
               :
               Being
               but
               of
               a
               Gentleman's
               Family
               ,
               not
               Patrician
               ,
               he
               would
               not
               provoke
               the
               Nobility
               by
               accepting
               invidious
               Honours
               ;
               but
               wisely
               satisfi'd
               himself
               that
               he
               had
               the
               Ear
               of
               Augustus
               ,
               and
               the
               Secret
               of
               the
               Empire
               .
               He
               seems
               to
               have
               committed
               but
               one
               great
               Fault
               ,
               which
               was
               the
               trusting
               a
               Secret
               of
               high
               Consequence
               to
               his
               Wife
               ;
               but
               his
               Master
               ,
               enough
               Uxorious
               himself
               ,
               made
               his
               own
               Frailty
               more
               excusable
               ,
               by
               generously
               forgiving
               that
               of
               his
               Favourite
               .
               He
               kept
               in
               all
               his
               Greatness
               exact
               measures
               with
               his
               Friends
               ;
               and
               chusing
               them
               wisely
               ,
               found
               ,
               by
               Experience
               ,
               that
               good
               
                 Sense
                 and
                 Gratitude
              
               are
               almost
               inseparable
               .
               This
               appears
               in
               Virgil
               and
               Horace
               ;
               the
               former
               ,
               besides
               the
               Honour
               he
               did
               him
               to
               all
               Posterity
               ,
               return'd
               his
               Liberalities
               at
               his
               Death
               :
               The
               other
               ,
               whom
               Mecaenas
               recommended
               with
               his
               last
               Breath
               ,
               was
               too
               generous
               to
               stay
               behind
               ,
               and
               enjoy
               the
               Favour
               of
               Augustus
               :
               He
               only
               desir'd
               a
               place
               in
               his
               Tomb
               ,
               and
               to
               mingle
               his
               Ashes
               with
               those
               of
               his
               deceased
               Benefactor
               .
               But
               this
               was
               Seventeen
               Hundred
               Years
               ago
               .
               Virgil
               ,
               thus
               powerfully
               supported
               ,
               thought
               it
               mean
               to
               Petition
               for
               himself
               alone
               ,
               but
               resolutely
               solicits
               the
               Cause
               of
               his
               whole
               Country
               ,
               and
               seems
               ,
               at
               first
               ,
               to
               have
               met
               with
               some
               Encouragement
               :
               But
               the
               matter
               cooling
               ,
               he
               was
               forc'd
               to
               sit
               down
               contented
               with
               the
               Grant
               of
               his
               own
               Estate
               .
               He
               goes
               therefore
               to
               Mantua
               ,
               produces
               his
               Warrant
               to
               a
               Captain
               of
               Foot
               ,
               whom
               he
               found
               in
               his
               House
               ;
               Arrius
               who
               had
               eleven
               Points
               of
               the
               Law
               ,
               and
               fierce
               of
               the
               Services
               he
               had
               rendred
               to
               Octavius
               ,
               was
               so
               far
               from
               yielding
               Possession
               ,
               that
               words
               growing
               betwixt
               them
               ,
               he
               wounded
               him
               dangerously
               ,
               forc'd
               him
               to
               fly
               ,
               and
               at
               last
               to
               swim
               the
               River
               Mincius
               to
               save
               his
               Life
               .
               Virgil
               ,
               who
               us'd
               to
               say
               ,
               that
               no
               Virtue
               was
               so
               necessary
               as
               Patience
               ,
               was
               forc'd
               to
               drag
               a
               fick
               Body
               half
               the
               length
               of
               Italy
               ,
               back
               again
               to
               Rome
               ,
               and
               by
               the
               way
               ,
               probably
               ,
               compos'd
               his
               Ninth
               Pastoral
               ,
               which
               may
               seem
               to
               have
               been
               
               made
               up
               in
               haste
               out
               of
               the
               Fragments
               of
               some
               other
               pieces
               ;
               and
               naturally
               enough
               represents
               the
               disorder
               of
               the
               Poets
               Mind
               ,
               by
               its
               disjointed
               Fashion
               ,
               tho'
               there
               be
               another
               Reason
               to
               be
               given
               elsewhere
               of
               its
               want
               of
               Connexion
               .
               He
               handsomly
               states
               his
               Case
               in
               that
               Poem
               ,
               and
               with
               the
               pardonable
               Resentments
               of
               Injur'd
               Innocence
               ,
               not
               only
               claims
               
               Octavius's
               Promise
               ,
               but
               hints
               to
               him
               the
               uncertainty
               of
               Human
               Greatness
               and
               Glory
               :
               All
               was
               taken
               in
               good
               part
               by
               that
               Wise
               Prince
               :
               At
               last
               effectual
               Orders
               were
               given
               :
               About
               this
               time
               ,
               he
               Compos'd
               that
               admirable
               Poem
               ,
               which
               is
               set
               first
               ,
               out
               of
               respect
               to
               Caesar
               ;
               for
               he
               does
               not
               seem
               either
               to
               have
               had
               leisure
               ,
               or
               to
               have
               been
               in
               the
               Humour
               of
               making
               so
               solemn
               an
               Acknowledgment
               ,
               'till
               he
               was
               possess'd
               of
               the
               Benefit
               .
               And
               now
               he
               was
               in
               so
               great
               Reputation
               and
               Interest
               ,
               that
               he
               resolved
               to
               give
               up
               his
               Land
               to
               his
               Parents
               ,
               and
               himself
               to
               the
               Court.
               His
               Pastorals
               were
               in
               such
               Esteem
               ,
               that
               Pollio
               ,
               now
               again
               in
               high
               Favour
               with
               Caesar
               ,
               desir'd
               him
               to
               reduce
               them
               into
               a
               Volume
               .
               Some
               Modern
               Writer
               ,
               that
               has
               a
               constant
               flux
               of
               Verse
               ,
               would
               stand
               amaz'd
               how
               Virgil
               could
               employ
               three
               whole
               Years
               in
               revising
               five
               or
               six
               hundred
               Verses
               ,
               most
               of
               which
               ,
               probably
               ,
               were
               made
               some
               time
               before
               ;
               but
               there
               is
               more
               reason
               to
               wonder
               how
               he
               could
               do
               it
               so
               soon
               in
               such
               Perfection
               .
               A
               course
               Stone
               is
               presently
               fashion'd
               ;
               but
               a
               Diamond
               ,
               of
               not
               many
               Karats
               ,
               is
               many
               Weeks
               in
               Cutting
               ,
               and
               in
               Polishing
               many
               more
               .
               He
               who
               put
               Virgil
               upon
               this
               ,
               had
               a
               Politick
               good
               end
               in
               it
               .
            
             
               The
               continu'd
               Civil
               Wars
               had
               laid
               Italy
               almost
               waste
               ;
               the
               Ground
               was
               Uncultivated
               and
               Unstock'd
               ;
               upon
               which
               ensu'd
               such
               a
               Famine
               ,
               and
               Insurrection
               ,
               that
               Caesar
               hardly
               scap'd
               being
               Ston'd
               at
               Rome
               ;
               his
               Ambition
               being
               look'd
               upon
               by
               all
               Parties
               as
               the
               principal
               occasion
               of
               it
               .
               He
               set
               himself
               therefore
               with
               great
               Industry
               to
               promote
               Country-Improvements
               ;
               and
               Virgil
               was
               serviceable
               to
               his
               Design
               ,
               as
               the
               good
               keeper
               of
               the
               Bees
               ,
               Georg.
               4.
               
            
             
               
                 Tinnitusque
                 cie
                 ,
                 &
                 matris
                 quate
                 cymbala
                 circum
                 ,
              
               
                 Ipsae
                 consident
                 —
              
            
             
               That
               Emperour
               afterwards
               thought
               it
               matter
               worthy
               a
               publick
               Inscription
               
                 Rediit
                 cultus
                 Agris
                 .
              
               Which
               seems
               to
               be
               the
               motive
               that
               Induced
               Macaenas
               ,
               to
               put
               him
               upon
               Writing
               his
               Georgics
               ,
               or
               Books
               of
               Husbandry
               :
               A
               design
               as
               new
               in
               Latin
               Verse
               ,
               as
               Pastorals
               ,
               before
               Virgil
               were
               in
               Italy
               ;
               which
               Work
               took
               up
               Seven
               of
               the
               most
               vigorous
               Years
               of
               his
               Life
               ;
               for
               he
               was
               now
               at
               least
               Thirty
               four
               Years
               of
               Age
               ;
               and
               here
               Virgil
               shines
               in
               his
               Meridian
               .
               A
               great
               part
               of
               this
               Work
               seems
               to
               have
               been
               rough-drawn
               before
               he
               left
               Mantua
               ,
               for
               an
               Ancient
               Writer
               has
               observ'd
               that
               the
               Rules
               of
               Husbandry
               laid
               down
               in
               it
               ,
               are
               better
               Calculated
               for
               the
               Soil
               of
               Mantua
               ,
               than
               for
               the
               more
               Sunny
               Climate
               of
               Naples
               ;
               near
               which
               place
               ,
               and
               in
               Sicily
               ,
               he
               finish'd
               it
               .
               But
               lest
               his
               Genius
               should
               be
               depressed
               by
               apprehensions
               of
               want
               ,
               he
               had
               a
               good
               Estate
               settled
               upon
               him
               ,
               and
               a
               House
               in
               the
               Pleasantest
               part
               of
               Rome
               ;
               the
               Principal
               Furniture
               of
               which
               was
               a
               well-chosen
               Library
               ,
               which
               stood
               open
               to
               all
               comers
               of
               Learning
               and
               Merit
               ;
               and
               what
               recommended
               the
               situation
               of
               it
               most
               ,
               was
               the
               Neighbourhood
               of
               
                 his
                 Mecaenas
              
               ;
               and
               thus
               
               
               
               
               
               he
               cou'd
               either
               visit
               Rome
               ,
               or
               return
               to
               his
               Privacy
               at
               Naples
               ,
               thro'
               a
               Pleasant
               Rode
               adorn'd
               on
               each
               side
               with
               pieces
               of
               Antiquity
               ,
               of
               which
               he
               was
               so
               great
               a
               Lover
               ,
               and
               in
               the
               intervals
               of
               them
               ,
               seem'd
               almost
               one
               continu'd
               Street
               of
               three
               days
               Journey
               .
            
             
               Caesar
               having
               now
               Vanquish'd
               
                 Sextus
                 Pompeius
              
               ,
               a
               Spring-tide
               of
               Prosperities
               breaking
               in
               upon
               him
               ,
               before
               he
               was
               ready
               to
               receive
               them
               as
               he
               ought
               ,
               fell
               sick
               of
               the
               
                 Imperial
                 Evil
              
               ,
               the
               desire
               of
               being
               thought
               something
               more
               than
               Man.
               
                 Ambition
                 is
                 an
                 infinite
                 Folly
              
               :
               When
               it
               has
               attain'd
               to
               the
               utmost
               pitch
               of
               Humane
               Greatness
               ,
               it
               soon
               falls
               to
               making
               pretensions
               upon
               Heaven
               .
               The
               
                 crafty
                 Livia
              
               would
               needs
               be
               drawn
               in
               the
               Habit
               of
               a
               Priestesse
               by
               the
               Shrine
               of
               the
               new
               God
               :
               And
               this
               became
               a
               Fashion
               not
               to
               be
               dispens'd
               with
               amongst
               the
               Ladies
               :
               The
               Devotion
               was
               wondrous
               great
               amongst
               the
               Romans
               ,
               for
               it
               was
               their
               Interest
               ,
               and
               ,
               which
               sometimes
               avails
               more
               ,
               it
               was
               the
               
                 Mode
                 .
                 Virgil
              
               ,
               tho'
               he
               despis'd
               the
               Heathen
               Superstitions
               ,
               and
               is
               so
               bold
               as
               to
               call
               Saturn
               and
               Janus
               ,
               by
               no
               better
               a
               Name
               than
               that
               of
               
                 Old
                 Men
              
               ,
               and
               might
               deserve
               the
               Title
               of
               Subverter
               of
               Superstitions
               ,
               as
               well
               as
               Varro
               ,
               thought
               fit
               to
               follow
               the
               Maxim
               of
               Plato
               his
               Master
               ;
               that
               every
               one
               should
               serve
               the
               Gods
               after
               the
               Usage
               of
               his
               own
               Country
               ,
               and
               therefore
               was
               not
               the
               last
               to
               present
               his
               Incense
               ,
               which
               was
               of
               too
               Rich
               a
               Composition
               for
               such
               an
               Altar
               :
               And
               by
               his
               Address
               to
               Caesar
               on
               this
               occasion
               ,
               made
               an
               unhappy
               Precedent
               to
               Lucan
               and
               other
               Poets
               which
               came
               after
               him
               ,
               Geor.
               1.
               and
               3.
               
               And
               this
               Poem
               being
               now
               in
               great
               forwardness
               ,
               Caesar
               ,
               who
               in
               imitation
               of
               his
               Predecessor
               Julius
               ,
               never
               intermitted
               his
               Studies
               in
               the
               Camp
               ,
               and
               much
               less
               in
               other
               places
               ,
               refreshing
               himself
               by
               a
               short
               stay
               in
               a
               pleasant
               Village
               of
               Campania
               ,
               would
               needs
               be
               entertained
               with
               the
               rehearsal
               of
               some
               part
               of
               it
               .
               Virgil
               recited
               with
               a
               marvellous
               Grace
               ,
               and
               sweet
               Accent
               of
               Voice
               ,
               but
               his
               Lungs
               failing
               him
               ,
               Mecaenas
               himself
               supplied
               his
               place
               for
               what
               remained
               .
               Such
               a
               piece
               of
               condecension
               wou'd
               now
               be
               very
               surprizing
               ,
               but
               it
               was
               no
               more
               than
               customary
               amongst
               Friends
               ,
               when
               Learning
               pass'd
               for
               Quality
               .
               Lelius
               ,
               the
               second
               Man
               of
               Rome
               in
               his
               time
               ,
               had
               done
               as
               much
               for
               that
               Poet
               ,
               out
               of
               whose
               Dross
               he
               would
               sometimes
               pick
               Gold
               ;
               as
               himself
               said
               ,
               when
               one
               found
               him
               reading
               Ennius
               :
               (
               the
               like
               he
               did
               by
               some
               Verses
               of
               Varro
               ,
               and
               
                 Pacuvius
                 ,
                 Lucretius
              
               ,
               and
               Cicero
               ,
               which
               he
               inserted
               into
               his
               Works
               .
               )
               But
               Learned
               Men
               then
               liv'd
               easy
               and
               familiarly
               with
               the
               great
               :
               Augustus
               himself
               would
               sometimes
               sit
               down
               betwixt
               Virgil
               and
               Horace
               ,
               and
               say
               jeastingly
               ,
               that
               he
               sate
               betwixt
               Sighing
               and
               Tears
               ,
               alluding
               to
               the
               Asthma
               of
               one
               ,
               and
               Rheumatick
               Eyes
               of
               the
               other
               ;
               he
               would
               frequently
               Correspond
               with
               them
               ,
               and
               never
               leave
               a
               Letter
               of
               theirs
               unanswered
               :
               Nor
               were
               they
               under
               the
               constraint
               of
               formal
               Superscriptions
               in
               the
               beginning
               ,
               nor
               of
               violent
               Superlatives
               at
               the
               close
               of
               their
               Letter
               :
               The
               invention
               of
               these
               is
               a
               Modern
               Refinement
               .
               
                 In
                 which
                 this
                 may
                 be
                 remarked
                 ,
                 in
                 passing
                 ,
                 that
                 (
                 humble
                 Servant
                 )
                 is
                 respect
                 ,
                 but
                 (
                 Friend
                 )
                 an
                 affront
                 ,
                 which
                 notwithstanding
                 implies
                 the
                 former
                 ,
                 and
                 a
                 great
                 deal
                 more
                 .
              
               Nor
               does
               true
               Greatness
               lose
               by
               such
               Familiarity
               ;
               and
               those
               who
               have
               it
               not
               ,
               as
               Mecaenas
               and
               Pollio
               had
               ,
               are
               not
               to
               be
               accounted
               Proud
               ,
               but
               rather
               very
               Discreet
               ,
               in
               their
               Reserves
               .
               Some
               Play-house
               Beauties
               do
               wisely
               to
               be
               seen
               at
               a
               distance
               ,
               and
               to
               have
               the
               Lamps
               twinckle
               betwixt
               them
               and
               the
               Spectators
               .
            
             
               But
               now
               Caesar
               ,
               who
               tho'
               he
               were
               none
               of
               the
               greatest
               Souldiers
               ,
               was
               certainly
               the
               greatest
               Traveller
               ,
               of
               a
               Prince
               ,
               that
               had
               ever
               
               been
               ,
               (
               for
               which
               Virgil
               so
               dexterously
               Complements
               him
               ,
               Aeneid
               .
               6.
               )
               takes
               a
               Voyage
               to
               Aegypt
               ,
               and
               having
               happily
               finish'd
               that
               War
               ,
               reduces
               that
               mighty
               Kingdom
               into
               the
               Form
               of
               a
               Province
               ;
               over
               which
               he
               appointed
               Gallus
               his
               Lieutenant
               .
               This
               is
               the
               same
               Person
               to
               whom
               Virgil
               addresses
               his
               Tenth
               Pastoral
               ;
               changing
               ,
               in
               compliance
               to
               his
               Request
               ,
               his
               purpose
               of
               limiting
               them
               to
               the
               number
               of
               the
               Muses
               .
               The
               Praises
               of
               this
               Gallus
               took
               up
               a
               considerable
               part
               of
               the
               Fourth
               Book
               of
               the
               Georgics
               ,
               according
               to
               the
               general
               consent
               of
               Antiquity
               :
               But
               Caesar
               would
               have
               it
               put
               out
               ,
               and
               yet
               the
               Seam
               in
               the
               Poem
               is
               still
               to
               be
               discern'd
               ;
               and
               the
               matter
               of
               
               Aristaeus's
               recovering
               his
               Bees
               ,
               might
               have
               been
               dispatched
               in
               less
               compass
               ,
               without
               fetching
               the
               Causes
               so
               far
               ,
               or
               interessing
               so
               many
               Gods
               and
               Goddesses
               in
               that
               Affair
               .
               Perhaps
               some
               Readers
               may
               be
               inclin'd
               to
               think
               this
               ,
               tho'
               very
               much
               labour'd
               ,
               not
               the
               most
               entertaining
               part
               of
               that
               Work
               ;
               so
               hard
               it
               is
               for
               the
               greatest
               Masters
               to
               Paint
               against
               their
               Inclination
               .
               But
               Caesar
               was
               content
               he
               shou'd
               be
               mention'd
               in
               the
               last
               Pastoral
               ,
               because
               it
               might
               be
               taken
               for
               a
               Satyrical
               sort
               of
               Commendation
               ;
               and
               the
               Character
               he
               there
               stands
               under
               ,
               might
               help
               to
               excuse
               his
               Cruelty
               ,
               in
               putting
               an
               Old
               Servant
               to
               death
               for
               no
               very
               great
               Crime
               .
            
             
               And
               now
               having
               ended
               ,
               as
               he
               begins
               his
               Georgics
               ,
               with
               solemn
               mention
               of
               Caesar
               ,
               an
               Argument
               of
               his
               Devotion
               to
               him
               :
               He
               begins
               his
               Aeneis
               ,
               according
               to
               the
               common
               account
               ,
               being
               now
               turn'd
               of
               Forty
               .
               But
               that
               Work
               had
               been
               ,
               in
               truth
               ,
               the
               Subject
               of
               much
               earlier
               Meditation
               .
               Whil'st
               he
               was
               working
               upon
               the
               first
               Book
               of
               it
               ,
               this
               p●ssage
               ,
               so
               very
               remarkable
               in
               History
               ,
               fell
               out
               ,
               in
               which
               Virgil
               had
               a
               great
               share
               .
            
             
               Caesar
               ,
               about
               this
               time
               ,
               either
               cloy'd
               with
               Glory
               ,
               or
               terrifi'd
               by
               the
               Example
               of
               his
               Predecessor
               ;
               or
               to
               gain
               the
               Credit
               of
               Moderation
               with
               the
               People
               ,
               or
               possibly
               to
               feel
               the
               Pulse
               of
               his
               Friends
               ,
               deliberated
               whether
               he
               should
               retain
               the
               Soveraign
               Power
               ,
               or
               restore
               the
               Commonwealth
               .
               Agrippa
               ,
               who
               was
               a
               very
               honest
               Man
               ,
               but
               whose
               View
               was
               of
               no
               great
               extent
               ,
               advis'd
               him
               to
               the
               latter
               ;
               but
               Mecaenas
               ,
               who
               had
               throughly
               studied
               his
               Master's
               Temper
               ,
               in
               an
               Eloquent
               Oration
               ,
               gave
               contrary
               Advice
               .
               That
               Emperour
               was
               too
               Politick
               to
               commit
               the
               over-sight
               of
               Cromwell
               ,
               in
               a
               deliberation
               something
               resembling
               this
               .
               Cromwell
               had
               never
               been
               more
               desirous
               of
               the
               Power
               ,
               than
               he
               was
               afterwards
               of
               the
               Title
               of
               King
               :
               And
               there
               was
               nothing
               ,
               in
               which
               the
               Heads
               of
               the
               Parties
               ,
               who
               were
               all
               his
               Creatures
               ,
               would
               not
               comply
               with
               him
               :
               But
               by
               too
               vehement
               Allegation
               of
               Arguments
               against
               it
               ,
               he
               ,
               who
               had
               out-witted
               every
               body
               besides
               ,
               at
               last
               out-witted
               himself
               ,
               by
               too
               deep
               dissimulation
               :
               For
               his
               Council
               ,
               thinking
               to
               make
               their
               Court
               by
               assenting
               to
               his
               judgment
               ,
               voted
               unanimously
               
                 for
                 him
              
               against
               
                 his
                 Inclination
              
               ;
               which
               surpriz'd
               and
               troubled
               him
               to
               such
               a
               degree
               ,
               that
               as
               soon
               as
               he
               had
               got
               into
               his
               Coach
               ,
               he
               fell
               into
               a
               Swoon
               .
               But
               Caesar
               knew
               his
               People
               better
               ,
               and
               his
               Council
               being
               thus
               divided
               ,
               he
               ask'd
               
               Virgil's
               Advice
               :
               Thus
               a
               Poet
               had
               the
               Honour
               of
               determining
               the
               greatest
               Point
               that
               ever
               was
               in
               Debate
               ,
               betwixt
               the
               Son-in-Law
               ,
               and
               Favourite
               of
               
                 Caesar
                 .
                 Virgil
              
               deliver'd
               his
               Opinion
               in
               Words
               to
               this
               effect
               .
               
                 The
                 change
                 of
                 a
                 Popular
                 into
                 an
                 Absolute
                 Government
                 ,
                 has
                 generally
                 been
                 of
                 very
                 ill
                 Consequence
                 :
                 For
                 betwixt
                 the
                 Hatred
                 of
                 the
                 People
                 ,
                 and
                 Injustice
                 of
                 the
                 Prince
                 ,
                 it
                 of
                 necessity
                 comes
                 to
                 pass
                 that
                 they
                 live
                 in
                 distrust
                 ,
                 and
                 mutual
                 Apprehensions
                 .
                 But
                 if
                 the
                 Commons
                 knew
                 a
                 just
                 Person
                 ,
                 whom
                 they
                 entirely
                 consided
                 in
                 ,
                 it
                 would
                 be
                 for
                 the
                 advantage
                 of
                 all
                 Parties
                 ,
                 that
                 such
                 a
                 one
                 should
                 be
                 their
                 Soveraign
                 :
                 Wherefore
                 if
                 you
                 shall
                 continue
                 to
                 administer
                 Justice
                 impartially
                 ,
                 as
                 hitherto
                 you
                 have
                 done
                 ,
                 your
                 Power
                 will
                 prove
                 safe
                 to
                 your self
                 ,
                 and
                 beneficial
              
               
               
                 to
                 Mankind
              
               .
               This
               excellent
               Sentence
               ,
               which
               seems
               taken
               out
               of
               Plato
               ,
               (
               with
               whose
               Writings
               the
               Grammarians
               were
               not
               much
               acquainted
               ,
               and
               therefore
               cannot
               reasonably
               be
               suspected
               of
               Forgery
               in
               this
               matter
               ,
               )
               contains
               the
               true
               state
               of
               Affairs
               at
               that
               time
               :
               For
               the
               
                 Commonwealth
                 Maxims
              
               were
               now
               no
               longer
               practicable
               ;
               the
               Romans
               had
               only
               the
               haughtiness
               of
               the
               Old
               Commonwealth
               left
               ,
               without
               one
               of
               its
               Vi●tues
               .
               And
               this
               Sentence
               we
               find
               ,
               almost
               in
               the
               same
               words
               ,
               in
               the
               first
               Book
               of
               the
               Aeneis
               ,
               which
               at
               this
               time
               he
               was
               writing
               ;
               and
               one
               might
               wonder
               that
               none
               of
               his
               Commentators
               have
               taken
               notice
               of
               it
               .
               he
               Compares
               a
               Tempest
               to
               a
               Popular
               Insurrection
               ,
               as
               Cicero
               had
               compar'd
               a
               Sedition
               to
               a
               Storm
               ,
               a
               little
               before
               .
            
             
               
                 Ac
                 veluti
                 magno
                 in
                 populo
                 ,
                 cum
                 saepe
                 coorta
                 est
              
               
                 Seditio
                 ,
                 saevitque
                 animis
                 ignobile
                 vulgus
              
               
                 Jamque
                 faces
                 ,
                 ac
                 saxa
                 volant
                 ,
                 furor
                 armae
                 ministrat
                 .
              
               
                 Tum
                 pietate
                 gravem
                 ,
                 &
                 meritis
                 si
                 forte
                 virum
                 quem
              
               
                 Conspexere
                 silent
                 ,
                 arrectisq●e
                 auribus
                 adstant
                 .
              
               
                 Ille
                 regit
                 dictis
                 animos
                 ,
                 &
                 pectora
                 mulcet
                 .
              
            
             
               Piety
               and
               Merit
               were
               the
               two
               great
               Virtues
               which
               Virgil
               every
               where
               attributes
               to
               Augustus
               ,
               and
               in
               which
               that
               Prince
               ,
               at
               least
               Politickly
               ,
               if
               not
               so
               truly
               ,
               fix'd
               his
               Character
               ,
               as
               appears
               by
               the
               
                 Marmor
                 Anc
                 〈…〉
              
               .
               and
               several
               of
               his
               Medals
               .
               Franshemius
               ,
               the
               Learn'd
               Supplementor
               of
               Livy
               ,
               has
               inserted
               this
               Relation
               into
               his
               History
               ;
               nor
               is
               there
               any
               good
               Reason
               ,
               why
               Ruaeus
               should
               account
               it
               fabulous
               .
               The
               Title
               of
               a
               Poet
               in
               those
               days
               did
               not
               abate
               ,
               but
               heighten
               the
               Character
               of
               the
               gravest
               Senator
               .
               Virgil
               was
               one
               of
               the
               best
               and
               wisest
               Men
               of
               his
               time
               ,
               and
               in
               so
               popular
               esteem
               ,
               that
               one
               hundred
               Thousand
               Romans
               rose
               when
               he
               came
               into
               the
               Theatre
               ,
               and
               paid
               him
               the
               same
               Respect
               they
               us'd
               to
               Caesar
               himself
               ,
               as
               Tacitus
               assures
               us
               .
               And
               if
               Augustus
               invited
               Horace
               to
               assist
               him
               in
               Writing
               his
               Letters
               ,
               and
               every
               body
               knows
               that
               the
               
                 rescripta
                 Imperatorum
              
               were
               the
               Laws
               of
               the
               Empire
               ;
               Virgil
               might
               well
               deserve
               a
               place
               in
               the
               Cabinet-Council
               .
            
             
               And
               now
               Virgil
               prosecutes
               his
               Aeneis
               ,
               which
               had
               Anciently
               the
               Title
               of
               the
               
                 Imperial
                 Poem
              
               ,
               or
               
                 Roman
                 History
              
               ,
               and
               deservedly
               ;
               for
               though
               he
               were
               too
               Artful
               a
               Writer
               to
               set
               down
               Events
               in
               exact
               Historical
               order
               ,
               for
               which
               Lucan
               is
               justly
               blam'd
               ;
               yet
               are
               all
               the
               most
               considerable
               Affairs
               and
               Persons
               of
               Rome
               compriz'd
               in
               this
               Poem
               .
               He
               deduces
               the
               History
               of
               Italy
               from
               before
               Saturn
               to
               the
               Reign
               of
               King
               Latinus
               ;
               and
               reckons
               up
               the
               Successors
               of
               Aeneas
               ,
               who
               Reign'd
               at
               Alba
               ,
               for
               the
               space
               of
               three
               hundred
               Years
               ,
               down
               to
               the
               Birth
               of
               Romulus
               ;
               describes
               the
               Persons
               and
               principal
               Exploits
               of
               all
               the
               Kings
               ,
               to
               their
               Expulsion
               ,
               and
               the
               settling
               of
               the
               Commonwealth
               .
               After
               this
               ,
               he
               touches
               promiscuously
               the
               most
               remarkable
               Occurrences
               at
               home
               and
               abroad
               ,
               but
               insists
               more
               particularly
               upon
               the
               Exploits
               of
               Augustus
               ;
               insomuch
               ,
               that
               tho'
               this
               Assertion
               may
               appear
               ,
               at
               first
               ,
               a
               little
               surprizing
               ;
               he
               has
               in
               his
               Works
               deduc'd
               the
               History
               of
               a
               considerable
               part
               of
               the
               World
               from
               its
               Original
               ,
               thro'
               the
               Fabulous
               and
               Heroick
               Ages
               ,
               thro'
               the
               Monarchy
               and
               Commonwealth
               of
               Rome
               ,
               for
               the
               space
               of
               four
               Thousand
               Years
               ,
               down
               to
               within
               less
               than
               Forty
               of
               our
               Saviour's
               time
               ,
               of
               whom
               he
               has
               preserv'd
               a
               most
               Illustrious
               Prophecy
               .
               Besides
               this
               ,
               he
               points
               at
               many
               remarkable
               Passages
               of
               History
               under
               seign'd
               Names
               :
               the
               destruction
               of
               Alba
               ,
               and
               Veii
               ,
               under
               that
               of
               Troy
               :
               The
               Star
               Venus
               ,
               which
               ,
               Varro
               says
               ,
               guided
               Aeneas
               in
               his
               Voyage
               to
               Italy
               ,
               in
               that
               Verse
               ,
               
                 
                   Matre
                   deâ
                   monstrante
                   viam
                   .
                
              
            
             
               Romulus
               his
               Lance
               taking
               Root
               ,
               and
               Budding
               ,
               is
               describ'd
               in
               that
               Passage
               concerning
               Polydorus
               ,
               lib.
               3.
               
            
             
               
               
                 —
                 Confixum
                 ferrea
                 texit
              
               
                 Telorum
                 seges
                 ,
                 &
                 jaculis
                 increvit
                 acutis
                 .
              
            
             
               The
               Stratagem
               of
               the
               Trojans
               boring
               Holes
               in
               their
               Ships
               ,
               and
               sinking
               them
               ,
               left
               the
               Latins
               should
               Burn
               them
               ,
               under
               that
               Fable
               of
               their
               being
               transform'd
               into
               Sea-Nymphs
               :
               And
               therefore
               the
               Ancients
               had
               no
               such
               Reason
               to
               condemn
               that
               Fable
               as
               groundless
               and
               absurd
               .
               Cocles
               swimming
               the
               River
               Tyber
               ,
               after
               the
               Bridge
               was
               broken
               down
               behind
               him
               ,
               is
               exactly
               painted
               in
               the
               Four
               last
               Verses
               of
               the
               Ninth
               Book
               ,
               under
               the
               Character
               of
               
                 Turnus
                 .
                 Marius
              
               hiding
               himself
               in
               the
               Morass
               of
               Minturnae
               ,
               under
               the
               Person
               of
               Sinon
               :
               
                 
                   Limosoque
                   lacu
                   per
                   Noctem
                   obscurus
                   in
                   ulvâ
                
                 
                   Delitus
                   —
                
              
            
             
               Those
               Verses
               in
               the
               Second
               Book
               concerning
               Priam
               ;
               
                 
                   
                     Jacet
                     ingens
                     littore
                     truncus
                  
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
               seem
               originally
               made
               upon
               Pompey
               the
               Great
               .
               He
               seems
               to
               touch
               the
               Imperious
               ,
               and
               Intriguing
               Humour
               of
               the
               Empress
               Livia
               ,
               under
               the
               Character
               of
               Juno
               .
               The
               irresolute
               and
               weak
               Lepidus
               is
               well
               represented
               under
               the
               Person
               of
               King
               
                 Latinus
                 ;
                 Augustus
              
               with
               the
               Character
               of
               
                 Pont.
                 Max.
              
               under
               that
               of
               Aeneas
               ;
               and
               the
               
                 rash
                 Courage
              
               (
               always
               Unfortunate
               in
               Virgil
               )
               of
               
                 Marc
                 Anthony
              
               in
               Turnus
               ;
               the
               railing
               Eloquence
               of
               Cicero
               in
               his
               Phillipics
               is
               well
               imitated
               in
               the
               Oration
               of
               Drances
               ;
               the
               dull
               faithful
               Agrippa
               ,
               under
               the
               person
               of
               Achates
               ;
               accordingly
               this
               Character
               is
               flat
               :
               Achates
               kills
               but
               one
               Man
               ,
               and
               himself
               receives
               one
               slight
               Wound
               ,
               but
               neither
               says
               nor
               does
               any
               thing
               very
               considerable
               in
               the
               whole
               Poem
               .
               Curio
               ,
               who
               sold
               his
               Country
               for
               about
               Two
               hundred
               Thousand
               Pound
               ,
               is
               touch'd
               in
               that
               Verse
               .
               
                 
                   Vendidit
                   hic
                   auro
                   patriam
                   ,
                   dominumque
                   potentem
                   .
                
                 
                   Imposuit
                   .
                   —
                
              
               Livy
               relates
               that
               presently
               after
               the
               death
               of
               the
               two
               
               Scipio's
               in
               Spain
               ,
               when
               Martius
               took
               upon
               him
               the
               Command
               ,
               a
               Blazing
               Meteor
               shone
               around
               his
               Head
               ,
               to
               the
               astonishment
               of
               his
               Souldiers
               :
               Virgil
               transfers
               this
               to
               Aeneas
               .
               
                 
                   Laetasque
                   vomunt
                   duo
                   tempora
                   flammas
                   .
                
              
               It
               is
               strange
               that
               the
               Commentators
               have
               not
               taken
               notice
               of
               this
               .
               Thus
               the
               ill
               Omen
               which
               happen'd
               a
               little
               before
               the
               Battel
               of
               Thrasimen
               ,
               when
               some
               of
               the
               Centurions
               Lances
               took
               Fire
               miraculously
               ,
               is
               hinted
               in
               the
               like
               accident
               which
               befel
               Acestes
               ,
               before
               the
               Burning
               of
               the
               Trojan
               Fleet
               in
               Sicily
               .
               The
               Reader
               will
               easily
               find
               many
               more
               such
               Instances
               .
               In
               other
               Writers
               there
               is
               often
               well
               cover'd
               Ignorance
               ;
               in
               Virgil
               ,
               conceal'd
               Learning
               .
            
             
               His
               silence
               of
               some
               Illustrious
               Persons
               is
               no
               less
               worth
               observation
               .
               He
               says
               nothing
               of
               Scaevola
               ,
               because
               he
               attempted
               to
               Assassinate
               a
               King
               ,
               tho'
               a
               declar'd
               Enemy
               .
               Nor
               of
               the
               Younger
               Brutus
               ;
               for
               he
               effected
               what
               the
               other
               endeavour'd
               .
               Nor
               of
               the
               Younger
               Cato
               ,
               because
               he
               was
               an
               implacable
               Enemy
               of
               
                 Julius
                 Caesar
              
               ;
               nor
               could
               the
               mention
               of
               him
               be
               pleasing
               to
               Augustus
               ;
               and
               that
               Passage
               
                 
                   His
                   Dantem
                   jura
                   Catonem
                   ,
                
              
               may
               relate
               to
               his
               Office
               ,
               as
               he
               was
               a
               very
               severe
               Censor
               .
               Nor
               would
               he
               name
               Cicero
               ,
               when
               the
               occasion
               of
               mentioning
               him
               came
               full
               in
               his
               way
               ;
               when
               he
               speaks
               of
               Catiline
               ;
               because
               he
               afterwards
               approv'd
               the
               Murder
               of
               Caesar
               ,
               tho'
               the
               Plotters
               were
               too
               wary
               to
               trust
               the
               Orator
               with
               their
               Design
               .
               Some
               other
               Poets
               knew
               the
               Art
               of
               Speaking
               well
               ;
               but
               Virgil
               ,
               beyond
               this
               ,
               knew
               the
               admirable
               Secret
               of
               being
               
                 eloquently
                 silent
              
               .
               Whatsoever
               was
               most
               curious
               in
               
                 Fabius
                 Pictor
                 ,
                 Cato
              
               the
               Elder
               ,
               Varro
               ,
               in
               the
               Aegyptian
               Antiquities
               ,
               in
               the
               Form
               of
               Sacrifice
               ,
               in
               the
               Solemnities
               
               of
               making
               Peace
               and
               War
               ,
               is
               preserv'd
               in
               this
               Poem
               .
               Rome
               is
               still
               above
               ground
               ,
               and
               flourishing
               in
               Virgil.
               And
               all
               this
               he
               does
               with
               admirable
               brevity
               .
               The
               Aeneis
               was
               once
               near
               twenty
               times
               bigger
               than
               he
               left
               it
               ;
               so
               that
               he
               spent
               as
               much
               time
               in
               blotting
               out
               ,
               as
               some
               Moderns
               have
               done
               in
               Writing
               whole
               Volumes
               .
               But
               not
               one
               Book
               has
               his
               finishing
               Strokes
               :
               The
               sixth
               seems
               one
               of
               the
               most
               perfect
               ,
               the
               which
               ,
               after
               long
               entreaty
               ,
               and
               sometimes
               threats
               of
               Augustus
               ,
               he
               was
               at
               last
               prevail'd
               upon
               to
               recite
               :
               This
               fell
               out
               about
               four
               Years
               before
               his
               own
               Death
               :
               That
               of
               Marcellus
               ,
               whom
               Caesar
               design'd
               for
               his
               Successor
               ,
               happen'd
               a
               little
               before
               this
               Recital
               :
               Virgil
               therefore
               with
               his
               usual
               dexterity
               ,
               inserted
               his
               Funeral
               Panegyrick
               in
               those
               admirable
               Lines
               ,
               beginning
               ,
               
                 
                   
                     O
                     nate
                     ,
                     ingentem
                     luctum
                     ne
                     quaere
                     tuorum
                     ,
                  
                   &c.
                   
                
              
               His
               Mother
               ,
               the
               Excellent
               Octavia
               ,
               the
               
                 best
                 Wife
                 of
                 the
                 worst
                 Husband
                 that
                 ever
                 was
                 ,
              
               to
               divert
               her
               Grief
               ,
               would
               be
               of
               the
               Auditory
               .
               The
               Poet
               artificially
               deferr'd
               the
               naming
               Marcellus
               ,
               'till
               their
               Passions
               were
               rais'd
               to
               the
               highest
               ;
               but
               the
               mention
               of
               it
               put
               both
               Her
               and
               Augustus
               into
               such
               a
               Passion
               of
               weeping
               ,
               that
               they
               commanded
               him
               to
               proceed
               no
               further
               ;
               Virgil
               answer'd
               ,
               that
               he
               had
               already
               ended
               that
               Passage
               .
               Some
               relate
               ,
               that
               Octavia
               fainted
               away
               ;
               but
               afterwards
               she
               presented
               the
               Poet
               with
               two
               Thousand
               one
               Hundred
               Pounds
               ,
               odd
               Money
               ;
               a
               round
               Sum
               for
               Twenty
               Seven
               Verses
               .
               Another
               Writer
               says
               ,
               that
               with
               a
               Royal
               Magnificence
               ,
               she
               order'd
               him
               Massy
               Plate
               ,
               unweigh'd
               ,
               to
               a
               great
               value
               .
            
             
               And
               now
               he
               took
               up
               a
               Resolution
               of
               Travelling
               into
               Greece
               ,
               there
               to
               set
               the
               last
               Hand
               to
               this
               Work
               ;
               purposing
               to
               devote
               the
               rest
               of
               his
               Life
               to
               Philosophy
               ,
               which
               had
               been
               always
               his
               principal
               Passion
               .
               He
               justly
               thought
               it
               a
               foolish
               Figure
               for
               a
               grave
               Man
               to
               be
               over-taken
               by
               Death
               ,
               whilst
               he
               was
               weighing
               the
               Cadence
               of
               Words
               ,
               and
               measuring
               Verses
               ;
               unless
               Necessity
               should
               constrain
               it
               ,
               from
               which
               he
               was
               well
               secur'd
               by
               the
               liberality
               of
               that
               I
               earned
               Age.
               But
               he
               was
               not
               aware
               ,
               that
               whilst
               he
               allotted
               three
               Years
               for
               the
               Revising
               of
               his
               Poem
               ,
               he
               drew
               Bills
               upon
               a
               
                 failing
                 Bank
              
               :
               For
               unhappily
               meeting
               Augustus
               at
               Athens
               ,
               he
               thought
               himself
               oblig'd
               to
               wait
               upon
               him
               into
               Italy
               ,
               but
               being
               desirous
               to
               see
               all
               he
               could
               of
               the
               Greek
               Antiquities
               ,
               he
               fell
               into
               a
               languishing
               Distemper
               at
               Megara
               ;
               this
               ,
               neglected
               at
               first
               ,
               prov'd
               Mortal
               .
               The
               agitation
               of
               the
               Vessel
               ,
               for
               it
               was
               now
               Autumn
               ,
               near
               the
               time
               of
               his
               Birth
               ,
               brought
               him
               so
               low
               ,
               that
               he
               could
               hardly
               reach
               Brindisi
               .
               In
               his
               Sickness
               he
               frequently
               ,
               and
               with
               great
               importunity
               ,
               call'd
               for
               his
               Scrutore
               ,
               that
               he
               might
               Burn
               his
               Aeneis
               ,
               but
               Augustus
               interposing
               by
               his
               Royal
               Authority
               ,
               he
               made
               his
               last
               Will
               ,
               of
               which
               something
               shall
               be
               said
               afterwards
               .
               And
               considering
               probably
               how
               much
               Homer
               had
               been
               disfigur'd
               by
               the
               Arbitrary
               Compilers
               of
               his
               Works
               ,
               oblig'd
               Tucca
               and
               Varius
               to
               add
               nothing
               ,
               nor
               so
               much
               as
               fill
               up
               the
               Breaks
               he
               left
               in
               his
               Poem
               .
               He
               order'd
               that
               his
               Bones
               should
               be
               carried
               to
               Naples
               ,
               in
               which
               place
               he
               had
               pass'd
               the
               most
               agreeable
               part
               of
               his
               Life
               .
               Augustus
               ,
               not
               only
               as
               Executor
               ,
               and
               Friend
               ,
               but
               according
               to
               the
               Duty
               of
               the
               
                 Pont.
                 Max.
              
               when
               a
               Funeral
               happen'd
               in
               his
               Family
               ,
               took
               care
               himself
               to
               see
               the
               Will
               punctually
               executed
               .
               He
               went
               out
               of
               the
               World
               with
               all
               that
               calmness
               of
               Mind
               with
               which
               the
               Ancient
               Writer
               of
               his
               Life
               says
               he
               came
               into
               it
               .
               Making
               the
               Inscription
               of
               his
               Monument
               himself
               ;
               for
               he
               began
               and
               ended
               his
               Poetical
               Compositions
               with
               an
               Epitaph
               .
               And
               this
               he
               made
               exactly
               according
               to
               the
               Law
               of
               his
               Master
               Plato
               on
               such
               occasions
               ,
               without
               the
               least
               oftentation
               .
            
             
               
                 I
                 sung
                 Flocks
                 ,
                 Tillage
                 ,
                 Heroes
                 ;
                 Mantua
                 gave
              
               
                 Me
                 Life
                 ,
                 Brandusium
                 Death
                 ,
                 Naples
                 a
                 Grave
                 .
              
               
               
                 
                   A
                   short
                   Account
                   of
                   his
                   Person
                   ,
                   Manners
                   and
                   Fortune
                   .
                
              
            
             
               HE
               was
               of
               a
               very
               swarthy
               Complexion
               ,
               which
               might
               proceed
               from
               the
               Southern
               Extraction
               of
               his
               Father
               ,
               tall
               and
               wide-shoulder'd
               ,
               so
               that
               he
               may
               be
               thought
               to
               have
               describ'd
               himself
               under
               the
               Character
               of
               Musaeus
               ,
               whom
               he
               calls
               the
               best
               of
               Poets
               .
            
             
               
                 —
                 Medium
                 nam
                 plurima
                 turba
              
               
                 Hunc
                 habet
                 ,
                 atque
                 humeris
                 ex
                 tantem
                 suspicit
                 altis
                 .
              
            
             
               His
               Sickliness
               ,
               Studies
               ,
               and
               the
               Troubles
               he
               met
               with
               ,
               made
               his
               Hair
               gray
               before
               the
               usual
               time
               ;
               he
               had
               an
               hesitation
               in
               his
               Speech
               ,
               as
               many
               other
               great
               Men
               :
               It
               being
               rarely
               found
               that
               a
               very
               fluent
               Elocution
               ,
               and
               depth
               of
               judgment
               meet
               in
               the
               same
               Person
               .
               His
               Aspect
               and
               Behaviour
               rustick
               ,
               and
               ungraceful
               :
               And
               this
               defect
               was
               not
               likely
               to
               be
               rectify'd
               in
               the
               place
               where
               he
               first
               liv'd
               ,
               nor
               afterwards
               ,
               because
               the
               weakness
               of
               his
               Stomach
               would
               not
               permit
               him
               to
               use
               his
               Exercises
               ;
               he
               was
               frequently
               troubled
               with
               the
               Head-ach
               ,
               and
               spitting
               of
               Blood
               ;
               spare
               of
               Dyet
               ,
               and
               hardly
               drank
               any
               Wine
               .
               Bashful
               to
               a
               fault
               ;
               and
               when
               People
               crouded
               to
               see
               him
               ,
               he
               would
               slip
               into
               the
               next
               Shop
               ,
               or
               by-passage
               ,
               to
               avoid
               them
               .
               As
               this
               Character
               could
               not
               recommend
               him
               to
               the
               fair
               Sex
               ;
               he
               seems
               to
               have
               as
               little
               consideration
               for
               them
               as
               Euripides
               himself
               .
               There
               is
               hardly
               the
               Character
               of
               one
               good
               Woman
               to
               be
               found
               in
               his
               Poems
               :
               He
               uses
               the
               Word
               
                 [
                 Mulier
              
               ]
               but
               once
               in
               the
               whole
               Aeneis
               ,
               then
               too
               by
               way
               of
               Contempt
               ,
               rendring
               literally
               a
               piece
               of
               a
               Verse
               out
               of
               Homer
               .
               In
               his
               Pastorals
               he
               is
               full
               of
               invectives
               against
               Love
               :
               In
               the
               Georgics
               he
               appropriates
               all
               the
               rage
               of
               it
               to
               the
               Females
               .
               He
               makes
               Dido
               ,
               who
               never
               deserv'd
               that
               Character
               ,
               Lustful
               and
               Revengeful
               to
               the
               utmost
               degree
               ;
               so
               as
               to
               dye
               devoting
               her
               Lover
               to
               destruction
               ;
               so
               changeable
               ,
               that
               the
               Destinies
               themselves
               could
               not
               fix
               the
               time
               of
               her
               Death
               .
               But
               Iris
               ,
               the
               Emblem
               of
               Inconstancy
               ,
               must
               determine
               it
               .
               Her
               Sister
               is
               something
               worse
               .
               He
               is
               so
               far
               from
               passing
               such
               a
               Complement
               upon
               Helen
               ,
               as
               the
               grave
               Old
               Councellour
               in
               Homer
               does
               ,
               after
               nine
               Years
               War
               ,
               when
               upon
               the
               sight
               of
               her
               he
               breaks
               out
               into
               this
               Rapture
               in
               the
               presence
               of
               King
               Priam
               ,
            
             
               
                 
                   None
                   can
                   the
                   cause
                   of
                   these
                   long
                   Wars
                   despise
                
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Cost
                 
                   bears
                   no
                   proportion
                   to
                   the
                
                 Prize
                 :
              
               
                 Majestick
                 Charms
                 
                   in
                   every
                   Feature
                   shine
                
                 ;
              
               
                 Her
                 Air
                 ,
                 her
                 Port
                 ,
                 her
                 accent
                 is
                 Divine
                 .
              
               
                 
                   However
                   let
                   the
                
                 fatal
                 
                   Beauty
                   go
                
                 ,
                 &c.
                 
              
            
             
               Virgil
               is
               so
               far
               from
               this
               complaisant
               Humour
               ,
               that
               his
               Heroe
               falls
               into
               an
               unmanly
               and
               ill-tim'd
               deliberation
               ,
               whether
               he
               should
               not
               kill
               her
               in
               a
               Church
               ;
               which
               directly
               contradicts
               what
               Deiphobus
               says
               of
               her
               ,
               Aeneid
               6.
               in
               that
               place
               where
               every
               body
               tells
               the
               truth
               .
               He
               transfers
               the
               dogged
               Silence
               of
               Ajax
               his
               Ghost
               ,
               to
               that
               of
               Dido
               ;
               tho'
               that
               be
               no
               very
               natural
               Character
               to
               an
               injur'd
               Lover
               ,
               or
               a
               Woman
               .
               He
               brings
               in
               the
               Trojan
               Matrons
               setting
               their
               own
               Fleet
               on
               Fire
               ;
               and
               running
               afterwards
               ,
               like
               Witches
               on
               their
               Sabbat
               ,
               into
               the
               Woods
               .
               He
               bestows
               indeed
               some
               Ornaments
               upon
               the
               Character
               of
               Camilla
               ;
               but
               soon
               abates
               his
               Favour
               ,
               by
               calling
               her
               
                 aspera
                 &
                 horrenda
                 Virgo
              
               :
               He
               places
               her
               in
               the
               Front
               of
               the
               line
               for
               an
               ill
               Omen
               of
               the
               Battel
               ,
               as
               one
               of
               the
               Ancients
               has
               observ'd
               ;
               (
               we
               may
               observe
               ,
               on
               this
               occasion
               ,
               it
               is
               an
               Art
               peculiar
               to
               Virgil
               ,
               to
               intimate
               the
               Event
               by
               some
               preceding
               Accident
               .
               )
               He
               hardly
               ever
               describes
               the
               rising
               of
               the
               Sun
               ,
               but
               with
               some
               circumstance
               which
               fore-signifies
               the
               Fortune
               of
               the
               Day
               .
               For
               instance
               ,
               when
               Aeneas
               leaves
               Africa
               and
               Queen
               Dido
               ,
               he
               thus
               describes
               the
               fatal
               Morning
               :
               
                 
                   Tithoni
                   croceum
                   linguens
                   Aurora
                   cubile
                   .
                
              
               [
               And
               for
               the
               Remark
               ,
               we
               stand
               indebted
               to
               the
               curious
               Pencil
               of
               
                 Pollio
                 .
              
               ]
               The
               
                 Mourning
                 Fields
                 (
                 Aeneid
              
               .
               6.
               )
               are
               crowded
               with
               Ladies
               of
               a
               lost
               Reputation
               :
               
               Hardly
               one
               Man
               gets
               admittance
               ,
               and
               that
               is
               Caeneus
               ,
               for
               a
               very
               good
               Reason
               .
               Latinus
               his
               Queen
               is
               turbulent
               ,
               and
               ungovernable
               ,
               and
               at
               last
               hangs
               her self
               :
               And
               the
               fair
               Lavinia
               is
               disobedient
               to
               the
               Oracle
               ,
               and
               to
               the
               King
               ,
               and
               looks
               a
               little
               flickering
               after
               Turnus
               .
               I
               wonder
               at
               this
               the
               more
               ,
               because
               Livy
               represents
               her
               as
               an
               excellent
               Person
               ,
               and
               who
               behav'd
               her self
               with
               great
               Wisdom
               in
               her
               Regency
               during
               the
               minority
               of
               her
               Son
               :
               So
               that
               the
               Poet
               has
               done
               her
               Wrong
               ,
               and
               it
               reflects
               on
               her
               Posterity
               .
               His
               Goddesses
               make
               as
               ill
               a
               Figure
               ;
               Juno
               is
               always
               in
               a
               rage
               ,
               and
               the
               Fury
               of
               Heaven
               :
               Venus
               grows
               so
               unreasonably
               confident
               ,
               as
               to
               ask
               her
               Husband
               to
               forge
               Arms
               for
               her
               Bastard
               Son
               ;
               which
               were
               enough
               to
               provoke
               one
               of
               a
               more
               Phlegmatick
               Temper
               than
               Vulcan
               was
               .
               Notwithstanding
               all
               this
               raillery
               of
               
               Virgil's
               ,
               he
               was
               certainly
               of
               a
               very
               Amorous
               disposition
               ,
               and
               has
               describ'd
               all
               that
               is
               most
               delicate
               in
               the
               Passion
               of
               Love
               ;
               but
               he
               Conquer'd
               his
               natural
               Inclinations
               by
               the
               help
               of
               Philosophy
               ;
               and
               refin'd
               it
               into
               Friendship
               ,
               to
               which
               he
               was
               extreamly
               sensible
               .
               The
               Reader
               will
               admit
               of
               or
               reject
               the
               following
               Conjecture
               ,
               with
               the
               free
               leave
               of
               the
               Writer
               ,
               who
               will
               be
               equally
               pleas'd
               either
               way
               .
               Virgil
               had
               too
               great
               an
               Opinion
               of
               the
               Influence
               of
               the
               Heavenly
               Bodies
               :
               An
               Ancient
               Writer
               says
               ,
               that
               he
               was
               born
               under
               the
               Sign
               of
               Virgo
               ,
               with
               which
               Nativity
               perhaps
               he
               pleas'd
               himself
               ,
               and
               would
               exemplifie
               her
               Vertues
               in
               his
               Life
               .
               Perhaps
               it
               was
               thence
               that
               he
               took
               his
               Name
               of
               Virgil
               and
               Parthenias
               ,
               which
               does
               not
               necessarily
               signifie
               
                 Base-born
                 .
                 Donatus
              
               ,
               and
               Servius
               ,
               very
               good
               Grammarians
               ,
               give
               a
               quite
               contrary
               sense
               of
               it
               .
               He
               seems
               to
               make
               allusion
               to
               this
               Original
               of
               his
               Name
               in
               that
               Passage
               ,
               
                 
                   Illo
                   Virgilium
                   me
                   tempore
                   dulcis
                   alebat
                   ,
                
                 
                   Parthenope
                   .
                
              
            
             
               And
               this
               may
               serve
               to
               illustrate
               his
               Complement
               to
               Caesar
               ,
               in
               which
               he
               invites
               him
               into
               his
               own
               Constellation
               ,
               
                 
                   
                     Where
                     ,
                     in
                     the
                     void
                     of
                     Heaven
                     ,
                     a
                     place
                     is
                     free
                     ,
                  
                
                 
                   
                     Betwixt
                     the
                  
                   Scorpion
                   ,
                   
                     and
                     the
                  
                   Maid
                   
                     for
                     thee
                  
                   .
                
              
               Thus
               placing
               him
               betwixt
               Justice
               and
               Power
               ,
               and
               in
               a
               Neighbour
               Mansion
               to
               his
               own
               ;
               for
               Virgil
               suppos'd
               Souls
               to
               ascend
               again
               to
               their
               
                 proper
                 Stars
              
               .
               Being
               therefore
               of
               this
               Humour
               ,
               it
               is
               no
               wonder
               that
               he
               refus'd
               the
               Embraces
               of
               the
               Beautiful
               Plotia
               ,
               when
               his
               indiscreet
               Friend
               almost
               threw
               her
               into
               his
               Arms.
               
            
             
               But
               however
               he
               stood
               affected
               to
               the
               Ladies
               ,
               there
               is
               a
               dreadful
               Accusation
               brought
               against
               him
               for
               the
               most
               unnatural
               of
               all
               Vices
               ,
               which
               by
               the
               Malignity
               of
               Humane
               nature
               has
               found
               more
               Credit
               in
               latter
               times
               than
               it
               did
               near
               his
               own
               .
               This
               took
               not
               its
               rise
               so
               much
               from
               the
               Alexis
               ,
               in
               which
               Pastoral
               there
               is
               not
               one
               immodest
               Word
               ;
               as
               from
               a
               sort
               of
               ill-nature
               ,
               that
               will
               not
               let
               any
               one
               be
               without
               the
               imputation
               of
               some
               Vice
               ;
               and
               principally
               because
               he
               was
               so
               strict
               a
               follower
               of
               Socrates
               and
               Plato
               .
               In
               order
               therefore
               to
               his
               Vindication
               ,
               I
               shall
               take
               the
               matter
               a
               little
               higher
               .
            
             
               The
               Cretans
               were
               Anciently
               much
               addicted
               to
               Navigation
               ,
               insomuch
               that
               it
               became
               A
               Greek
               Proverb
               ,
               (
               tho'
               omitted
               ,
               I
               think
               ,
               by
               the
               Industrious
               
                 Erasmus
                 ,
              
               )
               A
               
                 Cretan
                 that
                 does
                 not
                 know
                 the
                 Sea.
              
               Their
               Neighbourhood
               gave
               them
               occasion
               of
               frequent
               Commerce
               with
               the
               Phaenicians
               ,
               that
               accursed
               People
               ,
               who
               infected
               the
               Western
               World
               with
               endless
               Superstitions
               ,
               and
               gross
               immoralities
               .
               From
               them
               it
               is
               probable
               ,
               that
               the
               Cretans
               learn'd
               this
               infamous
               Passion
               ,
               to
               which
               they
               were
               so
               much
               addicted
               ,
               that
               Cicero
               remarks
               ,
               in
               his
               Book
               
                 de
                 Rep.
              
               that
               it
               was
               
                 a
                 disgrace
                 for
                 a
                 young
                 Gentleman
                 to
                 be
                 without
                 Lovers
                 .
                 Socrates
                 ,
              
               who
               was
               a
               great
               Admirer
               of
               the
               Cretan
               Constitutions
               ,
               set
               his
               excellent
               Wit
               to
               find
               out
               some
               good
               Cause
               ,
               and
               Use
               of
               this
               Evil
               Inclination
               ,
               and
               therefore
               gives
               an
               Account
               ,
               wherefore
               
               Beauty
               is
               to
               be
               lov'd
               ,
               in
               the
               following
               Passage
               ;
               for
               I
               will
               not
               trouble
               the
               Reader
               ,
               weary
               perhaps
               already
               with
               a
               long
               Greek
               Quotation
               .
               
                 There
                 is
                 but
                 one
                 Eternal
                 ,
                 Immutable
                 ,
                 Vniform
                 Beauty
                 ;
                 in
                 contemplation
                 of
                 which
                 ,
                 our
                 Soveraign
                 Happiness
                 does
                 consist
                 :
                 And
                 therefore
                 a
                 true
                 Lover
                 considers
                 Beauty
                 and
                 Proportion
                 as
                 so
                 many
                 Steps
                 and
                 Degrees
                 ,
                 by
                 which
                 he
                 may
                 ascend
                 from
                 the
                 particular
                 to
                 the
                 general
                 ,
                 from
                 all
                 that
                 is
                 lovely
                 of
                 Feature
                 ,
                 or
                 regular
                 in
                 Proportion
                 ,
                 or
                 charming
                 in
                 Sound
                 ,
                 to
                 the
                 general
                 Fountain
                 of
                 all
                 Beauty
                 and
                 Perfection
                 .
                 And
                 if
                 you
                 are
                 so
                 much
                 transported
                 with
                 the
                 sight
                 of
                 Beautiful
                 Persons
                 ,
                 as
                 to
                 wish
                 neither
                 to
                 Eat
                 or
                 drink
                 ,
                 but
                 pass
                 your
                 whole
                 Life
                 in
                 looking
                 on
                 them
                 ;
                 to
                 what
                 extasie
                 would
                 it
                 raise
                 you
                 to
                 behold
                 the
                 Original
                 Beauty
                 ,
                 not
                 fill'd
                 up
                 with
                 Flesh
                 and
                 Blood
                 ,
                 or
                 varnish'd
                 with
                 a
                 fading
                 mixture
                 of
                 Colours
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 rest
                 of
                 Mortal
                 Trifles
                 and
                 Fooleries
                 ,
                 but
                 separate
                 ,
                 unmix'd
                 ,
                 uniform
                 ,
                 and
                 divine
                 ,
              
               &c.
               
               Thus
               far
               Socrates
               ,
               in
               a
               strain
               ,
               much
               beyond
               the
               
                 Socrate
                 Crētien
              
               of
               Mr.
               Balsac
               :
               And
               thus
               that
               admirable
               Man
               lov'd
               his
               Phoedon
               ,
               his
               Charmides
               ,
               and
               Theatetus
               ;
               and
               thus
               Virgil
               lov'd
               his
               Alexander
               ,
               and
               Cebes
               ,
               under
               the
               feign'd
               Name
               of
               Alexis
               :
               He
               receiv'd
               them
               illiterate
               ,
               but
               return'd
               them
               to
               their
               Masters
               ,
               the
               one
               a
               good
               Poet
               ,
               and
               the
               other
               an
               excellent
               Grammarian
               :
               And
               to
               prevent
               all
               possible
               Misinterpretations
               ,
               he
               warily
               inserted
               into
               the
               liveliest
               Episode
               in
               the
               whole
               Aeneis
               ,
               these
               words
               ,
               
                 
                   Nisus
                   amore
                   pio
                   pueri
                   .
                
              
               And
               in
               the
               Sixth
               ,
               
                 Quique
                 pii
                 vates
              
               .
               He
               feems
               fond
               of
               the
               Words
               ,
               
                 castus
                 ,
                 pius
                 ,
                 Virgo
              
               ,
               and
               the
               Compounds
               of
               it
               ;
               and
               sometimes
               stretches
               the
               Use
               of
               that
               word
               further
               than
               one
               would
               think
               he
               reasonably
               should
               have
               done
               ,
               as
               when
               he
               attributes
               it
               to
               Pasiphaé
               her self
               .
            
             
               Another
               Vice
               he
               is
               Tax'd
               with
               ,
               is
               Avarice
               ;
               because
               he
               dy'd
               Rich
               ,
               and
               so
               indeed
               he
               did
               in
               comparison
               of
               modern
               Wealth
               ;
               his
               Estate
               amounts
               to
               near
               Seventy
               Five
               Thousand
               Pounds
               of
               our
               Money
               :
               But
               Donatus
               does
               not
               take
               notice
               of
               this
               as
               a
               thing
               extraordinary
               ;
               nor
               was
               it
               esteem'd
               so
               great
               a
               Matter
               ,
               when
               the
               Cash
               of
               a
               great
               part
               of
               the
               World
               lay
               at
               
                 Rome
                 ;
                 Antony
              
               himself
               bestow'd
               at
               once
               Two
               Thousand
               Acres
               of
               Land
               in
               one
               of
               the
               best
               Provinces
               of
               Italy
               ,
               upon
               a
               ridiculous
               Poet
               ,
               who
               is
               nam'd
               by
               Cicero
               and
               Virgil.
               A
               late
               Cardinal
               us'd
               to
               purchase
               ill
               flattery
               at
               the
               Expence
               of
               100000
               Crowns
               a
               Year
               .
               But
               besides
               
               Virgil's
               other
               Benefactors
               ,
               he
               was
               much
               in
               favour
               with
               Augustus
               ,
               whose
               Bounty
               to
               him
               had
               no
               limits
               ,
               but
               such
               as
               the
               Modesty
               of
               Virgil
               prescrib'd
               to
               it
               .
               Before
               he
               had
               made
               his
               own
               Fortune
               ,
               he
               setled
               his
               Estate
               upon
               his
               Parents
               and
               Brothers
               ;
               sent
               them
               Yearly
               large
               Sums
               ,
               so
               that
               they
               liv'd
               in
               great
               Plenty
               and
               Respect
               ;
               and
               at
               his
               Death
               ,
               divided
               his
               Estate
               betwixt
               Duty
               and
               Gratitude
               ,
               leaving
               one
               half
               to
               his
               Relations
               ,
               and
               the
               other
               to
               Mecenas
               ,
               to
               Tucca
               and
               Varius
               ,
               and
               a
               considerable
               Legacy
               to
               Augustus
               ,
               who
               had
               introduc'd
               a
               politick
               Fashion
               of
               being
               in
               every
               bodies
               Will
               ;
               which
               alone
               was
               a
               fair
               Revenue
               for
               a
               Prince
               .
               Virgil
               shews
               his
               detestation
               of
               this
               Vice
               ,
               by
               placing
               in
               the
               front
               of
               the
               Damn'd
               those
               who
               did
               not
               relieve
               their
               Relations
               and
               Friends
               ;
               for
               the
               Romans
               hardly
               ever
               extended
               their
               Liberality
               further
               ;
               and
               therefore
               I
               do
               not
               remember
               to
               have
               met
               in
               all
               the
               Latin
               Poets
               ,
               one
               Character
               so
               noble
               as
               that
               short
               one
               in
               Homer
               .
            
             
               
                 —
                 
                   〈◊〉
                   〈◊〉
                   〈◊〉
                   〈◊〉
                   〈◊〉
                
                 ,
              
               
                 
                   〈◊〉
                   〈◊〉
                   〈◊〉
                   〈◊〉
                   〈◊〉
                
                 —
              
            
             
               On
               the
               other
               hand
               ,
               he
               gives
               a
               very
               advanc'd
               place
               in
               Elysium
               to
               good
               Patriots
               ,
               &c.
               
               Observing
               in
               all
               his
               Poem
               ,
               that
               Rule
               so
               Sacred
               amongst
               the
               
                 Romans
                 ,
                 That
                 there
                 shou'd
                 be
                 no
                 Art
                 allow'd
                 ,
                 which
                 did
                 not
                 tend
                 to
                 the
                 improvement
                 of
                 the
                 People
                 in
                 Virtue
                 .
              
               And
               this
               was
               the
               Principle
               too
               of
               our
               Excellent
               Mr.
               Waller
               ,
               who
               us'd
               to
               say
               that
               he
               wou'd
               raze
               any
               Line
               out
               of
               his
               Poems
               ,
               which
               did
               not
               imply
               some
               Motive
               to
               Virtue
               ;
               but
               he
               was
               unhappy
               in
               the
               choice
               of
               the
               Subject
               of
               his
               admirable
               vein
               in
               Poetry
               .
               The
               
               Countess
               of
               C.
               was
               the
               
                 Helen
                 of
                 her
                 Country
              
               .
               There
               is
               nothing
               in
               Pagan
               Philosophy
               more
               true
               ,
               more
               just
               ,
               and
               regular
               than
               
               Virgil's
               Ethics
               ;
               and
               it
               is
               hardly
               possible
               to
               sit
               down
               to
               the
               serious
               perusual
               of
               his
               Works
               ,
               but
               a
               Man
               shall
               rise
               more
               dispos'd
               to
               virtue
               and
               goodness
               ,
               as
               well
               as
               most
               agreeably
               entertain'd
               .
               The
               contrary
               to
               which
               disposition
               ,
               may
               happen
               sometimes
               upon
               the
               reading
               of
               Ovid
               ,
               of
               Martial
               ,
               and
               several
               other
               second
               rate
               Poets
               .
               But
               of
               the
               Craft
               and
               Tricking
               part
               of
               Life
               ,
               with
               which
               Homer
               abounds
               ,
               there
               is
               nothing
               to
               be
               found
               in
               Virgil
               ;
               and
               therefore
               Plato
               ,
               who
               gives
               the
               former
               so
               many
               good
               words
               ,
               perfumes
               ,
               Crowns
               ,
               but
               at
               last
               
                 Complementally
                 Banishes
              
               him
               his
               Commonwealth
               ,
               wou'd
               have
               intreated
               Virgil
               to
               stay
               with
               him
               ,
               (
               if
               they
               had
               liv'd
               in
               the
               same
               Age
               ,
               )
               and
               intrusted
               him
               with
               some
               important
               Charge
               in
               his
               Government
               .
               Thus
               was
               his
               Life
               as
               chast
               as
               his
               Stile
               ,
               and
               those
               who
               can
               Critick
               his
               Poetry
               ,
               can
               never
               find
               a
               blemish
               in
               his
               Manners
               ;
               and
               one
               would
               rather
               wish
               to
               have
               that
               purity
               of
               Mind
               ,
               which
               the
               Satyrist
               himself
               attributes
               to
               him
               ;
               that
               friendly
               disposition
               ,
               and
               evenness
               of
               temper
               ,
               and
               patience
               ,
               which
               he
               was
               Master
               of
               in
               so
               eminent
               a
               degree
               ,
               than
               to
               have
               the
               honour
               of
               being
               Author
               of
               the
               Aeneis
               ,
               or
               even
               of
               the
               Georgics
               themselves
               .
            
             
               Having
               therefore
               so
               little
               relish
               for
               the
               usual
               amusements
               of
               the
               world
               ,
               he
               prosecuted
               his
               Studies
               without
               any
               considerable
               interruption
               ,
               during
               the
               whole
               course
               of
               his
               Life
               ,
               which
               one
               may
               reasonably
               conjecture
               to
               have
               been
               something
               longer
               than
               52
               years
               ;
               and
               therefore
               it
               is
               no
               wonder
               that
               he
               became
               the
               most
               general
               Scholar
               that
               Rome
               ever
               bred
               ,
               unless
               some
               one
               should
               except
               Varro
               .
               Besides
               the
               exact
               knowledge
               of
               Rural
               Affairs
               ,
               he
               understood
               Medicine
               ,
               to
               which
               Profession
               he
               was
               design'd
               by
               his
               Parents
               .
               A
               Curious
               Florist
               ,
               on
               which
               Subject
               one
               wou'd
               wish
               he
               had
               writ
               ,
               as
               he
               once
               intended
               :
               So
               profound
               a
               Naturalist
               ,
               that
               he
               has
               solv'd
               more
               Phaenomena
               of
               Nature
               upon
               sound
               Principles
               ,
               than
               Aristotle
               in
               his
               Physics
               .
               He
               studied
               Geometry
               ,
               the
               most
               opposite
               of
               all
               Sciences
               to
               a
               Poetick
               Genius
               ,
               and
               Beauties
               of
               a
               lively
               imagination
               ;
               but
               this
               promoted
               the
               order
               of
               his
               Narrations
               ,
               his
               propriety
               of
               Language
               ,
               and
               clearness
               of
               Expression
               ,
               for
               which
               he
               was
               justly
               call'd
               the
               
                 Pillar
                 of
                 the
                 Latin
                 Tongue
              
               .
               This
               Geometrical
               Spirit
               was
               the
               cause
               ,
               that
               to
               fill
               up
               a
               Verse
               he
               would
               not
               insert
               one
               superfluous
               word
               ;
               and
               therefore
               deserves
               that
               Character
               which
               a
               Noble
               and
               Judicious
               Critick
               has
               given
               him
               ,
               *
               That
               he
               never
               says
               too
               little
               nor
               too
               much
               .
               Nor
               cou'd
               any
               one
               ever
               fill
               up
               the
               Verses
               he
               left
               imperfect
               .
               There
               is
               one
               supply'd
               near
               the
               beginning
               of
               the
               First
               Book
               ;
               Virgil
               left
               the
               Verse
               thus
               .
               
                 
                   
                     —
                     Hic
                     illius
                     arma
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     Hic
                     currus
                     fuit
                  
                   —
                
              
               the
               rest
               is
               none
               of
               
               Virgil's
               .
            
             
               He
               was
               so
               good
               a
               Geographer
               ,
               that
               he
               has
               not
               only
               left
               us
               the
               finest
               description
               of
               Italy
               that
               ever
               was
               ;
               but
               besides
               ,
               was
               one
               of
               the
               few
               Ancients
               who
               knew
               the
               true
               System
               of
               the
               Earth
               ,
               its
               being
               Inhabited
               round
               about
               under
               the
               
                 Torrid
                 Zone
              
               ,
               and
               near
               the
               Poles
               .
               Metrodorus
               ,
               in
               his
               five
               Books
               of
               the
               Zones
               ,
               justifies
               him
               from
               some
               Exceptions
               made
               against
               him
               by
               Astronomers
               .
               His
               Rhetorick
               was
               in
               such
               general
               esteem
               ,
               that
               Lectures
               were
               read
               upon
               it
               in
               the
               Reign
               of
               Tiberius
               ,
               and
               the
               Subject
               of
               Declamations
               taken
               out
               of
               him
               .
               Pollio
               himself
               ,
               and
               many
               other
               Ancients
               Commented
               him
               .
               His
               Esteem
               degenerated
               into
               a
               kind
               of
               Superstition
               .
               The
               known
               Story
               of
               Mr.
               Cowley
               is
               an
               instance
               of
               it
               .
               But
               the
               
                 sortes
                 Virgilianae
              
               were
               condemn'd
               by
               St.
               Augustin
               ,
               and
               other
               Casuists
               .
               Abienus
               ,
               by
               an
               odd
               Design
               ,
               put
               all
               Virgil
               and
               Livy
               into
               Iambick
               Verse
               ;
               and
               the
               Pictures
               of
               those
               two
               were
               hung
               in
               the
               most
               Honourable
               place
               of
               Publick
               Libraries
               ,
               and
               the
               Design
               of
               taking
               them
               down
               ,
               and
               destroying
               
               Virgil's
               Works
               ,
               was
               look'd
               upon
               as
               one
               of
               the
               most
               Extravagant
               amongst
               the
               many
               Brutish
               Frenzies
               of
               Caligula
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               
                 PREFACE
                 TO
                 THE
                 PASTORALS
                 ,
                 With
                 a
                 short
                 DEFENCE
                 of
                 VIRGIL
                 ,
                 Against
                 some
                 of
                 the
                 Reflections
                 of
                 Monsieur
              
               Fontanelle
               .
            
             
               AS
               the
               Writings
               of
               greatest
               Antiquity
               are
               in
               Verse
               ,
               so
               of
               all
               sorts
               of
               Poetry
               ,
               Pastorals
               seem
               the
               most
               Ancient
               ;
               being
               form'd
               upon
               the
               Model
               of
               the
               First
               Innocence
               ,
               and
               Simplicity
               ,
               which
               the
               Moderns
               ,
               better
               to
               dispence
               themselves
               from
               imitating
               ,
               have
               wisely
               thought
               fit
               to
               treat
               as
               Fabulous
               ,
               and
               impracticable
               ;
               and
               yet
               they
               ,
               by
               obeying
               the
               unsophisticated
               Dictates
               of
               Nature
               ,
               enjoy'd
               the
               most
               valuable
               Blessings
               of
               Life
               ;
               a
               vigorous
               Health
               of
               Body
               ,
               with
               a
               constant
               serenity
               ,
               and
               freedom
               of
               Mind
               ,
               whilst
               we
               ,
               with
               all
               our
               fanciful
               Refinements
               ,
               can
               scarcely
               pass
               an
               Autumn
               without
               some
               access
               of
               a
               Feaver
               ,
               or
               a
               whole
               Day
               ,
               not
               ruffled
               by
               some
               unquiet
               Passion
               .
               He
               was
               not
               then
               look'd
               upon
               as
               a
               very
               Old
               Man
               ;
               who
               reach'd
               to
               a
               greater
               Number
               of
               Years
               ,
               than
               in
               these
               times
               an
               ancient
               Family
               can
               reasonably
               pretend
               to
               ;
               and
               we
               know
               the
               Names
               of
               several
               ,
               who
               saw
               ,
               and
               practis'd
               the
               World
               for
               a
               longer
               space
               of
               time
               ,
               than
               we
               can
               read
               the
               Account
               of
               in
               any
               one
               entire
               Body
               of
               History
               .
               In
               short
               ,
               they
               invented
               the
               most
               useful
               Arts
               ,
               
                 Pastorage
                 ,
                 Tillage
                 ,
                 Geometry
                 ,
                 Writing
                 ,
                 Musick
                 ,
                 Astronomy
                 ,
              
               &c.
               
               Whilst
               the
               Moderns
               ,
               like
               Extravagant
               Heirs
               ,
               made
               rich
               by
               their
               Industry
               ,
               ingratefully
               deride
               the
               good
               Old
               Gentlemen
               ,
               who
               left
               them
               the
               Estate
               .
               It
               is
               not
               therefore
               to
               be
               wonder'd
               at
               ,
               that
               Pastorals
               are
               fallen
               into
               Disesteem
               ,
               together
               with
               that
               Fashion
               of
               Life
               ,
               upon
               which
               they
               were
               grounded
               .
               And
               methinks
               ,
               I
               see
               the
               Reader
               already
               uneasie
               at
               this
               Part
               of
               Virgil
               ,
               counting
               the
               Pages
               ,
               and
               posting
               to
               the
               Aeneis
               ;
               so
               delightful
               an
               entertainment
               is
               the
               very
               Relation
               of
               publick
               Mischief
               ,
               and
               slaughter
               ,
               now
               become
               to
               Mankind
               :
               and
               yet
               Virgil
               pass'd
               a
               much
               different
               judgment
               on
               his
               own
               Works
               :
               He
               valu'd
               most
               this
               part
               ,
               and
               his
               Georgics
               ,
               and
               depended
               upon
               them
               for
               his
               Reputation
               with
               Posterity
               :
               But
               Censures
               himself
               in
               one
               of
               his
               Letters
               to
               Augustus
               ,
               for
               medling
               with
               Heroics
               ,
               the
               Invention
               of
               a
               degenerating
               Age.
               This
               is
               the
               Reason
               that
               the
               Rules
               of
               Pastoral
               ,
               are
               so
               little
               known
               or
               studied
               .
               
                 Aristotle
                 ,
                 Horace
              
               ,
               and
               the
               
                 Essay
                 of
                 Poetry
              
               ,
               take
               no
               notice
               of
               it
               .
               And
               Mr.
               Boileau
               ,
               one
               of
               the
               most
               accurate
               of
               the
               Moderns
               ,
               because
               he
               never
               loses
               the
               Ancients
               out
               of
               his
               Sight
               ,
               bestows
               scarce
               half
               a
               Page
               on
               it
               .
               
               It
               is
               the
               Design
               therefore
               of
               the
               few
               following
               pages
               ,
               to
               clear
               this
               sort
               of
               Writing
               from
               vulgar
               Prejudices
               ;
               to
               vindicate
               our
               Author
               from
               some
               unjust
               Imputations
               ;
               to
               look
               into
               some
               of
               the
               Rules
               of
               this
               sort
               of
               Poetry
               ,
               and
               Enquire
               what
               sort
               of
               Versification
               is
               most
               proper
               for
               it
               ,
               in
               which
               point
               we
               are
               so
               much
               inferiour
               to
               the
               Ancients
               ;
               that
               this
               Consideration
               alone
               ,
               were
               enough
               to
               make
               some
               Writers
               think
               as
               they
               ought
               ,
               that
               is
               ,
               Meanly
               ,
               of
               their
               own
               Performances
               .
            
             
               As
               all
               sorts
               of
               Poetry
               consist
               in
               imitation
               ;
               Pastoral
               is
               the
               
                 imitation
                 of
                 a
                 Shepherd
                 consider'd
                 under
                 that
                 Character
                 :
              
               It
               is
               requisite
               therefore
               to
               be
               a
               little
               inform'd
               of
               the
               Condition
               ,
               and
               Qualification
               of
               these
               Shepherds
               .
            
             
               One
               of
               the
               Ancients
               has
               observ'd
               truly
               ,
               but
               Satyrically
               enough
               ,
               that
               
                 Mankind
                 is
                 the
                 Measure
                 of
                 every
                 thing
                 :
              
               And
               thus
               by
               a
               gradual
               improvement
               of
               this
               mistake
               ,
               we
               come
               to
               make
               our
               own
               Age
               and
               Countrey
               the
               Rule
               and
               Standard
               of
               others
               ,
               and
               our selves
               at
               last
               the
               measure
               of
               them
               all
               .
               We
               figure
               the
               Ancient
               Countrey-men
               like
               our
               own
               ,
               leading
               a
               painful
               Life
               in
               Poverty
               and
               Contempt
               ,
               without
               Wit
               ,
               or
               Courage
               ,
               or
               Education
               :
               But
               Men
               had
               quite
               different
               Notions
               of
               these
               things
               ,
               for
               the
               first
               four
               Thousand
               Years
               of
               the
               World
               ;
               Health
               and
               Strength
               were
               then
               in
               more
               esteem
               than
               the
               refinements
               of
               Pleasure
               ;
               and
               it
               was
               accounted
               a
               great
               deal
               more
               Honourable
               to
               Till
               the
               Ground
               ,
               or
               keep
               a
               Flock
               of
               Sheep
               ,
               than
               to
               dissolve
               in
               Wantonness
               ,
               and
               effeminating
               Sloath.
               Hunting
               has
               now
               an
               Idea
               of
               Quality
               join'd
               to
               it
               ,
               and
               is
               become
               the
               most
               important
               Business
               in
               the
               Life
               of
               a
               Gentleman
               ;
               Antiently
               it
               was
               quite
               otherways
               .
               Mr.
               Fleury
               has
               severely
               remark'd
               ,
               that
               this
               Extravagant
               Passion
               for
               Hunting
               is
               a
               strong
               Proof
               of
               our
               Gothic
               Extraction
               ,
               and
               shews
               an
               affinity
               of
               Humour
               with
               the
               Savage
               Americans
               .
               The
               Barbarous
               Franks
               and
               other
               Germans
               ,
               (
               having
               neither
               Corn
               ,
               nor
               Wine
               of
               their
               own
               growth
               ,
               )
               when
               they
               pass'd
               the
               Rhine
               ,
               and
               possess'd
               themselves
               of
               Countreys
               better
               Cultivated
               ,
               left
               the
               Tillage
               of
               the
               Land
               to
               the
               Old
               Proprietors
               ;
               and
               afterwards
               did
               hazard
               their
               Lives
               as
               freely
               for
               their
               Diversion
               ,
               as
               they
               had
               done
               before
               for
               their
               necessary
               subsistance
               .
               The
               English
               gave
               this
               Vsage
               the
               
                 Sacred
                 stamp
              
               of
               Fashion
               ,
               and
               from
               hence
               it
               is
               that
               most
               of
               our
               Terms
               of
               Hunting
               are
               French.
               The
               Reader
               will
               ,
               I
               hope
               ,
               give
               me
               his
               Pardon
               for
               my
               freedom
               on
               this
               Subject
               ,
               since
               an
               ill
               Accident
               ,
               occasion'd
               by
               Hunting
               ,
               has
               kept
               England
               in
               pain
               ,
               these
               several
               Months
               together
               ,
               for
               one
               of
               the
               best
               ,
               and
               
                 greatest
                 Peers
              
               which
               she
               has
               bred
               for
               some
               Ages
               ;
               no
               less
               Illustrious
               for
               
                 Civil
                 Vertues
              
               ,
               and
               Learning
               ,
               than
               his
               Ancestors
               were
               for
               all
               their
               Victories
               in
               France
               .
            
             
               But
               there
               are
               some
               Prints
               still
               left
               of
               the
               Ancient
               Esteem
               for
               Husbandry
               and
               their
               plain
               Fashion
               of
               Life
               in
               many
               of
               our
               Sir-Names
               ,
               and
               in
               the
               Escutcheons
               of
               the
               most
               Ancient
               Families
               ,
               even
               those
               of
               the
               greatest
               Kings
               ,
               the
               Roses
               ,
               the
               Lillies
               ,
               the
               
                 Thistle
                 ,
                 &c.
              
               
               It
               is
               generally
               known
               ,
               that
               one
               of
               the
               principal
               Causes
               of
               the
               Deposing
               of
               Mahomet
               the
               4th
               ,
               was
               ,
               that
               he
               would
               not
               allot
               part
               of
               the
               Day
               to
               some
               manual
               Labour
               ,
               according
               to
               the
               Law
               of
               Mahomet
               ,
               and
               Ancient
               Practice
               of
               his
               Predecessors
               .
               He
               that
               reflects
               on
               this
               will
               be
               the
               less
               surpriz'd
               to
               find
               that
               Charlemaign
               Eight
               Hundred
               Years
               ago
               ,
               order'd
               his
               Children
               to
               be
               instructed
               in
               some
               Profession
               .
               And
               Eight
               Hundred
               Years
               yet
               higher
               ,
               that
               Augustus
               wore
               no
               Cloaths
               but
               such
               as
               were
               made
               by
               the
               Hands
               of
               the
               Empress
               ,
               and
               her
               Daughters
               ;
               and
               Olympias
               did
               the
               same
               for
               Alexander
               the
               Great
               .
               Nor
               will
               he
               wonder
               that
               the
               Romans
               ,
               in
               great
               exigency
               ,
               sent
               for
               their
               Dictator
               from
               the
               Plow
               ,
               whose
               whole
               Estate
               was
               but
               of
               Four
               Acres
               ;
               too
               little
               a
               spot
               now
               for
               the
               Orchard
               ,
               or
               Kitchin-Garden
               of
               a
               
                 Private
                 Gentleman
              
               .
               It
               is
               commonly
               known
               ,
               that
               the
               Founders
               of
               three
               the
               most
               renown'd
               Monarchies
               in
               the
               World
               ,
               were
               Shepherds
               :
               And
               the
               Subject
               of
               Husbandry
               has
               been
               adorn'd
               
               by
               the
               Writings
               and
               Labour
               of
               more
               than
               twenty
               Kings
               .
               It
               ought
               not
               therefore
               to
               be
               matter
               of
               surprize
               to
               a
               Modern
               Writer
               ,
               that
               Kings
               ,
               the
               Shepherds
               of
               the
               People
               in
               Homer
               ,
               laid
               down
               their
               first
               Rudiments
               in
               tending
               their
               
                 mute
                 Subjects
              
               ;
               nor
               that
               the
               Wealth
               of
               Ulysses
               consisted
               in
               Flocks
               and
               Herds
               ,
               the
               Intendants
               over
               which
               ,
               were
               then
               in
               equal
               esteem
               with
               Officers
               of
               State
               in
               latter
               times
               .
               And
               therefore
               Eumaeus
               is
               call'd
               
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
              
               in
               Homer
               ;
               not
               so
               much
               because
               Homer
               was
               a
               lover
               of
               a
               Countrey
               Life
               ,
               to
               which
               he
               rather
               seems
               averse
               ,
               but
               by
               reason
               of
               the
               Dignity
               and
               Greatness
               of
               his
               Trust
               ,
               and
               because
               he
               was
               the
               Son
               of
               a
               King
               ,
               stollen
               away
               ,
               and
               Sold
               by
               the
               Phaenician
               Pyrates
               ,
               which
               the
               Ingenious
               Mr.
               Cowley
               seems
               not
               to
               have
               taken
               notice
               of
               .
               Nor
               will
               it
               seem
               strange
               ,
               that
               the
               Master
               of
               the
               Horse
               to
               King
               Latinus
               ,
               in
               the
               Ninth
               Aeneid
               ,
               was
               found
               in
               the
               homely
               Employment
               of
               cleaving
               Blocks
               ,
               when
               news
               of
               the
               first
               Skirmish
               betwixt
               the
               Trojans
               and
               Latins
               was
               brought
               to
               him
               .
            
             
               Being
               therefore
               of
               such
               Quality
               ,
               they
               cannot
               be
               suppos'd
               so
               very
               ignorant
               and
               unpolish'd
               ;
               the
               Learning
               and
               good
               breeding
               of
               the
               World
               was
               then
               in
               the
               hands
               of
               such
               People
               .
               He
               who
               was
               chosen
               by
               the
               consent
               of
               all
               Parties
               to
               arbitrate
               so
               delicate
               an
               affair
               ,
               as
               which
               was
               the
               fairest
               of
               the
               three
               
                 Celebrated
                 Beauties
              
               of
               Heaven
               ;
               he
               who
               had
               the
               address
               to
               debauch
               away
               Helen
               from
               her
               Husband
               ,
               her
               Native
               Country
               ,
               and
               from
               a
               Crown
               ,
               understood
               what
               the
               French
               call
               by
               the
               too
               soft
               name
               of
               Gallantry
               ;
               he
               had
               Accomplishments
               enough
               ,
               how
               ill
               use
               soever
               he
               made
               of
               them
               .
               It
               seems
               therefore
               that
               Mr.
               F.
               had
               not
               duly
               consider'd
               the
               matter
               ,
               when
               he
               reflected
               so
               severely
               upon
               Virgil
               ,
               as
               if
               he
               had
               not
               observ'd
               the
               Laws
               of
               decency
               in
               his
               Pastorals
               ,
               in
               making
               Shepherds
               speak
               to
               things
               beside
               their
               Character
               ,
               and
               above
               their
               Capacity
               .
               He
               
                 stands
                 amaz'd
                 that
                 Shepherds
                 should
                 thunder
                 out
                 ,
                 as
                 he
                 expresses
                 himself
                 ,
                 the
                 formation
                 of
                 the
                 World
                 ,
                 and
                 that
                 too
                 according
                 to
                 the
                 System
                 of
              
               Epicurus
               .
               In
               truth
               ,
               
                 says
                 he
                 ,
                 page
                 176.
                 
                 I
                 cannot
                 tell
                 what
                 to
                 make
                 of
                 this
                 whole
                 piece
                 ;
                 (
                 the
                 Sixth
              
               Past
               .
               )
               
                 I
                 can
                 neither
                 comprehend
                 the
                 Design
                 of
                 the
                 Author
                 ,
                 nor
                 the
                 Connexion
                 of
                 the
                 parts
                 ;
                 first
                 come
                 the
                 Ideas
                 of
                 Philosophy
                 ,
                 and
                 presently
                 after
                 those
                 incoherent
                 Fables
                 ,
              
               &c.
               
               To
               expose
               him
               yet
               more
               ,
               he
               subjoyns
               ,
               
                 it
                 is
              
               Silenus
               
                 himself
                 who
                 makes
                 all
                 this
                 absurd
                 Discourse
                 .
              
               Virgil
               
                 says
                 indeed
                 that
                 he
                 had
                 drank
                 too
                 much
                 the
                 day
                 before
                 ;
                 perhaps
                 the
                 Debauch
                 hung
                 in
                 his
                 head
                 when
                 he
                 compos'd
                 this
                 Poem
                 ,
              
               &c.
               
               Thus
               far
               Mr.
               F.
               who
               ,
               to
               the
               disgrace
               of
               Reason
               ,
               as
               himself
               ingenuously
               owns
               ,
               first
               built
               his
               House
               ,
               and
               then
               studied
               Architecture
               ;
               I
               mean
               first
               Compos'd
               his
               Eclogues
               ,
               and
               then
               studied
               the
               Rules
               .
               In
               answer
               to
               this
               ,
               we
               may
               observe
               ,
               first
               ,
               that
               this
               very
               Pastoral
               which
               he
               singles
               out
               to
               triumph
               over
               ,
               was
               recited
               by
               a
               Famous
               Player
               on
               the
               Roman
               Theatre
               ,
               with
               marvellous
               applause
               ;
               insomuch
               that
               Cicero
               who
               had
               heard
               part
               of
               it
               only
               ,
               order'd
               the
               whole
               to
               be
               rehears'd
               ,
               and
               struck
               with
               admiration
               of
               it
               ,
               conferr'd
               then
               upon
               Virgil
               the
               Glorious
               Title
               of
               
                 Magnae
                 spes
                 alterae
                 Romae
                 .
              
               Nor
               is
               it
               Old
               Donatus
               only
               who
               relates
               this
               ,
               we
               have
               the
               same
               account
               from
               another
               very
               Credible
               and
               Ancient
               Author
               ;
               so
               that
               here
               we
               have
               the
               judgment
               of
               Cicero
               ,
               and
               the
               People
               of
               Rome
               ,
               to
               confront
               the
               single
               Opinion
               of
               this
               adventrous
               Critick
               .
               A
               Man
               ought
               to
               be
               well
               assur'd
               of
               his
               own
               Abilities
               ,
               before
               he
               attack
               an
               Author
               of
               establish'd
               Reputation
               .
               If
               Mr.
               F.
               had
               perus'd
               the
               fragments
               of
               the
               Phaenician
               Antiquity
               ,
               trac'd
               the
               progress
               of
               Learning
               thro'
               the
               Ancient
               Greek
               Writers
               ,
               or
               so
               much
               as
               Consulted
               his
               Learned
               Countrey-Man
               Huetius
               ,
               he
               would
               have
               found
               ,
               (
               which
               
               falls
               out
               unluckily
               for
               him
               )
               that
               a
               Chaldaean
               Shepherd
               discover'd
               to
               the
               Aegyptians
               and
               Greeks
               the
               
                 Creation
                 of
                 the
                 World.
              
               And
               what
               Subject
               more
               fit
               for
               such
               a
               Pastoral
               ,
               than
               that
               Great
               Affair
               which
               was
               first
               notified
               to
               the
               World
               by
               one
               of
               that
               Profession
               ?
               Nor
               does
               it
               appear
               ,
               (
               what
               he
               takes
               for
               granted
               )
               that
               Virgil
               describes
               the
               Original
               of
               the
               World
               according
               to
               the
               Hypothesis
               of
               Epicurus
               ;
               he
               was
               too
               well
               seen
               in
               Antiquity
               to
               commit
               such
               a
               gross
               Mistake
               ;
               there
               is
               not
               the
               least
               mention
               of
               Chance
               in
               that
               whole
               passage
               ,
               nor
               of
               the
               
                 Clinamen
                 Principiorum
              
               ,
               so
               peculiar
               to
               
               Epicurus's
               
                 Hypothesis
                 .
                 Virgil
              
               had
               not
               only
               more
               Piety
               ,
               but
               was
               of
               too
               nice
               a
               Judgment
               to
               introduce
               a
               God
               denying
               the
               Power
               and
               Providence
               of
               the
               Deity
               ,
               and
               singing
               a
               Hymn
               to
               the
               Atoms
               ,
               and
               Blind
               Chance
               .
               On
               the
               contrary
               ,
               his
               Description
               agrees
               very
               well
               with
               that
               of
               Moses
               ;
               and
               the
               Learn'd
               Commentator
               D'Acier
               ,
               who
               is
               so
               confident
               that
               Horace
               had
               perus'd
               the
               Sacred
               History
               ,
               might
               with
               greater
               Reason
               have
               affirm'd
               the
               same
               thing
               of
               Virgil.
               For
               ,
               besides
               that
               Famous
               Passage
               in
               the
               Sixth
               Aeneid
               ,
               (
               by
               which
               this
               may
               be
               illustrated
               ,
               )
               where
               the
               word
               Principio
               is
               us'd
               in
               the
               front
               of
               both
               by
               Moses
               and
               Virgil
               ,
               and
               the
               Seas
               are
               first
               mention'd
               ,
               and
               the
               
                 Spiritus
                 intus
                 alit
              
               ,
               which
               might
               not
               improbably
               ,
               as
               Mr.
               D'Acier
               would
               suggest
               ,
               allude
               to
               the
               
                 Spirit
                 moving
                 upon
                 the
                 face
                 of
                 the
                 Waters
              
               ;
               But
               omitting
               this
               parallel
               place
               ,
               the
               successive
               formation
               of
               the
               World
               is
               evidently
               describ'd
               in
               these
               words
               ,
               
                 
                   Rerum
                   paulatim
                   sumere
                   formas
                   ;
                
              
               And
               't
               is
               hardly
               possible
               to
               render
               more
               literally
               that
               verse
               of
               Moses
               ,
            
             
               
                 Let
                 the
                 Waters
                 be
                 gathered
                 into
                 one
                 place
                 ,
                 and
                 let
                 the
                 dry
                 Land
                 appear
                 ,
              
               than
               in
               this
               of
               Virgil
               ,
               
                 
                   Jam
                   durare
                   solum
                   ,
                   &
                   discludere
                   Nerea
                   Ponto
                   .
                
              
            
             
               After
               this
               the
               formation
               of
               the
               Sun
               is
               describ'd
               (
               exactly
               in
               the
               Mosaical
               order
               ,
               )
               and
               next
               the
               production
               of
               the
               first
               Living
               Creatures
               ,
               and
               that
               too
               in
               a
               small
               number
               ,
               (
               still
               in
               the
               same
               method
               .
               )
            
             
               
                 Rara
                 per
                 ignotos
                 errent
                 animalia
                 montes
                 .
              
            
             
               And
               here
               the
               foresaid
               Author
               would
               probably
               remark
               ,
               that
               Virgil
               keeps
               more
               exactly
               to
               the
               Mosaick
               System
               ,
               than
               an
               Ingenious
               Writer
               ,
               who
               will
               by
               no
               means
               allow
               Mountains
               to
               be
               coaeval
               with
               the
               World.
               Thus
               much
               will
               make
               it
               probable
               at
               least
               ,
               that
               Virgil
               had
               Moses
               in
               his
               thoughts
               rather
               than
               Epicurus
               ,
               when
               he
               compos'd
               this
               Poem
               .
               But
               it
               is
               further
               remarkable
               ,
               that
               this
               passage
               was
               taken
               from
               a
               Song
               attributed
               to
               Apollo
               ,
               who
               himself
               too
               unluckily
               had
               been
               a
               Shepherd
               ,
               and
               he
               took
               it
               from
               another
               yet
               more
               ancient
               ,
               compos'd
               by
               the
               first
               Inventer
               of
               Musick
               ,
               and
               at
               that
               time
               a
               Shepherd
               too
               ;
               and
               this
               is
               one
               of
               the
               Noblest
               Fragments
               of
               Greek
               Antiquity
               ;
               and
               because
               I
               cannot
               suppose
               the
               Ingenious
               Mr.
               F.
               one
               of
               their
               number
               ,
               who
               pretend
               to
               censure
               the
               Greeks
               ,
               without
               being
               able
               to
               distinguish
               Greek
               from
               
                 Ephesian
                 Characters
              
               ,
               I
               shall
               here
               set
               down
               the
               Lines
               from
               which
               Virgil
               took
               this
               passage
               ,
               tho'
               none
               of
               the
               Commentators
               have
               observ'd
               it
               .
            
             
               
                 —
                 
                   〈◊〉
                   〈◊〉
                   〈◊〉
                   〈◊〉
                   〈◊〉
                
                 ,
              
               
                 
                   〈◊〉
                   〈◊〉
                   〈◊〉
                   〈◊〉
                   〈◊〉
                
                 ,
              
               
                 
                   〈◊〉
                   〈◊〉
                   〈◊〉
                   〈◊〉
                   〈◊〉
                
                 .
              
            
             
             
               So
               that
               our
               Poet
               here
               with
               great
               Judgment
               ,
               as
               always
               ,
               follows
               the
               ancient
               Custom
               of
               beginning
               their
               more
               Solemn
               Songs
               with
               the
               Creation
               ,
               and
               does
               it
               too
               most
               properly
               under
               the
               person
               of
               a
               Shepherd
               ;
               and
               thus
               
                 the
                 first
                 and
                 best
                 Employment
                 of
                 Poetry
                 was
                 to
                 compose
                 Hymns
                 in
                 Honour
                 of
                 the
                 Great
                 Creator
                 of
                 the
                 Universe
                 .
              
            
             
               Few
               words
               will
               suffice
               to
               answer
               his
               other
               Objections
               .
               He
               demands
               why
               those
               several
               Transformations
               are
               mention'd
               in
               that
               Poem
               ?
               And
               is
               not
               Fable
               then
               the
               Life
               and
               Subject
               of
               Poetry
               ?
               Can
               himself
               assign
               a
               more
               proper
               Subject
               of
               Pastoral
               ,
               than
               the
               
                 Saturnia
                 Regna
              
               ,
               the
               Age
               and
               Scene
               of
               this
               kind
               of
               Poetry
               ?
               What
               Theme
               more
               fit
               for
               the
               Song
               of
               a
               God
               ,
               or
               to
               imprint
               Religious
               awe
               ,
               than
               the
               Omnipotent
               Power
               of
               transforming
               the
               Species
               of
               Creatures
               at
               their
               pleasure
               ?
               Their
               Families
               liv'd
               in
               Groves
               ,
               near
               clear
               Springs
               ;
               and
               what
               better
               warning
               could
               be
               given
               to
               the
               hopeful
               young
               Shepherds
               ,
               than
               that
               they
               should
               not
               gaze
               too
               much
               into
               the
               Liquid
               dangerous
               Looking-glass
               ,
               for
               fear
               of
               being
               stoln
               by
               the
               Water-Nymphs
               ,
               that
               is
               ,
               falling
               and
               being
               drown'd
               ,
               as
               Hylas
               was
               ?
               Pasiphea's
               monstrous
               passion
               for
               a
               Bull
               ,
               is
               certainly
               a
               Subject
               enough
               fitted
               for
               Bucolic's
               ?
               Can
               Mr.
               F.
               Tax
               Silenus
               for
               fetching
               
                 too
                 far
              
               the
               Transformation
               of
               the
               Sisters
               of
               Phaeton
               into
               Trees
               ,
               when
               perhaps
               they
               sat
               at
               that
               very
               time
               under
               the
               hospitable
               shade
               of
               those
               Alders
               or
               Poplars
               ?
               Or
               the
               Metamorphoses
               of
               Philomela
               into
               that
               ravishing
               Bird
               ,
               which
               makes
               the
               sweetest
               musick
               of
               the
               Groves
               ?
               If
               he
               had
               look'd
               into
               the
               Ancient
               Greek
               Writers
               ,
               or
               so
               much
               as
               Consulted
               honest
               Servius
               ,
               he
               would
               have
               discover'd
               that
               under
               the
               Allegory
               of
               this
               drunkenness
               of
               Silenus
               ,
               the
               refinement
               and
               exaltation
               of
               Mens
               Minds
               by
               Philosophy
               was
               intended
               .
               But
               if
               the
               Author
               of
               these
               Reflections
               can
               take
               such
               flights
               in
               his
               Wine
               ,
               it
               is
               almost
               pity
               that
               drunkenness
               shou'd
               be
               a
               Sin
               ,
               or
               that
               he
               shou'd
               ever
               want
               good
               store
               of
               Burgundy
               ,
               and
               Champaign
               .
               But
               indeed
               he
               seems
               not
               to
               have
               ever
               drank
               out
               of
               Silenus
               his
               Tankard
               ,
               when
               he
               made
               either
               his
               Critique
               ,
               or
               Pastorals
               .
            
             
               His
               Censure
               on
               the
               Fourth
               seems
               worse
               grounded
               than
               the
               other
               ;
               it
               is
               Entituled
               in
               some
               ancient
               Manuscripts
               ,
               The
               History
               of
               the
               
                 Renovation
                 of
                 the
                 World
              
               ;
               he
               complains
               
                 that
                 he
                 cannot
                 understand
                 what
                 is
                 meant
                 by
                 those
                 many
                 Figurative
                 Expressions
                 :
              
               But
               if
               he
               had
               consulted
               the
               younger
               Vossius
               his
               Dissertation
               on
               this
               Pastoral
               ,
               or
               read
               the
               Excellent
               Oration
               of
               the
               Emperour
               Constantine
               ,
               made
               French
               by
               a
               good
               Pen
               of
               their
               own
               ,
               he
               would
               have
               found
               there
               the
               plain
               inerpretation
               of
               all
               those
               Figurative
               Expressions
               ;
               and
               withall
               ,
               very
               strong
               proofs
               of
               the
               truth
               of
               the
               Christian
               Religion
               ;
               such
               as
               Converted
               Heathens
               ,
               as
               Valerianus
               ,
               and
               others
               :
               And
               upon
               account
               of
               this
               Piece
               ,
               the
               most
               Learn'd
               of
               the
               Latin
               Fathers
               calls
               Virgil
               a
               Christian
               ,
               even
               before
               
                 Christianity
                 .
                 Cicero
              
               takes
               notice
               of
               it
               in
               his
               Books
               of
               Divination
               ,
               and
               Virgil
               probably
               had
               put
               it
               in
               Verse
               a
               considerable
               time
               before
               the
               Edition
               of
               his
               Pastorals
               .
               Nor
               does
               he
               appropriate
               it
               to
               Pollio
               ,
               or
               
                 his
                 Son
              
               ,
               but
               Complementally
               dates
               it
               from
               his
               Consulship
               .
               And
               therefore
               some
               one
               who
               had
               not
               so
               kind
               thoughts
               of
               Mr.
               F.
               as
               I
               ,
               would
               be
               inclin'd
               to
               think
               him
               as
               bad
               a
               Catholick
               as
               Critick
               in
               this
               place
               .
            
             
               I
               pass
               by
               ,
               in
               respect
               therefore
               to
               some
               Books
               he
               has
               wrote
               since
               ,
               a
               great
               part
               of
               this
               ,
               and
               shall
               only
               touch
               briefly
               some
               of
               the
               Rules
               of
               this
               sort
               of
               Poem
               .
            
             
             
               The
               First
               is
               ,
               that
               an
               air
               of
               Piety
               upon
               all
               occasions
               should
               be
               maintain'd
               in
               the
               whole
               Poem
               :
               This
               appears
               in
               all
               the
               Ancient
               Greek
               Writers
               ;
               as
               Homer
               ,
               &c.
               
               And
               Virgil
               is
               so
               exact
               in
               the
               observation
               of
               it
               ,
               not
               only
               in
               this
               Work
               ,
               but
               in
               his
               Aeneis
               too
               ,
               that
               a
               Celebrated
               French
               Writer
               taxes
               him
               for
               permitting
               Aeneas
               to
               do
               nothing
               without
               the
               assistance
               of
               some
               God.
               But
               by
               this
               it
               appears
               ,
               at
               least
               ,
               that
               Mr.
               St.
               Eur.
               is
               no
               Jansenist
               .
            
             
               Mr.
               F.
               seems
               a
               little
               defective
               in
               this
               point
               ;
               he
               brings
               in
               a
               pair
               of
               Shepherdesses
               disputing
               very
               warmly
               ,
               whether
               Victoria
               ,
               (
               none
               of
               the
               fittest
               Names
               for
               a
               Shepherdess
               )
               be
               a
               Goddess
               ,
               or
               a
               Woman
               .
               Her
               great
               condescension
               and
               compassion
               ,
               her
               affability
               and
               goodness
               ,
               none
               of
               the
               meanest
               Attributes
               of
               the
               Divinity
               ,
               pass
               for
               convincing
               Arguments
               that
               she
               
                 could
                 not
              
               possibly
               be
               a
               Goddess
               .
               
                 
                   Les
                   Déesses
                   toûjours
                   fieres
                   &
                   méprisantes
                
                 
                   Ne
                   rassureroiént
                   point
                   les
                   Bergeres
                   tremblantes
                
                 
                   Par
                   d'obligeans
                   discours
                   ,
                   des
                   souris
                   gracieux
                   ;
                
                 
                   Mais
                   tu
                   l'as
                   veu
                   ;
                   cette
                   Auguste
                   Personne
                
                 
                   Qui
                   vient
                   de
                   paroistre
                   en
                   ces
                   lieux
                
                 
                   Prend
                   soin
                   de
                   rassurer
                   au
                   moment
                   qu'elle
                   étonne
                   .
                
                 
                   Sa
                   bonté
                   descendant
                   sans
                   peine
                   jusqu'à
                   nous
                   .
                
              
               In
               short
               ,
               she
               has
               too
               many
               
                 Divine
                 Perfections
              
               to
               be
               a
               Deity
               ,
               and
               therefore
               she
               is
               a
               Mortal
               [
               which
               was
               the
               thing
               to
               be
               prov'd
               .
               ]
               It
               is
               directly
               contrary
               to
               the
               practice
               of
               all
               ancient
               Poets
               ,
               as
               well
               as
               to
               the
               Rules
               of
               decency
               and
               Religion
               ,
               to
               make
               such
               odious
               Comparisons
               .
               I
               am
               much
               surpriz'd
               therefore
               that
               he
               should
               use
               such
               an
               argument
               as
               this
               .
               
                 
                   Cloris
                   ,
                   as-tu
                   veu
                   des
                   Déesses
                
                 
                   Avoir
                   un
                   air
                   si
                   facile
                   &
                   si
                   doux
                   ?
                
              
               Was
               not
               Aurora
               ,
               and
               Venus
               ,
               and
               Luna
               ,
               and
               I
               know
               not
               how
               many
               more
               of
               the
               Heathen
               Deities
               too
               easie
               of
               access
               to
               Tithonus
               ,
               to
               Anchises
               ,
               and
               to
               Endimion
               ?
               Is
               there
               any
               thing
               more
               Sparkish
               and
               better
               humour'd
               than
               Venus
               her
               accosting
               her
               Son
               in
               the
               Desarts
               of
               Lybia
               ?
               or
               than
               the
               behaviour
               of
               Pallas
               to
               Diomedes
               ,
               one
               of
               the
               most
               perfect
               and
               admirable
               Pieces
               of
               all
               the
               Iliads
               ;
               where
               she
               condescends
               to
               rally
               him
               so
               agreeably
               ;
               and
               notwithstanding
               her
               
                 severe
                 Vertue
              
               ,
               and
               all
               the
               Ensigns
               of
               Majesty
               ,
               with
               which
               she
               so
               
                 terribly
                 adorns
              
               her self
               ,
               condescends
               to
               ride
               with
               him
               in
               his
               Chariot
               ?
               But
               the
               Odysses
               are
               full
               of
               greater
               instances
               of
               condescension
               than
               this
               .
            
             
               This
               brings
               to
               mind
               that
               Famous
               passage
               of
               Lucan
               ,
               in
               which
               he
               prefers
               Cato
               to
               all
               the
               Gods
               at
               once
               ,
               
                 Victrix
                 causa
                 deis
                 placuit
                 sed
                 victa
                 Catoni
                 .
              
               Which
               Brelaeuf
               has
               render'd
               so
               flatly
               ,
               and
               which
               may
               be
               thus
               Paraphras'd
               .
            
             
               
                 Heaven
                 meanly
                 with
                 the
                 Conquerour
                 did
                 comply
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 Cato
                 
                   rather
                   than
                   submit
                   would
                   die
                
                 .
              
            
             
               It
               is
               an
               unpardonable
               presumption
               in
               any
               sort
               of
               Religion
               to
               complement
               their
               Princes
               at
               the
               expence
               of
               
                 their
                 Deities
              
               .
            
             
             
               But
               letting
               that
               pass
               ,
               this
               whole
               Eclogue
               is
               but
               a
               long
               Paraphrase
               of
               a
               trite
               Verse
               in
               Virgil
               ,
               and
               Homer
               ,
               
                 Nec
                 vox
                 Hominem
                 sonat
                 ,
                 O
                 Dea
                 certe
                 .
              
            
             
               So
               true
               is
               that
               Remark
               of
               the
               Admirable
               E.
               of
               Roscomon
               ,
               if
               apply'd
               to
               the
               Romans
               ,
               rather
               I
               fear
               than
               to
               the
               English
               ,
               since
               his
               own
               Death
               .
            
             
               
                 
                   —
                   one
                
                 sterling
                 Line
                 ,
              
               
                 
                   Drawn
                   to
                
                 French
                 
                   Wire
                   ,
                   would
                   thro'
                   whole
                   pages
                   shine
                   .
                
              
            
             
               Another
               Rule
               is
               ,
               that
               the
               Characters
               should
               represent
               that
               Ancient
               Innocence
               ,
               and
               unpractis'd
               Plainness
               ,
               which
               was
               then
               in
               the
               World.
               
                 P.
                 Rapine
              
               has
               gather'd
               many
               Instances
               of
               this
               out
               of
               Theocritus
               ,
               and
               Virgil
               ;
               and
               the
               Reader
               can
               do
               it
               as
               well
               himself
               .
               But
               Mr.
               F.
               transgress'd
               this
               Rule
               ,
               when
               he
               hid
               himself
               in
               the
               Thicket
               ,
               to
               listen
               to
               the
               private
               Discourse
               of
               the
               two
               Shepherdesses
               .
               This
               is
               not
               only
               ill
               Breeding
               at
               Versailles
               ;
               the
               
                 Arcadian
                 Shepherdesses
              
               themselves
               would
               have
               set
               their
               Dogs
               upon
               one
               for
               such
               an
               unpardonable
               piece
               of
               Rudeness
               .
            
             
               A
               Third
               Rule
               is
               ,
               That
               there
               should
               be
               some
               Ordonnance
               ,
               some
               Design
               ,
               or
               little
               Plot
               ,
               which
               may
               deserve
               the
               Title
               of
               a
               Pastoral
               Scene
               .
               This
               is
               every
               where
               observ'd
               by
               Virgil
               ,
               and
               particularly
               remarkable
               in
               the
               first
               Eclogue
               ;
               the
               standard
               of
               all
               Pastorals
               ;
               a
               Beautiful
               Landscape
               presents
               it self
               to
               your
               view
               ,
               a
               Shepherd
               with
               his
               Flock
               around
               him
               ,
               resting
               securely
               under
               a
               spreading
               Beech
               ,
               which
               furnish'd
               the
               first
               Food
               to
               our
               Ancestors
               .
               Another
               in
               quite
               different
               Situation
               of
               Mind
               and
               Circumstances
               ,
               the
               Sun
               setting
               ,
               the
               Hospitality
               of
               the
               more
               fortunate
               Shepherd
               ,
               &c.
               
               And
               here
               Mr.
               F.
               seems
               not
               a
               little
               wanting
               .
            
             
               A
               Fourth
               Rule
               ,
               and
               of
               great
               importance
               in
               this
               delicate
               sort
               of
               Writing
               ,
               is
               ,
               that
               there
               be
               choice
               diversity
               of
               Subjects
               ;
               that
               the
               Eclogues
               ,
               like
               a
               Beautiful
               Prospect
               ,
               should
               Charm
               by
               its
               Variety
               .
               Virgil
               is
               admirable
               in
               this
               Point
               ,
               and
               far
               surpasses
               Theocritus
               ,
               as
               he
               does
               every
               where
               ,
               when
               Judgment
               and
               Contrivance
               have
               the
               principal
               part
               .
               The
               Subject
               of
               the
               first
               Pastoral
               is
               hinted
               above
               .
            
             
               The
               Second
               contains
               the
               Love
               of
               Coridon
               for
               Alexis
               ,
               and
               the
               seasonable
               reproach
               he
               gives
               himself
               ,
               that
               he
               left
               his
               Vines
               half
               prun'd
               ,
               (
               which
               according
               to
               the
               
                 Roman
                 Rituals
              
               ,
               deriv'd
               a
               Curse
               upon
               the
               Fruit
               that
               grew
               upon
               it
               )
               whilst
               he
               pursu'd
               an
               Object
               undeserving
               his
               Passion
               .
            
             
               The
               Third
               ,
               a
               sharp
               Contention
               of
               two
               Shepherds
               for
               the
               Prize
               of
               Poetry
               .
            
             
               The
               Fourth
               contains
               the
               Discourse
               of
               a
               Shepherd
               Comforting
               himself
               in
               a
               declining
               Age
               ,
               that
               a
               better
               was
               ensuing
               .
            
             
               The
               Fifth
               a
               Lamentation
               for
               a
               Dead
               Friend
               ,
               the
               first
               draught
               of
               which
               is
               probably
               more
               Ancient
               than
               any
               of
               the
               Pastorals
               now
               extant
               ;
               his
               Brother
               being
               at
               first
               intended
               ;
               but
               he
               afterwards
               makes
               his
               Court
               to
               Augustrus
               ,
               by
               turning
               it
               into
               an
               Apothesis
               of
               
                 Julius
                 Caesar
              
               .
            
             
               The
               Sixth
               is
               the
               Silenus
               .
            
             
               The
               Seventh
               ,
               another
               Poetical
               Dispute
               ,
               first
               Compos'd
               at
               Mantua
               .
            
             
             
               The
               Eighth
               is
               the
               Description
               of
               a
               despairing
               Lover
               ,
               and
               a
               Magical
               Charm.
               
            
             
               He
               sets
               the
               Ninth
               after
               all
               these
               ,
               very
               modestly
               ,
               because
               it
               was
               particular
               to
               himself
               ;
               and
               here
               he
               would
               have
               ended
               that
               Work
               ,
               if
               Gallus
               had
               not
               prevail'd
               upon
               him
               to
               add
               one
               more
               in
               his
               Favour
               .
            
             
               Thus
               Curious
               was
               Virgil
               in
               diversifying
               his
               Subjects
               .
               But
               Mr.
               
                 F.
                 is
              
               a
               great
               deal
               too
               Vniform
               ;
               begin
               where
               you
               please
               ,
               the
               Subject
               is
               still
               the
               same
               .
               We
               find
               it
               true
               what
               he
               says
               of
               himself
               ,
            
             
               Toûjours
               ,
               toûjours
               de
               l'Amour
               .
            
             
               He
               seems
               to
               take
               Pastorals
               and
               Love-Verses
               for
               the
               same
               thing
               .
               Has
               Humaen
               Nature
               no
               other
               Passion
               ?
               Does
               not
               
                 Fear
                 ,
                 Ambition
                 ,
                 Avarice
                 ,
                 Pride
                 ,
              
               a
               Capricio
               of
               Honour
               ,
               and
               Laziness
               it self
               often
               Triumph
               over
               Love
               ?
               But
               this
               Passion
               does
               all
               ,
               not
               only
               in
               Pastorals
               ,
               but
               on
               
                 Modern
                 Tragedies
              
               too
               .
               A
               Heroe
               can
               no
               more
               
                 Fight
                 ,
                 or
              
               be
               Sick
               ,
               or
               Dye
               ,
               than
               he
               can
               be
               Born
               without
               a
               Woman
               .
               But
               Dramatic's
               have
               been
               compos'd
               in
               compliance
               to
               the
               Humour
               of
               the
               Age
               ,
               and
               the
               prevailing
               Inclination
               of
               the
               great
               ,
               whose
               Example
               has
               a
               very
               powerful
               Influence
               ,
               not
               only
               in
               the
               little
               Court
               behind
               the
               Scenes
               ,
               but
               on
               the
               great
               Theatre
               of
               the
               World.
               This
               inundation
               of
               Love-Verses
               't
               is
               not
               so
               much
               an
               effect
               of
               their
               Amorousness
               ,
               as
               of
               immoderate
               Self-love
               .
               This
               being
               the
               only
               sort
               of
               Poetry
               ,
               in
               which
               the
               Writer
               can
               ,
               not
               only
               without
               Censure
               ,
               but
               even
               with
               Commendation
               ,
               talk
               of
               himself
               .
               There
               is
               generally
               more
               of
               the
               Passion
               of
               Narcissus
               ,
               than
               concern
               for
               Chloris
               and
               Corinna
               in
               this
               whole
               Affair
               .
               Be
               pleas'd
               to
               look
               into
               almost
               any
               of
               those
               Writers
               ,
               and
               you
               shall
               meet
               every
               where
               that
               
                 eternal
                 Moy
              
               ,
               which
               the
               admirable
               Paschal
               so
               judiciously
               condemns
               .
               Homer
               can
               never
               be
               enough
               admir'd
               for
               this
               one
               so
               particular
               Quality
               ,
               that
               he
               never
               speaks
               of
               himself
               ,
               either
               in
               the
               Iliad
               ,
               or
               the
               Odysses
               ;
               and
               if
               Horace
               had
               never
               told
               us
               his
               Genealogy
               ,
               but
               left
               it
               to
               the
               Writer
               of
               his
               Life
               ,
               perhaps
               he
               had
               not
               been
               a
               loser
               by
               it
               .
               This
               Consideration
               might
               induce
               those
               great
               Criticks
               ,
               Varius
               and
               Tucca
               ,
               to
               raze
               out
               the
               four
               first
               Verses
               of
               the
               Aeneis
               ,
               in
               great
               measure
               ,
               for
               the
               sake
               of
               that
               unlucky
               
                 Ille
                 ego
              
               .
               But
               extraordinary
               Genius's
               have
               a
               sort
               of
               Prerogative
               ,
               which
               may
               dispence
               them
               from
               Laws
               ,
               binding
               to
               Subject-Wits
               .
               However
               ,
               the
               Ladies
               have
               the
               less
               Reason
               to
               be
               pleas'd
               with
               those
               Addresses
               ,
               of
               which
               the
               Poet
               takes
               the
               greater
               share
               to
               himself
               .
               Thus
               the
               Beau
               presses
               into
               their
               Dressing-Room
               ,
               but
               it
               is
               not
               so
               much
               to
               adore
               their
               fair
               Eyes
               ,
               as
               to
               adjust
               his
               own
               Steenzkirk
               and
               Peruke
               ,
               and
               set
               his
               Countenance
               in
               their
               Glass
               .
            
             
               A
               fifth
               Rule
               ,
               (
               which
               one
               may
               hope
               will
               not
               be
               contested
               )
               is
               that
               the
               Writer
               should
               shew
               in
               his
               Compositions
               ,
               some
               competent
               skill
               of
               the
               Subject
               matter
               ,
               that
               which
               makes
               the
               Character
               of
               the
               Persons
               introduc'd
               .
               In
               this
               ,
               as
               in
               all
               other
               Points
               of
               Learning
               ,
               Decency
               ,
               and
               Oeconomy
               of
               a
               Poem
               ,
               Virgil
               much
               excells
               his
               Master
               Theocritus
               .
               The
               Poet
               is
               better
               skill'd
               in
               Husbandry
               than
               those
               that
               get
               their
               Bread
               by
               it
               .
               He
               describes
               the
               Nature
               ,
               the
               Diseases
               ,
               the
               Remedies
               ,
               the
               proper
               places
               ,
               and
               Seasons
               ,
               of
               Feeding
               ,
               of
               Watering
               their
               Flocks
               ;
               the
               Furniture
               ,
               Diet
               ;
               the
               Lodging
               and
               pastimes
               of
               his
               Shepherds
               .
               But
               the
               Persons
               brought
               in
               by
               Mr.
               F.
               are
               Shepherds
               in
               Masquerade
               ,
               and
               handle
               their
               Sheep-Hook
               as
               awkardly
               ,
               as
               they
               do
               their
               Oaten-Reed
               .
               They
               Saunter
               about
               with
               their
               
                 chers
                 Moutons
              
               ,
               but
               they
               relate
               as
               little
               to
               the
               Business
               in
               hand
               ,
               as
               the
               
                 Painter's
                 Dog
              
               ,
               or
               a
               Dutch
               Ship
               ,
               does
               to
               the
               History
               design'd
               .
               One
               would
               suspect
               some
               of
               them
               ,
               that
               instead
               of
               leading
               out
               their
               Sheep
               
               into
               the
               Plains
               of
               Mont-Brison
               ,
               and
               Marcilli
               ,
               to
               the
               flowry
               Banks
               of
               Lignon
               ,
               or
               the
               Charanthe
               ;
               that
               they
               are
               driving
               directly
               ,
               
                 à
                 la
                 boucherie
              
               ,
               to
               make
               Money
               of
               them
               .
               I
               hope
               hereafter
               Mr.
               F.
               will
               chuse
               his
               Servants
               better
               .
            
             
               A
               sixth
               Rule
               is
               ,
               That
               as
               the
               Style
               ought
               to
               be
               natural
               ,
               clear
               ,
               and
               elegant
               ,
               it
               should
               have
               some
               peculiar
               relish
               of
               the
               Ancient
               Fashion
               of
               Writing
               .
               Parables
               in
               those
               times
               were
               frequently
               us'd
               ,
               as
               they
               are
               still
               by
               the
               Eastern
               Nations
               ;
               Philosophical
               Questions
               ,
               Aenigma's
               ,
               &c.
               and
               of
               this
               we
               find
               Instances
               in
               the
               
                 Sacred
                 Writings
              
               ,
               in
               Homer
               ,
               Contemporary
               with
               King
               David
               ,
               in
               Herodotus
               ,
               in
               the
               Greek
               Tragedians
               ;
               this
               piece
               of
               Antiquity
               is
               imitated
               by
               Virgil
               with
               great
               judgment
               and
               discretion
               :
               He
               has
               propos'd
               one
               Riddle
               which
               has
               never
               yet
               been
               solv'd
               by
               any
               of
               his
               Commentators
               .
               Tho'
               he
               knew
               the
               Rules
               of
               Rhetorick
               ,
               as
               well
               as
               Cicero
               himself
               ;
               he
               conceals
               that
               skill
               in
               his
               Pastorals
               ,
               and
               keeps
               close
               to
               the
               Character
               of
               Antiquity
               :
               Nor
               ought
               the
               Connexions
               and
               Transitions
               to
               be
               very
               strict
               ,
               and
               regular
               ;
               this
               would
               give
               the
               Pastorals
               an
               Air
               of
               Novelty
               ,
               and
               of
               this
               neglect
               of
               exact
               Connexions
               ,
               we
               have
               instances
               in
               the
               Writings
               of
               the
               Ancient
               Chineses
               ,
               of
               the
               Jews
               and
               Greeks
               ,
               in
               Pindar
               ,
               and
               other
               Writers
               of
               Dithyrambics
               ,
               in
               th●
               Chorus
               's
               of
               
                 Aeschylus
                 ,
                 Sophocles
              
               ,
               and
               Euripides
               .
               If
               Mr.
               F.
               and
               Ruaeus
               ,
               had
               consider'd
               this
               ,
               the
               one
               wou'd
               have
               spar'd
               his
               Critic
               of
               the
               Sixth
               ,
               and
               the
               other
               ,
               his
               Reflections
               upon
               the
               Ninth
               Pastoral
               .
               The
               over-scrupulous
               care
               of
               Connexions
               ,
               makes
               the
               Modern
               Compositions
               oftentimes
               tedious
               and
               flat
               :
               And
               by
               the
               omission
               of
               them
               it
               comes
               to
               pass
               ,
               that
               the
               Pensees
               of
               the
               incomparable
               
                 Mr.
                 Pascal
              
               ,
               and
               perhaps
               of
               Mr.
               Bruyere
               ,
               are
               two
               of
               the
               most
               Entertaining
               Books
               which
               the
               Modern
               French
               can
               boast
               of
               .
               Virgil
               ,
               in
               this
               point
               ,
               was
               not
               only
               faithful
               to
               the
               Character
               of
               Antiquity
               ,
               but
               Copies
               after
               Nature
               her self
               .
               Thus
               
                 a
                 Meadow
              
               ,
               where
               the
               Beauties
               of
               the
               Spring
               are
               profusely
               blended
               together
               ,
               makes
               a
               more
               delightful
               Prospect
               ,
               than
               a
               curious
               Knot
               of
               sorted
               Flowers
               in
               our
               Gardens
               ;
               and
               we
               are
               much
               more
               transported
               with
               the
               Beauty
               of
               the
               Heavens
               ,
               and
               admiration
               of
               their
               Creator
               ,
               in
               a
               clear
               Night
               ,
               when
               we
               behold
               Stars
               of
               all
               
                 Magnitudes
                 ,
                 promiscuously
              
               moving
               together
               ,
               than
               if
               those
               glorious
               Lights
               were
               rank'd
               in
               their
               several
               Orders
               ,
               or
               reduc'd
               into
               the
               finest
               Geometrical
               Figures
               .
            
             
               Another
               Rule
               omitted
               by
               
                 P.
                 Rapine
              
               ,
               as
               some
               of
               his
               are
               by
               me
               ,
               (
               for
               I
               do
               not
               design
               an
               entire
               Treatise
               in
               this
               Preface
               ,
               )
               is
               ,
               that
               not
               only
               the
               Sentences
               should
               be
               short
               ,
               and
               smart
               ,
               upon
               which
               account
               ,
               he
               justly
               blames
               the
               Italian
               ,
               and
               French
               ,
               as
               too
               Talkative
               ,
               but
               that
               the
               whole
               piece
               should
               be
               so
               too
               .
               Virgil
               transgress'd
               this
               Rule
               in
               his
               first
               Pastorals
               ,
               I
               mean
               those
               which
               he
               compos'd
               at
               Mantua
               ,
               but
               rectifi'd
               the
               Fault
               in
               his
               Riper
               Years
               .
               This
               appears
               by
               the
               Culex
               ,
               which
               is
               as
               long
               as
               five
               of
               his
               Pastorals
               put
               together
               .
               The
               greater
               part
               of
               those
               he
               finish'd
               ,
               have
               less
               than
               a
               Hundred
               Verses
               ,
               and
               but
               two
               of
               them
               exceed
               that
               Number
               .
               But
               the
               Silenus
               ,
               which
               he
               seems
               to
               have
               design'd
               for
               his
               Master-piece
               ,
               in
               which
               he
               introduces
               a
               God
               singing
               ,
               and
               he
               too
               full
               of
               Inspiration
               ,
               (
               which
               is
               intended
               by
               that
               ebriety
               ,
               which
               Mr.
               F.
               so
               unreasonably
               ridicules
               ,
               )
               tho'
               it
               go
               thro'
               so
               vast
               a
               Field
               of
               Matter
               ,
               and
               comprizes
               the
               Mythology
               of
               near
               Two
               Thousand
               Years
               ,
               consists
               but
               of
               Fifty
               Lines
               ;
               so
               that
               its
               brevity
               is
               no
               less
               admirable
               ,
               than
               the
               subject
               Matter
               ;
               the
               noble
               Fashion
               of
               handling
               it
               ,
               and
               the
               Deity
               speaking
               .
               Virgil
               keeps
               up
               his
               Characters
               in
               this
               respect
               too
               ,
               with
               the
               strictest
               decency
               :
               For
               Poetry
               and
               Pastime
               was
               not
               the
               Business
               of
               Mens
               Lives
               in
               those
               days
               ,
               but
               only
               their
               seasonable
               Recreation
               after
               necessary
               Labours
               .
               And
               therefore
               the
               length
               of
               some
               of
               the
               Modern
               Italian
               ,
               and
               English
               Compositions
               ,
               is
               against
               the
               Rules
               of
               this
               kind
               of
               Poesy
               .
            
             
             
               I
               shall
               add
               something
               very
               briefly
               touching
               the
               Versification
               of
               Pastorals
               ,
               tho'
               it
               be
               a
               mortifying
               Consideration
               to
               the
               Moderns
               .
               Heroic
               Verse
               ,
               as
               it
               is
               commonly
               call'd
               ,
               was
               us'd
               by
               the
               Latins
               in
               this
               sort
               of
               Poem
               ,
               as
               very
               Ancient
               and
               Natural
               .
               
                 Lyrics
                 ,
                 Iambics
                 ,
                 &c.
              
               being
               Invented
               afterwards
               :
               but
               there
               is
               so
               great
               a
               difference
               in
               the
               Numbers
               ,
               of
               which
               it
               may
               be
               compounded
               ,
               that
               it
               may
               pass
               rather
               for
               a
               Genus
               ,
               than
               Species
               ,
               of
               Verse
               .
               Whosoever
               shall
               compare
               the
               numbers
               of
               the
               three
               following
               Verses
               ,
               will
               quickly
               be
               sensible
               of
               the
               truth
               of
               this
               Observation
               .
            
             
               Tityre
               ,
               
                 tu
                 patulae
                 recubans
                 sub
                 tegmine
                 fagi.
                 
              
            
             
               The
               first
               of
               the
               Georgics
               ,
               
                 Quid
                 faciat
                 laetas
                 segetes
                 ,
                 quo
                 sydere
                 terram
                 .
              
               and
               of
               the
               Aeneis
               .
            
             
               Arma
               ,
               virumque
               cano
               ,
               Trojae
               qui
               Primus
               ab
               oris
               .
            
             
               The
               Sound
               of
               the
               Verses
               ,
               is
               almost
               as
               different
               as
               the
               Subjects
               .
               But
               the
               Greek
               Writers
               of
               Pastoral
               ,
               usually
               limited
               themselves
               to
               the
               Example
               of
               the
               first
               ;
               which
               Virgil
               found
               so
               exceedingly
               difficult
               ,
               that
               he
               quitted
               it
               ,
               and
               left
               the
               Honour
               of
               that
               part
               to
               Theocritus
               .
               It
               is
               indeed
               probable
               ,
               that
               what
               we
               improperly
               call
               rhyme
               ,
               is
               the
               most
               Ancient
               sort
               of
               Poetry
               ;
               and
               Learned
               Men
               have
               given
               good
               Arguments
               for
               it
               ;
               and
               therefore
               a
               French
               Historian
               commits
               a
               gross
               mistake
               ,
               when
               he
               attributes
               that
               Invention
               to
               a
               King
               of
               Gaul
               ,
               as
               an
               English
               Gentleman
               does
               ,
               when
               he
               makes
               a
               Roman
               Emperour
               the
               Inventor
               of
               it
               .
               But
               the
               Greeks
               who
               understood
               fully
               the
               force
               and
               power
               of
               Numbers
               ,
               soon
               grew
               weary
               of
               this
               Childish
               sort
               of
               Verse
               ,
               as
               the
               Younger
               Vossius
               justly
               calls
               it
               ,
               and
               therefore
               those
               rhyming
               Hexameters
               ,
               which
               Plutarch
               observes
               in
               
                 Homer
                 himself
              
               ,
               seem
               to
               be
               the
               Remains
               of
               a
               barbarous
               Age.
               Virgil
               had
               them
               in
               such
               abhorrence
               ,
               that
               he
               would
               rather
               make
               a
               false
               Syntax
               ,
               than
               what
               we
               call
               a
               Rhime
               ,
               such
               a
               Verse
               as
               this
               
                 Vir
                 precorVxori
                 ,
                 
                   frater
                   succurre
                
                 Sorori
                 .
              
               Was
               passable
               in
               Ovid
               ,
               but
               the
               nice
               Ears
               in
               Augustus
               his
               Court
               could
               not
               pardon
               Virgil
               ,
               for
               ▪
               
                 At
                 Regina
                 Pyra
                 .
              
               So
               that
               the
               principal
               Ornament
               of
               Modern
               Poetry
               ,
               was
               accounted
               deformity
               by
               the
               Latins
               ,
               and
               Greeks
               ;
               it
               was
               they
               who
               invented
               the
               different
               terminations
               of
               words
               ,
               those
               happy
               compositions
               ,
               those
               short
               monosyllables
               ,
               those
               transpositions
               for
               the
               elegance
               of
               the
               sound
               and
               sense
               ,
               which
               are
               wanting
               so
               much
               in
               modern
               Languages
               .
               The
               French
               sometimes
               crowd
               together
               ten
               ,
               or
               twelve
               Monosyllables
               ,
               into
               one
               disjoynted
               Verse
               ;
               they
               may
               understand
               the
               nature
               of
               ,
               but
               cannot
               imitate
               ,
               those
               wonderful
               Spondees
               of
               Pythagoras
               ,
               by
               which
               he
               could
               suddenly
               pacifie
               a
               Man
               that
               was
               in
               a
               violent
               transport
               of
               anger
               ;
               nor
               those
               
                 swift
                 numbers
              
               of
               the
               Priests
               of
               Cybele
               ,
               which
               had
               the
               force
               to
               enrage
               the
               most
               sedate
               and
               Phlegmatick
               Tempers
               .
               Nor
               can
               any
               Modern
               put
               into
               his
               own
               Language
               the
               Energy
               of
               that
               single
               Poem
               of
               Catullus
               ,
               
                 
                 
                   Super
                   alta
                   vectus
                
                 ,
                 Atys
                 ▪
                 &c.
                 
              
               Latin
               is
               but
               a
               corrupt
               dialect
               of
               Greek
               ;
               and
               the
               
                 French
                 ,
                 Spanish
              
               ,
               and
               Italian
               ,
               a
               corruption
               of
               Latine
               ;
               and
               therefore
               a
               Man
               might
               as
               well
               go
               about
               to
               persuade
               me
               that
               Vinegar
               is
               a
               Nobler
               Liquor
               than
               Wine
               ,
               as
               that
               the
               modern
               Compositions
               can
               be
               as
               graceful
               and
               harmonious
               as
               the
               Latine
               it self
               .
               The
               Greek
               Tongue
               very
               naturally
               falls
               into
               Iambicks
               ,
               and
               therefore
               the
               diligent
               Reader
               may
               find
               six
               or
               seven
               and
               twenty
               of
               them
               in
               those
               accurate
               Orations
               of
               Isocrates
               .
               The
               Latin
               as
               naturally
               falls
               into
               Heroic
               ;
               and
               therefore
               the
               beginning
               of
               
               Livy's
               History
               is
               half
               an
               Hexameter
               ,
               and
               that
               of
               Tacitus
               an
               entire
               one
               .
               The
               Roman
               Historian
               describing
               the
               glorious
               effort
               of
               a
               Colonel
               to
               break
               thro'
               a
               Brigade
               of
               the
               Enemies
               ,
               just
               after
               the
               defeat
               at
               Cannae
               ,
               falls
               ,
               unknowingly
               ,
               into
               a
               Verse
               not
               unworthy
               Virgil
               himself
               .
            
             
               
                 Haec
                 ubi
                 dicta
                 dedit
                 ,
                 stringit
                 gladium
                 ,
                 cuneoque
              
               
                 
                   Facto
                   per
                   medios
                
                 ,
                 &c.
                 
              
            
             
               Ours
               and
               the
               French
               can
               at
               best
               but
               fall
               into
               Blank
               Verse
               ,
               which
               is
               a
               fault
               in
               Prose
               .
               The
               misfortune
               indeed
               is
               common
               to
               us
               both
               ,
               but
               we
               deserve
               more
               compassion
               ,
               because
               we
               are
               not
               vain
               of
               our
               Barbarities
               .
               As
               Age
               brings
               Men
               back
               into
               the
               state
               and
               infirmities
               of
               Childhood
               ,
               upon
               the
               fall
               of
               their
               Empire
               ,
               the
               
                 Romans
                 doted
              
               into
               Rhime
               ,
               as
               appears
               sufficiently
               by
               the
               Hymns
               of
               the
               
                 Latin
                 Church
              
               ;
               and
               yet
               a
               great
               deal
               of
               the
               French
               Poetry
               does
               hardly
               deserve
               that
               poor
               title
               .
               I
               shall
               give
               an
               instance
               out
               of
               a
               Poem
               which
               had
               the
               good
               luck
               to
               gain
               the
               Prize
               in
               1685
               ,
               for
               the
               Subject
               deserv'd
               a
               Nobler
               Pen.
               
            
             
               
                 Tous
                 les
                 jours
                 ce
                 grand
                 Roy
                 des
                 autres
                 Roys
                 l'exemple
                 ,
              
               
                 S'ouvre
                 un
                 nouveau
                 chemin
                 au
                 faiste
                 de
                 ton
                 temple
                 ,
                 &c.
                 
              
            
             
               The
               Judicious
               Malherbe
               exploded
               this
               sort
               of
               Verse
               near
               Eighty
               Years
               ago
               .
               Nor
               can
               I
               forbear
               wondering
               at
               that
               passage
               of
               a
               Famous
               Academician
               ,
               in
               which
               he
               ,
               most
               compassionately
               ,
               excuses
               the
               Ancients
               for
               their
               not
               being
               so
               exact
               in
               their
               Compositions
               ,
               as
               the
               Modern
               French
               ,
               because
               they
               wanted
               
                 a
                 Dictionary
              
               ,
               of
               which
               the
               French
               are
               at
               last
               happily
               provided
               .
               If
               Cicero
               and
               Demosthenes
               had
               been
               so
               lucky
               as
               to
               have
               had
               a
               Dictionary
               ,
               and
               such
               a
               Patron
               as
               Cardinal
               Richelieu
               ,
               perhaps
               they
               might
               have
               aspir'd
               to
               the
               honour
               of
               
               Balzac's
               Legacy
               of
               
                 Ten
                 Pounds
                 ,
                 Le
                 prix
                 de
                 l'Eloquence
                 .
              
            
             
               On
               the
               contrary
               ,
               I
               dare
               assert
               that
               there
               are
               hardly
               ten
               Lines
               in
               either
               of
               those
               great
               Orators
               ,
               or
               even
               in
               the
               Catalogue
               of
               
               Homer's
               Ships
               ,
               which
               is
               not
               more
               harmonious
               ,
               more
               truly
               Rythmical
               ,
               than
               most
               of
               the
               French
               ,
               or
               English
               Sonnets
               ;
               and
               therefore
               they
               lose
               ,
               at
               least
               ,
               one
               half
               of
               their
               native
               Beauty
               by
               Translation
               .
            
             
               I
               cannot
               but
               add
               one
               Remark
               on
               this
               occasion
               ,
               that
               the
               French
               Verse
               is
               oftentimes
               not
               so
               much
               as
               Rhime
               ,
               in
               the
               lowest
               Sense
               ;
               for
               the
               Childish
               repetition
               of
               the
               same
               Note
               cannot
               be
               call'd
               Musick
               ;
               such
               Instances
               are
               infinite
               ,
               as
               in
               the
               forecited
               Poem
               .
               
                 
                   '
                   Epris
                
                 
                   Mepris
                
              
               
                 
                   Trophee
                
                 
                   Orphee
                
              
               
                 
                   caché
                   ;
                
                 
                   cherché
                   .
                
              
            
             
               Mr.
               Boileau
               himself
               has
               a
               great
               deal
               of
               this
               
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
              
               ,
               not
               by
               his
               own
               neglect
               ,
               but
               purely
               by
               the
               faultiness
               and
               poverty
               of
               the
               French
               Tongue
               .
               Mr.
               F.
               
               at
               last
               goes
               into
               the
               
                 excessive
                 Paradoxes
              
               of
               Mr.
               Perrault
               ,
               and
               boasts
               of
               the
               vast
               number
               of
               their
               Excellent
               Songs
               ,
               preferring
               them
               to
               the
               Greek
               and
               Latin.
               But
               an
               ancient
               Writer
               of
               as
               good
               Credit
               ,
               has
               assur'd
               us
               ,
               that
               Seven
               Lives
               would
               hardly
               suffice
               to
               read
               over
               the
               
                 Greek
                 Odes
              
               ;
               but
               a
               few
               Weeks
               would
               be
               sufficient
               ,
               if
               a
               Man
               were
               so
               very
               idle
               as
               to
               read
               over
               all
               the
               French.
               In
               the
               mean-time
               I
               should
               be
               very
               glad
               to
               see
               a
               Catalogue
               of
               but
               fifty
               of
               theirs
               with
               
                 *
                 Exact
                 propriety
                 of
                 word
                 and
                 thought
                 .
              
               Notwithstanding
               all
               the
               high
               Encomiums
               ,
               and
               mutual
               Gratulations
               which
               they
               give
               one
               another
               ;
               (
               for
               I
               am
               far-from
               censuring
               the
               whole
               of
               that
               Illustrious
               Society
               ,
               to
               which
               the
               Learned
               World
               is
               much
               oblig'd
               )
               after
               all
               those
               Golden
               Dreams
               at
               the
               L'Ouvre
               ,
               that
               Modern
               Pieces
               will
               be
               as
               much
               valu'd
               ten
               ,
               or
               twelve
               Ages
               hence
               ,
               as
               the
               ancient
               Greek
               ,
               or
               Roman
               ,
               I
               can
               no
               more
               get
               it
               into
               my
               head
               that
               they
               will
               last
               so
               long
               ,
               than
               I
               could
               believe
               the
               Learned
               Dr.
               
                 H
                 —
                 K.
              
               [
               of
               the
               
                 Royal
                 Society
                 ,
              
               ]
               if
               he
               should
               pretend
               to
               shew
               me
               a
               Butterflye
               that
               had
               liv'd
               a
               
                 thousand
                 Winters
              
               .
            
             
               When
               Mr.
               F.
               wrote
               his
               Eclogues
               ,
               he
               was
               so
               far
               from
               equalling
               Virgil
               ,
               or
               Theocritus
               ,
               that
               he
               had
               some
               pains
               to
               take
               before
               he
               could
               understand
               in
               what
               the
               principal
               Beauty
               ,
               and
               Graces
               of
               their
               Writings
               do
               consist
               .
            
             
               
                 Cum
                 mortuis
                 non
                 nisi
                 larvae
                 luctantur
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               
                 To
                 Mr.
              
               Dryden
               ,
               
                 on
                 his
                 Excellent
                 Translation
                 of
              
               VIRGIL
               .
            
             
               
                 WHen
                 e're
                 Great
                 
                 VIRGIL's
                 lofty
                 Verse
                 I
                 see
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Pompous
                 Scene
                 Charms
                 my
                 admiring
                 Eye
                 :
              
               
                 There
                 different
                 Beauties
                 in
                 perfection
                 meet
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Thoughts
                 as
                 proper
                 ,
                 as
                 the
                 Numbers
                 sweet
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 When
                 wild
                 Fancy
                 mounts
                 a
                 daring
                 height
                 ,
              
               
                 Judgment
                 steps
                 in
                 ,
                 and
                 moderates
                 her
                 flight
                 .
              
               
                 Wisely
                 he
                 manages
                 his
                 Wealthy
                 Store
                 ,
              
               
                 Still
                 says
                 enough
                 ,
                 and
                 yet
                 implies
                 still
                 more
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 tho'the
                 weighty
                 Sense
                 be
                 closely
                 wrought
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Reader
                 's
                 left
                 t'
                 improve
                 the
                 pleasing
                 thought
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Hence
                 we
                 despair'd
                 to
                 see
                 an
                 English
                 dress
              
               
                 Should
                 e're
                 his
                 Nervous
                 Energy
                 express
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 who
                 could
                 that
                 in
                 fetter'd
                 Rhyme
                 inclose
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 without
                 loss
                 can
                 scarce
                 be
                 told
                 in
                 Prose
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 But
                 you
                 ,
                 Great
                 Sir
                 ,
                 his
                 Manly
                 Genius
                 raise
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 make
                 your
                 Copy
                 share
                 an
                 equal
                 praise
                 .
              
               
                 O
                 how
                 I
                 see
                 thee
                 in
                 soft
                 Scenes
                 of
                 Love
                 ,
              
               
                 Renew
                 those
                 Passions
                 he
                 alone
                 could
                 move
                 !
              
               
                 Here
                 
                 Cupid's
                 Charms
                 are
                 with
                 new
                 Art
                 exprest
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 pale
                 Eliza
                 leaves
                 her
                 peaceful
                 rest
                 :
              
               
                 Leaves
                 her
                 Elisium
                 ,
                 as
                 if
                 glad
                 to
                 live
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 Love
                 ,
                 and
                 Wish
                 ,
                 to
                 Sigh
                 ,
                 Despair
                 and
                 Grieve
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Die
                 again
                 for
                 him
                 that
                 would
                 again
                 deceive
                 .
              
               
                 Nor
                 does
                 the
                 Mighty
                 Trojan
                 less
                 appear
              
               
                 Than
                 Mars
                 himself
                 amidst
                 the
                 storms
                 of
                 War.
              
               
                 Now
                 his
                 fierce
                 Eyes
                 with
                 double
                 fury
                 glow
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 a
                 new
                 dread
                 attends
                 th'
                 impending
                 blow
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 Daunian
                 Chiefs
                 their
                 eager
                 rage
                 abate
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 tho'
                 unwounded
                 ,
                 seem
                 to
                 feel
                 their
                 Fate
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Long
                 the
                 rude
                 fury
                 of
                 an
                 ignorant
                 Age
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 barbarous
                 spight
                 prophan'd
                 his
                 Sacred
                 Page
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 heavy
                 Dutchmen
                 with
                 laborious
                 toil
                 ,
              
               
                 Wrested
                 his
                 Sense
                 ,
                 and
                 cramp'd
                 his
                 vigorous
                 Style
                 :
              
               
                 No
                 time
                 ,
                 no
                 pains
                 the
                 drudging
                 Pedants
                 spare
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 still
                 his
                 Shoulders
                 must
                 the
                 burthen
                 bear
                 .
              
               
                 While
                 thro'
                 the
                 Mazes
                 of
                 their
                 Comments
                 led
                 ,
              
               
                 We
                 learn
                 not
                 what
                 he
                 writes
                 ,
                 but
                 what
                 they
                 read
                 .
              
               
                 Yet
                 thro'
                 these
                 Shades
                 of
                 undistinguish'd
                 Night
              
               
                 Appear'd
                 some
                 glimmering
                 intervals
                 of
                 Light
                 ;
              
               
                 'Till
                 mangled
                 by
                 a
                 vile
                 Translating
                 Sect
                 ,
              
               
                 Like
                 Babes
                 by
                 Witches
                 in
                 Effigie
                 rackt
                 :
              
               
                 'Till
                 Ogleby
                 ,
                 mature
                 in
                 dulness
                 rose
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Holbourn
                 Dogrel
                 ,
                 and
                 low
                 chiming
                 Prose
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 Strength
                 and
                 Beauty
                 did
                 at
                 once
                 depose
                 .
              
               
               
               
               
               
               
                 But
                 now
                 the
                 Magick
                 Spell
                 is
                 at
                 an
                 end
                 ,
              
               
                 Since
                 even
                 the
                 Dead
                 in
                 you
                 have
                 found
                 a
                 Friend
                 .
              
               
                 You
                 free
                 the
                 Bard
                 from
                 rude
                 Oppressor's
                 Power
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 grace
                 his
                 Verse
                 with
                 Charms
                 unknown
                 before
                 :
              
               
                 He
                 ,
                 doubly
                 thus
                 oblig'd
                 ,
                 must
                 doubting
                 stand
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 chiefly
                 should
                 his
                 Gratitude
                 command
                 ;
              
               
                 Whether
                 should
                 claim
                 the
                 Tribute
                 of
                 his
                 Heart
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Patron
                 's
                 Bounty
                 ,
                 or
                 the
                 Poet's
                 Art.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 Alike
                 with
                 wonder
                 and
                 delight
                 we
                 view'd
              
               
                 The
                 Roman
                 Genius
                 in
                 thy
                 Verse
                 renew'd
                 :
              
               
                 We
                 saw
                 thee
                 raise
                 soft
                 
                 Ovid's
                 Amorous
                 Fire
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 fit
                 the
                 tuneful
                 Horace
                 to
                 thy
                 Lyre
                 :
              
               
                 We
                 saw
                 new
                 gall
                 imbitter
                 
                 Juvenal's
                 Pen
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 crabbed
                 Persius
                 made
                 politely
                 plain
                 :
              
               
                 Virgil
                 alone
                 was
                 thought
                 too
                 great
                 a
                 task
                 ;
              
               
                 What
                 you
                 could
                 scarce
                 perform
                 ,
                 or
                 we
                 durst
                 ask
                 :
              
               
                 A
                 Task
                 !
                 which
                 
                 Waller's
                 Muse
                 could
                 ne're
                 engage
                 ;
              
               
                 A
                 Task
                 !
                 too
                 hard
                 for
                 
                 Denham's
                 stronger
                 rage
                 :
              
               
                 Sure
                 of
                 Success
                 they
                 some
                 slight
                 Sallies
                 try'd
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 the
                 fenc'd
                 Coast
                 their
                 bold
                 attempts
                 defy'd
                 :
              
               
                 With
                 fear
                 their
                 o're-match'd
                 Forces
                 back
                 they
                 drew
                 ,
              
               
                 Quitted
                 the
                 Province
                 Fate
                 reserv'd
                 for
                 you
                 .
              
               
                 In
                 vain
                 thus
                 Philip
                 did
                 the
                 Persians
                 storm
                 ;
              
               
                 A
                 Work
                 his
                 Son
                 was
                 destin'd
                 to
                 perform
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 O
                 had
                 Roscommon
                 *
                 
                   liv'd
                   to
                   hail
                   the
                   day
                
                 ,
              
               
                 
                   And
                   Sing
                   loud
                
                 Poeans
                 
                   thro'
                   the
                   crowded
                   way
                
                 ;
              
               
                 
                   When
                   you
                   in
                
                 Roman
                 
                   Majesty
                   appear
                
                 ,
              
               
                 
                   Which
                   none
                   know
                   better
                   ,
                   and
                   none
                   come
                   so
                   near
                   :
                
              
               
                 The
                 happy
                 Author
                 would
                 with
                 wonder
                 see
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 Rules
                 were
                 only
                 Prophecies
                 of
                 thee
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 were
                 he
                 now
                 to
                 give
                 Translators
                 light
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 'd
                 bid
                 them
                 only
                 read
                 thy
                 Work
                 ,
                 and
                 write
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 For
                 this
                 great
                 Task
                 our
                 loud
                 applause
                 is
                 due
                 ;
              
               
                 We
                 own
                 old
                 Favours
                 ,
                 but
                 must
                 press
                 for
                 new
                 .
              
               
                 Th'
                 expecting
                 World
                 demands
                 one
                 Labour
                 more
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 thy
                 lov'd
                 Homer
                 does
                 thy
                 aid
                 implore
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 right
                 his
                 injur'd
                 Works
                 ,
                 and
                 set
                 them
                 free
              
               
                 From
                 the
                 lewd
                 Rhymes
                 of
                 groveling
                 Ogleby
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 shall
                 his
                 Verse
                 in
                 graceful
                 Pomp
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 will
                 his
                 Birth
                 renew
                 the
                 ancient
                 jar
                 ;
              
               
                 On
                 those
                 Greek
                 Cities
                 we
                 shall
                 look
                 with
                 scorn
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 our
                 Britain
                 think
                 the
                 Poet
                 Born.
                 
              
            
          
           
             
             
               
                 To
                 Mr.
              
               Dryden
               
                 on
                 his
                 Translation
                 of
              
               VIRGIL
               .
            
             
               
                 WE
                 read
                 ,
                 how
                 Dreams
                 and
                 Visions
                 heretofore
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Prophet
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 Poet
                 cou'd
                 inspire
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 make
                 'em
                 in
                 unusual
                 Rapture
                 soar
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 Rage
                 Divine
                 ,
                 and
                 with
                 Poetick
                 Fire
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 2.
                 
              
               
                 O
                 could
                 I
                 find
                 it
                 now
                 !
                 —
                 Wou'd
                 
                 Virgil's
                 Shade
              
               
                 But
                 for
                 a
                 while
                 vouchsafe
                 to
                 bear
                 the
                 Light
                 ;
              
               
                 To
                 grace
                 my
                 Numbers
                 ,
                 and
                 that
                 Muse
                 to
                 aid
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 sings
                 the
                 Poet
                 ,
                 that
                 has
                 done
                 him
                 right
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 3.
                 
              
               
                 It
                 long
                 has
                 been
                 this
                 Sacred
                 Author's
                 Fate
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 lye
                 at
                 ev'ry
                 dull
                 Translator's
                 Will
                 ;
              
               
                 Long
                 ,
                 long
                 his
                 Muse
                 has
                 groan'd
                 beneath
                 the
                 weight
              
               
                 Of
                 mangling
                 
                 Ogleby's
                 presumptuous
                 Quill
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 4.
                 
              
               
                 Dryden
                 ,
                 at
                 last
                 ,
                 in
                 his
                 Defence
                 arose
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Father
                 now
                 is
                 righted
                 by
                 the
                 Son
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 while
                 his
                 Muse
                 endeavours
                 to
                 disclose
              
               
                 That
                 Poet's
                 Beauties
                 ,
                 she
                 declares
                 her
                 own
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 5.
                 
              
               
                 In
                 your
                 smooth
                 ,
                 pompous
                 Numbers
                 drest
                 ,
                 each
                 Line
                 ,
              
               
                 Each
                 Thought
                 ,
                 betrays
                 such
                 a
                 Majestick
                 Touch
                 ;
              
               
                 He
                 cou'd
                 not
                 ,
                 had
                 he
                 finish'd
                 his
                 Design
                 ,
              
               
                 Have
                 wisht
                 it
                 better
                 ,
                 or
                 have
                 done
                 so
                 much
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 6.
                 
              
               
                 You
                 like
                 his
                 Heroe
                 ,
                 though
                 your self
                 were
                 free
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 disentangl'd
                 from
                 the
                 War
                 of
                 Wit
                 ;
              
               
                 You
                 ,
                 who
                 secure
                 might
                 others
                 danger
                 see
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 safe
                 from
                 all
                 malicious
                 Censure
                 sit
                 :
              
            
             
               
                 7.
                 
              
               
                 Yet
                 because
                 Sacred
                 
                 Virgil's
                 Noble
                 Muse
                 ,
              
               
                 O'relay'd
                 by
                 Fools
                 ,
                 was
                 ready
                 to
                 expire
                 :
              
               
                 To
                 risque
                 your
                 Fame
                 again
                 ,
                 you
                 boldly
                 chuse
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 to
                 redeem
                 ,
                 or
                 perish
                 with
                 your
                 Sire
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 8.
                 
              
               
                 Ev'n
                 first
                 and
                 last
                 ,
                 we
                 owe
                 him
                 half
                 to
                 you
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 that
                 his
                 Aeneids
                 miss'd
                 their
                 threatned
                 Fate
                 ,
              
               
                 Was
                 —
                 that
                 his
                 Friends
                 by
                 some
                 Prediction
                 knew
                 ,
              
               
                 Hereafter
                 who
                 correcting
                 should
                 translate
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 9.
                 
              
               
                 But
                 hold
                 my
                 Muse
                 ,
                 thy
                 needless
                 Flight
                 restrain
                 ,
              
               
                 Vnless
                 like
                 him
                 thou
                 cou'dst
                 a
                 Verse
                 indite
                 :
              
               
                 To
                 think
                 his
                 Fancy
                 to
                 describe
                 ,
                 is
                 vain
                 ,
              
               
                 Since
                 nothing
                 can
                 discover
                 Light
                 ,
                 but
                 Light.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 10.
                 
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 want
                 of
                 Genius
                 that
                 does
                 more
                 deny
                 ;
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 Fear
                 my
                 Praise
                 shou'd
                 make
                 your
                 Glory
                 less
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 therefore
                 ,
                 like
                 the
                 modest
                 Painter
                 ,
                 I
              
               
                 Must
                 draw
                 the
                 Vail
                 ,
                 where
                 I
                 cannot
                 express
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Henry
                 Grahme
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               To
               Mr.
               DRYDEN
               .
            
             
               NO
               undisputed
               Monarch
               Govern'd
               yet
            
             
               With
               Universal
               Sway
               the
               Realms
               of
               Wit
               :
            
             
               Nature
               cou'd
               never
               such
               Expence
               afford
               ,
            
             
               Each
               several
               Province
               own'd
               a
               several
               Lord.
            
             
               A
               Poet
               then
               had
               his
               Poetick
               Wife
               ,
            
             
               One
               Muse
               embrac'd
               ,
               and
               Married
               for
               his
               Life
               .
            
             
               By
               the
               stale
               thing
               his
               appetite
               was
               cloy'd
               ,
            
             
               His
               Fancy
               lessned
               ,
               and
               his
               Fire
               destroy'd
               .
            
             
               But
               Nature
               grown
               extravagantly
               kind
               ,
            
             
               With
               all
               her
               Treasures
               did
               adorn
               your
               Mind
               .
            
             
               The
               different
               Powers
               were
               then
               united
               found
               ,
            
             
               And
               you
               Wit
               's
               Universal
               Monarch
               Crown'd
               .
            
             
               Your
               Mighty
               Sway
               your
               great
               Desert
               secures
               ,
            
             
               And
               ev'ry
               Muse
               and
               ev'ry
               Grace
               is
               yours
               .
            
             
               To
               none
               confin'd
               ,
               by
               turns
               you
               all
               enjoy
               ,
            
             
               Sated
               with
               this
               ,
               you
               to
               another
               flye
               .
            
             
               So
               
               Sultan-like
               in
               your
               Seraglio
               stand
               ,
            
             
               While
               wishing
               Muses
               wait
               for
               your
               Command
               .
            
             
               Thus
               no
               decay
               ,
               no
               want
               of
               vigour
               find
               ,
            
             
               Sublime
               your
               Fancy
               ,
               boundless
               is
               your
               Mind
               .
            
             
               Not
               all
               the
               blasts
               of
               time
               can
               do
               you
               wrong
               ,
            
             
               Young
               spight
               of
               Age
               ,
               in
               spight
               of
               Weakness
               strong
               .
            
             
               Time
               like
               Alcides
               ,
               strikes
               you
               to
               the
               ground
               ,
            
             
               You
               like
               Antaeus
               from
               each
               fall
               rebound
               .
            
             
               
                 H.
                 St.
                 John.
                 
              
            
          
           
             
               
                 To
                 Mr.
              
               Dryden
               
                 on
                 his
              
               VIRGIL
               .
            
             
               
                 T
                 IS
                 said
                 that
                 Phidias
                 gave
                 such
                 living
                 Grace
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 the
                 carv'd
                 Image
                 of
                 a
                 beauteous
                 Face
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 the
                 cold
                 Marble
                 might
                 ev'n
                 seem
                 to
                 be
              
               
                 The
                 Life
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 true
                 Life
                 ,
                 the
                 Imag'ry
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 You
                 pass
                 that
                 Artist
                 ,
                 Sir
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 his
                 Powers
                 ,
              
               
                 Making
                 the
                 best
                 of
                 Roman
                 Poets
                 ours
                 ;
              
               
                 With
                 such
                 Effect
                 ,
                 we
                 know
                 not
                 which
                 to
                 call
              
               
                 The
                 Imitation
                 ,
                 which
                 th'
                 Original
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 What
                 Virgil
                 lent
                 ,
                 you
                 pay
                 in
                 equal
                 Weight
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 charming
                 Beauty
                 of
                 the
                 Coin
                 no
                 less
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 such
                 the
                 Majesty
                 of
                 your
                 Impress
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 seem
                 the
                 very
                 Author
                 you
                 translate
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 'T
                 is
                 certain
                 ,
                 were
                 he
                 now
                 alive
                 with
                 us
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 did
                 revolving
                 Destiny
                 constrain
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 dress
                 his
                 Thoughts
                 in
                 English
                 o're
                 again
                 ,
              
               
                 Himself
                 cou'd
                 write
                 no
                 otherwise
                 than
                 thus
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 His
                 old
                 Encomium
                 never
                 did
                 appear
              
               
                 So
                 true
                 as
                 now
                 ;
                 Romans
                 and
                 Greeks
                 submit
                 ,
              
               
                 Something
                 of
                 late
                 is
                 in
                 our
                 Language
                 writ
                 ,
              
               
                 
                   More
                   nobly
                   great
                   than
                   the
                   fam'd
                
                 Iliads
                 were
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Ja.
                 Wright
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
               To
               Mr.
               Dryden
               on
               his
               Translations
               .
            
             
               
                 AS
                 Flow'rs
                 transplanted
                 from
                 a
                 Southern
                 Sky
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 hardly
                 bear
                 ,
                 or
                 in
                 the
                 raising
                 dye
                 ,
              
               
                 Missing
                 their
                 Native
                 Sun
                 ,
                 at
                 best
                 retain
              
               
                 But
                 a
                 faint
                 Odour
                 ,
                 and
                 but
                 live
                 with
                 Pain
                 :
              
               
                 So
                 Roman
                 Poetry
                 by
                 Moderns
                 taught
                 ,
              
               
                 Wanting
                 the
                 Warmth
                 with
                 which
                 its
                 Author
                 wrote
                 ,
              
               
                 Is
                 a
                 dead
                 Image
                 ,
                 and
                 a
                 worthless
                 Draught
                 .
              
               
                 While
                 we
                 transfuse
                 ,
                 the
                 nimble
                 Spirit
                 flies
                 ,
              
               
                 Escapes
                 unseen
                 ,
                 evaporates
                 ,
                 and
                 dyes
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Who
                 then
                 attempt
                 to
                 shew
                 the
                 Ancients
                 Wit
                 ,
              
               
                 Must
                 copy
                 with
                 the
                 Genius
                 that
                 they
                 writ
                 .
              
               
                 Whence
                 we
                 conclude
                 from
                 thy
                 translated
                 Song
                 ,
              
               
                 So
                 just
                 ,
                 so
                 warm
                 ,
                 so
                 smooth
                 ,
                 and
                 yet
                 so
                 strong
                 ,
              
               
                 Thou
                 Heav'nly
                 Charmer
                 !
                 Soul
                 of
                 Harmony
                 !
              
               
                 That
                 all
                 their
                 Geniusses
                 reviv'd
                 in
                 thee
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Thy
                 Trumpet
                 sounds
                 ,
                 the
                 dead
                 are
                 rais'd
                 to
                 Light
                 ,
              
               
                 New-born
                 they
                 rise
                 ,
                 and
                 take
                 to
                 Heav'n
                 their
                 Flight
                 ;
              
               
                 Deckt
                 in
                 thy
                 Verse
                 ,
                 as
                 clad
                 with
                 Rayes
                 ,
                 they
                 shine
              
               
                 All
                 Glorify'd
                 ,
                 Immortal
                 and
                 Divine
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 As
                 Britain
                 ,
                 in
                 rich
                 Soil
                 abounding
                 wide
                 ,
              
               
                 Furnish'd
                 for
                 Use
                 ,
                 for
                 Luxury
                 ,
                 and
                 Pride
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 spreads
                 her
                 wanton
                 Sails
                 on
                 ev'ry
                 Shore
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 Foreign
                 Wealth
                 ,
                 insatiate
                 still
                 of
                 more
                 ;
              
               
                 To
                 her
                 own
                 Wooll
                 ,
                 the
                 Silks
                 of
                 Asia
                 joins
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 to
                 her
                 plenteous
                 Harvests
                 ,
                 Indian
                 Mines
                 :
              
               
                 So
                 Dryden
                 ,
                 not
                 contented
                 with
                 the
                 Fame
              
               
                 Of
                 his
                 own
                 Works
                 ,
                 tho'
                 an
                 immortal
                 Name
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 Lands
                 remote
                 he
                 sends
                 his
                 learned
                 Muse
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Noblest
                 Seeds
                 of
                 Foreign
                 Wit
                 to
                 chuse
                 .
              
               
                 Feasting
                 our
                 Sense
                 so
                 many
                 various
                 Ways
                 ,
              
               
                 Say
                 ,
                 Is
                 't
                 thy
                 Bounty
                 ,
                 or
                 thy
                 Thirst
                 of
                 Praise
                 ?
              
               
                 That
                 by
                 comparing
                 others
                 ,
                 all
                 might
                 see
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 most
                 excell'd
                 ,
                 are
                 yet
                 excell'd
                 by
                 thee
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 George
                 Granville
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               ERRATA
               .
            
             
               
                 
                   In
                   the
                   Dedicatory
                   Preface
                   to
                   the
                   Marquess
                   of
                
                 Normanby
                 .
              
               
                 
                   PAg.
                   7.
                   line
                   32.
                   read
                
                 ,
                 of
                 Republican
                 Principles
                 in
                 his
                 Heart
                 .
                 
                   p.
                   9.
                
                 where
                 Atis
                 is
                 mention'd
                 as
                 having
                 a
                 claim
                 by
                 Succession
                 before
                 Aeneas
                 ,
                 my
                 Memory
                 betray'd
                 me
                 ;
                 for
                 had
                 I
                 consulted
                 Virgil
                 ,
                 he
                 calls
                 not
                 the
                 Son
                 of
                 Polites
                 by
                 the
                 name
                 of
                 Atis
                 ,
                 but
                 of
                 Priamus
                 .
                 'T
                 is
                 true
                 he
                 mentions
                 Atis
                 immediately
                 afterwards
                 ,
                 on
                 the
                 account
                 of
                 the
                 Atian
                 Family
                 ,
                 from
                 which
                 
                   Julius
                   Caesar
                
                 was
                 descended
                 by
                 his
                 Grandmother
                 ,
                 as
                 I
                 have
                 there
                 mention'd
                 .
                 
                   p.
                   26.
                
                 towards
                 the
                 bottom
                 of
                 this
                 Page
                 here
                 is
                 a
                 gross
                 Errour
                 ,
                 which
                 is
                 easily
                 corrected
                 ,
                 by
                 reading
                 Ten
                 Months
                 instead
                 of
                 Three
                 :
                 the
                 Sense
                 will
                 direct
                 you
                 to
                 the
                 place
                 .
                 
                   p.
                   28.
                
                 
                 In
                 the
                 quotation
                 of
                 a
                 verse
                 of
                 
                 Virgil's
                 ;
                 for
                 contise
                 r.
                 confise
                 .
                 
                   p.
                   30
                   f.
                   Juturna
                
                 took
                 his
                 opportunity
                 ,
                 r.
                 this
                 opportunity
                 .
                 
                   There
                   are
                   other
                   Errata
                   both
                   in
                   false
                   pointing
                   ,
                   and
                   omissions
                   of
                   words
                   ,
                   both
                   in
                   the
                   Preface
                   and
                   the
                   Poem
                   ,
                   which
                   the
                   Reader
                   will
                   correct
                   without
                   my
                   trouble
                   .
                   I
                   omit
                   them
                   ,
                   because
                   they
                   only
                   lame
                   my
                
                 English
                 ,
                 
                   not
                   destroy
                   my
                   meaning
                
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Some
                 of
                 the
                 most
                 considerable
                 Errata
                 .
              
               
                 
                   PAstoral
                   2.
                   l.
                   43.
                   r.
                
                 nor
                 scorn
                 the
                 Pipe.
                 
                   Past
                   .
                   4.
                   l.
                   36.
                   for
                
                 Cold
                 r.
                 Gold.
                 
                   Past
                   .
                   6.
                   l.
                   72.
                   f.
                
                 this
                 r.
                 thy
                 .
                 
                   In
                   the
                   same
                   Past
                   .
                   l.
                   1.
                   f.
                
                 Scicilian
                 r.
                 Sicilian
                 .
                 
                   Past
                   .
                   8.
                   l.
                   19.
                   read
                   the
                   whole
                   line
                   thus
                
                 ;
                 Scarce
                 from
                 the
                 World
                 the
                 Shades
                 of
                 Night
                 withdrew
                 .
                 
                   Georgic
                   1.
                   l.
                   96.
                   after
                   the
                   word
                
                 Arbute
                 
                   place
                   the
                   Comma
                   ;
                   not
                   after
                   the
                   next
                   word
                
                 Hazle
                 ,
                 
                   as
                   it
                   is
                   printed
                   ,
                   which
                   destroys
                   the
                   Sense
                   .
                   The
                   whole
                   Verse
                   is
                   to
                   be
                   thus
                   read
                   ,
                
                 The
                 thin-leav'd
                 Arbute
                 ,
                 hazle
                 Graffs
                 receives
                 .
                 
                   l.
                   139.
                   the
                   note
                   of
                
                 Interrogation
                 
                   is
                   false
                   at
                   the
                   end
                   of
                   the
                   Line
                   ,
                   it
                   ought
                   to
                   be
                   a
                
                 Period
                 .
                 
                   l.
                   393.
                   f.
                
                 skins
                 r.
                 skims
                 .
                 
                   Geor.
                   2.
                   l.
                   203.
                   and
                   204.
                   the
                   Rhymes
                   of
                   both
                   are
                   false
                   printed
                   :
                   instead
                   of
                
                 Wars
                 and
                 prepares
                 ,
                 r.
                 War
                 and
                 prepare
                 
                   in
                   the
                   singular
                   .
                   l.
                   296.
                   f.
                
                 tracts
                 r.
                 tracks
                 .
                 
                   Geor.
                   4.
                   l.
                   354.
                
                 
                 And
                 Worms
                 that
                 shun
                 the
                 Light
                 ,
                 r.
                 and
                 Lizards
                 shunning
                 Light.
                 
                   Aeneid
                   1.
                   l.
                   79.
                   f.
                
                 Elus
                 r.
                 Eolus
                 .
                 
                   l.
                   97.
                   r.
                
                 Eolus
                 
                   again
                   .
                   l.
                   640.
                   f.
                
                 Fate
                 r.
                 Fame
                 .
                 
                   l.
                   1054.
                   f.
                
                 Dimede
                 r.
                 Diomede
                 .
                 
                   Aen.
                   2.
                   l.
                   2.
                   f.
                
                 the
                 lofty
                 Couch
                 r.
                 his
                 lofty
                 Couch
                 .
                 
                   Aen.
                   3.
                   l.
                   40.
                   f.
                
                 Horrour
                 r.
                 Terrour
                 .
                 
                   l.
                   142.
                   blot
                   out
                   the
                
                 Period
                 
                   at
                   the
                   end
                   of
                   the
                   Verse
                   ,
                   and
                   place
                   a
                
                 Comma
                 .
                 
                   Aen.
                   4.
                   l.
                   824.
                   f.
                
                 pious
                 pious
                 r.
                 pious
                 Prince
                 .
                 
                   Aen
                   5.
                   l.
                   188.
                   f.
                
                 ptwo
                 r.
                 Prow
                 .
                 
                   Aen.
                   6.
                   l.
                   488.
                   f.
                
                 but
                 but
                 r.
                 but
                 
                   once
                   only
                   .
                   l.
                   747.
                   f.
                
                 van
                 r.
                 vain
                 .
                 
                   l.
                   1133.
                   f.
                
                 three
                 r.
                 two
                 .
                 
                   Aen.
                   7.
                   l.
                   43.
                   dele
                   the
                
                 Period
                 
                   at
                   the
                   end
                   of
                   the
                   Verse
                   .
                   l.
                   266.
                   f.
                
                 On
                 ,
                 
                   (
                   the
                   first
                   word
                   of
                   the
                   Verse
                   ,
                   )
                   r.
                
                 In.
                 
                   l.
                   446.
                   f.
                
                 native
                 Land
                 ,
                 r.
                 another
                 Land.
                 
                   l.
                   549.
                   f.
                
                 crowns
                 her
                 Lance
                 ,
                 r.
                 wreaths
                 her
                 Lance.
                 
                   l.
                   68.
                   f.
                
                 fill
                 .
                 r.
                 feed
                 .
                 
                   l.
                   732.
                   f.
                
                 reinfor'd
                 r.
                 reinforc'd
                 .
                 
                   l.
                   946.
                   f.
                
                 rosie
                 Fields
                 r.
                 dewy
                 Fields
                 .
                 
                   l.
                   1087.
                   f.
                
                 yied
                 r.
                 yield
                 .
                 
                   Aen.
                   8.
                   l.
                   674.
                   f.
                
                 lifeless
                 Limbs
                 ,
                 r.
                 listless
                 Limbs
                 .
                 
                   Aen.
                   10
                   l.
                   497.
                   blot
                   out
                   the
                
                 Period
                 
                   at
                   the
                   end
                   of
                   the
                   Verse
                   ,
                   and
                   place
                   a
                
                 Comma
                 .
                 
                   l.
                   735.
                   f.
                
                 shall
                 .
                 r.
                 will.
                 
                   l.
                   864.
                   f.
                
                 loving
                 Lord
                 r.
                 Sov'raign
                 Lord.
                 
                   l.
                   924.
                   f.
                
                 Planks
                 were
                 r.
                 Plank
                 was
                 .
                 
                   l.
                   1286.
                   f.
                
                 Sholuder
                 r.
                 Shoulder
                 .
                 
                   l.
                   1311.
                   f.
                
                 to
                 his
                 Throat
                 the
                 Sword
                 apply'd
                 ,
                 r.
                 to
                 the
                 Sword
                 his
                 Throat
                 apply'd
                 .
                 
                   Aen.
                   11.
                   l.
                   120.
                   f.
                
                 Heads
                 and
                 Hands
                 r.
                 their
                 loaded
                 Hands
                 .
                 
                   l.
                   528.
                   f.
                
                 Heros
                 r.
                 Heroes
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
               
                 Directions
                 to
                 the
                 Binders
                 ,
                 how
                 to
                 place
                 the
                 several
                 Parts
                 of
                 this
                 Book
                 in
                 Binding
                 .
              
               
                 
                   1.
                   
                   Title
                   and
                   Dedication
                   to
                   the
                   Lord
                   Clifford
                   .
                
                 
                   2.
                   
                   The
                   Life
                   of
                   Virgil
                   ,
                   and
                   Preface
                   to
                   the
                   Pastorals
                   .
                
                 
                   3.
                   
                   Poems
                   on
                   Mr.
                   
                   Dryden's
                   Translation
                   of
                   Virgil.
                   
                
                 
                   4.
                   
                   The
                   Names
                   of
                   the
                   Subscribers
                   to
                   the
                   Cuts
                   of
                   Virgil.
                   
                
                 
                   5.
                   
                   The
                   Names
                   of
                   the
                   second
                   Subscribers
                   .
                
                 
                   6.
                   
                   The
                   Pastorals
                   .
                
                 
                   7.
                   
                   The
                   Dedication
                   to
                   the
                   Earl
                   of
                   Chesterfield
                   ,
                   with
                   an
                   Essay
                   on
                   the
                   Georgics
                   .
                
                 
                   8.
                   
                   The
                   Georgics
                   .
                
                 
                   9.
                   
                   The
                   Dedication
                   to
                   the
                   Marquess
                   of
                   Normanby
                   .
                
                 
                   10.
                   
                   The
                   Aeneis
                   .
                
              
            
          
           
             
             
               THE
               NAMES
               OF
               THE
               SUBSCRIBERS
               TO
               THE
               Cuts
               of
               Virgil
               ,
               Each
               Subscription
               being
               Five
               Guineas
               .
            
             
               
                 
                   PASTORALS
                   .
                
                 
                   Page
                
                 
                   1
                   LOrd
                   Chancellor
                   .
                   —
                   1
                
                 
                   2
                   Lord
                   Privy
                   Seal
                   .
                   —
                   6
                
                 
                   3
                   
                     Earl
                     of
                  
                   Dorset
                   .
                   —
                   10
                
                 
                   4
                   Lord
                   Buckhurst
                   .
                   —
                   17
                
                 
                   5
                   
                     Earl
                     of
                  
                   Abingdon
                   .
                   —
                   20
                
                 
                   6
                   
                     Lord
                     Visc
                  
                   .
                   Cholmondely
                   .
                   —
                   26
                
                 
                   7
                   Ld.
                   Herbert
                   of
                   Chirbury
                   .
                   —
                   31
                
                 
                   8
                   Lord
                   Clifford
                   .
                   —
                   35
                
                 
                   9
                   
                     Marq.
                     of
                  
                   Hartington
                   .
                   —
                   41
                
                 
                   10
                   
                     The
                     Hon.
                     Mr.
                  
                   Ch.
                   Mountague
                   .
                   —
                   45
                
              
               
                 
                   Georgic
                   1st
                   .
                
                 
                   11
                   Sir
                   Tho
                   Trevor
                   .
                   —
                   49
                
                 
                   12
                   Sir
                   John
                   Hawles
                   .
                   —
                   56
                
                 
                   13
                   Joseph
                   Jeakyl
                   ,
                   
                     Esq
                  
                   —
                   61
                
                 
                   14
                   Tho.
                   Vernon
                   ,
                   
                     Esq
                  
                   —
                   63
                
                 
                   15
                   Will.
                   Dobyns
                   ,
                   
                     Esq
                  
                   —
                   68
                
              
               
                 
                   Geor.
                   2d
                   .
                
                 
                   16
                   Sir
                   Will.
                   Bowyer
                   .
                   —
                   71
                
                 
                   17
                   Gilbert
                   Dolbin
                   ,
                   
                     Esq
                  
                   —
                   75
                
                 
                   18
                   Geo.
                   London
                   ,
                   
                     Esq
                  
                   —
                   80
                
                 
                   19
                   John
                   Loving
                   ,
                   
                     Esq
                  
                   —
                   87
                
                 
                   20
                   Will.
                   Walsh
                   ,
                   
                     Esq
                  
                   —
                   94
                
              
               
                 
                   Geor.
                   3d.
                   
                
                 
                   21
                   
                     Duke
                     of
                  
                   Richmond
                   .
                   —
                   96
                
                 
                   22
                   Sir
                   J.
                   Isham
                   ,
                   Bar.
                   —
                   106
                
                 
                   23
                   Sir
                   Tho.
                   Mompesson
                   .
                   —
                   110
                
                 
                   24
                   John
                   Dormer
                   ,
                   
                     Esq
                  
                   —
                   113
                
                 
                   25
                   Frederick
                   Tylney
                   ,
                   
                     Esq
                  
                   —
                   117
                
              
               
                 
                   Geor.
                   4th
                   .
                
                 
                   26
                   Richard
                   Norton
                   ,
                   
                     Esq
                  
                   —
                   122
                
                 
                   27
                   Sir
                   Will.
                   Trumbull
                   .
                   —
                   125
                
                 
                   28
                   Sir
                   Barth
                   .
                   Shower
                   ,
                   —
                   138
                
                 
                   29
                   Symon
                   Harcourt
                   ,
                   
                     Esq
                  
                   —
                   141
                
                 
                   30
                   John
                   Granvill
                   ,
                   
                     Esq
                  
                   —
                   146
                
              
               
                 
                   Aeneid
                   1st
                   .
                
                 
                   31
                   Prince
                   George
                   of
                   Denmark
                   .
                   201
                
                 
                   32
                   Princess
                   Ann
                   of
                   Denmark
                   .
                   210
                
                 
                   33
                   
                     Dutchess
                     of
                  
                   Ormond
                   .
                   —
                   211
                
                 
                   34
                   
                     Countess
                     of
                  
                   Exeter
                   .
                   —
                   214
                
                 
                   35
                   
                     Countess
                     Dowager
                     of
                  
                   Winchelsea
                   .
                   —
                   227
                
                 
                   36
                   
                     Marchioness
                     of
                  
                   Normanby
                   .
                   230
                
              
               
                 
                   Aeneid
                   2d
                   .
                
                 
                   37
                   
                     Duke
                     of
                  
                   Somerset
                   .
                   —
                   234
                
                 
                   38
                   
                     Earl
                     of
                  
                   Salisbury
                   .
                   —
                   243
                
                 
                   39
                   
                     Earl
                     of
                  
                   Inchiqueen
                   .
                   —
                   247
                
                 
                   40
                   
                     Earl
                     of
                  
                   Orrery
                   .
                   —
                   257
                
                 
                   41
                   
                     Ld.
                     Visc
                  
                   .
                   Dunbar
                   .
                   —
                   261
                
                 
                   42
                   
                     Coun.
                     Dow.
                     of
                  
                   Northampton
                   .
                   263
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Aeneid
                   3d.
                   
                
                 
                   Page
                
                 
                   43
                   
                     Earl
                     of
                  
                   Darby
                   .
                   —
                   267
                
                 
                   44
                   
                     Bp.
                     of
                  
                   Durham
                   .
                   —
                   270
                
                 
                   45
                   
                     Bp.
                     of
                  
                   Ossery
                   .
                   —
                   276
                
                 
                   46
                   Dr.
                   John
                   Mountague
                   .
                   —
                   279
                
                 
                   47
                   Dr.
                   Brown.
                   —
                   286
                
                 
                   48
                   Dr.
                   Guibbons
                   .
                   —
                   293
                
              
               
                 
                   Aeneid
                   4th
                   .
                
                 
                   49
                   
                     Earl
                     of
                  
                   Exeter
                   .
                   —
                   296
                
                 
                   50
                   Lady
                   Giffard
                   .
                   —
                   298
                
                 
                   51
                   Lord
                   Clifford
                   .
                   —
                   303
                
                 
                   52
                   John
                   Walkaden
                   ,
                   
                     Esq
                  
                   —
                   307
                
                 
                   53
                   Henry
                   Tasburgh
                   ,
                   
                     Esq
                  
                   —
                   318
                
                 
                   54
                   Mrs.
                   Ann
                   Brownlow
                   .
                   —
                   326
                
              
               
                 
                   Aeneid
                   5th
                   .
                
                 
                   55
                   
                     Duke
                     of
                     St.
                  
                   Albans
                   .
                   —
                   327
                
                 
                   56
                   
                     Earl
                     of
                  
                   Torrington
                   .
                   —
                   332
                
                 
                   57
                   Anth.
                   Hamond
                   ,
                   
                     Esq
                  
                   —
                   340
                
                 
                   58
                   Henry
                   
                     St.
                     Johns
                     ,
                     
                       Esq
                    
                  
                   —
                   345
                
                 
                   59
                   Steph.
                   Waller
                   ,
                   
                     Dr.
                     of
                     Laws
                  
                   .
                   347
                
                 
                   60
                   
                     Duke
                     of
                  
                   Glocester
                   .
                   —
                   349
                
                 
                   61
                   Edmond
                   Waller
                   ,
                   
                     Esq
                  
                   —
                   359
                
              
               
                 
                   Aeneid
                   6th
                   .
                
                 
                   62
                   
                     Earl
                     of
                  
                   Denbigh
                   .
                   —
                   362
                
                 
                   63
                   Sir
                   Tho.
                   Dyke
                   ,
                   Bar.
                   —
                   370
                
                 
                   64
                   Mrs.
                   Ann
                   Bayner
                   .
                   —
                   371
                
                 
                   65
                   John
                   Lewknor
                   ,
                   
                     Esq
                  
                   —
                   374
                
                 
                   66
                   Sir
                   Fleetwood
                   Shepherd
                   .
                   —
                   378
                
                 
                   67
                   John
                   Poultney
                   ,
                   
                     Esq
                  
                   —
                   380
                
                 
                   68
                   John
                   Knight
                   ,
                   
                     Esq
                  
                   —
                   382
                
                 
                   69
                   Robert
                   Harley
                   ,
                   
                     Esq
                  
                   —
                   394
                
              
               
                 
                   Aeneid
                   7th
                   .
                
                 
                   70
                   
                     Earl
                     of
                  
                   Rumney
                   .
                   —
                   400
                
                 
                   71
                   Anthony
                   Henley
                   ,
                   
                     Esq
                  
                   —
                   404
                
                 
                   72
                   George
                   Stepney
                   ,
                   
                     Esq
                  
                   —
                   407
                
                 
                   Page
                
                 
                   73
                   Coll.
                   Tho.
                   Farringdon
                   .
                   —
                   416
                
                 
                   74
                   Lady
                   Mary
                   Sackvill
                   .
                   —
                   420
                
                 
                   75
                   Charles
                   Fox
                   ,
                   
                     Esq
                  
                   —
                   432
                
              
               
                 
                   Aeneid
                   8th
                   .
                
                 
                   76
                   
                     Earl
                     of
                  
                   Ailesbury
                   .
                   —
                   434
                
                 
                   77
                   
                     The
                     Hon.
                     Mr.
                  
                   Robert
                   Bruce
                   .
                   —
                   447
                
                 
                   78
                   Christopher
                   Rich
                   ,
                   
                     Esq
                  
                   —
                   450
                
                 
                   79
                   Sir
                   Godfry
                   Kneller
                   .
                   —
                   458
                
              
               
                 
                   Aeneid
                   9th
                   .
                
                 
                   80
                   
                     Earl
                     of
                  
                   Sunderland
                   .
                   —
                   464
                
                 
                   81
                   Thomas
                   Foley
                   ,
                   
                     Esq
                  
                   —
                   468
                
                 
                   82
                   Col.
                   Geo.
                   Cholmondley
                   .
                   —
                   476
                
                 
                   83
                   Sir
                   John
                   Percivall
                   ,
                   Bar.
                   —
                   481
                
                 
                   84
                   Col.
                   Christoph
                   .
                   Codrington
                   .
                   —
                   486
                
                 
                   85
                   Mr.
                   John
                   Closterman
                   .
                   —
                   494
                
              
               
                 
                   Aeneid
                   10th
                   .
                
                 
                   86
                   
                     Ld.
                     Visc
                  
                   .
                   Fitzharding
                   .
                   —
                   498
                
                 
                   87
                   Sir
                   Robert
                   Howard
                   .
                   —
                   511
                
                 
                   88
                   Sir
                   John
                   Leuson
                   Gore
                   ,
                   Bar.
                   517
                
                 
                   89
                   Sir
                   Charles
                   Orby
                   .
                   —
                   531
                
                 
                   90
                   Tho.
                   Hopkins
                   ,
                   
                     Esq
                  
                   —
                   536
                
              
               
                 
                   Aeneid
                   11th
                   .
                
                 
                   91
                   
                     Duke
                     of
                  
                   Shrewsbury
                   .
                   —
                   538
                
                 
                   92
                   Sir
                   Walter
                   Kirkham
                   Blount
                   ,
                   Bar.
                   —
                   541
                
                 
                   93
                   John
                   Noell
                   ,
                   
                     Esq
                  
                   —
                   546
                
                 
                   94
                   
                     Marquiss
                     of
                  
                   Normanby
                   .
                   —
                   549
                
                 
                   95
                   Lord
                   Berkley
                   .
                   —
                   569
                
                 
                   96
                   Arthur
                   Manwareing
                   ,
                   
                     Esq
                  
                   573
                
              
               
                 
                   Aeneid
                   12th
                   .
                
                 
                   97
                   
                     Earl
                     of
                  
                   Chesterfield
                   .
                   —
                   578
                
                 
                   98
                   Brigradier
                   Fitzpatrick
                   .
                   —
                   585
                
                 
                   99
                   Dr.
                   Tho.
                   Hobbs
                   .
                   —
                   595
                
                 
                   100
                   Lord
                   Guilford
                   —
                   611
                
                 
                   101
                   
                     Duke
                     of
                  
                   Ormond
                   .
                   —
                   618
                
              
            
          
           
             
             
               The
               Names
               of
               the
               second
               SUBSCRIBERS
               .
            
             
               
                 A.
                 
              
               
                 LOrd
                 Ashley
                 .
              
               
                 Sir
                 James
                 Ash
                 ,
                 Bar.
                 
              
               
                 Sir
                 James
                 Ash
                 ,
                 Bar.
                 
              
               
                 Sir
                 Francis
                 Andrew
                 ,
                 Bar.
                 
              
               
                 Charles
                 Adderley
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Mrs.
                 Ann
                 Ash
                 .
              
               
                 Edw.
                 Ash
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Mr.
                 Francis
                 Atterbury
                 .
              
               
                 Sam.
                 Atkins
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Tho.
                 Austen
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Ro.
                 Austen
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
            
             
               
                 B.
                 
              
               
                 
                   Earl
                   of
                
                 Bullingbrook
                 .
              
               
                 Sir
                 Ed.
                 Bettenson
                 ,
                 Bar.
                 
              
               
                 Sir
                 Tho.
                 Pope
                 Blount
                 ,
                 Bar.
                 
              
               
                 Sir
                 John
                 Bolles
                 .
              
               
                 Sir
                 Will.
                 Bowes
                 .
              
               
                 Will.
                 Blathwayt
                 ,
                 
                   
                     Esq
                  
                   Secretary
                   of
                   War.
                
                 
              
               
                 Will.
                 Barlow
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Peregrine
                 Bertye
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Will.
                 Bridgman
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Orlando
                 Bridgman
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Will.
                 Bridges
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Char.
                 Bloodworth
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Hon.
                
                 Henry
                 Boyl
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Rich.
                 Boyl
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Chidley
                 Brook
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Will.
                 Bromley
                 ,
                 
                   
                     Esq
                  
                   of
                   Warwicksbire
                
                 .
              
               
                 Mich.
                 Bruneau
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Tho.
                 Bulkley
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Theoph.
                 Butler
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Capt.
                 John
                 Berkeley
                 .
              
               
                 Mr.
                 Jo.
                 Bowes
                 ,
                 
                   Prebend
                   of
                   Durham
                
                 .
              
               
                 Mr.
                 Jeremiah
                 Ball.
                 
              
               
                 Mr.
                 John
                 Ball.
                 
              
               
                 Mr.
                 Richard
                 Banks
                 .
              
               
                 Mrs.
                 Elizabeth
                 Barry
                 .
              
               
                 Mr.
                 Beckford
                 .
              
               
                 Mr.
                 Tho.
                 Betterton
                 .
              
               
                 Mrs.
                 Catharine
                 Blount
                 .
              
               
                 Mr.
                 Bond.
                 
              
               
                 Mr.
                 Bond.
                 
              
               
                 Mrs.
                 Ann
                 Bracegirdle
                 .
              
               
                 Mr.
                 Samuel
                 Brockenbo-rough
                 .
              
               
                 Mrs.
                 Elizabeth
                 Brown.
                 
              
               
                 Mr.
                 Moses
                 Bruche
                 .
              
               
                 Mr.
                 Lancelton
                 Burton
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 C.
                 
              
               
                 
                   Earl
                   of
                
                 Clarendon
                 .
              
               
                 Lord
                 Hen.
                 Cavendish
                 .
              
               
                 Lord
                 Clifford
                 .
              
               
                 Lord
                 Coningsby
                 .
              
               
                 Lord
                 Cutts
                 .
              
               
                 Lady
                 Chudleigh
                 
                   of
                   the
                   West
                
                 .
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Hon.
                
                 Char.
                 Cornwallis
                 ,
                 
                   Son
                   to
                   the
                   Lord
                
                 Cornwallis
                 .
              
               
                 Sir
                 Walt.
                 Clarges
                 ,
                 Bar.
                 
              
               
                 Sir
                 Ro.
                 Cotton
                 .
              
               
                 Sir
                 Will.
                 Cooper
                 .
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Ho.
                
                 Will.
                 Cheyney
                 .
              
               
                 James
                 Calthorp
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Charles
                 Chamberlayn
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Edmond
                 Clifford
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Charles
                 Cocks
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Tho.
                 Coel
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Tho.
                 Coke
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Hugh
                 Colville
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Jo.
                 Crawley
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Courtney
                 Crocker
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Henry
                 Curwyn
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Capt.
                 James
                 Conoway
                 .
              
               
                 Mr.
                 Will.
                 Claret
                 .
              
               
                 Mr.
                 John
                 Clancy
                 .
              
               
                 Mr.
                 Will.
                 Congreve
                 .
              
               
                 Mr.
                 Henry
                 Cook.
                 
              
               
                 Mr.
                 Will.
                 Cooper
                 .
              
               
                 Mrs.
                 Elizabeth
                 Creed
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 D.
                 
              
               
                 
                   Dutchess
                   of
                
                 Devonshire
                 .
              
               
                 Paul
                 Docmenique
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Mountague
                 Drake
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Will.
                 Draper
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Mr.
                 Mich.
                 Dahl
                 .
              
               
                 Mr.
                 Davenport
                 .
              
               
                 Mr.
                 Will.
                 Delawn
                 .
              
               
                 Mrs.
                 Dorothy
                 Draycot
                 .
              
               
                 Mr.
                 Edward
                 Dryden
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 E.
                 
              
               
                 
                   Earl
                   of
                
                 Essex
                 .
              
               
                 Sir
                 Edw.
                 Ernle
                 .
              
               
                 Will.
                 Elson
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Tho.
                 Elyot
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Thomas
                 Earl
                 ,
                 
                   Major
                   General
                
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 F.
                 
              
               
                 Sir
                 Edm.
                 Fettiplace
                 ,
                 Bar.
                 
              
               
                 Sir
                 Will.
                 Forester
                 .
              
               
                 Sir
                 James
                 Forbys
                 .
              
               
                 Lady
                 Mary
                 Fenwick
                 .
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Ho.
                   Colon.
                
                 Finch
                 .
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Ho.
                   Doctour
                
                 Finch
                 .
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Ho.
                
                 Will.
                 Fielding
                 .
              
               
                 Rich.
                 Francklin
                 ,
                 
                   Post-master
                   ,
                   
                     Esq
                  
                
              
               
                 Charles
                 Fergesen
                 ,
                 
                   
                     Esq
                  
                   Com.
                   of
                   the
                   Navy
                
                 .
              
               
                 Doctor
                 Fuller
                 ,
                 
                   D.
                   of
                   Lincoln
                
                 .
              
               
                 Henry
                 Farmer
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Tho.
                 Finch
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Tho.
                 Frewin
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Mr.
                 George
                 Finch
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 G.
                 
              
               
                 Sir
                 Bevill
                 Granville
                 ,
                 Bar.
                 
              
               
                 Oliver
                 St.
                 George
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Tho.
                 Gifford
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Rich.
                 Goulston
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Richard
                 Graham
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Fergus
                 Grahme
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Will.
                 Grove
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Dr.
                 Gath
                 ,
                 
                   M.
                   D.
                
                 
              
               
                 Mr.
                 George
                 Goulding
                 .
              
               
                 Mr.
                 Grinlin
                 Guibbons
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 H.
                 
              
               
                 Lord
                 Archibald
                 Hamilton
                 .
              
               
                 Lord
                 Hide
                 .
              
               
                 Sir
                 Richard
                 Haddock
                 .
              
               
                 Sir
                 Christop
                 .
                 Hales
                 ,
                 Bar.
                 
              
               
                 
                 Sir
                 Tho.
                 Hussey
                 .
              
               
                 Rob.
                 Harley
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Rob.
                 Henley
                 ,
                 
                   
                     Esq
                  
                   Memb.
                   of
                   Parl.
                
                 
              
               
                 Will.
                 Hewer
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Roger
                 Hewett
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 He.
                 Heveningham
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 John
                 Holdworthy
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Matt.
                 Holdworthy
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Nath.
                 Hornby
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Ho.
                
                 Bern.
                 Howard
                 .
              
               
                 Craven
                 Howard
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Mansel
                 Howe
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Sam.
                 Hunter
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Mr.
                 Edward
                 Hastwell
                 .
              
               
                 Mr.
                 Nich.
                 Hawksmore
                 .
              
               
                 Mr.
                 Whitfeild
                 Hayter
                 .
              
               
                 Mr.
                 Peter
                 Henriques
                 .
              
               
                 Mr.
                 Ro.
                 Huckwell
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 J.
                 
              
               
                 John
                 James
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 William
                 Jenkins
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Sam.
                 Jones
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Mr.
                 Edw.
                 Jefferyes
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 K.
                 
              
               
                 Jos
                 .
                 Keally
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Coll.
                 James
                 Kendall
                 .
              
               
                 Dr.
                 Knipe
                 .
              
               
                 Mr.
                 Mich.
                 Kinkead
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 L.
                 
              
               
                 Sir
                 Berkeley
                 Lucy
                 ,
                 Ba.
                 
              
               
                 Lady
                 Jane
                 Leveson-Gower
                 .
              
               
                 Tho.
                 Langley
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Patrick
                 Lamb
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Will.
                 Latton
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 James
                 Long
                 
                   of
                   Draycot
                   ,
                   
                     Esq
                  
                
              
               
                 Will.
                 Lownds
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Dennis
                 Lydal
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Mr.
                 Char.
                 Longueville
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 M.
                 
              
               
                 Char.
                 Mannours
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Tho.
                 Mansell
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Bussy
                 Mansel
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Will.
                 Martyn
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Henry
                 Maxwell
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Charles
                 Mein
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Rich.
                 Minshul
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Ro.
                 Molesworth
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Ho.
                
                 Henry
                 Mordaunt
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 George
                 Moult
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Christoph
                 .
                 Mountague
                 .
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Walter
                 Moyl
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Mr.
                 Charles
                 Marbury
                 .
              
               
                 Mr.
                 Christoph
                 .
                 Metcalf
                 .
              
               
                 Mrs.
                 Monneux
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 N.
                 
              
               
                 Lord
                 Norris
                 .
              
               
                 Henry
                 Nevile
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 William
                 Norris
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Mr.
                 William
                 Nicoll
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 O.
                 
              
               
                 Ro.
                 Orme
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Dr.
                 Oliver
                 ,
                 
                   M.
                   D.
                
                 
              
               
                 Mr.
                 Mich.
                 Owen
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 P.
                 
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Right
                   Hon.
                
                 Charles
                 
                   Earl
                   of
                   Peterborough
                
                 .
              
               
                 Sir
                 Henry
                 Peachy
                 ,
                 Bar.
                 
              
               
                 Sir
                 John
                 Phillips
                 ,
                 Bar.
                 
              
               
                 Sir
                 John
                 Pykering
                 Bar.
                 
              
               
                 Sir
                 John
                 Parsons
                 ,
              
               
                 Ro.
                 Palmer
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Guy
                 Palmes
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Ben.
                 Parry
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Sam.
                 Pepys
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 James
                 Petre
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Will.
                 Peysley
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Craven
                 Peyton
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 John
                 Pitts
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Will.
                 Plowden
                 
                   of
                   Plowden
                   ,
                   
                     Esq
                  
                
              
               
                 Mr.
                 Theoph.
                 Pykering
                 ,
                 
                   Prebend
                   .
                   of
                   Durham
                
                 .
              
               
                 Coll.
                 Will.
                 Parsons
                 .
              
               
                 Captain
                 Phillips
                 .
              
               
                 Captain
                 Pitts
                 .
              
               
                 Mr.
                 Daniel
                 Peck
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 R.
                 
              
               
                 
                   Dutchess
                   of
                
                 Richmond
                 .
              
               
                 
                   Earl
                   of
                
                 Radnor
                 .
              
               
                 Lord
                 Ranelagh
                 .
              
               
                 Tho.
                 Rawlins
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Will.
                 Rider
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Francis
                 Roberts
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Mr.
                 Rose
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 S.
                 
              
               
                 Lord
                 Spencer
                 .
              
               
                 Sir
                 Tho.
                 Skipwith
                 ,
                 Bar.
                 
              
               
                 Sir
                 John
                 Seymour
                 .
              
               
                 Sir
                 Char.
                 Skrimpshire
                 .
              
               
                 J.
                 Scroop
                 
                   of
                   Danby
                   ,
                   
                     Esq
                  
                
              
               
                 Ralph
                 .
                 Sheldon
                 ,
                 
                   Com.
                   Warw.
                   
                     Esq
                  
                
              
               
                 Edw.
                 Sheldon
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 John
                 Smith
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 James
                 Sothern
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Ho.
                
                 James
                 Stanley
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Ro.
                 Stopford
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Hon.
                   Major
                   Gen.
                
                 Edw.
                 Sackville
                 .
              
               
                 Col.
                 J.
                 Stanhope
                 .
              
               
                 Col.
                 Strangways
                 .
              
               
                 Mr.
                 James
                 Seamer
                 .
              
               
                 Mr.
                 William
                 Seeks
                 .
              
               
                 Mr.
                 Joseph
                 Sherwood
                 .
              
               
                 Mr.
                 Laurence
                 Smith
                 .
              
               
                 Mr.
                 Tho.
                 Southern
                 .
              
               
                 Mr.
                 Paris
                 Slaughter
                 .
              
               
                 Mr.
                 Lancelot
                 Stepney
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 T.
                 
              
               
                 Sir
                 John
                 Trevillion
                 ,
                 Bar.
                 
              
               
                 Sir
                 Edm.
                 Turner
                 .
              
               
                 Henry
                 Temple
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Ashburnam
                 Toll
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Sam.
                 Travers
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 John
                 Tucker
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 
                   Maj.
                   Gen.
                
                 Charles
                 Trelawney
                 .
              
               
                 
                   Maj.
                   Gen.
                
                 Trelawney
                 .
              
               
                 Col.
                 John
                 Tidcomb
                 .
              
               
                 Col.
                 Trelawney
                 .
              
               
                 Mr.
                 George
                 Townsend
                 .
              
               
                 Mr.
                 Tho.
                 Tyldesley
                 .
              
               
                 Mr.
                 Tyndall
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 V.
                 
              
               
                 John
                 Verney
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Henry
                 Vernon
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 James
                 Vernon
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
            
             
               
                 W.
                 
              
               
                 
                   Ld.
                   Marquiss
                   of
                
                 Winchester
                 .
              
               
                 
                   Earl
                   of
                
                 Weymouth
                 .
              
               
                 Lady
                 Windham
                 .
              
               
                 Sir
                 John
                 Walter
                 ,
                 Bar.
                 
              
               
                 Sir
                 John
                 Woodhouse
                 ,
                 B.
                 
              
               
                 Sir
                 Francis
                 Windham
                 .
              
               
                 James
                 Ward
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 William
                 Wardour
                 ,
                 
                   Jun.
                   
                     Esq
                  
                
              
               
                 Will.
                 Welby
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Will.
                 Weld
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Th.
                 Brome
                 Whorwood
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Salw.
                 Winnington
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 Col.
                 Cornelius
                 Wood.
                 
              
               
                 Mrs.
                 Mary
                 Walter
                 .
              
               
                 Mr.
                 Leonard
                 Wessel
                 .
              
            
             
          
        
         
           
             
             
               
                 
                   Ec.
                   1.
                   l.
                   1
                
                 
                   To
                   the
                   Right
                   Hon
                   ble
                   John
                   Lord
                   Sommers
                   Baron
                   of
                   Eresham
                   L
                   d
                   High
                   Chancell
                   r
                   :
                   of
                   England
                   &c.
                   
                
              
            
             
             
               Virgil's
               Pastorals
               .
            
             
               
                 
                   The
                   First
                   Pastoral
                
                 .
                 OR
                 Tityrus
                 and
                 Meliboeus
                 .
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Argument
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     The
                     Occasion
                     of
                     the
                     First
                     Pastoral
                     was
                     this
                     .
                     When
                  
                   Augustus
                   
                     had
                     setled
                     himself
                     in
                     the
                  
                   Roman
                   
                     Empire
                     ,
                     that
                     he
                     might
                     reward
                     his
                  
                   Veteran
                   
                     Troops
                     for
                     their
                     past
                     Service
                     ,
                     he
                     distributed
                     among
                     'em
                     all
                     the
                     Lands
                     that
                     lay
                     about
                  
                   Cremona
                   and
                   Mantua
                   :
                   
                     turning
                     out
                     the
                     right
                     Owners
                     for
                     having
                     sided
                     with
                     his
                     Enemies
                     .
                  
                   Virgil
                   
                     was
                     a
                     Sufferer
                     among
                     the
                     rest
                     ;
                     who
                     afterwards
                     recover'd
                     his
                     Estate
                     by
                  
                   Mecaenas
                   
                     's
                     Intercession
                     ,
                     and
                     as
                     an
                     Instance
                     of
                     his
                     Gratitude
                     compos'd
                     the
                     following
                     Pastoral
                     ;
                     where
                     he
                     sets
                     out
                     his
                     own
                     Good
                     Fortune
                     in
                     the
                     Person
                     of
                  
                   Tityrus
                   ,
                   
                     and
                     the
                     Calamities
                     of
                     his
                  
                   Mantuan
                   
                     Neighbours
                     in
                     the
                     Character
                     of
                  
                   Meliboeus
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   MELIBOEUS
                   .
                
                 
                   BEneath
                   the
                   Shade
                   which
                   Beechen
                   Boughs
                   diffuse
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   Tity'rus
                   entertain
                   your
                   Silvan
                   Muse
                   :
                
                 
                   Round
                   the
                   wide
                   World
                   in
                   Banishment
                   we
                   rome
                   ,
                
                 
                   Forc'd
                   from
                   our
                   pleasing
                   Fields
                   and
                   Native
                   Home
                   :
                
                 
                   While
                   stretch'd
                   at
                   Ease
                   you
                   sing
                   your
                   happy
                   loves
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   Amarillis
                   fills
                   the
                   shady
                   Groves
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   TITYRUS
                   .
                
                 
                   These
                   blessings
                   ,
                   Friend
                   ,
                   a
                   Deity
                   bestow'd
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   never
                   can
                   I
                   deem
                   him
                   less
                   than
                   God.
                
                 
                   The
                   tender
                   Firstlings
                   of
                   my
                   Woolly
                   breed
                
                 
                   Shall
                   on
                   his
                   holy
                   Altar
                   often
                   bleed
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   gave
                   my
                   Kine
                   to
                   graze
                   the
                   Flowry
                   Plain
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   to
                   my
                   Pipe
                   renew'd
                   the
                   Rural
                   Strain
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   MELIBOEUS
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   envy
                   not
                   your
                   Fortune
                   ,
                   but
                   admire
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   while
                   the
                   raging
                   Sword
                   and
                   wastful
                   Fire
                
                 
                   Destroy
                   the
                   wretched
                   Neighbourhood
                   around
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   Hostile
                   Arms
                   approach
                   your
                   happy
                   ground
                   .
                
                 
                   Far
                   diff'rent
                   is
                   my
                   Fate
                   :
                   my
                   feeble
                   Goats
                
                 
                   With
                   pains
                   I
                   drive
                   from
                   their
                   forsaken
                   Cotes
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   this
                   you
                   see
                   I
                   scarcely
                   drag
                   along
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   yeaning
                   on
                   the
                   Rocks
                   has
                   left
                   her
                   Young
                   ;
                
                 
                   (
                   The
                   Hope
                   and
                   Promise
                   of
                   my
                   failing
                   Fold
                   :
                   )
                
                 
                   My
                   loss
                   by
                   dire
                   Portents
                   the
                   Gods
                   foretold
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   had
                   I
                   not
                   been
                   blind
                   I
                   might
                   have
                   seen
                
                 
                   You
                   riven
                   Oak
                   ,
                   the
                   fairest
                   of
                   the
                   Green
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   hoarse
                   Raven
                   ,
                   on
                   the
                   blasted
                   Bough
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   frequent
                   Crokes
                   presag'd
                   the
                   coming
                   Blow
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   tell
                   me
                   ,
                   Tityrus
                   ,
                   what
                   Heav'nly
                   Power
                
                 
                   Preserv'd
                   your
                   Fortunes
                   in
                   that
                   fatal
                   Hour
                   ?
                
              
               
                 
                   TITYRUS
                   .
                
                 
                   Fool
                   that
                   I
                   was
                   ,
                   I
                   thought
                   Imperial
                   Rome
                
                 
                   Like
                   Mantua
                   ,
                   where
                   on
                   Market-days
                   we
                   come
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   thether
                   drive
                   our
                   tender
                   Lambs
                   from
                   home
                   .
                
                 
                   So
                   Kids
                   and
                   Whelps
                   their
                   Syres
                   and
                   Dams
                   express
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   so
                   the
                   Great
                   I
                   measur'd
                   by
                   the
                   Less
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   Country
                   Towns
                   ,
                   compar'd
                   with
                   her
                   ,
                   appear
                
                 
                   Like
                   Shrubs
                   ,
                   when
                   lofty
                   Cypresses
                   are
                   near
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   MELIBOEUS
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   great
                   Occasion
                   call'd
                   you
                   hence
                   to
                   Rome
                   ?
                
              
               
                 
                   TITYRUS
                   .
                
                 
                   Freedom
                   ,
                   which
                   came
                   at
                   length
                   ,
                   tho'
                   slow
                   to
                   come
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   did
                   my
                   Search
                   of
                   Liberty
                   begin
                   ,
                
                 
                   Till
                   my
                   black
                   Hairs
                   were
                   chang'd
                   upon
                   my
                   Chin.
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Amarillis
                   wou'd
                   vouchsafe
                   a
                   look
                   ,
                
                 
                   Till
                   
                   Galeatea's
                   meaner
                   bonds
                   I
                   broke
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Till
                   then
                   a
                   helpless
                   ,
                   hopeless
                   ,
                   homely
                   Swain
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   sought
                   not
                   freedom
                   ,
                   nor
                   aspir'd
                   to
                   Gain
                   :
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   many
                   a
                   Victim
                   from
                   my
                   Folds
                   was
                   bought
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   many
                   a
                   Cheese
                   to
                   Country
                   Markets
                   brought
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   all
                   the
                   little
                   that
                   I
                   got
                   ,
                   I
                   spent
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   still
                   return'd
                   as
                   empty
                   as
                   I
                   went.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   MELIBOEUS
                   .
                
                 
                   We
                   stood
                   amaz'd
                   to
                   see
                   your
                   Mistress
                   mourn
                   ;
                
                 
                   Unknowing
                   that
                   she
                   pin'd
                   for
                   your
                   return
                   :
                
                 
                   We
                   wonder'd
                   why
                   she
                   kept
                   her
                   Fruit
                   ,
                   so
                   long
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   whom
                   so
                   late
                   th'
                   ungather'd
                   Apples
                   hung
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   now
                   the
                   Wonder
                   ceases
                   ,
                   since
                   I
                   see
                
                 
                   She
                   kept
                   them
                   only
                   ,
                   Tityrus
                   ,
                   for
                   thee
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   thee
                   the
                   bubling
                   Springs
                   appear'd
                   to
                   mourn
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   whisp'ring
                   Pines
                   made
                   vows
                   for
                   thy
                   return
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   TITYRUS
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   shou'd
                   I
                   do
                   !
                   while
                   here
                   I
                   was
                   enchain'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   glimpse
                   of
                   Godlike
                   Liberty
                   remain'd
                   ?
                
                 
                   Nor
                   cou'd
                   I
                   hope
                   in
                   any
                   place
                   ,
                   but
                   there
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   find
                   a
                   God
                   so
                   present
                   to
                   my
                   Pray'r
                   .
                
                 
                   There
                   first
                   the
                   Youth
                   of
                   Heav'nly
                   Birth
                   I
                   view'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   whom
                   our
                   Monthly
                   Victims
                   are
                   renew'd
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   heard
                   my
                   Vows
                   ,
                   and
                   graciously
                   decreed
                
                 
                   My
                   Grounds
                   to
                   be
                   restor'd
                   ,
                   my
                   former
                   Flocks
                   to
                   feed
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   MELIBOEUS
                   .
                
                 
                   O
                   Fortunate
                   Old
                   Man
                   !
                   whose
                   Farm
                   remains
                
                 
                   For
                   you
                   sufficient
                   ,
                   and
                   requites
                   your
                   pains
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   Rushes
                   overspread
                   the
                   Neighb'ring
                   Plains
                   .
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   here
                   the
                   Marshy
                   Grounds
                   approach
                   your
                   Fields
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   there
                   the
                   Soyl
                   a
                   stony
                   Harvest
                   yields
                   .
                
                 
                   Your
                   teeming
                   Ewes
                   shall
                   no
                   strange
                   Meadows
                   try
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   fear
                   a
                   Rott
                   from
                   tainted
                   Company
                   .
                
                 
                   Behold
                   yon
                   bord'ring
                   Fence
                   of
                   Sallow
                   Trees
                
                 
                   Is
                   fraught
                   with
                   Flow'rs
                   ,
                   the
                   Flow'rs
                   are
                   fraught
                   with
                   Bees
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   buisie
                   Bees
                   with
                   a
                   soft
                   murm'ring
                   Strain
                
                 
                   Invite
                   to
                   gentle
                   sleep
                   the
                   lab'ring
                   Swain
                   .
                
                 
                   While
                   from
                   the
                   Neighb'ring
                   Rock
                   ,
                   with
                   Rural
                   Songs
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Pruner's
                   Voice
                   the
                   pleasing
                   Dream
                   prolongs
                   ;
                
                 
                   Stock-Doves
                   and
                   Turtles
                   tell
                   their
                   Am'rous
                   pain
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   from
                   the
                   lofty
                   Elms
                   of
                   Love
                   complain
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   TITYRUS
                   .
                
                 
                   Th'
                   Inhabitants
                   of
                   Seas
                   and
                   Skies
                   shall
                   change
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Fish
                   on
                   shoar
                   and
                   Stags
                   in
                   Air
                   shall
                   range
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   banish'd
                   Parthian
                   dwell
                   on
                   
                   Arar's
                   brink
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   blue
                   German
                   shall
                   the
                   Tigris
                   drink
                   :
                
                 
                   E're
                   I
                   ,
                   forsaking
                   Gratitude
                   and
                   Truth
                   ,
                
                 
                   Forget
                   the
                   Figure
                   of
                   that
                   Godlike
                   Youth
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   MELIBOEUS
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   we
                   must
                   beg
                   our
                   Bread
                   in
                   Climes
                   unknown
                   ,
                
                 
                   Beneath
                   the
                   scorching
                   or
                   the
                   freezing
                   Zone
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   some
                   to
                   far
                   Oaxis
                   shall
                   be
                   sold
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   try
                   the
                   Lybian
                   Heat
                   ,
                   or
                   Scythian
                   Cold.
                
                 
                   The
                   rest
                   among
                   the
                   Britans
                   be
                   confin'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   Race
                   of
                   Men
                   from
                   all
                   the
                   World
                   dis-join'd
                   .
                
                 
                   O
                   must
                   the
                   wretched
                   Exiles
                   ever
                   mourn
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   after
                   length
                   of
                   rowl'ing
                   Years
                   return
                   ?
                
                 
                   Are
                   we
                   condem'd
                   by
                   Fates
                   unjust
                   Decree
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   more
                   our
                   Houses
                   and
                   our
                   Homes
                   to
                   see
                   ?
                
                 
                   Or
                   shall
                   we
                   mount
                   again
                   the
                   Rural
                   Throne
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   rule
                   the
                   Country
                   Kingdoms
                   ,
                   once
                   our
                   own
                   !
                
                 
                   Did
                   we
                   for
                   these
                   Barbarians
                   plant
                   and
                   sow
                   ,
                
                 
                   On
                   these
                   ,
                   on
                   these
                   ,
                   our
                   happy
                   Fields
                   bestow
                   ?
                
                 
                   Good
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   what
                   dire
                   Effects
                   from
                   Civil
                   Discord
                   flow
                   !
                
                 
                   Now
                   let
                   me
                   graff
                   my
                   Pears
                   ,
                   and
                   prune
                   the
                   Vine
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Fruit
                   is
                   theirs
                   ,
                   the
                   Labour
                   only
                   mine
                   .
                
                 
                   Farewel
                   my
                   Pastures
                   ,
                   my
                   Paternal
                   Stock
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   fruitful
                   Fields
                   ,
                   and
                   my
                   more
                   fruitful
                   Flock
                   !
                
                 
                 
                   No
                   more
                   ,
                   my
                   Goats
                   ,
                   shall
                   I
                   behold
                   you
                   climb
                
                 
                   The
                   steepy
                   Cliffs
                   ,
                   or
                   crop
                   the
                   flow'ry
                   Thyme
                   !
                
                 
                   No
                   more
                   ,
                   extended
                   in
                   the
                   Grot
                   below
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shall
                   see
                   you
                   browzing
                   on
                   the
                   Mountain's
                   brow
                
                 
                   The
                   prickly
                   Shrubs
                   ;
                   and
                   after
                   on
                   the
                   bare
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lean
                   down
                   the
                   Deep
                   Abyss
                   ,
                   and
                   hang
                   in
                   Air.
                
                 
                   No
                   more
                   my
                   Sheep
                   shall
                   sip
                   the
                   Morning
                   Dew
                   ;
                
                 
                   No
                   more
                   my
                   Song
                   shall
                   please
                   the
                   Rural
                   Crue
                   :
                   ,
                
                 
                   Adieu
                   ,
                   my
                   tuneful
                   Pipe
                   !
                   and
                   all
                   the
                   World
                   adieu
                   !
                
              
               
                 
                   TITYRUS
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   Night
                   ,
                   at
                   least
                   ,
                   with
                   me
                   forget
                   your
                   Care
                   ;
                
                 
                   Chesnuts
                   and
                   Curds
                   and
                   Cream
                   shall
                   be
                   your
                   fare
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Carpet-ground
                   shall
                   be
                   with
                   Leaves
                   o'respread
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Boughs
                   shall
                   weave
                   a
                   Cov'ring
                   for
                   your
                   Head.
                
                 
                   For
                   see
                   yon
                   sunny
                   Hill
                   the
                   Shade
                   extends
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   curling
                   Smoke
                   from
                   Cottages
                   ascends
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 
                   The
                   Second
                   Pastoral
                
                 .
                 OR
                 ,
                 ALEXIS
                 .
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Argument
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     The
                     Commentators
                     can
                     by
                     no
                     means
                     agree
                     on
                     the
                     Person
                     of
                  
                   Alexis
                   ,
                   
                     but
                     are
                     all
                     of
                     opinion
                     that
                     some
                     Beautiful
                     Youth
                     is
                     meant
                     by
                     him
                     ,
                     to
                     whom
                  
                   Virgil
                   
                     here
                     makes
                     Love
                     ;
                     in
                  
                   Corydon
                   
                     's
                     Language
                     and
                     Simplicity
                     .
                     His
                     way
                     of
                     Courtship
                     is
                     wholly
                     Pastoral
                     :
                     He
                     complains
                     of
                     the
                     Boys
                     Coyness
                     ,
                     recommends
                     himself
                     for
                     his
                     Beauty
                     and
                     Skill
                     in
                     Piping
                     ;
                     invites
                     the
                     Youth
                     into
                     the
                     Country
                     ,
                     where
                     he
                     promises
                     him
                     the
                     Diversions
                     of
                     the
                     Place
                     ;
                     with
                     a
                     suitable
                     Present
                     of
                     Nuts
                     and
                     Apples
                     :
                     But
                     when
                     he
                     finds
                     nothing
                     will
                     prevail
                     ,
                     he
                     resolves
                     to
                     quit
                     his
                     troublesome
                     Amour
                     ,
                     and
                     betake
                     himself
                     again
                     to
                     his
                     former
                     Business
                     .
                  
                
              
               
                 Young
                 Corydon
                 ,
                 th'
                 unhappy
                 Shepherd
                 Swain
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 fair
                 Alexis
                 lov'd
                 ,
                 but
                 lov'd
                 in
                 vain
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 underneath
                 the
                 Beechen
                 Shade
                 ,
                 alone
                 ,
              
               
                 Thus
                 to
                 the
                 Woods
                 and
                 Mountains
                 made
                 his
                 moan
                 .
              
               
                 Is
                 this
                 ,
                 unkind
                 Alexis
                 ,
                 my
                 reward
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 must
                 I
                 die
                 unpitied
                 ,
                 and
                 unheard
                 ?
              
               
                 Now
                 the
                 green
                 Lizard
                 in
                 the
                 Grove
                 is
                 laid
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Sheep
                 enjoy
                 the
                 coolness
                 of
                 the
                 Shade
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 Thestilis
                 wild
                 Thime
                 and
                 Garlike
                 beats
              
               
                 For
                 Harvest
                 Hinds
                 ,
                 o'respent
                 with
                 Toyl
                 and
                 Heats
                 :
              
               
                 While
                 in
                 the
                 scorching
                 Sun
                 I
                 trace
                 in
                 vain
              
               
                 Thy
                 flying
                 footsteps
                 o're
                 the
                 burning
                 Plain
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 creaking
                 Locusts
                 with
                 my
                 Voice
                 conspire
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 fry'd
                 with
                 Heat
                 ,
                 and
                 I
                 with
                 fierce
                 Desire
                 .
              
               
                 How
                 much
                 more
                 easie
                 was
                 it
                 to
                 sustain
              
               
                 Proud
                 Amarillis
                 ,
                 and
                 her
                 haughty
                 Reign
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Scorns
                 of
                 Young
                 Menalcas
                 ,
                 once
                 my
                 care
                 ,
              
               
                 Tho'
                 he
                 was
                 black
                 ,
                 and
                 thou
                 art
                 Heav'nly
                 fair
                 .
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     the
                     Right
                     Hon
                     ble
                     :
                     Thomas
                     Earle
                     of
                     Pembroke
                     and
                     Montgomery
                     ,
                     Lord
                     Privy
                     Seale
                     &
                     〈…〉
                  
                   
                     Past
                     :
                     2.
                     
                  
                
              
               
               
               
                 Trust
                 not
                 too
                 much
                 to
                 that
                 enchanting
                 Face
                 ;
              
               
                 Beauty
                 's
                 a
                 Charm
                 ,
                 but
                 soon
                 the
                 Charm
                 will
                 pass
                 :
              
               
                 White
                 Lillies
                 lie
                 neglected
                 on
                 the
                 Plain
                 ,
              
               
                 While
                 dusky
                 Hyacinths
                 for
                 use
                 remain
                 .
              
               
                 My
                 Passion
                 is
                 thy
                 Scorn
                 ;
                 nor
                 wilt
                 thou
                 know
              
               
                 What
                 Wealth
                 I
                 have
                 ,
                 what
                 Gifts
                 I
                 can
                 bestow
                 :
              
               
                 What
                 Stores
                 my
                 Dairies
                 and
                 my
                 Folds
                 contain
                 ;
              
               
                 A
                 thousand
                 Lambs
                 that
                 wander
                 on
                 the
                 Plain
                 :
              
               
                 New
                 Milk
                 that
                 all
                 the
                 Winter
                 never
                 fails
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 the
                 Summer
                 overflows
                 the
                 Pails
                 :
              
               
                 Amphion
                 sung
                 not
                 sweeter
                 to
                 his
                 Herd
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 summon'd
                 Stones
                 the
                 Theban
                 Turrets
                 rear'd
                 .
              
               
                 Nor
                 am
                 I
                 so
                 deform'd
                 ;
                 for
                 late
                 I
                 stood
              
               
                 Upon
                 the
                 Margin
                 of
                 the
                 briny
                 Flood
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 Winds
                 were
                 still
                 ,
                 and
                 if
                 the
                 Glass
                 be
                 true
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 Daphnis
                 I
                 may
                 vie
                 ,
                 tho'
                 judg'd
                 by
                 you
                 .
              
               
                 O
                 leave
                 the
                 noisie
                 Town
                 ,
                 O
                 come
                 and
                 see
              
               
                 Our
                 Country
                 Cotts
                 ,
                 and
                 live
                 content
                 with
                 me
                 !
              
               
                 To
                 wound
                 the
                 Flying
                 Deer
                 ,
                 and
                 from
                 their
                 Cotes
              
               
                 With
                 me
                 to
                 drive
                 a-Field
                 ,
                 the
                 browzing
                 Goats
                 :
              
               
                 To
                 pipe
                 and
                 sing
                 ,
                 and
                 in
                 our
                 Country
                 Strain
              
               
                 To
                 Copy
                 ,
                 or
                 perhaps
                 contend
                 with
                 Pan.
              
               
                 Pan
                 taught
                 to
                 joyn
                 with
                 Wax
                 unequal
                 Reeds
                 ,
              
               
                 Pan
                 loves
                 the
                 Shepherds
                 ,
                 and
                 their
                 Flocks
                 he
                 feeds
                 :
              
               
                 Nor
                 scorns
                 the
                 Pipe
                 ;
                 Amyntas
                 ,
                 to
                 be
                 taught
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 all
                 his
                 Kisses
                 would
                 my
                 Skill
                 have
                 bought
                 .
              
               
                 Of
                 seven
                 smooth
                 joints
                 a
                 mellow
                 Pipe
                 I
                 have
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 with
                 his
                 dying
                 Breath
                 Damaetas
                 gave
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 said
                 ,
                 This
                 ,
                 Corydon
                 ,
                 I
                 leave
                 to
                 thee
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 only
                 thou
                 deserv'st
                 it
                 after
                 me
                 .
              
               
                 His
                 Eyes
                 Amyntas
                 durst
                 not
                 upward
                 lift
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 much
                 he
                 grudg'd
                 the
                 Praise
                 ,
                 but
                 more
                 the
                 Gift
                 .
              
               
                 Besides
                 two
                 Kids
                 that
                 in
                 the
                 Valley
                 stray'd
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 found
                 by
                 chance
                 ,
                 and
                 to
                 my
                 fold
                 convey'd
                 :
              
               
               
                 They
                 drein
                 to
                 bagging
                 Udders
                 every
                 day
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 these
                 shall
                 be
                 Companions
                 of
                 thy
                 Play.
              
               
                 Both
                 fleck'd
                 with
                 white
                 ,
                 the
                 true
                 Arcadian
                 Strain
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 Thestilis
                 had
                 often
                 beg'd
                 in
                 vain
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 she
                 shall
                 have
                 them
                 ,
                 if
                 again
                 she
                 sues
                 ,
              
               
                 Since
                 you
                 the
                 Giver
                 and
                 the
                 Gift
                 refuse
                 .
              
               
                 Come
                 to
                 my
                 longing
                 Arms
                 ,
                 my
                 lovely
                 care
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 take
                 the
                 Presents
                 which
                 the
                 Nymphs
                 prepare
                 .
              
               
                 White
                 Lillies
                 in
                 full
                 Canisters
                 they
                 bring
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 all
                 the
                 Glories
                 of
                 the
                 Purple
                 Spring
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Daughters
                 of
                 the
                 Flood
                 have
                 search'd
                 the
                 Mead
              
               
                 For
                 Violets
                 pale
                 ,
                 and
                 cropt
                 the
                 Poppy's
                 Head
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 Short
                 Narcissus
                 and
                 fair
                 Daffodil
                 ,
              
               
                 Pancies
                 to
                 please
                 the
                 Sight
                 ,
                 and
                 Cassia
                 sweet
                 to
                 smell
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 set
                 soft
                 Hyacinths
                 with
                 Iron
                 blue
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 shade
                 marsh
                 Marigolds
                 of
                 shining
                 Hue.
              
               
                 Some
                 bound
                 in
                 Order
                 ,
                 others
                 loosely
                 strow'd
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 dress
                 thy
                 Bow'r
                 ,
                 and
                 trim
                 thy
                 new
                 Abode
                 .
              
               
                 My self
                 will
                 search
                 our
                 planted
                 Grounds
                 at
                 home
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 downy
                 Peaches
                 and
                 the
                 glossie
                 Plum
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 thrash
                 the
                 Chesnuts
                 in
                 the
                 Neighb'ring
                 Grove
                 ,
              
               
                 Such
                 as
                 my
                 Amarillis
                 us'd
                 to
                 love
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Laurel
                 and
                 the
                 Myrtle
                 sweets
                 agree
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 both
                 in
                 Nosegays
                 shall
                 be
                 bound
                 for
                 thee
                 .
              
               
                 Ah
                 ,
                 Corydon
                 ,
                 ah
                 poor
                 unhappy
                 Swain
                 ,
              
               
                 Alexis
                 will
                 thy
                 homely
                 Gifts
                 disdain
                 :
              
               
                 Nor
                 ,
                 should'st
                 thou
                 offer
                 all
                 thy
                 little
                 Store
                 ,
              
               
                 Will
                 rich
                 Iolas
                 yield
                 ,
                 but
                 offer
                 more
                 .
              
               
                 What
                 have
                 I
                 done
                 ,
                 to
                 name
                 that
                 wealthy
                 Swain
                 ,
              
               
                 So
                 powerful
                 are
                 his
                 Presents
                 ,
                 mine
                 so
                 mean
                 !
              
               
                 The
                 Boar
                 amidst
                 my
                 Crystal
                 Streams
                 I
                 bring
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 Southern
                 Winds
                 to
                 blast
                 my
                 flow'ry
                 Spring
                 .
              
               
                 Ah
                 ,
                 cruel
                 Creature
                 ,
                 whom
                 dost
                 thou
                 despise
                 ?
              
               
                 The
                 Gods
                 to
                 live
                 in
                 Woods
                 have
                 left
                 the
                 Skies
                 .
              
               
               
                 And
                 Godlike
                 Paris
                 in
                 th'
                 Idean
                 Grove
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 
                 Priam's
                 Wealth
                 prefer'd
                 
                 Oenone's
                 Love.
              
               
                 In
                 Cities
                 which
                 she
                 built
                 ,
                 let
                 Pallas
                 Reign
                 ;
              
               
                 Tow'rs
                 are
                 for
                 Gods
                 ,
                 but
                 Forrests
                 for
                 the
                 Swain
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 greedy
                 Lyoness
                 the
                 Wolf
                 pursues
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Wolf
                 the
                 Kid
                 ,
                 the
                 wanton
                 Kid
                 the
                 Browze
                 :
              
               
                 Alexis
                 thou
                 art
                 chas'd
                 by
                 Corydon
                 ;
              
               
                 All
                 follow
                 sev'ral
                 Games
                 ,
                 and
                 each
                 his
                 own
                 .
              
               
                 See
                 from
                 afar
                 the
                 Fields
                 no
                 longer
                 smoke
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 sweating
                 Steers
                 unharnass'd
                 from
                 the
                 Yoke
                 ,
              
               
                 Bring
                 ,
                 as
                 in
                 Triumph
                 ,
                 back
                 the
                 crooked
                 Plough
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Shadows
                 lengthen
                 as
                 the
                 Sun
                 goes
                 Low.
              
               
                 Cool
                 Breezes
                 now
                 the
                 raging
                 Heats
                 remove
                 ;
              
               
                 Ah
                 ,
                 cruel
                 Heaven
                 !
                 that
                 made
                 no
                 Cure
                 for
                 Love
                 !
              
               
                 I
                 wish
                 for
                 balmy
                 Sleep
                 ,
                 but
                 wish
                 in
                 vain
                 :
              
               
                 Love
                 has
                 no
                 bounds
                 in
                 Pleasure
                 ,
                 or
                 in
                 Pain
                 .
              
               
                 What
                 frenzy
                 ,
                 Shepherd
                 ,
                 has
                 thy
                 Soul
                 possess'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Thy
                 Vinyard
                 lies
                 half
                 prun'd
                 ,
                 and
                 half
                 undress'd
                 .
              
               
                 Quench
                 ,
                 Corydon
                 ,
                 thy
                 long
                 unanswer'd
                 fire
                 :
              
               
                 Mind
                 what
                 the
                 common
                 wants
                 of
                 Life
                 require
                 .
              
               
                 On
                 willow
                 Twigs
                 employ
                 thy
                 weaving
                 care
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 find
                 an
                 easier
                 Love
                 ,
                 tho'
                 not
                 so
                 fair
                 .
              
            
             
             
             
             
             
               
               
                 
                   The
                   Third
                   Pastoral
                
                 .
                 OR
                 ,
                 PALAEMON
                 .
              
               
                 Menalcas
                 ,
                 Damaetas
                 ,
                 Palaemon
                 .
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Argument
                   .
                
                 
                   Damaetas
                   and
                   Menalcas
                   ,
                   
                     after
                     some
                     smart
                     strokes
                     of
                     Country
                     Railery
                     ,
                     resolve
                     to
                     try
                     who
                     has
                     the
                     most
                     Skill
                     at
                     a
                     Song
                     ;
                     and
                     accordingly
                     make
                     their
                     Neighbour
                  
                   Palaemon
                   
                     Judge
                     of
                     their
                     Performances
                     :
                     Who
                     ,
                     after
                     a
                     full
                     hearing
                     of
                     both
                     Parties
                     ,
                     declares
                     himself
                     unfit
                     for
                     the
                     Decision
                     of
                     so
                     weighty
                     a
                     Controversie
                     ,
                     and
                     leaves
                     the
                     Victory
                     undetermin'd
                     .
                  
                
              
               
                 
                   MENALCAS
                   .
                
                 
                   HO
                   ,
                   Groom
                   ,
                   what
                   Shepherd
                   owns
                   those
                   ragged
                   Sheep
                   ?
                
              
               
                 
                   DAMAETAS
                   .
                
                 
                   
                   Aegon
                   's
                   they
                   are
                   ,
                   he
                   gave
                   'em
                   me
                   to
                   keep
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   MENALCAS
                   .
                
                 
                   Unhappy
                   Sheep
                   of
                   an
                   Unhappy
                   Swain
                   ,
                
                 
                   While
                   he
                   Neaera
                   courts
                   ,
                   but
                   courts
                   in
                   vain
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   fears
                   that
                   I
                   the
                   Damsel
                   shall
                   obtain
                   ;
                
                 
                   Thou
                   ,
                   Varlet
                   ,
                   dost
                   thy
                   Master's
                   gains
                   devour
                   :
                
                 
                   Thou
                   milk'st
                   his
                   Ewes
                   ,
                   and
                   often
                   twice
                   an
                   hour
                   ;
                
                 
                   Of
                   Grass
                   and
                   Fodder
                   thou
                   defraud'st
                   the
                   Dams
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   of
                   their
                   Mothers
                   Duggs
                   the
                   starving
                   Lambs
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   DAMAETAS
                   .
                
                 
                   Good
                   words
                   ,
                   young
                   Catamite
                   ,
                   at
                   least
                   to
                   Men
                   :
                
                 
                   We
                   know
                   who
                   did
                   your
                   Business
                   ,
                   how
                   ,
                   and
                   when
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   what
                   Chappel
                   too
                   you
                   plaid
                   your
                   prize
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   what
                   the
                   Goats
                   observ'd
                   with
                   leering
                   Eyes
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Nymphs
                   werekind
                   ,
                   and
                   laught
                   ,
                   and
                   there
                   your
                   safety
                   lies
                   .
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     the
                     Right
                     Hon
                     ble
                     :
                     Charles
                     Sackvill
                     Earle
                     of
                     Dorsett
                     &
                     Midleseoc
                     Lord
                     Chamberlain
                     of
                     his
                     Maj
                     t
                     s
                     .
                     househould
                     &c.
                     
                  
                   
                     Past
                     3.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                 
                   MENALCAS
                   .
                
                 
                   Yes
                   ,
                   when
                   I
                   crept
                   the
                   Hedges
                   of
                   the
                   Leys
                   ;
                
                 
                   Cut
                   
                   Micon's
                   tender
                   Vines
                   ,
                   and
                   stole
                   the
                   Stays
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   DAMAETAS
                   .
                
                 
                   Or
                   rather
                   ,
                   when
                   beneath
                   yon
                   ancient
                   Oak
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Bow
                   of
                   Daphnis
                   and
                   the
                   Shafts
                   you
                   broke
                   :
                
                 
                   When
                   the
                   fair
                   Boy
                   receiv'd
                   the
                   Gift
                   of
                   right
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   but
                   for
                   Mischief
                   ,
                   you
                   had
                   dy'd
                   for
                   spight
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   MENALCAS
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   Nonsense
                   wou'd
                   the
                   Fool
                   thy
                   Master
                   prate
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   thou
                   ,
                   his
                   Knave
                   ,
                   can'st
                   talk
                   at
                   such
                   a
                   rate
                   !
                
                 
                   Did
                   I
                   not
                   see
                   you
                   ,
                   Rascal
                   ,
                   did
                   I
                   not
                   !
                
                 
                   When
                   you
                   lay
                   snug
                   to
                   snap
                   young
                   
                   Damon's
                   Goat
                   ?
                
                 
                   His
                   Mungril
                   bark'd
                   ,
                   I
                   ran
                   to
                   his
                   relief
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   cry'd
                   ,
                   There
                   ,
                   there
                   he
                   goes
                   ;
                   stop
                   ,
                   stop
                   the
                   Thief
                   .
                
                 
                   Discover'd
                   and
                   defeated
                   of
                   your
                   Prey
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   sculk'd
                   behind
                   the
                   Fence
                   ,
                   and
                   sneak'd
                   away
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   DAMAETAS
                   .
                
                 
                   An
                   honest
                   Man
                   may
                   freely
                   take
                   his
                   own
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Goat
                   was
                   mine
                   ,
                   by
                   singing
                   fairly
                   won
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   solemn
                   match
                   was
                   made
                   ;
                   He
                   lost
                   the
                   Prize
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ask
                   Damon
                   ,
                   ask
                   if
                   he
                   the
                   Debt
                   denies
                   ;
                
                 
                   I
                   think
                   he
                   dares
                   not
                   ,
                   if
                   he
                   does
                   ,
                   he
                   lyes
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   MENALCAS
                   .
                
                 
                   Thou
                   sing
                   with
                   him
                   ,
                   thou
                   Booby
                   ;
                   never
                   Pipe
                
                 
                   Was
                   so
                   profan'd
                   to
                   touch
                   that
                   blubber'd
                   Lip
                   :
                
                 
                   Dunce
                   at
                   the
                   best
                   ;
                   in
                   Streets
                   but
                   scarce
                   allow'd
                
                 
                   To
                   tickle
                   ,
                   on
                   thy
                   Straw
                   ,
                   the
                   stupid
                   Crowd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   DAMAETAS
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   bring
                   it
                   to
                   the
                   Trial
                   ,
                   will
                   you
                   dare
                
                 
                   Our
                   Pipes
                   ,
                   our
                   Skill
                   ,
                   our
                   Voices
                   to
                   compare
                   ?
                
                 
                   My
                   Brinded
                   Heifar
                   to
                   the
                   Stake
                   I
                   lay
                   ;
                
                 
                   Two
                   Thriving
                   Calves
                   she
                   suckles
                   twice
                   a
                   day
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   twice
                   besides
                   her
                   Beestings
                   never
                   fail
                
                 
                   To
                   store
                   the
                   Dairy
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   brimming
                   Pail
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   back
                   your
                   singing
                   with
                   an
                   equal
                   Stake
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   MENALCAS
                   .
                
                 
                   That
                   shou'd
                   be
                   seen
                   ,
                   if
                   I
                   had
                   one
                   to
                   make
                   .
                
                 
                   You
                   know
                   too
                   well
                   I
                   feed
                   my
                   Father's
                   Flock
                   :
                
                 
                   What
                   can
                   I
                   wager
                   from
                   the
                   common
                   Stock
                   ?
                
                 
                   A
                   Stepdame
                   too
                   I
                   have
                   ,
                   a
                   cursed
                   she
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   rules
                   my
                   Hen-peck'd
                   Sire
                   ,
                   and
                   orders
                   me
                   .
                
                 
                   Both
                   number
                   twice
                   a
                   day
                   the
                   Milky
                   Dams
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   once
                   she
                   takes
                   the
                   tale
                   of
                   all
                   the
                   Lambs
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   since
                   you
                   will
                   be
                   mad
                   ,
                   and
                   since
                   you
                   may
                
                 
                   Suspect
                   my
                   Courage
                   ,
                   if
                   I
                   should
                   not
                   lay
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Pawn
                   I
                   proffer
                   shall
                   be
                   full
                   as
                   good
                   :
                
                 
                   Two
                   Bowls
                   I
                   have
                   ,
                   well
                   turn'd
                   of
                   Beechen
                   Wood
                   ;
                
                 
                   Both
                   by
                   divine
                   Alcimedon
                   were
                   made
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   neither
                   of
                   them
                   yet
                   the
                   Lip
                   is
                   laid
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Lids
                   are
                   Ivy
                   ,
                   Grapes
                   in
                   clusters
                   lurk
                   ,
                
                 
                   Beneath
                   the
                   Carving
                   of
                   the
                   curious
                   Work.
                
                 
                   Two
                   Figures
                   on
                   the
                   sides
                   emboss'd
                   appear
                   ;
                
                 
                   Conon
                   ,
                   and
                   what
                   's
                   his
                   Name
                   who
                   made
                   the
                   Sphere
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   shew'd
                   the
                   Seasons
                   of
                   the
                   sliding
                   Year
                   ,
                
                 
                   Instructed
                   in
                   his
                   Trade
                   the
                   Lab'ring
                   Swain
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   when
                   to
                   reap
                   ,
                   and
                   when
                   to
                   sowe
                   the
                   Grain
                   ?
                
              
               
                 
                   DAMAETAS
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   I
                   have
                   two
                   ,
                   to
                   match
                   your
                   pair
                   ,
                   at
                   home
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Wood
                   the
                   same
                   ,
                   from
                   the
                   same
                   Hand
                   they
                   come
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   kimbo
                   Handles
                   seem
                   with
                   Bears-foot
                   carv'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   never
                   yet
                   to
                   Table
                   have
                   been
                   serv'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Where
                   Orpheus
                   on
                   his
                   Lyre
                   laments
                   his
                   Love
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Beasts
                   encompass'd
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   dancing
                   Grove
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   these
                   ,
                   nor
                   all
                   the
                   Proffers
                   you
                   can
                   make
                   ,
                
                 
                   Are
                   worth
                   the
                   Heifar
                   which
                   I
                   set
                   to
                   stake
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   MENALCAS
                   .
                
                 
                   No
                   more
                   delays
                   ,
                   vain
                   Boaster
                   ,
                   but
                   begin
                   :
                
                 
                   I
                   prophecy
                   before-hand
                   I
                   shall
                   win
                   .
                
                 
                   Palaemon
                   shall
                   be
                   Judge
                   how
                   ill
                   you
                   rhime
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   'll
                   teach
                   you
                   how
                   to
                   brag
                   another
                   time
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   DAMAETAS
                   .
                
                 
                   Rhymer
                   come
                   on
                   ,
                   and
                   do
                   the
                   worst
                   you
                   can
                   :
                
                 
                   I
                   fear
                   not
                   you
                   ,
                   nor
                   yet
                   a
                   better
                   Man.
                
                 
                   With
                   Silence
                   ,
                   Neighbour
                   ,
                   and
                   Attention
                   wait
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   't
                   is
                   a
                   business
                   of
                   a
                   high
                   Debate
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   PALAEMON
                   .
                
                 
                   Sing
                   then
                   ;
                   the
                   Shade
                   affords
                   a
                   proper
                   place
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Trees
                   are
                   cloath'd
                   with
                   Leaves
                   ,
                   the
                   Fields
                   with
                   Grass
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Blossoms
                   blow
                   ;
                   the
                   Birds
                   on
                   bushes
                   sing
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Nature
                   has
                   accomplish'd
                   all
                   the
                   Spring
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Challenge
                   to
                   Damaetas
                   shall
                   belong
                   ,
                
                 
                   Menalcas
                   shall
                   sustain
                   his
                   under
                   Song
                   :
                
                 
                   Each
                   in
                   his
                   turn
                   your
                   tuneful
                   numbers
                   bring
                   ;
                
                 
                   In
                   turns
                   the
                   tuneful
                   Muses
                   love
                   to
                   sing
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   DAMAETAS
                   .
                
                 
                   From
                   the
                   great
                   Father
                   of
                   the
                   Gods
                   above
                
                 
                   My
                   Muse
                   begins
                   ;
                   for
                   all
                   is
                   full
                   of
                   Jove
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   Jove
                   the
                   care
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   and
                   Earth
                   belongs
                   ;
                
                 
                   My
                   Flocks
                   he
                   blesses
                   ,
                   and
                   he
                   loves
                   my
                   Songs
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   MENALCAS
                   .
                
                 
                   Me
                   Phoebus
                   loves
                   ;
                   for
                   He
                   my
                   Muse
                   inspires
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   her
                   Songs
                   ,
                   the
                   warmth
                   he
                   gave
                   ,
                   requires
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   him
                   ,
                   the
                   God
                   of
                   Shepherds
                   and
                   their
                   Sheep
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   blushing
                   Hyacinths
                   ,
                   and
                   my
                   Bays
                   I
                   keep
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   DAMAETAS
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   pelted
                   Fruit
                   ,
                   me
                   Galatea
                   plyes
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   tripping
                   to
                   the
                   Woods
                   the
                   Wanton
                   hies
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   wishes
                   to
                   be
                   seen
                   ,
                   before
                   she
                   flies
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   But
                   from
                   my
                   frowning
                   Fair
                   ,
                   more
                   Ills
                   I
                   find
                   ,
                
                 
                   Than
                   from
                   the
                   Wolves
                   ,
                   and
                   Storms
                   ,
                   and
                   Winter-wind
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   MENALCAS
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Kids
                   with
                   pleasure
                   browze
                   the
                   bushy
                   Plain
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Show'rs
                   are
                   grateful
                   to
                   the
                   swelling
                   Grain
                   :
                
                 
                   To
                   teeming
                   Ewes
                   the
                   Sallow's
                   tender
                   tree
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   more
                   than
                   all
                   the
                   World
                   my
                   Love
                   to
                   me
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   DAMAETAS
                   .
                
                 
                   Pollio
                   my
                   Rural
                   Verse
                   vouchsafes
                   to
                   read
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   Heyfar
                   ,
                   Muses
                   ,
                   for
                   your
                   Patron
                   breed
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   MENALCAS
                   .
                
                 
                   My
                   Pollio
                   writes
                   himself
                   ,
                   a
                   Bull
                   be
                   bred
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   spurning
                   Heels
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   a
                   butting
                   Head.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   DAMAETAS
                   .
                
                 
                   Who
                   Pollio
                   loves
                   ,
                   and
                   who
                   his
                   Muse
                   admires
                   ,
                
                 
                   Let
                   Pollio's
                   fortune
                   crown
                   his
                   full
                   desires
                   .
                
                 
                   Let
                   Myrrh
                   instead
                   of
                   Thorn
                   his
                   Fences
                   fill
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   Show'rs
                   of
                   Hony
                   from
                   his
                   Oaks
                   distil
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   MENALCAS
                   .
                
                 
                   Who
                   hates
                   not
                   living
                   Bavius
                   ,
                   let
                   him
                   be
                
                 
                   (
                   Dead
                   Maevius
                   )
                   damn'd
                   to
                   love
                   thy
                   Works
                   and
                   thee
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   same
                   ill
                   taste
                   of
                   Sense
                   wou'd
                   serve
                   to
                   join
                
                 
                   Dog
                   Foxes
                   in
                   the
                   Yoak
                   ,
                   and
                   sheer
                   the
                   Swine
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   DAMAETAS
                   .
                
                 
                   Ye
                   Boys
                   ,
                   who
                   pluck
                   the
                   Flow'rs
                   ,
                   and
                   spoil
                   the
                   Spring
                   ,
                
                 
                   Beware
                   the
                   secret
                   Snake
                   ,
                   that
                   shoots
                   a
                   sting
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   MENALCAS
                   .
                
                 
                   Graze
                   not
                   too
                   near
                   the
                   Banks
                   ,
                   my
                   jolly
                   Sheep
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Ground
                   is
                   false
                   ,
                   the
                   running
                   Streams
                   are
                   deep
                   :
                
                 
                   See
                   ,
                   they
                   have
                   caught
                   the
                   Father
                   of
                   the
                   Flock
                   ;
                
                 
                   Who
                   drys
                   his
                   Fleece
                   upon
                   the
                   neighb'ring
                   Rock
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   DAMAETAS
                   .
                
                 
                   From
                   Rivers
                   drive
                   the
                   Kids
                   ,
                   and
                   sling
                   your
                   Hook
                   ;
                
                 
                   Anon
                   I
                   'll
                   wash
                   'em
                   in
                   the
                   shallow
                   Brook.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   MENALCAS
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   fair
                   Amyntas
                   comes
                   unask'd
                   to
                   me
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   offers
                   Love
                   ;
                   and
                   sits
                   upon
                   my
                   knee
                   :
                
                 
                   Not
                   Delia
                   to
                   my
                   Dogs
                   is
                   known
                   so
                   well
                   as
                   he
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   DAMAETAS
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   the
                   dear
                   Mistress
                   of
                   my
                   Love-sick
                   Mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   Swain
                   a
                   pretty
                   Present
                   has
                   design'd
                   :
                
                 
                   I
                   saw
                   two
                   Stock-doves
                   billing
                   ,
                   and
                   e're
                   long
                
                 
                   Will
                   take
                   the
                   Nest
                   ,
                   and
                   Hers
                   shall
                   be
                   the
                   Young.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   MENALCAS
                   .
                
                 
                   Ten
                   ruddy
                   Wildings
                   in
                   the
                   Wood
                   I
                   found
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   stood
                   on
                   tip-toes
                   ,
                   reaching
                   from
                   the
                   ground
                   ;
                
                 
                   I
                   sent
                   Amyntas
                   all
                   my
                   present
                   Store
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   will
                   ,
                   to
                   Morrow
                   ,
                   send
                   as
                   many
                   more
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   DAMAETAS
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   lovely
                   Maid
                   lay
                   panting
                   in
                   my
                   arms
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   she
                   said
                   and
                   did
                   was
                   full
                   of
                   Charms
                   .
                
                 
                   Winds
                   on
                   your
                   Wings
                   to
                   Heav'n
                   her
                   Accents
                   bear
                   ;
                
                 
                   Such
                   words
                   as
                   Heav'n
                   alone
                   is
                   fit
                   to
                   hear
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   MENALCAS
                   .
                
                 
                   Ah!
                   what
                   avails
                   it
                   me
                   ,
                   my
                   Love's
                   delight
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   call
                   you
                   mine
                   ,
                   when
                   absent
                   from
                   my
                   sight
                   !
                
                 
                   I
                   hold
                   the
                   Nets
                   ,
                   while
                   you
                   pursue
                   the
                   Prey
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   must
                   not
                   share
                   the
                   Dangers
                   of
                   the
                   Day
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   DAMAETAS
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   keep
                   my
                   Birth-day
                   :
                   send
                   my
                   Phillis
                   home
                   ;
                
                 
                   At
                   Sheering-time
                   ,
                   Iolas
                   ,
                   you
                   may
                   come
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   MENALCAS
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   Phillis
                   I
                   am
                   more
                   in
                   grace
                   than
                   you
                   :
                
                 
                   Her
                   Sorrow
                   did
                   my
                   parting-steps
                   pursue
                   :
                
                 
                   Adieu
                   my
                   Dear
                   ,
                   she
                   said
                   ,
                   a
                   long
                   Adieu
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   DAMAETAS
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Nightly
                   Wolf
                   is
                   baneful
                   to
                   the
                   Fold
                   ,
                
                 
                   Storms
                   to
                   the
                   Wheat
                   ,
                   to
                   Budds
                   the
                   bitter
                   Cold
                   ;
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   MENALCAS
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   fold
                   ,
                   my
                   Flock
                   ;
                   when
                   Milk
                   is
                   dry'd
                   with
                   heat
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   vain
                   the
                   Milk-maid
                   tugs
                   an
                   empty
                   Teat
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   DAMAETAS
                   .
                
                 
                   How
                   lank
                   my
                   Bulls
                   from
                   plenteous
                   pasture
                   come
                   !
                
                 
                   But
                   Love
                   that
                   drains
                   the
                   Herd
                   ,
                   destroys
                   the
                   Groom
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   MENALCAS
                   .
                
                 
                   My
                   Flocks
                   are
                   free
                   from
                   Love
                   ;
                   yet
                   look
                   so
                   thin
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   bones
                   are
                   barely
                   cover'd
                   with
                   their
                   Skin
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   magick
                   has
                   bewitch'd
                   the
                   woolly
                   Dams
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   what
                   ill
                   Eyes
                   beheld
                   the
                   tender
                   Lambs
                   ?
                
              
               
                 
                   DAMAETAS
                   .
                
                 
                   Say
                   ,
                   where
                   the
                   round
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   which
                   all
                   contains
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   three
                   short
                   Ells
                   on
                   Earth
                   our
                   sight
                   restrains
                   :
                
                 
                   Tell
                   that
                   ,
                   and
                   rise
                   a
                   Phoebus
                   for
                   thy
                   pains
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   MENALCAS
                   .
                
                 
                   Nay
                   tell
                   me
                   first
                   ,
                   in
                   what
                   new
                   Region
                   springs
                
                 
                   A
                   Flow'r
                   ,
                   that
                   bears
                   inscrib'd
                   the
                   names
                   of
                   Kings
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   thou
                   shalt
                   gain
                   a
                   Present
                   as
                   Divine
                
                 
                   As
                   Phoebus
                   self
                   ;
                   for
                   Phillis
                   shall
                   be
                   thine
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   PALAEMON
                   .
                
                 
                   So
                   nice
                   a
                   diff'rence
                   in
                   your
                   Singing
                   lyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   both
                   have
                   won
                   ,
                   or
                   both
                   deserv'd
                   the
                   Prize
                   .
                
                 
                   Rest
                   equal
                   happy
                   both
                   ;
                   and
                   all
                   who
                   prove
                
                 
                   The
                   bitter
                   Sweets
                   ,
                   and
                   pleasing
                   Pains
                   of
                   Love.
                
                 
                   Now
                   dam
                   the
                   Ditches
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Floods
                   restrain
                   :
                
                 
                   Their
                   moisture
                   has
                   already
                   drench'd
                   the
                   Plain
                   .
                
              
               
            
             
               
               
               
                 
                   The
                   Fourth
                   Pastoral
                
                 .
                 OR
                 ,
                 POLLIO
                 .
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Argument
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     The
                     Poet
                     celebrates
                     the
                     Birth-day
                     of
                  
                   Saloninus
                   ,
                   
                     the
                     Son
                     of
                  
                   Pollio
                   ,
                   
                     born
                     in
                     the
                     Consulship
                     of
                     his
                     Father
                     ,
                     after
                     the
                     taking
                     of
                  
                   Salonae
                   ,
                   
                     a
                     City
                     in
                  
                   Dalmatia
                   .
                   
                     Many
                     of
                     the
                     Verses
                     are
                     translated
                     from
                     one
                     of
                     the
                     Sybils
                     ,
                     who
                     prophesie
                     of
                     our
                     Saviour's
                     Birth
                     .
                  
                
              
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     the
                     Right
                     Hon
                     ble
                     .
                     Lionel
                     Cranfeild
                     Sackvill
                     Lord
                     Buck
                     hurst
                     ,
                     eldest
                     son
                     of
                     Charles
                     Earle
                     of
                     Dorsett
                     &
                     Midlesex
                     .
                  
                   
                     Past
                     :
                     4.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 SIcilian
                 Muse
                 begin
                 a
                 loftier
                 strain
                 !
              
               
                 Though
                 lowly
                 Shrubs
                 and
                 Trees
                 that
                 shade
                 the
                 Plain
                 ,
              
               
                 Delight
                 not
                 all
                 ;
                 Sicilian
                 Muse
                 ,
                 pepare
              
               
                 To
                 make
                 the
                 vocal
                 Woods
                 deserve
                 a
                 Consul's
                 care
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 last
                 great
                 Age
                 ,
                 foretold
                 by
                 sacred
                 Rhymes
                 ,
              
               
                 Renews
                 its
                 finish'd
                 Course
                 ,
                 Saturnian
                 times
              
               
                 Rowl
                 round
                 again
                 ,
                 and
                 mighty
                 years
                 ,
                 begun
              
               
                 From
                 their
                 first
                 Orb
                 ,
                 in
                 radiant
                 Circles
                 run
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 base
                 degenerate
                 Iron-off-spring
                 ends
                 ;
              
               
                 A
                 golden
                 Progeny
                 from
                 Heav'n
                 descends
                 ;
              
               
                 O
                 chast
                 Lucina
                 speed
                 the
                 Mother's
                 pains
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 haste
                 the
                 glorious
                 Birth
                 ;
                 thy
                 own
                 Apollo
                 reigns
                 !
              
               
                 The
                 lovely
                 Boy
                 ,
                 with
                 his
                 auspicious
                 Face
                 ,
              
               
                 Shall
                 
                 Pollio's
                 Consulship
                 and
                 Triumph
                 grace
                 ;
              
               
                 Majestick
                 Months
                 set
                 out
                 with
                 him
                 to
                 their
                 appointed
                 Race
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Father
                 banish'd
                 Virtue
                 shall
                 restore
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Crimes
                 shall
                 threat
                 the
                 guilty
                 world
                 no
                 more
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Son
                 shall
                 lead
                 the
                 life
                 of
                 Gods
                 ,
                 and
                 be
              
               
                 By
                 Gods
                 and
                 Heroes
                 seen
                 ,
                 and
                 Gods
                 and
                 Heroes
                 see
                 .
              
               
               
                 The
                 jarring
                 Nations
                 he
                 in
                 peace
                 shall
                 bind
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 paternal
                 Virtues
                 rule
                 Mankind
                 .
              
               
                 Unbidden
                 Earth
                 shall
                 wreathing
                 Ivy
                 bring
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 fragrant
                 Herbs
                 (
                 the
                 promises
                 of
                 Spring
                 )
              
               
                 As
                 her
                 first
                 Off'rings
                 to
                 her
                 Infant
                 King.
              
               
                 The
                 Goats
                 with
                 strutting
                 Dugs
                 shall
                 homeward
                 speed
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 lowing
                 Herds
                 ,
                 secure
                 from
                 Lyons
                 feed
                 .
              
               
                 His
                 Cradle
                 shall
                 with
                 rising
                 Flow'rs
                 be
                 crown'd
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Serpents
                 Brood
                 shall
                 die
                 :
                 the
                 sacred
                 ground
              
               
                 Shall
                 Weeds
                 and
                 pois'nous
                 Plants
                 refuse
                 to
                 bear
                 ,
              
               
                 Each
                 common
                 Bush
                 shall
                 Syrian
                 Roses
                 wear
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 when
                 Heroick
                 Verse
                 his
                 Youth
                 shall
                 raise
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 form
                 it
                 to
                 Hereditary
                 Praise
                 ;
              
               
                 Unlabour'd
                 Harvests
                 shall
                 the
                 Fields
                 adorn
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 cluster'd
                 Grapes
                 shall
                 blush
                 on
                 every
                 Thorn.
              
               
                 The
                 knotted
                 Oaks
                 shall
                 show'rs
                 of
                 Honey
                 weep
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 through
                 the
                 Matted
                 Grass
                 the
                 liquid
                 Cold
                 shall
                 creep
                 .
              
               
                 Yet
                 ,
                 of
                 old
                 Fraud
                 some
                 footsteps
                 shall
                 remain
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Merchant
                 still
                 shall
                 plough
                 the
                 deep
                 for
                 gain
                 :
              
               
                 Great
                 Cities
                 shall
                 with
                 Walls
                 be
                 compass'd
                 round
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 sharpen'd
                 Shares
                 shall
                 vex
                 the
                 fruitful
                 ground
                 .
              
               
                 Another
                 Typhis
                 shall
                 new
                 Seas
                 explore
                 ,
              
               
                 Another
                 Argos
                 land
                 the
                 Chiefs
                 ,
                 upon
                 th'
                 Iberian
                 Shore
                 .
              
               
                 Another
                 Helen
                 other
                 Wars
                 create
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 great
                 Achilles
                 urge
                 the
                 Trojan
                 Fate
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 when
                 to
                 ripen'd
                 Man-hood
                 he
                 shall
                 grow
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 greedy
                 Sailer
                 shall
                 the
                 Seas
                 forego
                 ;
              
               
                 No
                 Keel
                 shall
                 cut
                 the
                 Waves
                 for
                 foreign
                 Ware
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 every
                 Soil
                 shall
                 every
                 Product
                 bear
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 labouring
                 Hind
                 his
                 Oxen
                 shall
                 disjoyn
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 Plow
                 shall
                 hurt
                 the
                 Glebe
                 ,
                 no
                 Pruning-hook
                 the
                 Vine
                 :
              
               
                 Nor
                 Wooll
                 shall
                 in
                 dissembled
                 Colours
                 shine
                 .
              
               
               
                 But
                 the
                 luxurious
                 Father
                 of
                 the
                 Fold
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 native
                 Purple
                 ,
                 or
                 unborrow'd
                 Gold
                 ,
              
               
                 Beneath
                 his
                 pompous
                 Fleece
                 shall
                 proudly
                 sweat
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 under
                 Tyrian
                 Robes
                 the
                 Lamb
                 shall
                 bleat
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Fates
                 ,
                 when
                 they
                 this
                 happy
                 Web
                 have
                 spun
                 ,
              
               
                 shall
                 bless
                 the
                 sacred
                 Clue
                 ,
                 and
                 bid
                 it
                 smoothly
                 run
                 .
              
               
                 Mature
                 in
                 years
                 ,
                 to
                 ready
                 Honours
                 move
                 ,
              
               
                 O
                 of
                 Coelestial
                 Seed
                 !
                 O
                 foster
                 Son
                 of
                 Jove
                 !
              
               
                 See
                 ,
                 lab'ring
                 Nature
                 calls
                 thee
                 to
                 sustain
              
               
                 The
                 nodding
                 Frame
                 of
                 Heav'n
                 ,
                 and
                 Earth
                 ,
                 and
                 Main
                 ;
              
               
                 See
                 to
                 their
                 Base
                 restor'd
                 ,
                 Earth
                 ,
                 Seas
                 ,
                 and
                 Air
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 joyful
                 Ages
                 from
                 behind
                 ,
                 in
                 crowding
                 Ranks
                 appear
                 .
              
               
                 To
                 sing
                 thy
                 Praise
                 ,
                 wou'd
                 Heav'n
                 my
                 breath
                 prolong
                 ,
              
               
                 Insusing
                 Spirits
                 worthy
                 such
                 a
                 Song
                 ;
              
               
                 Not
                 
                   Thracian
                   Orpheus
                
                 should
                 transcend
                 my
                 Layes
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 Linus
                 crown'd
                 with
                 never-fading
                 Bayes
                 :
              
               
                 Though
                 each
                 his
                 Heav'nly
                 Parent
                 shou'd
                 inspire
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Muse
                 instruct
                 the
                 Voice
                 ,
                 and
                 Phoebus
                 tune
                 the
                 Lyre
                 .
              
               
                 Shou'd
                 Pan
                 contend
                 in
                 Verse
                 ,
                 and
                 thou
                 my
                 Theme
                 ,
              
               
                 Arcadian
                 Judges
                 shou'd
                 their
                 God
                 condemn
                 .
              
               
                 Begin
                 ,
                 auspicious
                 Boy
                 ,
                 to
                 cast
                 about
              
               
                 Thy
                 Infant
                 Eyes
                 ,
                 and
                 with
                 a
                 smile
                 ,
                 thy
                 Mother
                 single
                 out
                 ;
              
               
                 Thy
                 Mother
                 well
                 deserves
                 that
                 short
                 delight
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 nauseous
                 Qualms
                 of
                 ten
                 long
                 Months
                 and
                 Travel
                 to
                 requite
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 smile
                 ;
                 the
                 frowning
                 Infant
                 's
                 Doom
                 is
                 read
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 God
                 shall
                 crown
                 the
                 Board
                 ,
                 nor
                 Goodess
                 bless
                 the
                 Bed.
                 
              
            
             
               
               
                 
                   The
                   Fifth
                   Pastoral
                
                 .
                 OR
                 ,
                 DAPHNIS
                 .
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Argument
                   .
                
                 
                   Mopsus
                   and
                   Menalcas
                   ,
                   
                     two
                     very
                     expert
                     Shepherds
                     at
                     a
                     Song
                     ,
                     begin
                     one
                     by
                     consent
                     to
                     the
                     Memory
                     of
                  
                   Daphnis
                   ;
                   
                     who
                     is
                     suppos'd
                     by
                     the
                     best
                     Criticks
                     to
                     represent
                  
                   Julius
                   Caesar
                   .
                   Mopsus
                   
                     laments
                     his
                     Death
                  
                   ,
                   Menalcas
                   
                     proclaims
                     his
                     Divinity
                     .
                     The
                     whole
                     Eclogue
                     consisting
                     of
                     an
                     Elegie
                     and
                     an
                     Apotheosis
                     .
                  
                
              
               
                 
                   MENALCAS
                   .
                
                 
                   SInce
                   on
                   the
                   Downs
                   our
                   Flocks
                   together
                   feed
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   since
                   my
                   Voice
                   can
                   match
                   your
                   tuneful
                   Reed
                   ,
                
                 
                   Why
                   sit
                   we
                   not
                   beneath
                   the
                   grateful
                   Shade
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   Hazles
                   ,
                   intermix'd
                   with
                   Elms
                   ,
                   have
                   made
                   ?
                
              
               
                 
                   MOPSUS
                   .
                
                 
                   Whether
                   you
                   please
                   that
                   Silvan
                   Scene
                   to
                   take
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   whistling
                   Winds
                   uncertain
                   Shadows
                   make
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   will
                   you
                   to
                   the
                   cooler
                   Cave
                   succeed
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whose
                   Mouth
                   the
                   curling
                   Vines
                   have
                   overspread
                   ?
                
              
               
                 
                   MENALCAS
                   .
                
                 
                   Your
                   Merit
                   and
                   your
                   Years
                   command
                   the
                   Choice
                   :
                
                 
                   Amyntas
                   only
                   rivals
                   you
                   in
                   Voice
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   MOPSUS
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   will
                   not
                   that
                   presuming
                   Shepherd
                   dare
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   thinks
                   his
                   Voice
                   with
                   Phoebus
                   may
                   compare
                   ?
                
              
               
                 
                   MENALCAS
                   .
                
                 
                   Begin
                   you
                   first
                   ;
                   if
                   either
                   
                   Alcon's
                   Praise
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   dying
                   Phillis
                   have
                   inspir'd
                   your
                   Lays
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   
                     
                       To
                       the
                       Right
                       Hon
                       ble
                       .
                       James
                       Bertie
                       ,
                       Earle
                       of
                       Abingdon
                       ,
                       and
                       Baron
                       Norreys
                       of
                       Rycott
                       Cheife
                       Justice
                       ,
                       and
                       Justice
                       in
                       Eyre
                       of
                       all
                       his
                       Maj
                       t
                       s
                       .
                       —
                       Parcks
                       Forests
                       ,
                       and
                       Chaces
                       ▪
                       on
                       the
                       South
                       side
                       of
                       Trent
                       :
                       and
                       L
                       d
                       Lieutenant
                       and
                       Custos
                       Rotulorum
                       of
                       the
                       County
                       of
                       Oxon.
                       
                    
                     
                       Past
                       :
                       5
                       :
                       1.
                       
                    
                  
                
                 
                 
                 
                 
                 
                 
                 
                   If
                   her
                   you
                   mourn
                   ,
                   or
                   Codrus
                   you
                   commend
                   ,
                
                 
                   Begin
                   ,
                   and
                   Tityrus
                   your
                   Flock
                   shall
                   tend
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   MOPSUS
                   .
                
                 
                   Or
                   shall
                   I
                   rather
                   the
                   sad
                   Verse
                   repeat
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   on
                   the
                   Beeches
                   bark
                   I
                   lately
                   writ
                   :
                
                 
                   I
                   writ
                   ,
                   and
                   sung
                   betwixt
                   ;
                   now
                   bring
                   the
                   Swain
                
                 
                   Whose
                   Voice
                   you
                   boast
                   ,
                   and
                   let
                   him
                   try
                   the
                   Strain
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   MENALCAS
                   .
                
                 
                   Such
                   as
                   the
                   Shrub
                   to
                   the
                   tall
                   Olive
                   shows
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   the
                   pale
                   Sallow
                   to
                   the
                   blushing
                   Rose
                   ;
                
                 
                   Such
                   is
                   his
                   Voice
                   ,
                   if
                   I
                   can
                   judge
                   aright
                   ,
                
                 
                   Compar'd
                   to
                   thine
                   ,
                   in
                   sweetness
                   and
                   in
                   height
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   MOPSUS
                   .
                
                 
                   No
                   more
                   ,
                   but
                   sit
                   and
                   hear
                   the
                   promis'd
                   Lay
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   gloomy
                   Grotto
                   makes
                   a
                   doubtful
                   day
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Nymphs
                   about
                   the
                   breathless
                   Body
                   wait
                
                 
                   Of
                   Daphnis
                   ,
                   and
                   lament
                   his
                   cruel
                   Fate
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Trees
                   and
                   Floods
                   were
                   witness
                   to
                   their
                   Tears
                   :
                
                 
                   At
                   length
                   the
                   rumour
                   reach'd
                   his
                   Mother's
                   Ears
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   wretched
                   Parent
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   pious
                   haste
                   ,
                
                 
                   Came
                   running
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   lifeless
                   Limbs
                   embrac'd
                   .
                
                 
                   She
                   sigh'd
                   ,
                   she
                   sob'd
                   ,
                   and
                   ,
                   furious
                   with
                   despair
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   rent
                   her
                   Garments
                   ,
                   and
                   she
                   tore
                   her
                   Hair
                   :
                
                 
                   Accufing
                   all
                   the
                   Gods
                   and
                   every
                   Star.
                
                 
                   The
                   Swains
                   forgot
                   their
                   Sheep
                   ,
                   nor
                   near
                   the
                   brink
                
                 
                   Of
                   running
                   Waters
                   brought
                   their
                   Herds
                   to
                   drink
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   thirsty
                   Cattle
                   ,
                   of
                   themselves
                   ,
                   abstain'd
                
                 
                   From
                   Water
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   grassy
                   Fare
                   disdain'd
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   death
                   of
                   Daphnis
                   Woods
                   and
                   Hills
                   deplore
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   cast
                   the
                   sound
                   to
                   
                   Lybia's
                   desart
                   Shore
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Lybian
                   Lyons
                   hear
                   ,
                   and
                   hearing
                   roar
                   .
                
                 
                   Fierce
                   Tygers
                   Daphnis
                   taught
                   the
                   Yoke
                   to
                   bear
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   first
                   with
                   curling
                   Ivy
                   dress'd
                   the
                   Spear
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Daphnis
                   did
                   Rites
                   to
                   Bacchus
                   first
                   ordain
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   holy
                   Revels
                   for
                   his
                   reeling
                   Train
                   .
                
                 
                   As
                   Vines
                   the
                   Trees
                   ,
                   as
                   Grapes
                   the
                   Vines
                   adorn
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   Bulls
                   the
                   Herds
                   ,
                   and
                   Fields
                   the
                   Yellow
                   Corn
                   ;
                
                 
                   So
                   bright
                   a
                   Splendor
                   ,
                   so
                   divine
                   a
                   Grace
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   glorious
                   Daphnis
                   cast
                   on
                   his
                   illustrious
                   Race
                   .
                
                 
                   When
                   envious
                   Fate
                   the
                   Godlike
                   Daphnis
                   took
                   ,
                
                 
                   Our
                   guardian
                   Gods
                   the
                   Fields
                   and
                   Plains
                   forsook
                   :
                
                 
                   Pales
                   no
                   longer
                   swell'd
                   the
                   teeming
                   Grain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Phoebus
                   fed
                   his
                   Oxen
                   on
                   the
                   Plain
                   :
                
                 
                   No
                   fruitful
                   Crop
                   the
                   sickly
                   Fields
                   return
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   Oats
                   and
                   Darnel
                   choak
                   the
                   rising
                   Corn.
                
                 
                   And
                   where
                   the
                   Vales
                   with
                   Violets
                   once
                   were
                   crown'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Now
                   knotty
                   Burrs
                   and
                   Thorns
                   disgrace
                   the
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                   Come
                   ,
                   Shepherds
                   ,
                   come
                   ,
                   and
                   strow
                   with
                   Leaves
                   the
                   Plain
                   ;
                
                 
                   Such
                   Funeral
                   Rites
                   your
                   Daphnis
                   did
                   ordain
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   Cypress
                   Boughs
                   the
                   Crystal
                   Fountains
                   hide
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   softly
                   let
                   the
                   running
                   Waters
                   glide
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   lasting
                   Monument
                   to
                   Daphnis
                   raise
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   this
                   Inscription
                   to
                   record
                   his
                   Praise
                   ,
                
                 
                   Daphnis
                   ,
                   the
                   Fields
                   Delight
                   ,
                   the
                   Shepherd's
                   Love
                   ,
                
                 
                   Renown'd
                   on
                   Earth
                   ,
                   and
                   deify'd
                   above
                   .
                
                 
                   Whose
                   Flock
                   excell'd
                   the
                   fairest
                   on
                   the
                   Plains
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   less
                   than
                   he
                   himself
                   surpass'd
                   the
                   Swains
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   MENALCAS
                   .
                
                 
                   Oh
                   Heavenly
                   Poet
                   !
                   such
                   thy
                   Verse
                   appears
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   sweet
                   ,
                   so
                   charming
                   to
                   my
                   ravish'd
                   Ears
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   to
                   the
                   weary
                   Swain
                   ,
                   with
                   cares
                   opprest
                   ,
                
                 
                   Beneath
                   the
                   Silvan
                   Shade
                   ,
                   refreshing
                   Rest
                   :
                
                 
                   As
                   to
                   the
                   feavorish
                   Travellor
                   ,
                   when
                   first
                
                 
                   He
                   finds
                   a
                   Crystal
                   Stream
                   to
                   quench
                   his
                   thirst
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   singing
                   ,
                   as
                   in
                   piping
                   ,
                   you
                   excell
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   scarce
                   your
                   Master
                   could
                   perform
                   so
                   well
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   O
                   fortunate
                   young
                   Man
                   ,
                   at
                   least
                   your
                   Lays
                
                 
                   Are
                   next
                   to
                   his
                   ,
                   and
                   claim
                   the
                   second
                   Praise
                   .
                
                 
                   Such
                   as
                   they
                   are
                   my
                   rural
                   Songs
                   I
                   join
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   raise
                   our
                   Daphnis
                   to
                   the
                   Pow'rs
                   Divine
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   Daphnis
                   was
                   so
                   good
                   ,
                   to
                   love
                   what-e're
                   was
                   mine
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   MOPSUS
                   .
                
                 
                   How
                   is
                   my
                   Soul
                   with
                   such
                   a
                   Promise
                   rais'd
                   !
                
                 
                   For
                   both
                   the
                   Boy
                   was
                   worthy
                   to
                   be
                   prais'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Stimichon
                   has
                   often
                   made
                   me
                   long
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   hear
                   ,
                   like
                   him
                   ,
                   so
                   soft
                   so
                   sweet
                   a
                   Song
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   MENALCAS
                   .
                
                 
                   Daphnis
                   ,
                   the
                   Guest
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   with
                   wondring
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Views
                   in
                   the
                   Milky
                   Way
                   ,
                   the
                   starry
                   Skyes
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   far
                   beneath
                   him
                   ,
                   from
                   the
                   shining
                   Sphere
                   ,
                
                 
                   Beholds
                   the
                   moving
                   Clouds
                   ,
                   and
                   rolling
                   Year
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   this
                   ,
                   with
                   chearful
                   Cries
                   the
                   Woods
                   resound
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Purple
                   Spring
                   arrays
                   the
                   various
                   ground
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Nymphs
                   and
                   Shepherds
                   dance
                   ;
                   and
                   Pan
                   himself
                   is
                   Crown'd
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Wolf
                   no
                   longer
                   prowls
                   for
                   nightly
                   Spoils
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Birds
                   the
                   Sprindges
                   fear
                   ,
                   nor
                   Stags
                   the
                   Toils
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   Daphnis
                   reigns
                   above
                   ;
                   and
                   deals
                   from
                   thence
                
                 
                   His
                   Mothers
                   milder
                   Beams
                   ,
                   and
                   peaceful
                   Influence
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Mountain
                   tops
                   unshorn
                   ,
                   the
                   Rocks
                   rejoice
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   lowly
                   Shrubs
                   partake
                   of
                   Humane
                   Voice
                   .
                
                 
                   Assenting
                   Nature
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   gracious
                   nod
                   ,
                
                 
                   Proclaims
                   him
                   ,
                   and
                   salutes
                   the
                   new-admitted
                   God.
                
                 
                   Be
                   still
                   propitious
                   ,
                   ever
                   good
                   to
                   thine
                   :
                
                 
                   Behold
                   four
                   hallow'd
                   Altars
                   we
                   design
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   two
                   to
                   thee
                   ,
                   and
                   two
                   to
                   Phoebus
                   rise
                   ;
                
                 
                   On
                   each
                   is
                   offer'd
                   Annual
                   Sacrifice
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   holy
                   Priests
                   ,
                   at
                   each
                   returning
                   year
                   ,
                
                 
                   Two
                   Bowls
                   of
                   Milk
                   ,
                   and
                   two
                   of
                   Oil
                   shall
                   bear
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   I
                   my self
                   the
                   Guests
                   with
                   friendly
                   Bowls
                   will
                   chear
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Two
                   Goblets
                   will
                   I
                   crown
                   with
                   sparkling
                   Wine
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   gen'rous
                   Vintage
                   of
                   the
                   Chian
                   Vine
                   ;
                
                 
                   These
                   will
                   I
                   pour
                   to
                   thee
                   ,
                   and
                   make
                   the
                   Nectar
                   thine
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   Winter
                   shall
                   the
                   Genial
                   Feast
                   be
                   made
                
                 
                   Before
                   the
                   fire
                   ;
                   by
                   Summer
                   in
                   the
                   shade
                   .
                
                 
                   Damaetas
                   shall
                   perform
                   the
                   Rites
                   Divine
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   
                     Lictian
                     Aegon
                  
                   in
                   the
                   Song
                   shall
                   join
                   .
                
                 
                   Alphesibaeus
                   ,
                   tripping
                   ,
                   shall
                   advance
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   mimick
                   Satyrs
                   in
                   his
                   antick
                   Dance
                   .
                
                 
                   When
                   to
                   the
                   Nymphs
                   our
                   annual
                   Rites
                   we
                   pay
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   when
                   our
                   Fields
                   with
                   Victims
                   we
                   survey
                   :
                
                 
                   While
                   savage
                   Boars
                   delight
                   in
                   shady
                   Woods
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   finny
                   Fish
                   inhabit
                   in
                   the
                   Floods
                   ;
                
                 
                   While
                   Bees
                   on
                   Thime
                   ,
                   and
                   Locusts
                   feed
                   on
                   Dew
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thy
                   grateful
                   Swains
                   these
                   Honours
                   shall
                   renew
                   .
                
                 
                   Such
                   Honours
                   as
                   we
                   pay
                   to
                   Pow'rs
                   Divine
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   Bacchus
                   and
                   to
                   Ceres
                   ,
                   shall
                   be
                   thine
                   .
                
                 
                   Such
                   annual
                   Honours
                   shall
                   be
                   giv'n
                   ,
                   and
                   thou
                
                 
                   Shalt
                   hear
                   ,
                   and
                   shalt
                   condemn
                   thy
                   Suppliants
                   to
                   their
                   Vow
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   MOPSUS
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   Present
                   worth
                   thy
                   Verse
                   can
                   Mopsus
                   find
                   !
                
                 
                   Not
                   the
                   soft
                   Whispers
                   of
                   the
                   Southern
                   Wind
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   play
                   through
                   trembling
                   Trees
                   ,
                   delight
                   me
                   more
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   murm'ring
                   Billows
                   on
                   the
                   sounding
                   Shore
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   winding
                   Streams
                   that
                   through
                   the
                   Valley
                   glide
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   scarce
                   cover'd
                   Pebbles
                   gently
                   chide
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   MENALCAS
                   .
                
                 
                   Receive
                   you
                   first
                   this
                   tuneful
                   Pipe
                   ;
                   the
                   same
                
                 
                   That
                   play'd
                   my
                   
                   Coridon's
                   unhappy
                   Flame
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   same
                   that
                   sung
                   
                   Neaera's
                   conqu'ring
                   Eyes
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   had
                   the
                   Judge
                   been
                   just
                   ,
                   had
                   won
                   the
                   Prize
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   MOPSUS
                   .
                
                 
                   Accept
                   from
                   me
                   this
                   Sheephook
                   in
                   exchange
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Handle
                   Brass
                   ;
                   the
                   Knobs
                   in
                   equal
                   range
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Antigenes
                   ,
                   with
                   Kisses
                   ,
                   often
                   try'd
                
                 
                   To
                   beg
                   this
                   Present
                   ,
                   in
                   his
                   Beauty's
                   Pride
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   Youth
                   and
                   Love
                   are
                   hard
                   to
                   be
                   deny'd
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   what
                   I
                   cou'd
                   refuse
                   ,
                   to
                   his
                   Request
                   ,
                
                 
                   Is
                   yours
                   unask'd
                   ,
                   for
                   you
                   deserve
                   it
                   best
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 
                   The
                   Sixth
                   Pastoral
                
                 .
                 OR
                 ,
                 SILENUS
                 .
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Argument
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     Two
                     young
                     Shepherds
                  
                   Chromis
                   and
                   Mnasylus
                   ,
                   
                     having
                     been
                     often
                     promis'd
                     a
                     Song
                     by
                  
                   Silenus
                   ,
                   
                     chance
                     to
                     catch
                     him
                     asleep
                     in
                     this
                     Pastoral
                     ;
                     where
                     they
                     bind
                     him
                     hand
                     and
                     foot
                     ,
                     and
                     then
                     claim
                     his
                     Promise
                     .
                  
                   Silenus
                   
                     finding
                     they
                     wou'd
                     be
                     put
                     off
                     no
                     longer
                     ,
                     begins
                     his
                     Song
                     ;
                     in
                     which
                     he
                     describes
                     the
                     Formation
                     of
                     the
                     Universe
                     ,
                     and
                     the
                     Original
                     of
                     Animals
                     ,
                     according
                     to
                     the
                  
                   Epicurean
                   
                     Philosophy
                     ;
                     and
                     then
                     runs
                     through
                     the
                     most
                     surprising
                     Transformations
                     which
                     have
                     happen'd
                     in
                     Nature
                     since
                     her
                     Birth
                     .
                     This
                     Pastoral
                     was
                     design'd
                     as
                     a
                     Complement
                     to
                  
                   Syro
                   the
                   Epicurean
                   ,
                   
                     who
                     instructed
                  
                   Virgil
                   and
                   Varus
                   
                     in
                     the
                     Principles
                     of
                     that
                     Philosophy
                     .
                  
                   Silenus
                   
                     acts
                     as
                     Tutor
                  
                   ,
                   Chromis
                   and
                   Mnasylus
                   
                     as
                     the
                     two
                     Pupils
                  
                   .
                
              
               
                 I
                 First
                 transferr'd
                 to
                 
                   Rome
                   Scicilian
                
                 Strains
                 :
              
               
                 Nor
                 blush'd
                 the
                 Dorick
                 Muse
                 to
                 dwell
                 on
                 Mantuan
                 Plains
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 when
                 I
                 try'd
                 her
                 tender
                 Voice
                 ,
                 too
                 young
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 fighting
                 Kings
                 ,
                 and
                 bloody
                 Battels
                 sung
                 ,
              
               
                 Apollo
                 check'd
                 my
                 Pride
                 ;
                 and
                 bade
                 me
                 feed
              
               
                 My
                 fatning
                 Flocks
                 ,
                 nor
                 dare
                 beyond
                 the
                 Reed
                 .
              
               
                 Admonish'd
                 thus
                 ,
                 while
                 every
                 Pen
                 prepares
              
               
                 To
                 write
                 thy
                 Praises
                 ,
                 Varus
                 ,
                 and
                 thy
                 Wars
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 Past'ral
                 Muse
                 her
                 humble
                 Tribute
                 brings
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 yet
                 not
                 wholly
                 uninspir'd
                 she
                 sings
                 .
              
               
                 For
                 all
                 who
                 read
                 ,
                 and
                 reading
                 ,
                 not
                 disdain
              
               
                 These
                 rural
                 Poems
                 ,
                 and
                 their
                 lowly
                 Strain
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 name
                 of
                 Varus
                 oft
                 inscrib'd
                 shall
                 see
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 every
                 Grove
                 ,
                 and
                 every
                 vocal
                 Tree
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 the
                 Silvan
                 reign
                 shall
                 sing
                 of
                 thee
                 :
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     the
                     Right
                     Hon
                     ble
                     .
                     Hugh
                     Lord
                     Viscount
                     Cholmondely
                     of
                     Kelles
                     in
                     the
                     Kingdom
                     of
                     Ireland
                     and
                     Baron
                     of
                     Wichmalbank
                     in
                     the
                     Kingdom
                     of
                     England
                     .
                  
                   
                     Past
                     :
                     6.
                     
                  
                
              
               
               
               
                 Thy
                 name
                 ,
                 to
                 Phoebus
                 and
                 the
                 Muses
                 known
                 ,
              
               
                 Shall
                 in
                 the
                 front
                 of
                 every
                 Page
                 be
                 shown
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 he
                 who
                 sings
                 thy
                 Praise
                 ,
                 secures
                 his
                 own
                 .
              
               
                 Proceed
                 ,
                 my
                 Muse
                 :
                 Two
                 Satyrs
                 ,
                 on
                 the
                 ground
                 ,
              
               
                 Stretch'd
                 at
                 his
                 Ease
                 ,
                 their
                 Syre
                 Sylenus
                 found
                 .
              
               
                 Dos'd
                 with
                 his
                 fumes
                 ,
                 and
                 heavy
                 with
                 his
                 Load
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 found
                 him
                 snoring
                 in
                 his
                 dark
                 abode
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 seis'd
                 with
                 Youthful
                 Arms
                 the
                 drunken
                 God.
              
               
                 His
                 rosie
                 Wreath
                 was
                 dropt
                 not
                 long
                 before
                 ,
              
               
                 Born
                 by
                 the
                 tide
                 of
                 Wine
                 ,
                 and
                 floating
                 on
                 the
                 floor
                 .
              
               
                 His
                 empty
                 Can
                 ,
                 with
                 Ears
                 half
                 worn
                 away
                 ,
              
               
                 Was
                 hung
                 on
                 high
                 ,
                 to
                 boast
                 the
                 triumph
                 of
                 the
                 day
                 .
              
               
                 Invaded
                 thus
                 ,
                 for
                 want
                 of
                 better
                 bands
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 Garland
                 they
                 unstring
                 ,
                 and
                 bind
                 his
                 hands
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 by
                 the
                 fraudful
                 God
                 deluded
                 long
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 now
                 resolve
                 to
                 have
                 their
                 promis'd
                 Song
                 .
              
               
                 Aegle
                 came
                 in
                 ,
                 to
                 make
                 their
                 Party
                 good
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 fairest
                 Nais
                 of
                 the
                 neighbouring
                 Flood
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 ,
                 while
                 he
                 stares
                 around
                 ,
                 with
                 stupid
                 Eyes
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 Brows
                 with
                 Berries
                 ,
                 and
                 his
                 Temples
                 dyes
                 .
              
               
                 He
                 finds
                 the
                 Fraud
                 ,
                 and
                 ,
                 with
                 a
                 Smile
                 ,
                 demands
              
               
                 On
                 what
                 design
                 the
                 Boys
                 had
                 bound
                 his
                 hands
                 .
              
               
                 Loose
                 me
                 ,
                 he
                 cry'd
                 ;
                 't
                 was
                 Impudence
                 to
                 find
              
               
                 A
                 sleeping
                 God
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 Sacriledge
                 to
                 bind
                 .
              
               
                 To
                 you
                 the
                 promis'd
                 Poem
                 I
                 will
                 pay
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Nymph
                 shall
                 be
                 rewarded
                 in
                 her
                 way
                 .
              
               
                 He
                 rais'd
                 his
                 voice
                 ;
                 and
                 soon
                 a
                 num'rous
                 throng
              
               
                 Of
                 tripping
                 Satyrs
                 crowded
                 to
                 the
                 Song
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 Sylvan
                 Fauns
                 ,
                 and
                 Savage
                 Beasts
                 advanc'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 nodding
                 Forests
                 to
                 the
                 Numbers
                 danc'd
                 .
              
               
                 Not
                 by
                 Haemonian
                 Hills
                 the
                 Thracian
                 Bard
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 awful
                 Phoebus
                 was
                 on
                 Pindus
                 heard
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 deeper
                 silence
                 ,
                 or
                 with
                 more
                 regard
                 .
              
               
               
                 He
                 sung
                 the
                 secret
                 Seeds
                 of
                 Nature's
                 Frame
                 ;
              
               
                 How
                 Seas
                 ,
                 and
                 Earth
                 ,
                 and
                 Air
                 ,
                 and
                 active
                 Flame
                 ,
              
               
                 Fell
                 through
                 the
                 mighty
                 Void
                 ;
                 and
                 in
                 their
                 fall
              
               
                 Were
                 blindly
                 gather'd
                 in
                 this
                 goodly
                 Ball.
              
               
                 The
                 tender
                 Soil
                 then
                 stiffning
                 by
                 degrees
                 ,
              
               
                 Shut
                 from
                 the
                 bounded
                 Earth
                 ,
                 the
                 bounding
                 Seas
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 Earth
                 and
                 Ocean
                 various
                 Forms
                 disclose
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 a
                 new
                 Sun
                 to
                 the
                 new
                 World
                 arose
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 Mists
                 condens'd
                 to
                 Clouds
                 obscure
                 the
                 Skie
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 Clouds
                 dissolv'd
                 ,
                 the
                 thirsty
                 Ground
                 supply
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 rising
                 Trees
                 the
                 lofty
                 Mountains
                 grace
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 lofty
                 Mountains
                 feed
                 the
                 Savage
                 Race
                 .
              
               
                 From
                 thence
                 the
                 birth
                 of
                 Man
                 the
                 Song
                 pursu'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 how
                 the
                 World
                 was
                 lost
                 ,
                 and
                 how
                 renew'd
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Reign
                 of
                 Saturn
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 Golden
                 Age
                 ;
              
               
                 Prometheus
                 Theft
                 ,
                 and
                 
                 Jove's
                 avenging
                 Rage
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Cries
                 of
                 Argonauts
                 for
                 Hylas
                 drown'd
                 ;
              
               
                 With
                 whose
                 repeated
                 Name
                 the
                 Shoars
                 resound
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 mourns
                 the
                 madness
                 of
                 the
                 Cretan
                 Queen
                 ;
              
               
                 Happy
                 for
                 her
                 if
                 Herds
                 had
                 never
                 been
                 .
              
               
                 What
                 fury
                 ,
                 wretched
                 Woman
                 ,
                 seiz'd
                 thy
                 Breast
                 !
              
               
                 The
                 Maids
                 of
                 Argos
                 (
                 tho
                 with
                 rage
                 possess'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Their
                 imitated
                 lowings
                 fill'd
                 the
                 Grove
                 )
              
               
                 Yet
                 shun'd
                 the
                 guilt
                 of
                 this
                 prepost'rous
                 Love.
              
               
                 Nor
                 sought
                 the
                 Youthful
                 Husband
                 of
                 the
                 Herd
                 ;
              
               
                 Tho
                 tender
                 and
                 untry'd
                 the
                 Yoke
                 he
                 fear'd
                 .
              
               
                 Tho
                 soft
                 and
                 white
                 as
                 flakes
                 of
                 falling
                 Snow
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 scarce
                 his
                 budding
                 Horns
                 had
                 arm'd
                 his
                 brow
                 .
              
               
                 Ah
                 ,
                 wretched
                 Queen
                 !
                 you
                 range
                 the
                 pathless
                 Wood
                 ;
              
               
                 While
                 on
                 a
                 flowry
                 Bank
                 he
                 chaws
                 the
                 Cud
                 :
              
               
                 Or
                 sleeps
                 in
                 Shades
                 ,
                 or
                 thro'
                 the
                 Forest
                 roves
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 roars
                 with
                 anguish
                 for
                 his
                 absent
                 Loves
                 .
              
               
                 Ye
                 Nymphs
                 ,
                 with
                 toils
                 ,
                 his
                 Forest-walk
                 surround
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 trace
                 his
                 wandring
                 Footsteps
                 on
                 the
                 ground
                 .
              
               
               
                 But
                 ,
                 ah
                 !
                 perhaps
                 my
                 Passion
                 he
                 disdains
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 courts
                 the
                 milky
                 Mothers
                 of
                 the
                 Plains
                 .
              
               
                 We
                 search
                 th'
                 ungrateful
                 Fugitive
                 abroad
                 ;
              
               
                 While
                 they
                 at
                 home
                 sustain
                 his
                 happy
                 load
                 .
              
               
                 He
                 sung
                 the
                 Lover's
                 fraud
                 ;
                 the
                 longing
                 Maid
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 golden
                 Fruit
                 ,
                 like
                 all
                 the
                 Sex
                 ,
                 betray'd
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Sisters
                 mourning
                 for
                 their
                 Brother's
                 loss
                 ;
              
               
                 Their
                 Bodies
                 hid
                 in
                 Barks
                 ,
                 and
                 furr'd
                 with
                 Moss
                 .
              
               
                 How
                 each
                 a
                 rising
                 Alder
                 now
                 appears
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 o're
                 the
                 Po
                 distils
                 her
                 Gummy
                 Tears
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 sung
                 ,
                 how
                 Gallus
                 by
                 a
                 Muses
                 hand
                 ,
              
               
                 Was
                 led
                 and
                 welcom'd
                 to
                 the
                 sacred
                 Strand
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Senate
                 rising
                 to
                 salute
                 their
                 Guest
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 Linus
                 thus
                 their
                 gratitude
                 express'd
                 .
              
               
                 Receive
                 this
                 Present
                 ,
                 by
                 the
                 Muses
                 made
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Pipe
                 on
                 which
                 th'
                 Ascraean
                 Pastor
                 play'd
                 :
              
               
                 With
                 which
                 of
                 old
                 he
                 charm'd
                 the
                 Savage
                 Train
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 call'd
                 the
                 Mountain
                 Ashes
                 to
                 the
                 Plain
                 .
              
               
                 Sing
                 thou
                 on
                 this
                 ,
                 thy
                 Phoebus
                 ;
                 and
                 the
                 Wood
              
               
                 Where
                 once
                 his
                 Fane
                 of
                 Parian
                 Marble
                 stood
                 .
              
               
                 On
                 this
                 his
                 ancient
                 Oracles
                 rehearse
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 new
                 Numbers
                 grace
                 the
                 God
                 of
                 Verse
                 .
              
               
                 Why
                 shou'd
                 I
                 sing
                 the
                 double
                 
                 Scylla's
                 Fate
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 first
                 by
                 Love
                 transform'd
                 ,
                 the
                 last
                 by
                 Hate
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 beauteous
                 Maid
                 above
                 ,
                 but
                 Magick
                 Arts
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 barking
                 Dogs
                 deform'd
                 her
                 neather
                 parts
                 .
              
               
                 What
                 Vengeance
                 on
                 the
                 passing
                 Fleet
                 she
                 pour'd
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Master
                 frighted
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 Mates
                 devour'd
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 ravish'd
                 Philomel
                 the
                 Song
                 exprest
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Crime
                 reveal'd
                 ;
                 the
                 Sisters
                 cruel
                 Feast
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 how
                 in
                 Fields
                 the
                 Lapwing
                 Tereus
                 reigns
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 warbling
                 Nightingale
                 in
                 Woods
                 complains
                 .
              
               
                 While
                 Progne
                 makes
                 on
                 Chymney
                 tops
                 her
                 moan
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 hovers
                 o're
                 the
                 Palace
                 once
                 her
                 own
                 .
              
               
               
                 Whatever
                 Songs
                 besides
                 ,
                 the
                 Delphian
                 God
              
               
                 Had
                 taught
                 the
                 Laurels
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 Spartan
                 Flood
                 ,
              
               
                 Silenus
                 sung
                 :
                 the
                 Vales
                 his
                 Voice
                 rebound
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 carry
                 to
                 the
                 Skies
                 the
                 sacred
                 Sound
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 now
                 the
                 setting
                 Sun
                 had
                 warn'd
                 the
                 Swain
              
               
                 To
                 call
                 his
                 counted
                 Cattle
                 from
                 the
                 Plain
                 :
              
               
                 Yet
                 still
                 th'
                 unweary'd
                 Syre
                 pursues
                 the
                 tuneful
                 Strain
                 .
              
               
                 Till
                 unperceiv'd
                 the
                 Heav'ns
                 with
                 Stars
                 were
                 hung
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 sudden
                 Night
                 surpriz'd
                 the
                 yet
                 unfinish'd
                 Song
                 .
              
               
            
             
               
               
               
                 
                   The
                   Seventh
                   Pastoral
                
                 .
                 OR
                 ,
                 MELIBOEUS
                 .
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Argument
                   .
                
                 
                   Meliboeus
                   
                     here
                     gives
                     us
                     the
                     Relation
                     of
                     a
                     sharp
                     Poetical
                     Contest
                     between
                  
                   Thyrsis
                   and
                   Corydon
                   ;
                   
                     at
                     which
                     he
                     himself
                     and
                  
                   Daphnis
                   
                     were
                     present
                     ;
                     who
                     both
                     declar'd
                     for
                  
                   Corydon
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     the
                     Right
                     Hon
                     ble
                     :
                     Henry
                     Lord
                     Herbert
                     Baron
                     of
                     Chirbury
                     .
                     &c.
                  
                   
                     Past
                     :
                     7.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 BEneath
                 a
                 Holm
                 ,
                 repair'd
                 two
                 jolly
                 Swains
                 ;
              
               
                 Their
                 Sheep
                 and
                 Goats
                 together
                 graz'd
                 the
                 Plains
                 .
              
               
                 Both
                 young
                 Arcadians
                 ,
                 both
                 alike
                 inspir'd
              
               
                 To
                 sing
                 ,
                 and
                 answer
                 as
                 the
                 Song
                 requir'd
                 .
              
               
                 Daphnis
                 ,
                 as
                 Umpire
                 ,
                 took
                 the
                 middle
                 Seat
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 Fortune
                 thether
                 led
                 my
                 weary
                 Feet
                 .
              
               
                 For
                 while
                 I
                 fenc'd
                 my
                 Myrtles
                 from
                 the
                 Cold
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Father
                 of
                 my
                 Flock
                 had
                 wander'd
                 from
                 the
                 Fold
                 .
              
               
                 Of
                 Daphnis
                 I
                 enquir'd
                 ;
                 he
                 ,
                 smiling
                 ,
                 said
                 ,
              
               
                 Dismiss
                 your
                 Fear
                 ,
                 and
                 pointed
                 where
                 he
                 fed
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 ,
                 if
                 no
                 greater
                 Cares
                 disturb
                 your
                 Mind
                 ,
              
               
                 Sit
                 here
                 with
                 us
                 ,
                 in
                 covert
                 of
                 the
                 Wind.
              
               
                 Your
                 lowing
                 Heyfars
                 ,
                 of
                 their
                 own
                 accord
                 ,
              
               
                 At
                 wat'ring
                 time
                 will
                 seek
                 the
                 neighb'ring
                 Ford.
              
               
                 Here
                 wanton
                 Mincius
                 windes
                 along
                 the
                 Meads
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 shades
                 his
                 happy
                 Banks
                 with
                 bending
                 Reeds
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 see
                 from
                 yon
                 old
                 Oak
                 ,
                 that
                 mates
                 the
                 Skies
                 ,
              
               
                 How
                 black
                 the
                 Clouds
                 of
                 swarming
                 Bees
                 arise
                 .
              
               
                 What
                 shou'd
                 I
                 do
                 !
                 nor
                 was
                 Alcippe
                 nigh
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 absent
                 Phillis
                 cou'd
                 my
                 care
                 supply
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 house
                 ,
                 and
                 feed
                 by
                 hand
                 my
                 weaning
                 Lambs
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 drain
                 the
                 strutting
                 Udders
                 of
                 their
                 Dams
                 ?
              
               
                 Great
                 was
                 the
                 strife
                 betwixt
                 the
                 Singing
                 Swains
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 I
                 preferr'd
                 my
                 Pleasure
                 to
                 my
                 Gains
                 .
              
               
               
                 Alternate
                 Rhime
                 the
                 ready
                 Champions
                 chose
                 :
              
               
                 These
                 Corydon
                 rehears'd
                 ,
                 and
                 Thyrsis
                 those
                 .
              
               
                 
                   CORYDON
                   .
                
                 
                   Yee
                   Muses
                   ,
                   ever
                   fair
                   ,
                   and
                   ever
                   young
                   ,
                
                 
                   Assist
                   my
                   Numbers
                   ,
                   and
                   inspire
                   my
                   Song
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   all
                   my
                   Codrus
                   O
                   inspire
                   my
                   Breast
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   Codrus
                   after
                   Phoebus
                   sings
                   the
                   best
                   .
                
                 
                   Or
                   if
                   my
                   Wishes
                   have
                   presum'd
                   too
                   high
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   stretch'd
                   their
                   bounds
                   beyond
                   Mortality
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   praise
                   of
                   artful
                   Numbers
                   I
                   resign
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   hang
                   my
                   Pipe
                   upon
                   the
                   Sacred
                   Pine.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   THYRSIS
                   .
                
                 
                   Arcadian
                   Swains
                   ,
                   your
                   Youthful
                   Poet
                   crown
                
                 
                   With
                   Ivy
                   Wreaths
                   ;
                   tho
                   surly
                   Codrus
                   ,
                   frown
                   .
                
                 
                   Or
                   if
                   he
                   blast
                   my
                   Muse
                   with
                   envious
                   Praise
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   fence
                   my
                   Brows
                   with
                   Amuletts
                   of
                   Bays
                   .
                
                 
                   Lest
                   his
                   ill
                   Arts
                   or
                   his
                   malicious
                   Tongue
                
                 
                   Shou'd
                   poyson
                   ,
                   or
                   bewitch
                   my
                   growing
                   Song
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   CORYDON
                   .
                
                 
                   These
                   Branches
                   of
                   a
                   Stag
                   ,
                   this
                   tusky
                   Boar
                
                 
                   (
                   The
                   first
                   essay
                   of
                   Arms
                   untry'd
                   before
                   )
                
                 
                   Young
                   Mycon
                   offers
                   ,
                   Delia
                   ,
                   to
                   thy
                   Shrine
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   speed
                   his
                   hunting
                   with
                   thy
                   Pow'r
                   divine
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Statue
                   then
                   of
                   Parian
                   Stone
                   shall
                   stand
                   ;
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Legs
                   in
                   Buskins
                   with
                   a
                   Purple
                   Band.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   THYRSIS
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   Bowl
                   of
                   Milk
                   ,
                   these
                   Cakes
                   ,
                   (
                   our
                   Country
                   Fare
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                   For
                   thee
                   ,
                   Priapus
                   ,
                   yearly
                   we
                   prepare
                   .
                
                 
                   Because
                   a
                   little
                   Garden
                   is
                   thy
                   care
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   if
                   the
                   falling
                   Lambs
                   increase
                   my
                   Fold
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Marble
                   Statue
                   shall
                   be
                   turn'd
                   to
                   Gold.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   CORYDON
                   .
                
                 
                   Fair
                   Galathea
                   ,
                   with
                   thy
                   silver
                   Feet
                   ,
                
                 
                   O
                   ,
                   whiter
                   than
                   the
                   Swan
                   ,
                   and
                   more
                   than
                   Hybla
                   sweet
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   Tall
                   as
                   a
                   Poplar
                   ,
                   taper
                   as
                   the
                   Bole
                   ,
                
                 
                   Come
                   charm
                   thy
                   Shepherd
                   ,
                   and
                   restore
                   my
                   Soul.
                
                 
                   Come
                   when
                   my
                   lated
                   Sheep
                   ,
                   at
                   night
                   return
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   crown
                   the
                   silent
                   Hours
                   ,
                   and
                   stop
                   the
                   rosy
                   Morn
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   THYRSIS
                   .
                
                 
                   May
                   I
                   become
                   as
                   abject
                   in
                   thy
                   sight
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   Sea-weed
                   on
                   the
                   Shore
                   ,
                   and
                   black
                   as
                   Night
                   :
                
                 
                   Rough
                   as
                   a
                   Bur
                   ,
                   deform'd
                   like
                   him
                   who
                   chaws
                
                 
                   Sardinian
                   Herbage
                   to
                   contract
                   his
                   Jaws
                   ;
                
                 
                   Such
                   and
                   so
                   monstrous
                   let
                   thy
                   Swain
                   appear
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   one
                   day's
                   Absence
                   looks
                   not
                   like
                   a
                   Year
                   .
                
                 
                   Hence
                   from
                   the
                   Field
                   ,
                   for
                   Shame
                   :
                   the
                   Flock
                   deserves
                
                 
                   No
                   better
                   Feeding
                   ,
                   while
                   the
                   Shepherd
                   starves
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   CORYDON
                   .
                
                 
                   Ye
                   mossy
                   Springs
                   ,
                   inviting
                   easie
                   Sleep
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ye
                   Trees
                   ,
                   whose
                   leafy
                   Shades
                   those
                   mossy
                   Fountains
                   keep
                   ,
                
                 
                   Defend
                   my
                   Flock
                   ,
                   the
                   Summer
                   heats
                   are
                   near
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Blossoms
                   on
                   the
                   swelling
                   Vines
                   appear
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   THYRSIS
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   heapy
                   Fires
                   our
                   chearful
                   Hearth
                   is
                   crown'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Firs
                   for
                   Torches
                   in
                   the
                   Woods
                   abound
                   :
                
                 
                   We
                   fear
                   not
                   more
                   the
                   Winds
                   ,
                   and
                   wintry
                   Cold
                   ,
                
                 
                   Than
                   Streams
                   the
                   Banks
                   ,
                   or
                   Wolves
                   the
                   bleating
                   Fold
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   CORYDON
                   .
                
                 
                   Our
                   Woods
                   ,
                   with
                   Juniper
                   and
                   Chesnuts
                   crown'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   falling
                   Fruits
                   and
                   Berries
                   paint
                   the
                   Ground
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   lavish
                   Nature
                   laughs
                   ,
                   and
                   strows
                   her
                   Stores
                   around
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   if
                   Alexis
                   from
                   our
                   Mountains
                   fly
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   running
                   Rivers
                   leave
                   their
                   Channels
                   dry
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   THYRSIS
                   .
                
                 
                   Parch'd
                   are
                   the
                   Plains
                   ,
                   and
                   frying
                   is
                   the
                   Field
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   with'ring
                   Vines
                   their
                   juicy
                   Vintage
                   yield
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   if
                   returning
                   Phillis
                   bless
                   the
                   Plain
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Grass
                   revives
                   ;
                   the
                   Woods
                   are
                   green
                   again
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Jove
                   descends
                   in
                   Show'rs
                   of
                   kindly
                   Rain
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   CORYDON
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Poplar
                   is
                   by
                   great
                   Alcides
                   worn
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Brows
                   of
                   Phoebus
                   his
                   own
                   Bays
                   adorn
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   branching
                   Vine
                   the
                   jolly
                   Bacchus
                   loves
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Cyprian
                   Queen
                   delights
                   in
                   Mirtle
                   Groves
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   Hazle
                   ,
                   Phillis
                   crowns
                   her
                   flowing
                   Hair
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   while
                   she
                   loves
                   that
                   common
                   Wreath
                   to
                   wear
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Bays
                   ,
                   nor
                   Myrtle
                   Bows
                   ,
                   with
                   Hazle
                   shall
                   compare
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   THYRSIS
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   towring
                   Ash
                   is
                   fairest
                   in
                   the
                   Woods
                   ;
                
                 
                   In
                   Gardens
                   Pines
                   ,
                   and
                   Poplars
                   by
                   the
                   Floods
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   if
                   my
                   Lycidas
                   will
                   ease
                   my
                   Pains
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   often
                   visit
                   our
                   forsaken
                   Plains
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   him
                   the
                   tow'ring
                   Ash
                   shall
                   yield
                   in
                   Woods
                   ;
                
                 
                   In
                   Gardens
                   Pines
                   ,
                   and
                   Poplars
                   by
                   the
                   Floods
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   MELIBOEUS
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   've
                   heard
                   :
                   and
                   ,
                   Thyrsis
                   ,
                   you
                   contend
                   in
                   vain
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   Corydon
                   ,
                   young
                   Corydon
                   shall
                   reign
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Prince
                   of
                   Poets
                   ,
                   on
                   the
                   Mantuan
                   Plain
                   .
                
              
               
            
             
               
               
               
                 
                   The
                   Eighth
                   Pastoral
                
                 .
                 OR
                 ,
                 PHARMACEUTRIA
                 .
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Argument
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     This
                     Pastoral
                     contains
                     the
                     Songs
                     of
                  
                   Damon
                   and
                   Alphesiboeus
                   .
                   
                     The
                     first
                     of
                     'em
                     bewails
                     the
                     loss
                     of
                     his
                     Mistress
                     ,
                     and
                     repines
                     at
                     the
                     Success
                     of
                     his
                     Rival
                  
                   Mopsus
                   .
                   
                     The
                     other
                     repeats
                     the
                     Charms
                     of
                     some
                     Enchantress
                     ,
                     who
                     endeavour'd
                     by
                     her
                     Spells
                     and
                     Magic
                     to
                     make
                  
                   Daphnis
                   
                     in
                     Love
                     with
                     her
                  
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     the
                     Rig
                     t
                     Hon
                     ble
                     :
                     Charles
                     Ld
                     Clifford
                     Baron
                     of
                     Lounsbrough
                     in
                     the
                     County
                     of
                     York
                  
                   
                     past
                     .
                     8
                  
                
              
               
                 
                   THE
                   mournful
                   Muse
                   of
                   two
                   despairing
                   Swains
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Love
                   rejected
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Lovers
                   '
                   pains
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   which
                   the
                   salvage
                   Linxes
                   listning
                   stood
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Rivers
                   stood
                   on
                   heaps
                   ,
                   and
                   stop'd
                   the
                   running
                   Flood
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   hungry
                   Herd
                   their
                   needful
                   Food
                   refuse
                   ;
                
                 
                   Of
                   two
                   despairing
                   Swains
                   ,
                   I
                   sing
                   the
                   mournful
                   Muse
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Great
                   Pollio
                   ,
                   thou
                   for
                   whom
                   thy
                   Rome
                   prepares
                
                 
                   The
                   ready
                   Triumph
                   of
                   thy
                   finish'd
                   Wars
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whither
                   Timavus
                   or
                   th'
                   Illirian
                   Coast
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whatever
                   Land
                   or
                   Sea
                   thy
                   presence
                   boast
                   ;
                
                 
                   Is
                   there
                   an
                   hour
                   in
                   Fate
                   reserv'd
                   for
                   me
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   Sing
                   thy
                   Deeds
                   in
                   Numbers
                   worthy
                   thee
                   ?
                
                 
                   In
                   numbers
                   like
                   to
                   thine
                   ,
                   cou'd
                   I
                   rehearse
                
                 
                   Thy
                   lofty
                   Tragick
                   Scenes
                   ,
                   thy
                   labour'd
                   Verse
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   World
                   another
                   Sophocles
                   in
                   thee
                   ,
                
                 
                   Another
                   Homer
                   shou'd
                   behold
                   in
                   me
                   :
                
                 
                   Amidst
                   thy
                   Laurels
                   let
                   this
                   Ivy
                   twine
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thine
                   was
                   my
                   earlyest
                   Muse
                   ;
                   my
                   latest
                   shall
                   be
                   thine
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Scarce
                   from
                   our
                   upper
                   World
                   the
                   Shades
                   withdrew
                   ;
                
                 
                   Scarce
                   were
                   the
                   Flocks
                   refresh'd
                   with
                   Morning
                   Dew
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   When
                   Damon
                   stretch'd
                   beneath
                   an
                   Olive
                   Shade
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   wildly
                   staring
                   upwards
                   ,
                   thus
                   inveigh'd
                
                 
                   Against
                   the
                   conscious
                   Gods
                   ,
                   and
                   curs'd
                   the
                   cruel
                   Maid
                   .
                
                 
                   Star
                   of
                   the
                   Morning
                   ,
                   why
                   dost
                   thou
                   delay
                   ?
                
                 
                   Come
                   ,
                   Lucifer
                   ,
                   drive
                   on
                   the
                   lagging
                   Day
                   .
                
                 
                   While
                   I
                   my
                   
                   Nisa's
                   perjur'd
                   Faith
                   deplore
                   ;
                
                 
                   Witness
                   ye
                   Pow'rs
                   ,
                   by
                   whom
                   she
                   falsly
                   swore
                   !
                
                 
                   The
                   Gods
                   ,
                   alas
                   ,
                   are
                   Witnesses
                   in
                   vain
                   ;
                
                 
                   Yet
                   shall
                   my
                   dying
                   Breath
                   to
                   Heav'n
                   complain
                   .
                
                 
                   Begin
                   with
                   me
                   ,
                   my
                   Flute
                   ,
                   the
                   sweet
                   Maenalian
                   Strain
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Pines
                   of
                   Maenalus
                   ,
                   the
                   vocal
                   Grove
                   ,
                
                 
                   Are
                   ever
                   full
                   of
                   Verse
                   ,
                   and
                   full
                   of
                   Love
                   :
                
                 
                   They
                   hear
                   the
                   Hinds
                   ,
                   they
                   hear
                   their
                   God
                   complain
                   ;
                
                 
                   Who
                   suffer'd
                   not
                   the
                   Reeds
                   to
                   rise
                   in
                   vain
                   :
                
                 
                   Begin
                   with
                   me
                   ,
                   my
                   Flute
                   ,
                   the
                   sweet
                   Maenalian
                   Strain
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Mopsus
                   triumphs
                   ;
                   he
                   weds
                   the
                   willing
                   Fair
                   :
                
                 
                   When
                   such
                   is
                   
                   Nisa's
                   choice
                   ,
                   what
                   Lover
                   can
                   despair
                   !
                
                 
                   Now
                   Griffons
                   join
                   with
                   Mares
                   ;
                   another
                   Age
                
                 
                   Shall
                   see
                   the
                   Hound
                   and
                   Hind
                   their
                   Thirst
                   asswage
                   ,
                
                 
                   Promiscuous
                   at
                   the
                   Spring
                   :
                   Prepare
                   the
                   Lights
                   ,
                
                 
                   O
                   Mopsus
                   !
                   and
                   perform
                   the
                   bridal
                   Rites
                   .
                
                 
                   Scatter
                   thy
                   Nuts
                   among
                   the
                   scrambling
                   Boys
                   :
                
                 
                   Thine
                   is
                   the
                   Night
                   ;
                   and
                   thine
                   the
                   Nuptial
                   Joys
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   thee
                   the
                   Sun
                   declines
                   :
                   O
                   happy
                   Swain
                   !
                
                 
                   Begin
                   with
                   me
                   ,
                   my
                   Flute
                   ,
                   the
                   sweet
                   Maenalian
                   Strain
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   O
                   ,
                   Nisa
                   !
                   Justly
                   to
                   thy
                   Choice
                   condemn'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whom
                   hast
                   thou
                   taken
                   ,
                   whom
                   hast
                   thou
                   contemn'd
                   !
                
                 
                   For
                   him
                   ,
                   thou
                   hast
                   refus'd
                   my
                   browzing
                   Herd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Scorn'd
                   my
                   thick
                   Eye-brows
                   ,
                   and
                   my
                   shaggy
                   Beard
                   .
                
                 
                   Unhappy
                   Damon
                   sighs
                   ,
                   and
                   sings
                   in
                   vain
                   :
                
                 
                   While
                   Nisa
                   thinks
                   no
                   God
                   regards
                   a
                   Lover's
                   pain
                   .
                
                 
                   Begin
                   with
                   me
                   ,
                   my
                   Flute
                   ,
                   the
                   sweet
                   Maenalian
                   Strain
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   I
                   view'd
                   thee
                   first
                   ;
                   how
                   fatal
                   was
                   the
                   View
                   !
                
                 
                   And
                   led
                   thee
                   where
                   the
                   ruddy
                   Wildings
                   grew
                   ,
                
                 
                   High
                   on
                   the
                   planted
                   hedge
                   ,
                   and
                   wet
                   with
                   Morning
                   Dew
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   scarce
                   the
                   bending
                   Branches
                   I
                   cou'd
                   win
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   callow
                   Down
                   began
                   to
                   cloath
                   my
                   Chin
                   ;
                
                 
                   I
                   saw
                   ,
                   I
                   perish'd
                   ;
                   yet
                   indulg'd
                   my
                   Pain
                   :
                
                 
                   Begin
                   with
                   me
                   ,
                   my
                   Flute
                   ,
                   the
                   sweet
                   Maenalian
                   Strain
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   I
                   know
                   thee
                   ,
                   Love
                   ;
                   in
                   Desarts
                   thou
                   wert
                   bred
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   at
                   the
                   Dugs
                   of
                   Salvage
                   Tygers
                   fed
                   :
                
                 
                   Alien
                   of
                   Birth
                   ,
                   Usurper
                   of
                   the
                   Plains
                   :
                
                 
                   Begin
                   with
                   me
                   ,
                   my
                   Flute
                   ,
                   the
                   sweet
                   Maenalian
                   Strains
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Relentless
                   Love
                   the
                   cruel
                   Mother
                   led
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Blood
                   of
                   her
                   unhappy
                   Babes
                   to
                   shed
                   :
                
                 
                   Love
                   lent
                   the
                   Sword
                   ;
                   the
                   Mother
                   struck
                   the
                   blow
                   ;
                
                 
                   Inhuman
                   she
                   ;
                   but
                   more
                   inhuman
                   thou
                   .
                
                 
                   Alien
                   of
                   Birth
                   ,
                   Usurper
                   of
                   the
                   Plains
                   :
                
                 
                   Begin
                   with
                   me
                   ,
                   my
                   Flute
                   ,
                   the
                   sweet
                   Maenalian
                   Strains
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Old
                   doting
                   Nature
                   change
                   thy
                   Course
                   anew
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   let
                   the
                   trembling
                   Lamb
                   the
                   Wolf
                   pursue
                   :
                
                 
                   Let
                   Oaks
                   now
                   glitter
                   with
                   Hesperian
                   Fruit
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   purple
                   Daffodils
                   from
                   Alder
                   shoot
                   .
                
                 
                   Fat
                   Amber
                   let
                   the
                   Tamarisk
                   distil
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   hooting
                   Owls
                   contend
                   with
                   Swans
                   in
                   Skill
                   .
                
                 
                   Hoarse
                   Tity'rus
                   strive
                   with
                   Orpheus
                   in
                   the
                   Woods
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   challenge
                   fam'd
                   Arion
                   on
                   the
                   Floods
                   .
                
                 
                   Or
                   ,
                   oh
                   !
                   let
                   Nature
                   cease
                   ;
                   and
                   Chaos
                   reign
                   :
                
                 
                   Begin
                   with
                   me
                   ,
                   my
                   Flute
                   ,
                   the
                   sweet
                   Maenalian
                   Strain
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Let
                   Earth
                   be
                   Sea
                   ;
                   and
                   let
                   the
                   whelming
                   Tide
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   lifeless
                   Limbs
                   of
                   luckless
                   Damon
                   hide
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Farewel
                   ,
                   ye
                   secret
                   Woods
                   ,
                   and
                   shady
                   Groves
                   ,
                
                 
                   Haunts
                   of
                   my
                   Youth
                   ,
                   and
                   conscious
                   of
                   my
                   Loves
                   !
                
                 
                   From
                   yon
                   high
                   Cliff
                   I
                   plunge
                   into
                   the
                   Main
                   ;
                
                 
                   Take
                   the
                   last
                   Present
                   of
                   thy
                   dying
                   Swain
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   cease
                   ,
                   my
                   silent
                   Flute
                   ,
                   the
                   sweet
                   Maenalian
                   Strain
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Now
                   take
                   your
                   Turns
                   ,
                   ye
                   Muses
                   ,
                   to
                   rehearse
                
                 
                   His
                   Friend's
                   Complaint
                   ;
                   and
                   mighty
                   Magick
                   Verse
                   .
                
                 
                   Bring
                   running
                   Water
                   ;
                   bind
                   those
                   Altars
                   round
                
                 
                   With
                   Fillets
                   ;
                   and
                   with
                   Vervain
                   strow
                   the
                   Ground
                   :
                
                 
                   Make
                   fat
                   with
                   Frankincense
                   the
                   sacred
                   Fires
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   re-inflame
                   my
                   Daphnis
                   with
                   Desires
                   .
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   done
                   ,
                   we
                   want
                   but
                   Verse
                   .
                   Restore
                   ,
                   my
                   Charms
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   lingring
                   Daphnis
                   to
                   my
                   longing
                   Arms.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Pale
                   Phoebe
                   ,
                   drawn
                   by
                   Verse
                   from
                   Heav'n
                   descends
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   Circe
                   chang'd
                   with
                   Charms
                   Ulysses
                   Friends
                   .
                
                 
                   Verse
                   breaks
                   the
                   Ground
                   ,
                   and
                   penetrates
                   the
                   Brake
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   the
                   winding
                   Cavern
                   splits
                   the
                   Snake
                   .
                
                 
                   Verse
                   fires
                   the
                   frozen
                   Veins
                   :
                   Restore
                   ,
                   my
                   Charms
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   lingring
                   Daphnis
                   to
                   my
                   longing
                   Arms.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Around
                   his
                   waxen
                   Image
                   ,
                   first
                   I
                   wind
                
                 
                   Three
                   woollen
                   Fillets
                   ,
                   of
                   three
                   Colours
                   join'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Thrice
                   bind
                   about
                   his
                   thrice
                   devoted
                   head
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   round
                   the
                   sacred
                   Altar
                   thrice
                   is
                   led
                   .
                
                 
                   Unequal
                   Numbers
                   please
                   the
                   Gods
                   :
                   my
                   Charms
                   ,
                
                 
                   Restore
                   my
                   Daphnis
                   to
                   my
                   longing
                   Arms.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Knit
                   with
                   three
                   knots
                   ,
                   the
                   Fillets
                   ,
                   knit
                   'em
                   streight
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   say
                   ,
                   These
                   Knots
                   to
                   Love
                   I
                   consecrate
                   .
                
                 
                   Haste
                   ,
                   Amaryllis
                   ,
                   haste
                   ;
                   restore
                   ,
                   my
                   Charms
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   lovely
                   Daphnis
                   to
                   my
                   longing
                   Arms.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   As
                   Fire
                   this
                   Figure
                   hardens
                   ,
                   made
                   of
                   Clay
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   this
                   of
                   Wax
                   with
                   Fire
                   consumes
                   away
                   ;
                
                 
                   Such
                   let
                   the
                   Soul
                   of
                   cruel
                   Daphnis
                   be
                   ;
                
                 
                   Hard
                   to
                   the
                   rest
                   of
                   Women
                   ;
                   soft
                   to
                   me
                   .
                
                 
                   Crumble
                   the
                   sacred
                   Mole
                   of
                   Salt
                   and
                   Corn
                   ,
                
                 
                   Next
                   in
                   the
                   Fire
                   the
                   Bays
                   with
                   Brimstone
                   burn
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   while
                   it
                   crackles
                   in
                   the
                   Sulphur
                   ,
                   say
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   ,
                   I
                   for
                   Daphnis
                   burn
                   ;
                   thus
                   Daphnis
                   burn
                   away
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   Laurel
                   is
                   his
                   Fate
                   :
                   Restore
                   ,
                   my
                   Charms
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   lovely
                   Daphnis
                   to
                   my
                   longing
                   Arms.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   As
                   when
                   the
                   raging
                   Heyfar
                   ,
                   through
                   the
                   Grove
                   ,
                
                 
                   Stung
                   with
                   Desire
                   ,
                   pursues
                   her
                   wand'ring
                   Love
                   ;
                
                 
                   Faint
                   at
                   the
                   last
                   ,
                   she
                   seeks
                   the
                   weedy
                   Pools
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   quench
                   her
                   thirst
                   ,
                   and
                   on
                   the
                   Rushes
                   rowls
                   :
                
                 
                   Careless
                   of
                   Night
                   ,
                   unmindful
                   to
                   return
                   ,
                
                 
                   Such
                   fruitless
                   Fires
                   perfidious
                   Daphnis
                   burn
                   .
                
                 
                   While
                   I
                   so
                   scorn
                   his
                   Love
                   ;
                   Restore
                   ,
                   my
                   Charms
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   lingring
                   Daphnis
                   to
                   my
                   longing
                   Arms.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   These
                   Garments
                   once
                   were
                   his
                   ;
                   and
                   left
                   to
                   me
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Pledges
                   of
                   his
                   promis'd
                   Loyalty
                   :
                
                 
                   Which
                   underneath
                   my
                   Threshold
                   I
                   bestow
                   ;
                
                 
                   These
                   Pawns
                   ,
                   O
                   sacred
                   Earth
                   !
                   to
                   me
                   my
                   Daphnis
                   owe.
                
                 
                   As
                   these
                   were
                   his
                   ,
                   so
                   mine
                   is
                   he
                   ;
                   my
                   Charms
                   ,
                
                 
                   Restore
                   their
                   lingring
                   Lord
                   to
                   my
                   deluded
                   Arms.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   These
                   poys'nous
                   Plants
                   ,
                   for
                   Magick
                   use
                   design'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   The
                   noblest
                   and
                   the
                   best
                   of
                   all
                   the
                   baneful
                   Kind
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                   Old
                   Moeris
                   brought
                   me
                   from
                   the
                   Pontick
                   Strand
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   cull'd
                   the
                   Mischief
                   of
                   a
                   bounteous
                   Land.
                
                 
                   Smear'd
                   with
                   these
                   pow'rful
                   Juices
                   ,
                   on
                   the
                   Plain
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   howls
                   a
                   Wolf
                   among
                   the
                   hungry
                   Train
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   oft
                   the
                   mighty
                   Negromancer
                   boasts
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   these
                   ,
                   to
                   call
                   from
                   Tombs
                   the
                   stalking
                   Ghosts
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   from
                   the
                   roots
                   to
                   tear
                   the
                   standing
                   Corn
                   ;
                
                 
                   Which
                   ,
                   whirld
                   aloft
                   ,
                   to
                   distant
                   Fields
                   is
                   born
                   .
                
                 
                   Such
                   is
                   the
                   strength
                   of
                   Spells
                   ;
                   restore
                   ,
                   my
                   Charms
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   lingring
                   Daphnis
                   to
                   my
                   longing
                   Arms.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Bear
                   out
                   these
                   Ashes
                   ;
                   cast
                   'em
                   in
                   the
                   Brook
                   ;
                
                 
                   Cast
                   backwards
                   o're
                   your
                   head
                   ,
                   nor
                   turn
                   your
                   look
                   :
                
                 
                   Since
                   neither
                   Gods
                   ,
                   nor
                   Godlike
                   Verse
                   can
                   move
                   ,
                
                 
                   Break
                   out
                   ye
                   smother'd
                   Fires
                   ,
                   and
                   kindle
                   smother'd
                   Love.
                
                 
                   Exert
                   your
                   utmost
                   pow'r
                   ,
                   my
                   lingring
                   Charms
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   force
                   my
                   Daphnis
                   to
                   my
                   longing
                   Arms.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   See
                   ,
                   while
                   my
                   last
                   endeavours
                   I
                   delay
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   waking
                   Ashes
                   rise
                   ,
                   and
                   round
                   our
                   Altars
                   play
                   !
                
                 
                   Run
                   to
                   the
                   Threshold
                   ,
                   Amaryllis
                   ,
                   hark
                   ,
                
                 
                   Our
                   Hylas
                   opens
                   ,
                   and
                   begins
                   to
                   bark
                   .
                
                 
                   Good
                   Heav'n
                   !
                   may
                   Lovers
                   what
                   they
                   wish
                   believe
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   dream
                   their
                   wishes
                   ,
                   and
                   those
                   dreams
                   deceive
                   !
                
                 
                   No
                   more
                   ,
                   my
                   Daphnis
                   comes
                   ;
                   no
                   more
                   ,
                   my
                   Charms
                   ;
                
                 
                   He
                   comes
                   ,
                   he
                   runs
                   ,
                   he
                   leaps
                   to
                   my
                   desiring
                   Arms.
                   
                
              
               
            
             
               
               
               
                 
                   The
                   Ninth
                   Pastoral
                
                 .
                 OR
                 ,
                 LYCIDAS
                 ,
                 and
                 MOERIS
                 .
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Argument
                   .
                
                 
                   When
                   Virgil
                   ,
                   
                     by
                     the
                     Favour
                     of
                  
                   Augustus
                   ,
                   
                     had
                     recover'd
                     his
                     Patrimony
                     near
                  
                   Mantua
                   ,
                   
                     and
                     went
                     in
                     hope
                     to
                     take
                     Possession
                     ,
                     he
                     was
                     in
                     danger
                     to
                     be
                     slain
                     by
                  
                   Arius
                   the
                   Centurion
                   ,
                   
                     to
                     whom
                     those
                     Lands
                     were
                     assign'd
                     by
                     the
                     Emperour
                     ,
                     in
                     reward
                     of
                     his
                     Service
                     against
                  
                   Brutus
                   and
                   Cassius
                   .
                   
                     This
                     Pastoral
                     therefore
                     is
                     fill'd
                     with
                     complaints
                     of
                     his
                     hard
                     Usage
                     ;
                     and
                     the
                     Persons
                     introduc'd
                     ,
                     are
                     the
                     Bayliff
                     of
                  
                   Virgil
                   ,
                   Moeris
                   ,
                   
                     and
                     his
                     Friend
                  
                   Lycidas
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     the
                     Right
                     Hon
                     ble
                     .
                     Marquiss
                     of
                     Hartington
                     the
                     Duke
                     of
                     William
                     Lord
                     Eldest
                     Son
                     to
                     His
                     Grace
                     the
                     Duke
                     of
                     Devonshire
                     .
                  
                   
                     Past
                     :
                     〈…〉
                  
                
              
               
                 
                   LYCIDAS
                   .
                
                 
                   HO
                   Moeris
                   !
                   whether
                   on
                   thy
                   way
                   so
                   fast
                   ?
                
                 
                   This
                   leads
                   to
                   Town
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   MOERIS
                   .
                
                 
                   O
                   Lycidas
                   ,
                   at
                   last
                
                 
                   The
                   Time
                   is
                   come
                   I
                   never
                   thought
                   to
                   see
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   Strange
                   Revolution
                   for
                   my
                   Farm
                   and
                   me
                   )
                
                 
                   When
                   the
                   grim
                   Captain
                   in
                   a
                   surly
                   Tone
                
                 
                   Cries
                   out
                   ,
                   pack
                   up
                   ye
                   Rascals
                   ,
                   and
                   be
                   gone
                   .
                
                 
                   Kick'd
                   out
                   ,
                   we
                   set
                   the
                   best
                   Face
                   on
                   't
                   we
                   cou'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   these
                   two
                   Kids
                   ,
                   t'
                   appease
                   his
                   angry
                   Mood
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   bear
                   ,
                   of
                   which
                   the
                   Furies
                   give
                   him
                   good
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   LYCIDAS
                   .
                
                 
                   Your
                   Country
                   Friends
                   were
                   told
                   another
                   Tale
                   ;
                
                 
                   That
                   from
                   the
                   sloaping
                   Mountain
                   to
                   the
                   Vale
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   dodder'd
                   Oak
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   the
                   Banks
                   along
                   ,
                
                 
                   Menalcas
                   sav'd
                   his
                   Fortune
                   with
                   a
                   Song
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   MOERIS
                   .
                
                 
                   Such
                   was
                   the
                   News
                   ,
                   indeed
                   ,
                   but
                   Songs
                   and
                   Rhymes
                
                 
                   Prevail
                   as
                   much
                   in
                   these
                   hard
                   Iron
                   Times
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   As
                   would
                   a
                   plump
                   of
                   trembling
                   Fowl
                   ,
                   that
                   rise
                
                 
                   Against
                   an
                   Eagle
                   sousing
                   from
                   the
                   Skies
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   had
                   not
                   Phoebus
                   warn'd
                   me
                   by
                   the
                   croak
                
                 
                   Of
                   an
                   old
                   Raven
                   ,
                   from
                   a
                   hollow
                   Oak
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   shun
                   debate
                   ,
                   Menalcas
                   had
                   been
                   slain
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Moeris
                   not
                   surviv'd
                   him
                   ,
                   to
                   complain
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   LYCIDAS
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   Heav'n
                   defend
                   !
                   cou'd
                   barb'rous
                   Rage
                   induce
                
                 
                   The
                   Brutal
                   Son
                   of
                   Mars
                   ,
                   t'
                   insult
                   the
                   sacred
                   Muse
                   !
                
                 
                   Who
                   then
                   shou'd
                   sing
                   the
                   Nymphs
                   ,
                   or
                   who
                   rehearse
                
                 
                   The
                   Waters
                   gliding
                   in
                   a
                   smoother
                   Verse
                   !
                
                 
                   Or
                   Amaryllis
                   praise
                   ,
                   that
                   Heav'nly
                   Lay
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   shorten'd
                   as
                   we
                   went
                   ,
                   our
                   tedious
                   Way
                   .
                
                 
                   O
                   Tity'rus
                   ,
                   tend
                   my
                   Herd
                   ,
                   and
                   see
                   them
                   fed
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   Morning
                   Pastures
                   ,
                   Evening
                   Waters
                   led
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   '
                   ware
                   the
                   Lybian
                   Ridgils
                   butting
                   Head.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   MOERIS
                   .
                
                 
                   Or
                   what
                   unfinish'd
                   He
                   to
                   Varus
                   read
                   ;
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Name
                   ,
                   O
                   Varus
                   (
                   if
                   the
                   kinder
                   Pow'rs
                
                 
                   Preserve
                   our
                   Plains
                   ,
                   and
                   shield
                   the
                   Mantuan
                   Tow'rs
                   ,
                
                 
                   Obnoxious
                   by
                   
                   Cremona's
                   neighb'ring
                   Crime
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                   The
                   Wings
                   of
                   Swans
                   ,
                   and
                   stronger
                   pinion'd
                   Rhyme
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shall
                   raise
                   aloft
                   ,
                   and
                   soaring
                   bear
                   above
                
                 
                   Th'
                   immortal
                   Gift
                   of
                   Gratitude
                   to
                   Jove
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   LYCIDAS
                   .
                
                 
                   Sing
                   on
                   ,
                   sing
                   on
                   ,
                   for
                   I
                   can
                   ne're
                   be
                   cloy'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   may
                   thy
                   Swarms
                   the
                   baleful
                   Eugh
                   avoid
                   :
                
                 
                   So
                   may
                   thy
                   Cows
                   their
                   burden'd
                   Bags
                   distend
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Trees
                   to
                   Goats
                   their
                   willing
                   Branches
                   bend
                   .
                
                 
                   Mean
                   as
                   I
                   am
                   ,
                   yet
                   have
                   the
                   Muses
                   made
                
                 
                   Me
                   free
                   ,
                   a
                   Member
                   of
                   the
                   tuneful
                   trade
                   :
                
                 
                   At
                   least
                   the
                   Shepherds
                   seem
                   to
                   like
                   my
                   Lays
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   I
                   discern
                   their
                   Flatt'ry
                   from
                   their
                   Praise
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   I
                   nor
                   to
                   
                   Cinna's
                   Ears
                   ,
                   nor
                   Varus
                   dare
                   aspire
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   gabble
                   like
                   a
                   Goose
                   ,
                   amidst
                   the
                   Swan-like
                   Quire.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   MOERIS
                   .
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   what
                   I
                   have
                   been
                   conning
                   in
                   my
                   Mind
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   are
                   they
                   Verses
                   of
                   a
                   Vulgar
                   Kind
                   .
                
                 
                   Come
                   ,
                   Galatea
                   ,
                   come
                   ,
                   the
                   Seas
                   forsake
                   ;
                
                 
                   What
                   Pleasures
                   can
                   the
                   Tides
                   with
                   their
                   hoarse
                   Murmurs
                   make
                   ?
                
                 
                   See
                   ,
                   on
                   the
                   Shore
                   inhabits
                   purple
                   Spring
                   ;
                
                 
                   Where
                   Nightingales
                   their
                   Love-sick
                   Ditty
                   fing
                   ;
                
                 
                   See
                   ,
                   Meads
                   with
                   purling
                   Streams
                   ,
                   with
                   Flow'rs
                   the
                   Ground
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Grottoes
                   cool
                   ,
                   with
                   shady
                   Poplars
                   crown'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   creeping
                   Vines
                   on
                   Arbours
                   weav'd
                   around
                   .
                
                 
                   Come
                   then
                   ,
                   and
                   leave
                   the
                   Waves
                   tumultuous
                   roar
                   ,
                
                 
                   Let
                   the
                   wild
                   Surges
                   vainly
                   beat
                   the
                   Shore
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   LYCIDAS
                   .
                
                 
                   Or
                   that
                   sweet
                   Song
                   I
                   heard
                   with
                   such
                   delight
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   same
                   you
                   sung
                   alone
                   one
                   starry
                   Night
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Tune
                   I
                   still
                   retain
                   ,
                   but
                   not
                   the
                   Words
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   MOERIS
                   .
                
                 
                   Why
                   ,
                   Daphnis
                   ,
                   dost
                   thou
                   search
                   in
                   old
                   Records
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   know
                   the
                   Seasons
                   when
                   the
                   Stars
                   arise
                   ?
                
                 
                   See
                   
                   Caesar's
                   Lamp
                   is
                   lighted
                   in
                   the
                   Skies
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Star
                   ,
                   whose
                   Rays
                   the
                   blushing
                   Grapes
                   adorn
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   swell
                   the
                   kindly
                   ripening
                   Ears
                   of
                   Corn.
                
                 
                   Under
                   this
                   influence
                   ,
                   graft
                   the
                   tender
                   Shoot
                   ;
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Childrens
                   Children
                   shall
                   enjoy
                   the
                   Fruit.
                
                 
                   The
                   rest
                   I
                   have
                   forgot
                   ,
                   for
                   Cares
                   and
                   Time
                
                 
                   Change
                   all
                   things
                   ,
                   and
                   untune
                   my
                   Soul
                   to
                   Rhime
                   :
                
                 
                   I
                   cou'd
                   have
                   once
                   sung
                   down
                   a
                   Summer's
                   Sun
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   now
                   the
                   Chime
                   of
                   Poetry
                   is
                   done
                   .
                
                 
                   My
                   Voice
                   grows
                   hoarse
                   ;
                   I
                   feel
                   the
                   Notes
                   decay
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   if
                   the
                   Wolves
                   had
                   seen
                   me
                   first
                   to
                   Day
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   these
                   ,
                   and
                   more
                   than
                   I
                   to
                   mind
                   can
                   bring
                   ,
                
                 
                   Menalcas
                   has
                   not
                   yet
                   forgott
                   to
                   sing
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   LYCIDAS
                   .
                
                 
                   Thy
                   faint
                   Excuses
                   but
                   inflame
                   me
                   more
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   the
                   Waves
                   rowl
                   silent
                   to
                   the
                   Shore
                   .
                
                 
                   Husht
                   Winds
                   the
                   topmost
                   Branches
                   scarcely
                   bend
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   if
                   thy
                   tuneful
                   Song
                   they
                   did
                   attend
                   :
                
                 
                   Already
                   we
                   have
                   half
                   our
                   way
                   o'recome
                   ;
                
                 
                   Far
                   off
                   I
                   can
                   discern
                   
                   Bianor's
                   Tomb
                   ;
                
                 
                   Here
                   ,
                   where
                   the
                   Labourer's
                   hands
                   have
                   form'd
                   a
                   Bow'r
                
                 
                   Of
                   wreathing
                   Trees
                   ,
                   in
                   Singing
                   waste
                   an
                   Hour
                   .
                
                 
                   Rest
                   here
                   thy
                   weary
                   Limbs
                   ,
                   thy
                   Kids
                   lay
                   down
                   ,
                
                 
                   We
                   've
                   Day
                   before
                   us
                   yet
                   ,
                   to
                   reach
                   the
                   Town
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   if
                   e're
                   Night
                   the
                   gath'ring
                   Clouds
                   we
                   fear
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Song
                   will
                   help
                   the
                   beating
                   Storm
                   to
                   bear
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   that
                   thou
                   may'st
                   not
                   be
                   too
                   late
                   abroad
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sing
                   ,
                   and
                   I
                   'll
                   ease
                   thy
                   Shoulders
                   of
                   thy
                   Load
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   MOERIS
                   .
                
                 
                   Cease
                   to
                   request
                   me
                   ,
                   let
                   us
                   mind
                   our
                   way
                   ;
                
                 
                   Another
                   Song
                   requires
                   another
                   Day
                   .
                
                 
                   When
                   good
                   Menalcas
                   comes
                   ,
                   if
                   he
                   rejoyce
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   find
                   a
                   Friend
                   at
                   Court
                   ,
                   I
                   'll
                   find
                   a
                   Voice
                   .
                
                 
              
            
             
               
               
               
                 
                   The
                   Tenth
                   Pastoral
                
                 .
                 OR
                 ,
                 GALLUS
                 .
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Argument
                   .
                
                 
                   Gallus
                   
                     a
                     great
                     Patron
                     of
                  
                   Virgil
                   ,
                   
                     and
                     an
                     excellent
                     Poet
                     ,
                     was
                     very
                     deeply
                     in
                     Love
                     with
                     one
                  
                   Citheris
                   ,
                   
                     whom
                     he
                     calls
                  
                   Lycoris
                   ;
                   
                     and
                     who
                     had
                     forsaken
                     him
                     for
                     the
                     Company
                     of
                     a
                     Souldier
                     .
                     The
                     Poet
                     therefore
                     supposes
                     his
                     Friend
                  
                   Gallus
                   
                     retir'd
                     in
                     his
                     heighth
                     of
                     Melancholy
                     into
                     the
                     Solitudes
                     of
                  
                   Arcadia
                   
                     (
                     the
                     celebrated
                     Scene
                     of
                     Pastorals
                     ;
                     )
                     where
                     he
                     represents
                     him
                     in
                     a
                     very
                     languishing
                     Condition
                     with
                     all
                     the
                     Rural
                     Deities
                     about
                     him
                     ,
                     pitying
                     his
                     hard
                     Usage
                     ,
                     and
                     condoling
                     his
                     Misfortune
                     .
                  
                
              
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     the
                     Right
                     Hon
                     ●●e
                     .
                     Charles
                     Montague
                     Esq
                     r
                     :
                     one
                     of
                     the
                     Lords
                     Comm
                     rs
                     .
                     of
                     his
                     Maj
                     t
                     s
                     .
                     Treasury
                     ,
                     Chancellor
                     ,
                     and
                     under
                     Treasurer
                     of
                     his
                     Maj
                     t
                     s
                     .
                     Excheqr.
                     and
                     one
                     of
                     his
                     Maj
                     t
                     s
                     .
                     Most
                     Hon
                     ble
                     .
                     Privy
                     Councill
                     .
                  
                   
                     Past
                     :
                     10.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 THY
                 sacred
                 Succour
                 ,
                 Arethusa
                 ,
                 bring
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 crown
                 my
                 Labour
                 :
                 't
                 is
                 the
                 last
                 I
                 sing
                 .
              
               
                 Which
                 proud
                 Lycoris
                 may
                 with
                 Pity
                 view
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Muse
                 is
                 mournful
                 ,
                 tho'
                 the
                 Numbers
                 few
                 .
              
               
                 Refuse
                 me
                 not
                 a
                 Verse
                 ,
                 to
                 Grief
                 and
                 Gallus
                 due
                 .
              
               
                 So
                 may
                 thy
                 Silver
                 Streams
                 beneath
                 the
                 Tide
                 ,
              
               
                 Unmix'd
                 with
                 briny
                 Seas
                 ,
                 securely
                 glide
                 .
              
               
                 Sing
                 then
                 ,
                 my
                 Gallus
                 ,
                 and
                 his
                 hopeless
                 Vows
                 ;
              
               
                 Sing
                 ,
                 while
                 my
                 Cattle
                 crop
                 the
                 tender
                 Browze
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 vocal
                 Grove
                 shall
                 answer
                 to
                 the
                 Sound
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Echo
                 ,
                 from
                 the
                 Vales
                 ,
                 the
                 tuneful
                 Voice
                 rebound
                 .
              
               
                 What
                 Lawns
                 or
                 Woods
                 withheld
                 you
                 from
                 his
                 Aid
                 ,
              
               
                 Ye
                 Nymphs
                 ,
                 when
                 Gallus
                 was
                 to
                 Love
                 betray'd
                 ;
              
               
                 To
                 Love
                 ,
                 unpity'd
                 by
                 the
                 cruel
                 Maid
                 ?
              
               
                 Not
                 steepy
                 Pindus
                 cou'd
                 retard
                 your
                 Course
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 cleft
                 Parnassus
                 ,
                 nor
                 th'
                 Aonian
                 Source
                 :
              
               
                 Nothing
                 that
                 owns
                 the
                 Muses
                 cou'd
                 suspend
              
               
                 Your
                 Aid
                 to
                 
                   Gallus
                   ,
                   Gallus
                
                 is
                 their
                 Friend
                 .
              
               
                 For
                 him
                 the
                 lofty
                 Laurel
                 stands
                 in
                 Tears
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 hung
                 with
                 humid
                 Pearls
                 the
                 lowly
                 Shrub
                 appears
                 .
              
               
               
                 Maenalian
                 Pines
                 the
                 Godlike
                 Swain
                 bemoan
                 ;
              
               
                 When
                 spread
                 beneath
                 a
                 Rock
                 he
                 sigh'd
                 alone
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 cold
                 Lycaeus
                 wept
                 from
                 every
                 dropping
                 Stone
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Sheep
                 surround
                 their
                 Shepherd
                 ,
                 as
                 he
                 lyes
                 :
              
               
                 Blush
                 not
                 ,
                 sweet
                 Poet
                 ,
                 nor
                 the
                 name
                 despise
                 :
              
               
                 Along
                 the
                 Streams
                 his
                 Flock
                 Adonis
                 fed
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 yet
                 the
                 Queen
                 of
                 Beauty
                 blest
                 his
                 Bed.
              
               
                 The
                 Swains
                 and
                 tardy
                 Neat-herds
                 came
                 ,
                 and
                 last
              
               
                 Menalcas
                 ,
                 wet
                 with
                 beating
                 Winter
                 Mast
                 .
              
               
                 Wond'ring
                 ,
                 they
                 ask'd
                 from
                 whence
                 arose
                 thy
                 Flame
                 ;
              
               
                 Yet
                 ,
                 more
                 amaz'd
                 ,
                 thy
                 own
                 Apollo
                 came
                 .
              
               
                 Flush'd
                 were
                 his
                 Cheeks
                 ,
                 and
                 glowing
                 were
                 his
                 Eyes
                 :
              
               
                 Is
                 she
                 thy
                 Care
                 ,
                 is
                 she
                 thy
                 Care
                 ,
                 he
                 cries
                 ?
              
               
                 Thy
                 false
                 Lycoris
                 flies
                 thy
                 Love
                 and
                 thee
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 for
                 thy
                 Rival
                 tempts
                 the
                 raging
                 Sea
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Forms
                 of
                 horrid
                 War
                 ,
                 and
                 Heav'ns
                 Inclemency
                 .
              
               
                 Sylvanus
                 came
                 :
                 his
                 Brows
                 a
                 Country
                 Crown
              
               
                 Of
                 Fennel
                 ,
                 and
                 of
                 nodding
                 Lillies
                 ,
                 drown
                 .
              
               
                 Great
                 Pan
                 arriv'd
                 ;
                 and
                 we
                 beheld
                 him
                 too
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 Cheeks
                 and
                 Temples
                 of
                 Vermilion
                 Hue.
              
               
                 Why
                 ,
                 Gallus
                 ,
                 this
                 immod'rate
                 Grief
                 ,
                 he
                 cry'd
                 :
              
               
                 Think'st
                 thou
                 that
                 Love
                 with
                 Tears
                 is
                 satisfi'd
                 ?
              
               
                 The
                 Meads
                 are
                 sooner
                 drunk
                 with
                 Morning
                 Dews
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Bees
                 with
                 flow'ry
                 Shrubs
                 ,
                 the
                 Goats
                 with
                 Brouze
                 .
              
               
                 Unmov'd
                 ,
                 and
                 with
                 dejected
                 Eyes
                 ,
                 he
                 mourn'd
                 :
              
               
                 He
                 paus'd
                 ,
                 and
                 then
                 these
                 broken
                 Words
                 return'd
                 .
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 past
                 ;
                 and
                 Pity
                 gives
                 me
                 no
                 Relief
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 you
                 ,
                 Arcadian
                 Swains
                 ,
                 shall
                 sing
                 my
                 Grief
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 on
                 your
                 Hills
                 ,
                 my
                 last
                 Complaints
                 renew
                 ;
              
               
                 So
                 sad
                 a
                 Song
                 is
                 onely
                 worthy
                 you
                 .
              
               
                 How
                 light
                 wou'd
                 lye
                 the
                 Turf
                 upon
                 my
                 Breast
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 you
                 my
                 Suff'rings
                 in
                 your
                 Songs
                 exprest
                 ?
              
               
                 Ah!
                 that
                 your
                 Birth
                 and
                 Bus'ness
                 had
                 been
                 mine
                 ;
              
               
                 To
                 penn
                 the
                 Sheep
                 ,
                 and
                 press
                 the
                 swelling
                 Vine
                 !
              
               
               
                 Had
                 Phyllis
                 or
                 Amyntas
                 caus'd
                 my
                 Pain
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 any
                 Nymph
                 ,
                 or
                 Shepherd
                 on
                 the
                 Plain
                 ,
              
               
                 Tho
                 Phyllis
                 brown
                 ,
                 tho
                 black
                 Amyntas
                 were
                 ,
              
               
                 Are
                 Violets
                 not
                 sweet
                 ,
                 because
                 not
                 fair
                 ?
              
               
                 Beneath
                 the
                 Sallows
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 shady
                 Vine
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 Loves
                 had
                 mix'd
                 their
                 pliant
                 Limbs
                 with
                 mine
                 ;
              
               
                 Phyllis
                 with
                 Myrtle
                 Wreaths
                 had
                 crown'd
                 my
                 Hair
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 soft
                 Amyntas
                 sung
                 away
                 my
                 Care.
              
               
                 Come
                 ,
                 see
                 what
                 Pleasures
                 in
                 our
                 Plains
                 abound
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Woods
                 ,
                 the
                 Fountains
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 flow'ry
                 ground
                 .
              
               
                 As
                 you
                 are
                 beauteous
                 ,
                 were
                 you
                 half
                 so
                 true
                 ,
              
               
                 Here
                 cou'd
                 I
                 live
                 ,
                 and
                 love
                 ,
                 and
                 dye
                 with
                 only
                 you
                 .
              
               
                 Now
                 I
                 to
                 fighting
                 Fields
                 am
                 sent
                 afar
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 strive
                 in
                 Winter
                 Camps
                 with
                 toils
                 of
                 War
                 ;
              
               
                 While
                 you
                 ,
                 (
                 alas
                 ,
                 that
                 I
                 shou'd
                 find
                 it
                 so
                 !
                 )
              
               
                 To
                 shun
                 my
                 sight
                 ,
                 your
                 Native
                 Soil
                 forgo
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 climb
                 the
                 frozen
                 Alps
                 ,
                 and
                 tread
                 th'
                 eternal
                 Snow
                 .
              
               
                 Ye
                 Frosts
                 and
                 Snows
                 her
                 tender
                 Body
                 spare
                 ,
              
               
                 Those
                 are
                 not
                 Limbs
                 for
                 Ysicles
                 to
                 tear
                 .
              
               
                 For
                 me
                 ,
                 the
                 Wilds
                 and
                 Desarts
                 are
                 my
                 Choice
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Muses
                 ,
                 once
                 my
                 Care
                 ;
                 my
                 once
                 harmonious
                 Voice
                 .
              
               
                 There
                 will
                 I
                 sing
                 ,
                 forsaken
                 and
                 alone
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Rocks
                 and
                 hollow
                 Caves
                 shall
                 echo
                 to
                 my
                 Moan
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Rind
                 of
                 ev'ry
                 Plant
                 her
                 Name
                 shall
                 know
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 as
                 the
                 Rind
                 extends
                 ,
                 the
                 Love
                 shall
                 grow
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 on
                 Arcadian
                 Mountains
                 will
                 I
                 chase
              
               
                 (
                 Mix'd
                 with
                 the
                 Woodland
                 Nymphs
                 )
                 the
                 Salvage
                 Race
                 .
              
               
                 Nor
                 Cold
                 shall
                 hinder
                 me
                 ,
                 with
                 Horns
                 and
                 Hounds
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 thrid
                 the
                 Thickets
                 ,
                 or
                 to
                 leap
                 the
                 Mounds
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 now
                 methinks
                 o're
                 steepy
                 Rocks
                 I
                 go
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 rush
                 through
                 sounding
                 Woods
                 ,
                 and
                 bend
                 the
                 Parthian
                 Bow
                 :
              
               
                 As
                 if
                 with
                 Sports
                 my
                 Sufferings
                 I
                 could
                 ease
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 by
                 my
                 Pains
                 the
                 God
                 of
                 Love
                 appease
                 .
              
               
               
               
               
               
               
                 My
                 Frenzy
                 changes
                 ,
                 I
                 delight
                 no
                 more
              
               
                 On
                 Mountain
                 tops
                 ,
                 to
                 chace
                 the
                 tusky
                 Boar
                 ;
              
               
                 No
                 Game
                 but
                 hopeless
                 Love
                 my
                 thoughts
                 pursue
                 :
              
               
                 Once
                 more
                 ye
                 Nymphs
                 ,
                 and
                 Songs
                 ,
                 and
                 sounding
                 Woods
                 adieu
                 .
              
               
                 Love
                 alters
                 not
                 for
                 us
                 ,
                 his
                 hard
                 Decrees
                 ,
              
               
                 Not
                 tho
                 beneath
                 the
                 Thracian
                 Clime
                 we
                 freeze
                 ;
              
               
                 Or
                 
                 Italy's
                 indulgent
                 Heav'n
                 forgo
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 mid-Winter
                 tread
                 Scythonian
                 Snow
                 .
              
               
                 Or
                 when
                 the
                 Barks
                 of
                 Elms
                 are
                 scorch'd
                 ,
                 we
                 keep
              
               
                 On
                 Meroes
                 burning
                 Plains
                 the
                 Lybian
                 Sheep
                 .
              
               
                 In
                 Hell
                 ,
                 and
                 Earth
                 ,
                 and
                 Seas
                 ,
                 and
                 Heav'n
                 above
                 ,
              
               
                 Love
                 conquers
                 all
                 ;
                 and
                 we
                 must
                 yield
                 to
                 Love.
              
               
                 My
                 Muses
                 ,
                 here
                 your
                 sacred
                 Raptures
                 end
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 Verse
                 was
                 what
                 I
                 ow'd
                 my
                 suff'ring
                 Friend
                 .
              
               
                 This
                 while
                 I
                 sung
                 ,
                 my
                 Sorrows
                 I
                 deceiv'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 bending
                 Osiers
                 into
                 Baskets
                 weav'd
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Song
                 ,
                 because
                 inspir'd
                 by
                 you
                 ,
                 shall
                 shine
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 Gallus
                 will
                 approve
                 ,
                 because
                 't
                 is
                 mine
                 .
              
               
                 Gallus
                 ,
                 for
                 whom
                 my
                 holy
                 Flames
                 renew
                 ,
              
               
                 Each
                 hour
                 ,
                 and
                 ev'ry
                 moment
                 rise
                 in
                 view
                 :
              
               
                 As
                 Alders
                 ,
                 in
                 the
                 Spring
                 ,
                 their
                 Boles
                 extend
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 heave
                 so
                 fiercely
                 ,
                 that
                 the
                 Bark
                 they
                 rend
                 .
              
               
                 Now
                 let
                 us
                 rise
                 ,
                 for
                 hoarseness
                 oft
                 invades
              
               
                 The
                 Singer's
                 Voice
                 ,
                 who
                 sings
                 beneath
                 the
                 Shades
                 .
              
               
                 From
                 Juniper
                 ,
                 unwholsom
                 Dews
                 distill
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 blast
                 the
                 sooty
                 Corn
                 ;
                 the
                 with'ring
                 Herbage
                 kill
                 ;
              
               
                 Away
                 ,
                 my
                 Goats
                 ,
                 away
                 :
                 for
                 you
                 have
                 browz'd
                 your
                 fill
                 .
              
            
          
        
      
       
         
           
             
             
               
                 TO
                 THE
                 RIGHT
                 HONOURABLE
              
               PHILIP
               
                 Earl
                 of
              
               Chesterfield
               ,
               &c.
               
            
             
               
                 My
                 Lord
                 ,
              
            
             
               I
               Cannot
               begin
               my
               Address
               to
               your
               Lordship
               ,
               better
               than
               in
               the
               words
               of
               Virgil
               ,
               
                 
                   —
                   Quod
                   optanti
                   ,
                   Divum
                   promittere
                   Nemo
                
                 
                   Auderet
                   ,
                   volvenda
                   Dies
                   ,
                   en
                   ,
                   attulit
                   ultrò
                   .
                
              
               Seven
               Years
               together
               I
               have
               conceal'd
               the
               longing
               which
               I
               had
               to
               appear
               before
               you
               :
               A
               time
               as
               tedious
               as
               Aeneas
               pass'd
               in
               his
               wandring
               Voyage
               ,
               before
               he
               reach'd
               the
               promis'd
               Italy
               .
               But
               I
               consider'd
               ,
               that
               nothing
               which
               my
               meanness
               cou'd
               produce
               ,
               was
               worthy
               of
               your
               Patronage
               .
               At
               last
               this
               happy
               Occasion
               offer'd
               ,
               of
               Presenting
               to
               you
               the
               best
               Poem
               of
               the
               best
               Poet.
               If
               I
               balk'd
               this
               opportunity
               ,
               I
               was
               in
               despair
               of
               finding
               such
               another
               ;
               and
               if
               I
               took
               it
               ,
               I
               was
               still
               uncertain
               whether
               you
               wou'd
               vouchsafe
               to
               accept
               it
               from
               my
               hands
               .
               'T
               was
               a
               bold
               venture
               which
               I
               made
               ,
               in
               desiring
               your
               permission
               to
               lay
               my
               unworthy
               Labours
               at
               your
               feet
               .
               But
               my
               rashness
               has
               succeeded
               beyond
               my
               hopes
               :
               And
               you
               have
               been
               pleas'd
               not
               to
               suffer
               an
               Old
               Man
               to
               go
               discontented
               out
               of
               the
               World
               ,
               for
               want
               of
               that
               protection
               ,
               of
               which
               he
               had
               been
               so
               long
               Ambitious
               .
               I
               have
               known
               a
               Gentleman
               in
               disgrace
               ,
               and
               not
               daring
               to
               appear
               before
               King
               Charles
               the
               Second
               ,
               though
               he
               much
               desir'd
               it
               :
               At
               length
               he
               took
               the
               confidence
               to
               attend
               a
               fair
               Lady
               to
               the
               Court
               ;
               and
               told
               His
               Majesty
               ,
               that
               under
               her
               protection
               he
               had
               presum'd
               to
               wait
               on
               him
               .
               With
               the
               same
               humble
               confidence
               I
               present
               my self
               before
               your
               Lordship
               ,
               and
               attending
               on
               Virgil
               hope
               a
               gracious
               reception
               .
               The
               Gentleman
               succeeded
               ,
               because
               the
               powerful
               Lady
               was
               his
               Friend
               ;
               but
               I
               have
               too
               much
               injur'd
               my
               great
               Author
               ,
               to
               expect
               he
               should
               intercede
               for
               me
               .
               I
               wou'd
               have
               Translated
               him
               ,
               but
               according
               to
               the
               litteral
               French
               and
               Italian
               Phrases
               ,
               I
               fear
               I
               have
               traduc'd
               him
               .
               'T
               is
               the
               fault
               of
               many
               a
               well-meaning
               Man
               ,
               to
               be
               officious
               in
               a
               wrong
               place
               ,
               and
               do
               a
               prejudice
               ,
               where
               he
               had
               endeavour'd
               to
               do
               a
               service
               .
               Virgil
               wrote
               his
               Georgics
               in
               the
               full
               strength
               and
               vigour
               of
               his
               Age
               ,
               when
               his
               Judgment
               was
               at
               the
               height
               ,
               and
               before
               his
               Fancy
               was
               declining
               .
               He
               had
               ,
               (
               according
               to
               our
               homely
               Saying
               )
               his
               full
               swing
               at
               this
               Poem
               ,
               beginning
               it
               about
               the
               Age
               of
               Thirty
               Five
               ;
               and
               scarce
               concluding
               it
               before
               he
               arriv'd
               at
               Forty
               .
               'T
               is
               observ'd
               both
               of
               him
               ,
               and
               Horace
               ,
               and
               I
               believe
               it
               will
               hold
               in
               all
               great
               Poets
               ;
               that
               though
               they
               wrote
               before
               with
               a
               certain
               heat
               of
               Genius
               which
               inspir'd
               them
               ,
               yet
               that
               heat
               was
               not
               perfectly
               digested
               .
               There
               is
               requir'd
               a
               continuance
               of
               warmth
               to
               ripen
               the
               best
               and
               Noblest
               Fruits
               .
               Thus
               Horace
               in
               his
               First
               and
               Second
               
               Book
               of
               Odes
               ,
               was
               still
               rising
               ,
               but
               came
               not
               to
               his
               Meridian
               'till
               the
               Third
               .
               After
               which
               his
               Judgment
               was
               an
               overpoize
               to
               his
               Imagination
               :
               He
               grew
               too
               cautious
               to
               be
               bold
               enough
               ,
               for
               he
               descended
               in
               his
               Fourth
               by
               slow
               degrees
               ,
               and
               in
               his
               Satires
               and
               Epistles
               ,
               was
               more
               a
               Philosopher
               and
               a
               Critick
               than
               a
               Poet.
               In
               the
               beginning
               of
               Summer
               the
               days
               are
               almost
               at
               a
               stand
               ,
               with
               little
               variation
               of
               length
               or
               shortness
               ,
               because
               at
               that
               time
               the
               Diurnal
               Motion
               of
               the
               Sun
               partakes
               more
               of
               a
               Right
               Line
               ,
               than
               of
               a
               Spiral
               .
               The
               samè
               is
               the
               method
               of
               Nature
               in
               the
               frame
               of
               Man.
               He
               seems
               at
               Forty
               to
               be
               fully
               in
               his
               Summer
               Tropick
               ;
               somewhat
               before
               ,
               and
               somewhat
               after
               ,
               he
               finds
               in
               his
               Soul
               but
               small
               increases
               or
               decays
               .
               From
               Fifty
               to
               Threescore
               the
               Ballance
               generally
               holds
               even
               ,
               in
               our
               colder
               Clymates
               :
               For
               he
               loses
               not
               much
               in
               Fancy
               ;
               and
               Judgment
               ,
               which
               is
               the
               effect
               of
               Observation
               ,
               still
               increases
               :
               His
               succeeding
               years
               afford
               him
               little
               more
               than
               the
               stubble
               of
               his
               own
               Harvest
               :
               Yet
               if
               his
               Constitution
               be
               healthful
               ,
               his
               Mind
               may
               still
               retain
               a
               decent
               vigour
               ;
               and
               the
               Gleanings
               of
               that
               Ephraim
               ,
               in
               Comparison
               with
               others
               ,
               will
               surpass
               the
               Vintage
               of
               Abiezer
               .
               I
               have
               call'd
               this
               somewhere
               by
               a
               bold
               Metaphor
               ,
               a
               green
               Old
               Age
               ;
               but
               Virgil
               has
               given
               me
               his
               Authority
               for
               the
               Figure
               .
            
             
               Jam
               Senior
               ;
               sed
               Cruda
               Deo
               ,
               viridisque
               Senectus
               .
            
             
               Amongst
               those
               few
               who
               enjoy
               the
               advantage
               of
               a
               latter
               Spring
               ,
               your
               Lordship
               is
               a
               rare
               Example
               :
               Who
               being
               now
               arriv'd
               at
               your
               great
               Clymacterique
               ,
               yet
               give
               no
               proof
               of
               the
               least
               decay
               in
               your
               Excellent
               Judgment
               ,
               and
               comprehension
               of
               all
               things
               ,
               which
               are
               within
               the
               compass
               of
               Humane
               Vnderstanding
               .
               Your
               Conversation
               is
               as
               easie
               as
               it
               is
               instructive
               ,
               and
               I
               cou'd
               never
               observe
               the
               least
               vanity
               or
               the
               least
               assuming
               in
               any
               thing
               you
               said
               :
               but
               a
               natural
               unaffected
               Modesty
               ,
               full
               of
               good
               sense
               ,
               and
               well
               digested
               .
               A
               clearness
               of
               Notion
               ,
               express'd
               in
               ready
               and
               unstudied
               words
               .
               No
               Man
               has
               complain'd
               ,
               or
               ever
               can
               ,
               that
               you
               have
               discours'd
               too
               long
               on
               any
               Subject
               :
               for
               you
               leave
               us
               in
               an
               eagerness
               of
               Learning
               more
               ;
               pleas'd
               with
               what
               we
               hear
               ,
               but
               not
               satisfy'd
               ,
               because
               you
               will
               not
               speak
               so
               much
               as
               we
               cou'd
               wish
               .
               I
               dare
               not
               excuse
               your
               Lordship
               from
               this
               fault
               ;
               for
               though
               't
               is
               none
               in
               you
               ,
               't
               is
               one
               to
               all
               who
               have
               the
               happiness
               of
               being
               known
               to
               you
               .
               I
               must
               confess
               the
               Criticks
               make
               it
               one
               of
               
               Virgil's
               Beauties
               ,
               that
               having
               said
               what
               he
               thought
               convenient
               ,
               he
               always
               left
               somewhat
               for
               the
               imagination
               of
               his
               Readers
               to
               supply
               :
               That
               they
               might
               gratifie
               their
               fancies
               ,
               by
               finding
               more
               ,
               in
               what
               he
               had
               written
               ,
               than
               at
               first
               they
               cou'd
               ;
               and
               think
               they
               had
               added
               to
               his
               thought
               ,
               when
               it
               was
               all
               there
               before-hand
               ,
               and
               he
               only
               sav'd
               himself
               the
               expence
               of
               words
               .
               However
               it
               was
               ,
               I
               never
               went
               from
               your
               Lordship
               ,
               but
               with
               a
               longing
               to
               return
               ,
               or
               without
               a
               hearty
               Curse
               to
               him
               who
               invented
               Ceremonies
               in
               the
               World
               ,
               and
               put
               me
               on
               the
               nec●ssity
               of
               withdrawing
               ,
               when
               it
               was
               my
               interest
               as
               well
               as
               my
               desire
               ,
               to
               have
               given
               you
               a
               much
               longer
               trouble
               .
               I
               cannot
               imagine
               (
               if
               your
               Lordship
               will
               give
               me
               leave
               to
               speak
               my
               thoughts
               )
               but
               you
               have
               had
               a
               more
               than
               ordinary
               vigour
               in
               your
               Youth
               .
               For
               too
               much
               of
               heat
               is
               requir'd
               at
               first
               ,
               that
               there
               may
               not
               too
               little
               be
               left
               at
               last
               .
               A
               Prodigal
               Fire
               is
               only
               capable
               of
               large
               remains
               :
               And
               yours
               ,
               my
               Lord
               ,
               still
               burns
               the
               clearer
               in
               declining
               .
               The
               Blaze
               is
               not
               so
               fierce
               as
               at
               the
               first
               ,
               but
               the
               Smoak
               is
               wholly
               vanish'd
               ;
               and
               your
               Friends
               who
               stand
               about
               you
               ,
               are
               not
               only
               sensible
               of
               a
               chearful
               warmth
               ,
               but
               are
               kept
               at
               an
               awful
               distance
               by
               its
               force
               .
               In
               my
               small
               Observations
               of
               Mankind
               ,
               I
               have
               ever
               sound
               ,
               that
               such
               as
               are
               not
               rather
               too
               full
               of
               Spirit
               when
               they
               are
               young
               ,
               degenerate
               to
               dullness
               in
               their
               Age.
               Sobriety
               in
               our
               riper
               years
               is
               the
               effect
               of
               a
               well-concocted
               warmth
               ;
               but
               where
               
               the
               Principles
               are
               only
               Phlegm
               ,
               what
               can
               be
               expected
               from
               the
               waterish
               Matter
               ,
               but
               an
               insipid
               Manhood
               ,
               and
               a
               stupid
               old
               Infancy
               ;
               Discretion
               in
               Leading-strings
               ,
               and
               a
               confirm'd
               ignorance
               on
               Crutches
               ?
               Virgil
               in
               his
               Third
               Georgic
               ,
               when
               he
               describes
               a
               Colt
               ,
               who
               promises
               a
               Courser
               for
               the
               Race
               ,
               or
               for
               the
               Field
               of
               Battel
               ,
               shews
               him
               the
               first
               to
               pass
               the
               Bridge
               ,
               which
               trembles
               under
               him
               ,
               and
               to
               stem
               the
               torrent
               of
               the
               flood
               .
               His
               beginnings
               must
               be
               in
               rashness
               ;
               a
               Noble
               Fault
               :
               But
               Time
               and
               Experience
               will
               correct
               that
               Errour
               ,
               and
               tame
               it
               into
               a
               deliberate
               and
               well-weigh'd
               Courage
               ;
               which
               knows
               both
               to
               be
               cautious
               and
               to
               dare
               ,
               as
               occasion
               offers
               .
               Your
               Lordship
               is
               a
               Man
               of
               Honour
               ,
               not
               only
               so
               unstain'd
               ,
               but
               so
               unquestion'd
               ,
               that
               you
               are
               the
               living
               Standard
               of
               that
               Heroick
               Vertue
               ;
               so
               truly
               such
               ,
               that
               if
               I
               wou'd
               flatter
               you
               ,
               I
               cou'd
               not
               .
               It
               takes
               not
               from
               you
               ,
               that
               you
               were
               born
               with
               Principles
               of
               Generosity
               and
               Probity
               :
               But
               it
               adds
               to
               you
               ,
               that
               you
               have
               cultivated
               Nature
               ,
               and
               made
               those
               Principles
               ,
               the
               Rule
               and
               Measure
               of
               all
               your
               Actions
               .
               The
               World
               knows
               this
               ,
               without
               my
               telling
               :
               Yet
               Poets
               have
               a
               right
               of
               Recording
               it
               to
               all
               Posterity
               .
               
                 Dignum
                 Laude
                 Virum
                 ,
                 Musa
                 vetat
                 Mori
                 .
              
               
                 Epaminondas
                 ,
                 Lucullus
              
               ,
               and
               the
               two
               first
               Caesars
               ,
               were
               not
               esteem'd
               the
               worse
               Commanders
               ,
               for
               having
               made
               Philosophy
               ,
               and
               the
               Liberal
               Arts
               their
               Study
               .
               Cicero
               might
               have
               been
               their
               Equal
               ,
               but
               that
               he
               wanted
               Courage
               .
               To
               have
               both
               these
               Vertues
               ,
               and
               to
               have
               improv'd
               them
               both
               ,
               with
               a
               softness
               of
               Manners
               ,
               and
               a
               sweetness
               of
               Conversation
               ,
               few
               of
               our
               Nobility
               can
               fill
               that
               Character
               :
               One
               there
               is
               ,
               and
               so
               conspicuous
               by
               his
               own
               light
               ,
               that
               he
               needs
               not
            
             
               Digito
               monstrari
               ,
               &
               dicier
               Hic
               est
               .
            
             
               To
               be
               Nobly
               Born
               ,
               and
               of
               an
               Ancient
               Family
               ,
               is
               in
               the
               extreams
               of
               Fortune
               ,
               either
               good
               or
               bad
               ;
               for
               Virtue
               and
               Descent
               are
               no
               Inheritance
               .
               A
               long
               Series
               of
               Ancestours
               shews
               the
               Native
               with
               great
               advantage
               at
               the
               first
               ;
               but
               if
               he
               any
               way
               degenerate
               from
               his
               Line
               ,
               the
               least
               Spot
               is
               visible
               on
               Ermine
               .
               But
               to
               preserve
               this
               whiteness
               in
               its
               Original
               Purity
               ,
               you
               ,
               my
               Lord
               ,
               have
               ,
               like
               that
               Ermine
               ,
               forsaken
               the
               common
               Track
               of
               Business
               ,
               which
               is
               not
               always
               clean
               :
               You
               have
               chosen
               for
               your self
               a
               private
               Greatness
               ,
               and
               will
               not
               be
               polluted
               with
               Ambition
               .
               It
               has
               been
               observ'd
               in
               former
               times
               ,
               that
               none
               have
               been
               so
               greedy
               of
               Employments
               ,
               and
               of
               managing
               the
               Publick
               ,
               as
               they
               who
               have
               least
               deserv'd
               their
               Stations
               .
               But
               such
               only
               merit
               to
               be
               call'd
               Patriots
               ,
               under
               whom
               we
               see
               their
               Country
               Flourish
               .
               I
               have
               laugh'd
               sometimes
               (
               for
               who
               wou'd
               always
               be
               a
               
                 Heraclitus
                 ?
              
               )
               when
               I
               have
               reflected
               on
               those
               Men
               ,
               who
               from
               time
               to
               time
               have
               shot
               themselves
               into
               the
               World.
               I
               have
               seen
               many
               Successions
               of
               them
               ;
               some
               bolting
               out
               upon
               the
               Stage
               with
               vast
               applause
               ,
               and
               others
               hiss'd
               off
               ,
               and
               quitting
               it
               with
               disgrace
               .
               But
               while
               they
               were
               in
               action
               ,
               I
               have
               constantly
               observ'd
               ,
               that
               they
               seem'd
               desirous
               to
               retreat
               from
               Business
               :
               Greatness
               they
               said
               was
               nauseous
               ,
               and
               a
               Crowd
               was
               troublesome
               ;
               a
               quiet
               privacy
               was
               their
               Ambition
               .
               Some
               few
               of
               them
               I
               believe
               said
               this
               in
               earnest
               ,
               and
               were
               making
               a
               provision
               against
               future
               want
               ,
               that
               they
               might
               enjoy
               their
               Age
               with
               ease
               :
               They
               saw
               the
               happiness
               of
               a
               private
               Life
               ,
               and
               promis'd
               to
               themselves
               a
               Blessing
               ,
               which
               every
               day
               it
               was
               in
               their
               power
               to
               possess
               .
               But
               they
               deferr'd
               it
               ,
               and
               linger'd
               still
               at
               Court
               ,
               because
               they
               thought
               they
               had
               not
               yet
               enough
               to
               make
               them
               happy
               :
               They
               wou'd
               have
               more
               ,
               and
               laid
               in
               to
               make
               their
               Solitude
               Luxurious
               .
               A
               wretched
               Philosophy
               ,
               which
               Epicurus
               never
               taught
               them
               in
               his
               Garden
               :
               They
               lov'd
               the
               prospect
               of
               this
               
               quiet
               in
               reversion
               ,
               but
               were
               not
               willing
               to
               have
               it
               in
               possession
               ;
               they
               wou'd
               first
               be
               Old
               ,
               and
               made
               as
               sure
               of
               Health
               and
               Life
               ,
               as
               if
               both
               of
               them
               were
               at
               their
               dispose
               .
               But
               put
               them
               to
               the
               necessity
               of
               a
               present
               choice
               ,
               and
               they
               preferr'd
               continuance
               in
               Power
               :
               Like
               the
               Wretch
               who
               call'd
               Death
               to
               his
               assistance
               ,
               but
               refus'd
               it
               when
               he
               came
               .
               The
               Great
               Scipio
               was
               not
               of
               their
               Opinion
               ,
               who
               indeed
               sought
               Honours
               in
               his
               Youth
               ,
               and
               indur'd
               the
               Fatigues
               with
               which
               he
               purchas'd
               them
               .
               He
               serv'd
               his
               Country
               when
               it
               was
               in
               need
               of
               his
               Courage
               and
               his
               Conduct
               ,
               'till
               he
               thought
               it
               was
               time
               to
               serve
               himself
               :
               But
               dismounted
               from
               the
               Saddle
               ,
               when
               he
               found
               the
               Beast
               which
               bore
               him
               ,
               began
               to
               grow
               restiff
               and
               ungovernable
               .
               But
               your
               Lordship
               has
               given
               us
               a
               better
               Example
               of
               Moderation
               .
               You
               saw
               betimes
               that
               Ingratitude
               is
               not
               confin'd
               to
               Commonwealths
               ;
               and
               therefore
               though
               you
               were
               form'd
               alike
               ,
               for
               the
               greatest
               of
               Civil
               Employments
               ,
               and
               Military
               Commands
               ,
               yet
               you
               push'd
               not
               your
               Fortune
               to
               rise
               in
               either
               ;
               but
               contented
               your self
               with
               being
               capable
               ,
               as
               much
               as
               any
               whosoever
               ,
               of
               defending
               your
               Country
               with
               your
               Sword
               ,
               or
               assisting
               it
               with
               your
               Counsel
               ,
               when
               you
               were
               call'd
               .
               For
               the
               rest
               ,
               the
               respect
               and
               love
               which
               was
               paid
               you
               ,
               not
               only
               in
               the
               Province
               where
               you
               live
               ,
               but
               generally
               by
               all
               who
               had
               the
               happiness
               to
               know
               you
               ,
               was
               a
               wise
               Exchange
               for
               the
               Honours
               of
               the
               Court
               :
               A
               place
               of
               forgetfulness
               ,
               at
               the
               best
               ,
               for
               well
               deservers
               .
               'T
               is
               necessary
               for
               the
               polishing
               of
               Manners
               ,
               to
               have
               breath'd
               that
               Air
               ,
               but
               't
               is
               infectious
               even
               to
               the
               best
               Morals
               to
               live
               always
               in
               it
               .
               'T
               is
               a
               dangerous
               Commerce
               ,
               where
               an
               honest
               Man
               is
               sure
               at
               the
               first
               of
               being
               Cheated
               ;
               and
               he
               recovers
               not
               his
               Losses
               ,
               but
               by
               learning
               to
               Cheat
               others
               .
               The
               undermining
               Smile
               becomes
               at
               length
               habitual
               ;
               and
               the
               drift
               of
               his
               plausible
               Conversation
               ,
               is
               only
               to
               flatter
               one
               ,
               that
               he
               may
               betray
               another
               .
               Yet
               't
               is
               good
               to
               have
               been
               a
               looker
               on
               ,
               without
               venturing
               to
               play
               ;
               that
               a
               Man
               may
               know
               false
               Dice
               another
               time
               ,
               though
               he
               never
               means
               to
               use
               them
               .
               I
               commend
               not
               him
               who
               never
               knew
               a
               Court
               ,
               but
               him
               who
               forsakes
               it
               because
               he
               knows
               it
               .
               A
               young
               Man
               deserves
               no
               praise
               ,
               who
               out
               of
               melancholy
               Zeal
               leaves
               the
               World
               before
               he
               has
               well
               try'd
               it
               ,
               and
               runs
               headlong
               into
               Religion
               .
               He
               who
               carries
               a
               Maidenhead
               into
               a
               Cloyster
               ,
               is
               sometimes
               apt
               to
               lose
               it
               there
               ,
               and
               to
               repent
               of
               his
               Repentance
               .
               He
               only
               is
               like
               to
               endure
               Austerities
               ,
               who
               has
               already
               found
               the
               inconvenience
               of
               Pleasures
               .
               For
               almost
               every
               Man
               will
               be
               making
               Experiments
               in
               one
               part
               or
               another
               of
               his
               Life
               :
               And
               the
               danger
               is
               the
               less
               when
               we
               are
               young
               :
               For
               having
               try'd
               it
               early
               ,
               we
               shall
               not
               be
               apt
               to
               repeat
               it
               afterwards
               .
               Your
               Lordship
               therefore
               may
               properly
               be
               said
               to
               have
               chosen
               a
               Retreat
               ;
               and
               not
               to
               have
               chosen
               it
               'till
               you
               had
               maturely
               weigh'd
               the
               advantages
               of
               rising
               higher
               with
               the
               hazards
               of
               the
               fall
               .
               
                 Res
                 non
                 parta
                 labore
                 ,
                 sed
                 relicta
                 ,
              
               was
               thought
               by
               a
               Poet
               ,
               to
               be
               one
               of
               the
               requisites
               to
               a
               happy
               Life
               .
               Why
               shou'd
               a
               reasonable
               Man
               put
               it
               into
               the
               power
               of
               Fortune
               to
               make
               him
               miserable
               ,
               when
               his
               Ancestours
               have
               taken
               care
               to
               release
               him
               from
               her
               ?
               Let
               him
               venture
               ,
               says
               
                 Horace
                 ,
                 Qui
                 Zonam
                 perdidit
              
               .
               He
               who
               has
               nothing
               ,
               plays
               securely
               ,
               for
               he
               may
               win
               ,
               and
               cannot
               be
               poorer
               if
               he
               loses
               .
               But
               he
               who
               is
               born
               to
               a
               plentiful
               Estate
               ,
               and
               is
               Ambitious
               of
               Offices
               at
               Court
               ,
               sets
               a
               stake
               to
               Fortune
               ,
               which
               she
               can
               seldom
               answer
               :
               If
               he
               gains
               nothing
               ,
               he
               loses
               all
               ,
               or
               part
               of
               what
               was
               once
               his
               own
               ;
               and
               if
               he
               gets
               ,
               he
               cannot
               be
               certain
               but
               he
               may
               refund
               .
            
             
               In
               short
               ,
               however
               he
               succeeds
               ,
               't
               is
               Covetousness
               that
               induc'd
               him
               first
               to
               play
               ,
               and
               Covetousness
               is
               the
               undoubted
               sign
               of
               ill
               sense
               at
               bottom
               .
               The
               Odds
               are
               against
               him
               that
               he
               loses
               ,
               and
               one
               loss
               may
               be
               of
               more
               consequence
               to
               him
               ,
               than
               all
               his
               former
               winnings
               .
               'T
               is
               like
               the
               present
               War
               of
               the
               Christians
               against
               the
               Turk
               ;
               every
               year
               they
               gain
               a
               Victory
               ,
               and
               by
               that
               a
               Town
               ;
               but
               if
               they
               are
               once
               defeated
               ,
               they
               lose
               a
               Province
               at
               a
               blow
               ,
               and
               endanger
               the
               safety
               of
               the
               whole
               Empire
               .
               You
               ,
               my
               Lord
               ,
               enjoy
               your
               quiet
               in
               a
               Garden
               ,
               
               where
               you
               have
               not
               only
               the
               leisure
               of
               thinking
               ,
               but
               the
               pleasure
               to
               think
               of
               nothing
               which
               can
               discompose
               your
               Mind
               .
               A
               good
               Conscience
               is
               a
               Port
               which
               is
               Land-lock'd
               on
               every
               side
               ,
               and
               where
               no
               Winds
               can
               possibly
               invade
               ,
               no
               Tempests
               can
               arise
               .
               There
               a
               Man
               may
               stand
               upon
               the
               Shore
               ,
               and
               not
               only
               see
               his
               own
               Image
               ,
               but
               that
               of
               his
               Maker
               ,
               clearly
               reflected
               from
               the
               undisturb'd
               and
               silent
               waters
               .
               Reason
               was
               intended
               for
               a
               Blessing
               ,
               and
               such
               it
               is
               to
               Men
               of
               Honour
               and
               Integrity
               ;
               who
               desire
               no
               more
               ,
               than
               what
               they
               are
               able
               to
               give
               themselves
               ;
               like
               the
               happy
               Old
               Coricyan
               ,
               whom
               my
               Author
               describes
               in
               his
               Fourth
               Georgic
               ;
               whose
               Fruits
               and
               Salads
               on
               which
               he
               liv'd
               contented
               ,
               were
               all
               of
               his
               own
               growth
               ,
               and
               his
               own
               Plantation
               .
               Virgil
               seems
               to
               think
               that
               the
               Blessings
               of
               a
               Country
               Life
               are
               not
               compleat
               ,
               without
               an
               improvement
               of
               Knowledge
               by
               Contemplation
               and
               Reading
               .
            
             
               
                 O
                 Fortunatos
                 nimium
                 ,
                 bona
                 si
                 sua
                 norint
              
               
                 Agricolas
                 !
              
            
             
               'T
               is
               but
               half
               possession
               not
               to
               understand
               that
               happiness
               which
               we
               possess
               :
               A
               foundation
               of
               good
               Sense
               ,
               and
               a
               cultivation
               of
               Learning
               ,
               are
               requir'd
               to
               give
               a
               seasoning
               to
               Retirement
               ,
               and
               make
               us
               taste
               the
               blessing
               .
               God
               has
               bestow'd
               on
               your
               Lordship
               the
               first
               of
               these
               ,
               and
               you
               have
               bestow'd
               on
               your self
               the
               second
               .
               Eden
               was
               not
               made
               for
               Beasts
               ,
               though
               they
               were
               suffer'd
               to
               live
               in
               it
               ,
               but
               for
               their
               Master
               ,
               who
               studied
               God
               in
               the
               Works
               of
               his
               Creation
               .
               Neither
               cou'd
               the
               Devil
               have
               been
               happy
               there
               with
               all
               his
               Knowledge
               ,
               for
               he
               wanted
               Innocence
               to
               make
               him
               so
               .
               He
               brought
               Envy
               ,
               Malice
               ,
               and
               Ambition
               into
               Paradise
               ,
               which
               sour'd
               to
               him
               the
               sweetness
               of
               the
               Place
               .
               Wherever
               inordinate
               Affections
               are
               ,
               't
               is
               Hell.
               Such
               only
               can
               enjoy
               the
               Country
               ,
               who
               are
               capable
               of
               thinking
               when
               they
               are
               there
               ,
               and
               have
               left
               their
               Passions
               behind
               them
               in
               the
               Town
               .
               Then
               they
               are
               prepar'd
               for
               Solitude
               ;
               and
               in
               that
               Solitude
               is
               prepar'd
               for
               them
               
                 Et
                 secura
                 quies
                 ,
                 &
                 nescia
                 fallere
                 vita
                 .
              
            
             
               As
               I
               began
               this
               Dedication
               with
               a
               Verse
               of
               Virgil
               ,
               so
               I
               conclude
               it
               with
               another
               .
               The
               continuance
               of
               your
               Health
               ,
               to
               enjoy
               that
               Happiness
               which
               you
               so
               well
               deserve
               ,
               and
               which
               you
               have
               provided
               for
               your self
               ,
               is
               the
               sincere
               and
               earnest
               Wish
               of
            
             
               
                 Your
                 Lordship's
                 most
                 Devoted
                 ,
                 and
                 most
                 Obedient
                 Servant
                 ,
                 JOHN
                 DRYDEN
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               AN
               ESSAY
               ON
               THE
               GEORGICS
               .
            
             
               VIRGIL
               may
               be
               reckon'd
               the
               first
               who
               introduc'd
               three
               new
               kinds
               of
               Poetry
               among
               the
               Romans
               ,
               which
               he
               Copied
               after
               three
               the
               Greatest
               Masters
               of
               
                 Greece
                 .
                 Theocritus
              
               and
               Homer
               have
               still
               disputed
               for
               the
               advantage
               over
               him
               in
               Pastoral
               and
               Heroicks
               ,
               but
               I
               think
               all
               are
               Unanimous
               in
               giving
               him
               the
               precedence
               to
               Hesiod
               in
               his
               Georgies
               .
               The
               truth
               of
               it
               is
               ,
               the
               Sweetness
               and
               Rusticity
               of
               a
               Pastoral
               cannot
               be
               so
               well
               exprest
               in
               any
               other
               Tongue
               as
               in
               the
               Greek
               ,
               when
               rightly
               mixt
               and
               qualified
               with
               the
               Doric
               Dialect
               ;
               nor
               can
               the
               Majesty
               of
               an
               Heroick
               Poem
               any
               where
               appear
               so
               well
               as
               in
               this
               Language
               ,
               which
               has
               a
               Natural
               greatness
               in
               it
               ,
               and
               can
               be
               often
               render'd
               more
               deep
               and
               sonorous
               by
               the
               Pronunciation
               of
               the
               Ionians
               .
               But
               in
               the
               middle
               Stile
               ,
               where
               the
               Writers
               in
               both
               Tongues
               are
               on
               a
               Level
               :
               we
               see
               how
               far
               Virgil
               has
               excell'd
               all
               who
               have
               written
               in
               the
               same
               way
               with
               him
               .
            
             
               There
               has
               been
               abundance
               of
               Criticism
               spent
               on
               
                 Virgil's
                 Pastorals
              
               and
               Aeneids
               ,
               but
               the
               Georgics
               are
               a
               Subject
               which
               none
               of
               the
               Criticks
               have
               sufficiently
               taken
               into
               their
               Consideration
               ;
               most
               of
               'em
               passing
               it
               over
               in
               silence
               ,
               or
               casting
               it
               under
               the
               same
               head
               with
               Pastoral
               ;
               a
               division
               by
               no
               means
               proper
               ,
               unless
               we
               suppose
               the
               Stile
               of
               a
               Husbandman
               ought
               to
               be
               imitated
               in
               a
               Georgic
               as
               that
               of
               a
               Shepherd
               is
               in
               Pastoral
               .
               But
               tho'
               the
               Scene
               of
               both
               these
               Poems
               lies
               in
               the
               same
               place
               ;
               the
               Speakers
               in
               them
               are
               of
               a
               quite
               different
               Character
               ,
               since
               the
               Precepts
               of
               Husbandry
               are
               not
               to
               be
               deliver'd
               with
               the
               simplicity
               of
               a
               Plow-Man
               ,
               but
               with
               the
               Address
               of
               a
               Poet.
               No
               Rules
               therefore
               that
               relate
               to
               Pastoral
               ,
               can
               any
               way
               affect
               the
               Georgics
               ,
               which
               fall
               under
               that
               Class
               of
               Poetry
               which
               consists
               in
               giving
               plain
               and
               direct
               Instructions
               to
               the
               Reader
               ;
               whether
               they
               be
               Moral
               Duties
               ,
               as
               those
               of
               Theognis
               and
               Pythagoras
               ;
               or
               Philosophical
               Speculations
               ,
               as
               those
               of
               Aratus
               and
               Lucretius
               ;
               or
               Rules
               of
               Practice
               ,
               as
               those
               of
               Hesiod
               and
               Virgil.
               Among
               these
               different
               kinds
               of
               Subjects
               ,
               that
               which
               the
               Georgics
               goes
               upon
               ,
               is
               I
               think
               the
               meanest
               and
               the
               least
               improving
               ,
               but
               the
               most
               pleasing
               and
               delightful
               .
               Precepts
               of
               Morality
               ,
               besides
               the
               Natural
               Corruption
               of
               our
               Tempers
               ,
               which
               makes
               us
               averse
               to
               them
               ,
               are
               so
               abstracted
               from
               Ideas
               of
               Sense
               ,
               that
               they
               seldom
               give
               an
               
               opportunity
               for
               those
               Beautiful
               Descriptions
               and
               Images
               which
               are
               the
               Spirit
               and
               Life
               of
               Poetry
               .
               Natural
               Philosophy
               has
               indeed
               sensible
               Objects
               to
               work
               upon
               ,
               but
               then
               it
               often
               puzzles
               the
               Reader
               with
               the
               Intricacy
               of
               its
               Notions
               ,
               and
               perplexes
               him
               with
               the
               multitude
               of
               its
               Disputes
               .
               But
               this
               kind
               of
               Poetry
               I
               am
               now
               speaking
               of
               ,
               addresses
               it self
               wholly
               to
               the
               Imagination
               :
               It
               is
               altogether
               Conversant
               among
               the
               Fields
               and
               Woods
               ,
               and
               has
               the
               most
               delightful
               part
               of
               Nature
               for
               its
               Province
               .
               It
               raises
               in
               our
               Minds
               a
               pleasing
               variety
               of
               Scenes
               and
               Landskips
               ,
               whilst
               it
               teaches
               us
               :
               and
               makes
               the
               dryest
               of
               its
               Precepts
               look
               like
               a
               Description
               .
               A
               Georgic
               
                 therefore
                 is
                 some
                 part
                 of
                 the
                 Science
                 of
                 Husbandry
                 put
                 into
                 a
                 pleasing
                 Dress
                 ,
                 and
                 set
                 off
                 with
                 all
                 the
                 Beauties
                 and
                 Embellishments
                 of
                 Poetry
                 .
              
               Now
               since
               this
               Science
               of
               Husbandry
               is
               of
               a
               very
               large
               extent
               ,
               the
               Poet
               shews
               his
               Skill
               in
               singling
               out
               such
               Precepts
               to
               preceed
               on
               ,
               as
               are
               useful
               ,
               and
               at
               the
               same
               time
               most
               capable
               of
               Ornament
               .
               Virgil
               was
               so
               well
               acquainted
               with
               this
               Secret
               ,
               that
               to
               set
               off
               his
               first
               Georgic
               ,
               he
               has
               run
               into
               a
               set
               of
               Precepts
               ,
               which
               are
               almost
               foreign
               to
               his
               Subject
               ,
               in
               that
               Beautiful
               account
               he
               gives
               us
               of
               the
               Signs
               in
               Nature
               ,
               which
               precede
               the
               Changes
               of
               the
               Weather
               .
            
             
               And
               if
               there
               be
               so
               much
               Art
               in
               the
               choice
               of
               fit
               Precepts
               ,
               there
               is
               much
               more
               requir'd
               in
               the
               Treating
               of
               'em
               ;
               that
               they
               may
               fall
               in
               after
               each
               other
               by
               a
               Natural
               unforc'd
               Method
               ,
               and
               shew
               themselves
               in
               the
               best
               and
               most
               advantagious
               Light.
               They
               shou'd
               all
               be
               so
               finely
               wrought
               together
               into
               the
               same
               Piece
               ,
               that
               no
               course
               Seam
               may
               discover
               where
               they
               joyn
               ;
               as
               in
               a
               Curious
               Brede
               of
               Needle-Work
               ,
               one
               Colour
               falls
               away
               by
               such
               just
               degrees
               ,
               and
               another
               rises
               so
               insensibly
               ,
               that
               we
               see
               the
               variety
               ,
               without
               being
               able
               to
               distinguish
               the
               total
               vanishing
               of
               the
               one
               from
               the
               first
               appearance
               of
               the
               other
               .
               Nor
               is
               it
               sufficient
               to
               range
               and
               dispose
               this
               Body
               of
               Precepts
               into
               a
               clear
               and
               easie
               Method
               ,
               unless
               they
               are
               deliver'd
               to
               us
               in
               the
               most
               pleasing
               and
               agreeable
               manner
               :
               For
               there
               are
               several
               ways
               of
               conveying
               the
               same
               Truth
               to
               the
               Mind
               of
               Man
               ,
               and
               to
               chuse
               the
               pleasantest
               of
               these
               ways
               ,
               is
               that
               which
               chiefly
               distinguishes
               Poetry
               from
               Prose
               ,
               and
               makes
               
               Virgil's
               Rules
               of
               Husbandry
               pleasanter
               to
               read
               than
               
               Varro's
               .
               Where
               the
               Prose-writer
               tells
               us
               plainly
               what
               ought
               to
               be
               done
               ,
               the
               Poet
               often
               conceals
               the
               Precept
               in
               a
               description
               ,
               and
               represents
               his
               Country-Man
               performing
               the
               Action
               in
               which
               he
               wou'd
               instruct
               his
               Reader
               .
               Where
               the
               one
               sets
               out
               as
               fully
               and
               distinctly
               as
               he
               can
               ,
               all
               the
               parts
               of
               the
               Truth
               ,
               which
               he
               wou'd
               communicate
               to
               us
               ;
               the
               other
               singles
               out
               the
               most
               pleasing
               Circumstance
               of
               this
               Truth
               ,
               and
               so
               conveys
               the
               whole
               in
               a
               more
               diverting
               manner
               to
               the
               Understanding
               .
               I
               shall
               give
               one
               Instance
               out
               of
               a
               multitude
               of
               this
               nature
               ,
               that
               might
               be
               found
               in
               the
               Georgics
               ,
               where
               the
               Reader
               may
               see
               the
               different
               ways
               Virgil
               has
               taken
               to
               express
               the
               same
               thing
               ,
               and
               how
               much
               pleasanter
               every
               manner
               of
               Expression
               is
               ,
               than
               the
               plain
               and
               direct
               mention
               of
               it
               wou'd
               have
               been
               .
               It
               is
               in
               the
               Second
               Georgic
               where
               he
               tells
               us
               what
               Trees
               will
               bear
               Grafting
               on
               each
               other
               .
            
             
               
                 
                   Et
                   saepe
                   alterius
                   ramos
                   impune
                   videmus
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Vertere
                   in
                   alterius
                   ,
                   mutatamque
                   ;
                   insita
                   mala
                
              
               
                 
                   Ferre
                   pyrum
                   ,
                   &
                   prunis
                   lapidosa
                   rubescere
                   corna
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   —
                   Steriles
                   Platani
                   malos
                   gessere
                   valentes
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Castaneae
                   fagos
                   ,
                   ornusque
                   ;
                   incanuit
                   albo
                
              
               
                 
                   Flore
                   pyri
                
                 :
                 Glandemque
                 ;
                 sues
                 fregere
                 sub
                 ulmis
                 .
              
               
               
                 —
                 Nec
                 longum
                 tempus
                 :
                 &
                 ingens
              
               
                 Exijt
                 ad
                 Coelum
                 ramis
                 felicibus
                 arbos
                 ;
              
               
                 Miraturque
                 novas
                 frondes
                 ,
                 &
                 non
                 sua
                 poma
                 .
              
            
             
               Here
               we
               see
               the
               Poet
               consider'd
               all
               the
               Effects
               of
               this
               Union
               between
               Trees
               of
               different
               kinds
               ,
               and
               took
               notice
               of
               that
               Effect
               which
               had
               the
               most
               surprize
               ,
               and
               by
               consequence
               the
               most
               delight
               in
               it
               ,
               to
               express
               the
               capacity
               that
               was
               in
               them
               of
               being
               thus
               united
               .
               This
               way
               of
               Writing
               is
               every
               where
               much
               in
               use
               among
               the
               Poets
               ,
               and
               is
               particularly
               practis'd
               by
               Virgil
               ,
               who
               loves
               to
               suggest
               a
               Truth
               indirectly
               ,
               and
               without
               giving
               us
               a
               full
               and
               open
               view
               of
               it
               :
               To
               let
               us
               see
               just
               so
               much
               as
               will
               naturally
               lead
               the
               Imagination
               into
               all
               the
               parts
               that
               lie
               conceal'd
               .
               This
               is
               wonderfully
               diverting
               to
               the
               Understanding
               ,
               thus
               to
               receive
               a
               Precept
               ,
               that
               enters
               as
               it
               were
               through
               a
               By-way
               ,
               and
               to
               apprehend
               an
               Idea
               that
               draws
               a
               whole
               train
               after
               it
               :
               For
               here
               the
               Mind
               ,
               which
               is
               always
               delighted
               with
               its
               own
               Discoveries
               ,
               only
               takes
               the
               hint
               from
               the
               Poet
               ,
               and
               seems
               to
               work
               out
               the
               rest
               by
               the
               strength
               of
               her
               own
               faculties
               .
            
             
               But
               since
               the
               inculcating
               Precept
               upon
               Precept
               ,
               will
               at
               length
               prove
               tiresom
               to
               the
               Reader
               ,
               if
               he
               meets
               with
               no
               other
               Entertainment
               ,
               the
               Poet
               must
               take
               care
               not
               to
               encumber
               his
               Poem
               with
               too
               much
               Business
               ;
               but
               sometimes
               to
               relieve
               the
               Subject
               with
               a
               Moral
               Reflection
               ,
               or
               let
               it
               rest
               a
               while
               for
               the
               sake
               of
               a
               pleasant
               and
               pertinent
               digression
               .
               Nor
               is
               it
               sufficient
               to
               run
               out
               into
               beautiful
               and
               diverting
               digressions
               (
               as
               it
               is
               generally
               thought
               )
               unless
               they
               are
               brought
               in
               aptly
               ,
               and
               are
               something
               of
               a
               piece
               with
               the
               main
               design
               of
               the
               Georgic
               :
               for
               they
               ought
               to
               have
               a
               remote
               alliance
               at
               least
               to
               the
               Subject
               ,
               that
               so
               the
               whole
               Poem
               may
               be
               more
               uniform
               and
               agreeable
               in
               all
               its
               parts
               .
               We
               shou'd
               never
               quite
               lose
               sight
               of
               the
               Country
               ,
               tho'
               we
               are
               sometimes
               entertain'd
               with
               a
               distant
               prospect
               of
               it
               .
               Of
               this
               nature
               are
               
               Virgil's
               Descriptions
               of
               the
               Original
               of
               Agriculture
               ,
               of
               the
               Fruitfulness
               of
               Italy
               ,
               of
               a
               Country
               Life
               ,
               and
               the
               like
               ,
               which
               are
               not
               brought
               in
               by
               force
               ,
               but
               naturally
               rise
               out
               of
               the
               principal
               Argument
               and
               Design
               of
               the
               Poem
               .
               I
               know
               no
               one
               digression
               in
               the
               Georgics
               that
               may
               seem
               to
               contradict
               this
               Observation
               ,
               besides
               that
               in
               the
               latter
               end
               of
               the
               First
               Book
               ,
               where
               the
               Poet
               launches
               out
               into
               a
               discourse
               of
               the
               Battel
               of
               Pharsalia
               ,
               and
               the
               Actions
               of
               Augustus
               :
               But
               it
               's
               worth
               while
               to
               consider
               how
               admirably
               he
               has
               turn'd
               the
               course
               of
               his
               narration
               into
               its
               proper
               Channel
               ,
               and
               made
               his
               Husbandman
               concern'd
               even
               in
               what
               relates
               to
               the
               Battel
               ,
               in
               those
               inimitable
               Lines
               ,
               
                 
                   Scilicet
                   &
                   tempus
                   veniet
                   ,
                   cum
                   finibus
                   illis
                
                 
                   Agricola
                   in
                   curvo
                   terram
                   molitus
                   aratro
                   ,
                
                 
                   Exesa
                   inveniet
                   scabra
                   rubigine
                   pila
                   :
                
                 
                   Aut
                   gravibus
                   rastris
                   galeas
                   pulsabit
                   inanes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Grandiaque
                   effossis
                   mirabitur
                   ossa
                   sepulchris
                   .
                
              
               And
               afterwards
               speaking
               of
               
               Augustus's
               Actions
               ,
               he
               still
               remembers
               that
               Agriculture
               ought
               to
               be
               some
               way
               hinted
               at
               throughout
               the
               whole
               Poem
               .
            
             
               
                 —
                 Non
                 ullus
                 Aratro
              
               
                 Dignus
                 honos
                 :
                 squalent
                 abductis
                 arva
                 colonis
                 :
              
               
                 Et
                 curvae
                 rigidum
                 falces
                 conflantur
                 in
                 Ensem
                 .
              
            
             
             
               We
               now
               come
               to
               the
               Stile
               which
               is
               proper
               to
               a
               Georgic
               ;
               and
               indeed
               this
               is
               the
               part
               on
               which
               the
               Poet
               must
               lay
               out
               all
               his
               strength
               ,
               that
               his
               words
               may
               be
               warm
               and
               glowing
               ,
               and
               that
               every
               thing
               he
               describes
               may
               immediately
               present
               it self
               ,
               and
               rise
               up
               to
               the
               Reader
               's
               view
               .
               He
               ought
               in
               particular
               to
               be
               careful
               of
               not
               letting
               his
               Subject
               debase
               his
               Stile
               ,
               and
               betray
               him
               into
               a
               meanness
               of
               Expression
               ,
               but
               every
               where
               to
               keep
               up
               his
               Verse
               in
               all
               the
               Pomp
               of
               Numbers
               ,
               and
               Dignity
               of
               words
               .
            
             
               I
               think
               nothing
               which
               is
               a
               Phrase
               or
               Sayingin
               common
               talk
               ,
               shou'd
               be
               admitted
               into
               a
               serious
               Poem
               :
               because
               it
               takes
               off
               from
               the
               Solemnity
               of
               the
               expression
               ,
               and
               gives
               it
               too
               great
               a
               turn
               of
               Familiarity
               :
               much
               less
               ought
               the
               low
               Phrases
               and
               Terms
               of
               Art
               ,
               that
               are
               adapted
               to
               Husbandry
               ,
               have
               any
               place
               in
               such
               a
               Work
               as
               the
               Georgic
               ,
               which
               is
               not
               to
               appear
               in
               the
               natural
               simplicity
               and
               nakedness
               of
               its
               Subject
               ,
               but
               in
               the
               pleasantest
               Dress
               that
               Poetry
               can
               bestow
               on
               it
               .
               Thus
               Virgil
               ,
               to
               deviate
               from
               the
               common
               form
               of
               words
               ,
               wou'd
               not
               make
               use
               of
               Tempore
               but
               Sidere
               in
               his
               first
               Verse
               ,
               and
               every
               where
               else
               abounds
               with
               
                 Metaphors
                 ,
                 Grecisms
              
               ,
               and
               Circumlocutions
               ,
               to
               give
               his
               Verse
               the
               greater
               Pomp
               ,
               and
               preserve
               it
               from
               sinking
               into
               a
               Plebeian
               Stile
               .
               And
               herein
               consists
               
               Virgil's
               Master-piece
               ,
               who
               has
               not
               only
               excell'd
               all
               other
               Poets
               ,
               but
               even
               himself
               in
               the
               Language
               of
               his
               Georgics
               ;
               where
               we
               receive
               more
               strong
               and
               lively
               Ideas
               of
               things
               from
               his
               words
               ,
               than
               we
               cou'd
               have
               done
               from
               the
               Objects
               themselves
               :
               and
               find
               our
               Imaginations
               more
               affected
               by
               his
               Descriptions
               ,
               than
               they
               wou'd
               have
               been
               by
               the
               very
               sight
               of
               what
               he
               describes
               .
            
             
               I
               shall
               now
               ,
               after
               this
               short
               Scheme
               of
               Rules
               ,
               consider
               the
               different
               success
               that
               Hesiod
               and
               Virgil
               have
               met
               with
               in
               this
               kind
               of
               Poetry
               ,
               which
               may
               give
               us
               some
               further
               Notion
               of
               the
               Excellence
               of
               the
               Georgics
               .
               To
               begin
               with
               Hesiod
               ;
               If
               we
               may
               guess
               at
               his
               Character
               from
               his
               Writings
               ,
               he
               had
               much
               more
               of
               the
               Husbandman
               than
               the
               Poet
               in
               his
               Temper
               :
               He
               was
               wonderfully
               Grave
               ,
               Discreet
               ,
               and
               Frugal
               ,
               he
               liv'd
               altogether
               in
               the
               Country
               ,
               and
               was
               probably
               for
               his
               great
               Prudence
               the
               Oracle
               of
               the
               whole
               Neighbourhood
               .
               These
               Principles
               of
               good
               Husbandry
               ran
               through
               his
               Works
               ,
               and
               directed
               him
               to
               the
               choice
               of
               Tillage
               ,
               and
               Merchandise
               ,
               for
               the
               Subject
               of
               that
               which
               is
               the
               most
               Celebrated
               of
               them
               .
               He
               is
               every
               where
               bent
               on
               Instruction
               ,
               avoids
               all
               manner
               of
               Digressions
               ,
               and
               does
               not
               stir
               out
               of
               the
               Field
               once
               in
               the
               whole
               Georgic
               .
               His
               Method
               in
               describing
               Month
               after
               Month
               with
               its
               proper
               Seasons
               and
               Employments
               ,
               is
               too
               grave
               and
               fimple
               ;
               it
               takes
               off
               from
               the
               surprize
               and
               variety
               of
               the
               Poem
               ,
               and
               makes
               the
               whole
               look
               but
               like
               a
               modern
               Almanack
               in
               Verse
               .
               The
               Reader
               is
               carried
               through
               a
               course
               of
               Weather
               ,
               and
               may
               beforehand
               guess
               whether
               he
               is
               to
               meet
               with
               Snow
               or
               Rain
               ,
               Clouds
               or
               Sunshine
               in
               the
               next
               Description
               .
               His
               Descriptions
               indeed
               have
               abundance
               of
               Nature
               in
               them
               ,
               but
               then
               it
               is
               Nature
               in
               her
               simplicity
               and
               undress
               .
               Thus
               when
               he
               speaks
               of
               January
               ;
               the
               Wild-Beasts
               ,
               says
               he
               ,
               run
               shivering
               through
               the
               Woods
               with
               their
               Heads
               stooping
               to
               the
               ground
               ,
               and
               their
               Tails
               clapt
               between
               their
               Legs
               ;
               the
               Goats
               and
               Oxen
               are
               almost
               flead
               with
               Cold
               ;
               but
               it
               is
               not
               so
               bad
               with
               the
               Sheep
               ,
               because
               they
               have
               a
               thick
               Coat
               of
               Wooll
               about
               '
               em
               .
               The
               Old
               Men
               too
               are
               bitterly
               pincht
               with
               the
               Weather
               ,
               but
               the
               young
               Girls
               feel
               nothing
               of
               it
               ,
               who
               sit
               at
               home
               
               with
               their
               Mothers
               by
               a
               warm
               Fire-side
               .
               Thus
               does
               the
               Old
               Gentleman
               give
               himself
               up
               to
               a
               loose
               kind
               of
               Tattle
               ,
               rather
               than
               endeavour
               after
               a
               just
               Poetical
               Description
               .
               Nor
               has
               he
               shewn
               more
               of
               Art
               or
               Judgment
               in
               the
               Precepts
               he
               has
               given
               us
               ,
               which
               are
               sown
               so
               very
               thick
               ,
               that
               they
               clog
               the
               Poem
               too
               much
               ,
               and
               are
               often
               so
               minute
               and
               full
               of
               Circumstances
               ,
               that
               they
               weaken
               and
               un-nerve
               his
               Verse
               .
               But
               after
               all
               ,
               we
               are
               beholding
               to
               him
               for
               the
               first
               rough
               sketch
               of
               a
               Georgic
               :
               where
               we
               may
               still
               discover
               something
               venerable
               in
               the
               Antickness
               of
               the
               Work
               ;
               but
               if
               we
               wou'd
               see
               the
               Design
               enlarg'd
               ,
               the
               Figures
               reform'd
               ,
               the
               Colouring
               laid
               on
               ,
               and
               the
               whole
               Piece
               finish'd
               ,
               we
               must
               expect
               it
               from
               a
               greater
               Master's
               hand
               .
            
             
               Virgil
               has
               drawn
               out
               the
               Rules
               for
               Tillage
               and
               Planting
               into
               Two
               Books
               ,
               which
               Hesiod
               has
               dispatcht
               in
               half
               a
               one
               ;
               but
               has
               so
               rais'd
               the
               natural
               rudeness
               and
               simplicity
               of
               his
               Subject
               with
               such
               a
               significancy
               of
               Expression
               ,
               such
               a
               Pomp
               of
               Verse
               ,
               such
               variety
               of
               Transitions
               ,
               and
               such
               a
               solemn
               Air
               in
               his
               Reflections
               ,
               that
               if
               we
               look
               on
               both
               Poets
               together
               ,
               we
               see
               in
               one
               the
               plainness
               of
               a
               down-right
               Country-Man
               ,
               and
               in
               the
               other
               ,
               something
               of
               a
               Rustick
               Majesty
               ,
               like
               that
               of
               a
               Roman
               Dictator
               at
               the
               Plow-Tail
               .
               He
               delivers
               the
               meanest
               of
               his
               Precepts
               with
               a
               kind
               of
               Grandeur
               ,
               he
               breaks
               the
               Clods
               and
               tosses
               the
               Dung
               about
               with
               an
               air
               of
               gracefulness
               .
               His
               Prognostications
               of
               the
               Weather
               are
               taken
               out
               of
               Aratus
               ,
               where
               we
               may
               see
               how
               judiciously
               he
               has
               pickt
               out
               those
               that
               are
               most
               proper
               for
               his
               Husbandman's
               Observation
               ;
               how
               he
               has
               enforc'd
               the
               Expression
               ,
               and
               heighten'd
               the
               Images
               which
               he
               found
               in
               the
               Original
               .
            
             
               The
               Second
               Book
               has
               more
               wit
               in
               it
               ,
               and
               a
               greater
               boldness
               in
               its
               Metaphors
               than
               any
               of
               the
               rest
               .
               The
               Poet
               with
               a
               great
               Beauty
               applies
               Oblivion
               ,
               Ignorance
               ,
               Wonder
               ,
               Desire
               and
               the
               like
               to
               his
               Trees
               .
               The
               last
               Georgic
               has
               indeed
               as
               many
               Metaphors
               ,
               but
               not
               so
               daring
               as
               this
               ;
               for
               Humane
               Thoughts
               and
               Passions
               may
               be
               more
               naturally
               ascrib'd
               to
               a
               Bee
               ,
               than
               to
               an
               Inanimate
               Plant.
               He
               who
               reads
               over
               the
               Pleasures
               of
               a
               Country
               Life
               ,
               as
               they
               are
               describ'd
               by
               Virgil
               in
               the
               latter
               end
               of
               this
               Book
               ,
               can
               scarce
               be
               of
               
               Virgil's
               Mind
               ,
               in
               preferring
               even
               the
               Life
               of
               a
               Philosopher
               to
               it
               .
            
             
               We
               may
               I
               think
               read
               the
               Poet's
               Clime
               in
               his
               Description
               ,
               for
               he
               seems
               to
               have
               been
               in
               a
               sweat
               at
               the
               Writing
               of
               it
               .
               
                 
                   —
                   O
                   Quis
                   me
                   gelidis
                   sub
                   Montibus
                   Haemi
                
                 
                   Sistat
                   ,
                   &
                   ingenti
                   ramorum
                   protegat
                   umbr
                   â
                   !
                
              
               And
               is
               every
               where
               mentioning
               among
               his
               chief
               Pleasures
               ,
               the
               coolness
               of
               his
               Shades
               and
               Rivers
               ,
               Vales
               and
               Grottos
               ,
               which
               a
               more
               Northern
               Poet
               wou'd
               have
               omitted
               for
               the
               description
               of
               a
               Sunny
               Hill
               ,
               and
               Fire-side
               .
            
             
               The
               Third
               Georgic
               seems
               to
               be
               the
               most
               labour'd
               of
               'em
               all
               ;
               there
               is
               a
               wonderful
               Vigour
               and
               Spirit
               in
               the
               description
               of
               the
               Horse
               and
               Chariot-Race
               .
               The
               force
               of
               Love
               is
               represented
               in
               Noble
               Instances
               ,
               and
               very
               Sublime
               Expressions
               .
               The
               Scythian
               Winter-piece
               appears
               so
               very
               cold
               and
               bleak
               to
               the
               Eye
               ,
               that
               a
               Man
               can
               scarce
               look
               on
               it
               without
               shivering
               .
               The
               Murrain
               at
               the
               end
               has
               all
               the
               expressiveness
               
               that
               words
               can
               give
               .
               It
               was
               here
               that
               the
               Poet
               strain'd
               hard
               to
               out-do
               Lucretius
               in
               the
               description
               of
               his
               Plague
               ;
               and
               if
               the
               Reader
               wou'd
               see
               what
               success
               he
               had
               ,
               he
               may
               find
               it
               at
               large
               in
               Scaliger
               .
            
             
               But
               Virgil
               seems
               no
               where
               so
               well
               pleas'd
               ,
               as
               when
               he
               is
               got
               among
               his
               Bees
               in
               the
               Fourth
               Georgic
               :
               And
               Ennobles
               the
               Actions
               of
               so
               trivial
               a
               Creature
               ,
               with
               Metaphors
               drawn
               from
               the
               most
               important
               Concerns
               of
               Mankind
               .
               His
               Verses
               are
               not
               in
               a
               greater
               noise
               and
               hurry
               in
               the
               Battels
               of
               Aeneas
               and
               Turnus
               ,
               than
               in
               the
               Engagement
               of
               two
               Swarms
               .
               And
               as
               in
               his
               Aeneis
               he
               compares
               the
               Labours
               of
               his
               Trojans
               to
               those
               of
               Bees
               and
               Pismires
               ,
               here
               he
               compares
               the
               Labours
               of
               the
               Bees
               to
               those
               of
               the
               Cyclops
               .
               In
               short
               ,
               the
               last
               Georgic
               was
               a
               good
               Prelude
               to
               the
               Aeneis
               ;
               and
               very
               well
               shew'd
               what
               the
               Poet
               could
               do
               in
               the
               description
               of
               what
               was
               really
               great
               ,
               by
               his
               describing
               the
               Mock-grandeur
               of
               an
               Insect
               with
               so
               good
               a
               grace
               .
               There
               is
               more
               pleasantness
               in
               the
               little
               Platform
               of
               a
               Garden
               ,
               which
               he
               gives
               us
               about
               the
               middle
               of
               this
               Book
               ,
               than
               in
               all
               the
               spacious
               Walks
               and
               Water-works
               of
               
               Rapin's
               .
               The
               Speech
               of
               Proteus
               at
               the
               end
               can
               never
               be
               enough
               admir'd
               ,
               and
               was
               indeed
               very
               fit
               to
               conclude
               so
               Divine
               a
               Work.
               
            
             
               After
               this
               particular
               account
               of
               the
               Beauties
               in
               the
               Georgics
               ,
               I
               shou'd
               in
               the
               next
               place
               endeavour
               to
               point
               out
               its
               imperfections
               ,
               if
               it
               has
               any
               .
               But
               tho'
               I
               think
               there
               are
               some
               few
               parts
               in
               it
               that
               are
               not
               so
               Beautiful
               as
               the
               rest
               ,
               I
               shall
               not
               presume
               to
               name
               them
               ,
               as
               rather
               suspecting
               my
               own
               Judgment
               ,
               than
               I
               can
               believe
               a
               fault
               to
               be
               in
               that
               Poem
               ,
               which
               lay
               so
               long
               under
               
               Virgil's
               Correction
               ,
               and
               had
               his
               last
               hand
               put
               to
               it
               .
               The
               first
               Georgic
               was
               probably
               Burlesqu'd
               in
               the
               Author's
               Life-time
               ;
               for
               we
               still
               find
               in
               the
               Scholiasts
               a
               Verse
               that
               ridicules
               part
               of
               a
               Line
               Translated
               from
               
                 Hesiod
                 .
                 Nudus
                 Ara
                 ,
                 sere
                 Nudus
                 —
              
               And
               we
               may
               easily
               guess
               at
               the
               Judgment
               of
               this
               extraordinary
               Critick
               ,
               whoever
               he
               was
               ,
               from
               his
               Censuring
               this
               particular
               Precept
               .
               We
               may
               be
               sure
               Virgil
               wou'd
               not
               have
               Translated
               it
               from
               Hesiod
               ,
               had
               he
               not
               discover'd
               some
               Beauty
               in
               it
               ;
               and
               indeed
               the
               Beauty
               of
               it
               is
               what
               I
               have
               before
               observ'd
               to
               be
               frequently
               met
               with
               in
               Virgil
               ,
               the
               delivering
               the
               Precept
               so
               indirectly
               ,
               and
               singling
               out
               the
               particular
               circumstance
               of
               Sowing
               and
               Plowing
               naked
               ,
               to
               suggest
               to
               us
               that
               these
               Employments
               are
               proper
               only
               in
               the
               hot
               Season
               of
               the
               Year
               .
            
             
               I
               shall
               not
               here
               compare
               the
               Stile
               of
               the
               Georgics
               with
               that
               of
               Lucretius
               ,
               which
               the
               Reader
               may
               see
               already
               done
               in
               the
               Preface
               to
               the
               Second
               Volume
               of
               
                 Miscellany
                 Poems
              
               ;
               but
               shall
               conclude
               this
               Poem
               to
               be
               the
               most
               Compleat
               ,
               Elaborate
               ,
               and
               finisht
               Piece
               of
               all
               Antiquity
               .
               The
               Aeneis
               indeed
               is
               of
               a
               Nobler
               kind
               ,
               but
               the
               Georgic
               is
               more
               perfect
               in
               its
               kind
               .
               The
               Aeneid
               has
               a
               greater
               variety
               of
               Beauties
               in
               it
               ,
               but
               those
               of
               the
               Georgic
               are
               more
               exquisite
               .
               In
               short
               ,
               the
               Georgic
               has
               all
               the
               perfection
               that
               can
               be
               expected
               in
               a
               Poem
               written
               by
               the
               greatest
               Poet
               in
               the
               Flower
               of
               his
               Age
               ,
               when
               his
               Invention
               was
               ready
               ,
               his
               Imagination
               warm
               ,
               his
               Judgment
               settled
               ,
               and
               all
               his
               Faculties
               in
               their
               full
               Vigour
               and
               Maturity
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             
             
             
               Virgil's
               Georgics
               .
            
             
               
                 The
                 First
                 Book
                 of
                 the
                 Georgics
                 .
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Argument
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     The
                     Poet
                     ,
                     in
                     the
                     beginning
                     of
                     this
                     Book
                     ,
                     propounds
                     the
                     general
                     Design
                     of
                     each
                     Georgic
                     :
                     And
                     after
                     a
                     solemn
                     Invocation
                     of
                     all
                     the
                     Gods
                     who
                     are
                     any
                     way
                     related
                     to
                     his
                     Subject
                     ,
                     he
                     addresses
                     himself
                     in
                     particular
                     to
                  
                   Augustus
                   ,
                   
                     whom
                     he
                     complements
                     with
                     Divinity
                     ;
                     and
                     after
                     strikes
                     into
                     his
                     Business
                     .
                     He
                     shews
                     the
                     different
                     kinds
                     of
                     Tillage
                     proper
                     to
                     different
                     Soils
                     ,
                     traces
                     out
                     the
                     Original
                     of
                     Agriculture
                     ,
                     gives
                     a
                     Catalogue
                     of
                     the
                     Husbandman's
                     Tools
                     ,
                     specifies
                     the
                     Employments
                     pecultar
                     to
                     each
                     Season
                     ,
                     describes
                     the
                     changes
                     of
                     the
                     Weather
                     ,
                     with
                     the
                     Signs
                     in
                     Heaven
                     and
                     Earth
                     that
                     fore-bode
                     them
                     .
                     Instances
                     many
                     of
                     the
                     Prodigies
                     that
                     happen'd
                     near
                     the
                     time
                     of
                  
                   Julius
                   Caesar
                   
                     's
                     Death
                     .
                     And
                     shuts
                     up
                     all
                     with
                     a
                     Supplication
                     to
                     the
                     Gods
                     for
                     the
                     Safety
                     of
                  
                   Augustus
                   ,
                   
                     and
                     the
                     Prefervation
                     of
                  
                   Rome
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     S
                     r
                     Thomas
                     Trevor
                     of
                     the
                     Inner
                     Temple
                     Knight
                     His
                     Majestys
                     Attorny
                     Generall
                     .
                  
                   
                     Geor
                     :
                     1
                     L.
                     1
                     ▪
                  
                
              
               
                 
                   WHat
                   makes
                   a
                   plenteous
                   Harvest
                   ,
                   when
                   to
                   turn
                
                 
                   The
                   fruitful
                   Soil
                   ,
                   and
                   when
                   to
                   sowe
                   the
                   Corn
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Care
                   of
                   Sheep
                   ,
                   of
                   Oxen
                   ,
                   and
                   of
                   Kine
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   how
                   to
                   raise
                   on
                   Elms
                   the
                   teeming
                   Vine
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Birth
                   and
                   Genius
                   of
                   the
                   frugal
                   Bee
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   sing
                   ,
                   Mecaenas
                   ,
                   and
                   I
                   sing
                   to
                   thee
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Ye
                   Deities
                   !
                   who
                   Fields
                   and
                   Plains
                   protect
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   rule
                   the
                   Seasons
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Year
                   direct
                   ;
                
                 
                   Bacchus
                   and
                   fost'ring
                   Ceres
                   ,
                   Pow'rs
                   Divine
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   gave
                   us
                   Corn
                   for
                   Mast
                   ,
                   for
                   Water
                   Wine
                   .
                
                 
                   Ye
                   Fawns
                   ,
                   propitious
                   to
                   the
                   Rural
                   Swains
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ye
                   Nymphs
                   that
                   haunt
                   the
                   Mountains
                   and
                   the
                   Plains
                   ,
                
                 
                   Join
                   in
                   my
                   Work
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   my
                   Numbers
                   bring
                
                 
                   Your
                   needful
                   Succour
                   ,
                   for
                   your
                   Gifts
                   I
                   sing
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   thou
                   ,
                   whose
                   Trident
                   struck
                   the
                   teeming
                   Earth
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   made
                   a
                   Passage
                   for
                   the
                   Coursers
                   Birth
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   thou
                   ,
                   for
                   whom
                   the
                   Caean
                   Shore
                   sustains
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Milky
                   Herds
                   ,
                   that
                   graze
                   the
                   Flow'ry
                   Plains
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   thou
                   ,
                   the
                   Shepherds
                   tutelary
                   God
                   ,
                
                 
                   Leave
                   ,
                   for
                   a
                   while
                   ,
                   O
                   Pan
                   !
                   thy
                   lov'd
                   Abode
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   if
                   Arcadian
                   Fleeces
                   be
                   thy
                   Care
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   Fields
                   and
                   Mountains
                   to
                   my
                   Song
                   repair
                   .
                
                 
                   Inventor
                   ,
                   Pallas
                   ,
                   of
                   the
                   fat'ning
                   Oyl
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thou
                   Founder
                   of
                   the
                   Plough
                   and
                   Plough-man's
                   Toyl
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   thou
                   ,
                   whose
                   Hands
                   the
                   Shrowd-like
                   Cypress
                   rear
                   ;
                
                 
                   Come
                   all
                   ye
                   Gods
                   and
                   Goddesses
                   ,
                   that
                   wear
                
                 
                   The
                   rural
                   Honours
                   ,
                   and
                   increase
                   the
                   Year
                   .
                
                 
                   You
                   ,
                   who
                   supply
                   the
                   Ground
                   with
                   Seeds
                   of
                   Grain
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   you
                   ,
                   who
                   swell
                   those
                   Seeds
                   with
                   kindly
                   Rain
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   chiefly
                   thou
                   ,
                   whose
                   undetermin'd
                   State
                
                 
                   Is
                   yet
                   the
                   Business
                   of
                   the
                   Gods
                   Debate
                   :
                
                 
                   Whether
                   in
                   after
                   Times
                   to
                   be
                   declar'd
                
                 
                   The
                   Patron
                   of
                   the
                   World
                   ,
                   and
                   
                   Rome's
                   peculiar
                   Guard
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   o're
                   the
                   Fruits
                   and
                   Seasons
                   to
                   preside
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   round
                   Circuit
                   of
                   the
                   Year
                   to
                   guide
                   .
                
                 
                   Pow'rful
                   of
                   Blessings
                   ,
                   which
                   thou
                   strew'st
                   around
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   thy
                   Goddess
                   Mother's
                   Myrtle
                   crown'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Or
                   wilt
                   thou
                   ,
                   Caesar
                   ,
                   chuse
                   the
                   watry
                   Reign
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   smooth
                   the
                   Surges
                   ,
                   and
                   correct
                   the
                   Main
                   ?
                
                 
                   Then
                   Mariners
                   ,
                   in
                   Storms
                   ,
                   to
                   thee
                   shall
                   pray
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   utmost
                   Thule
                   shall
                   thy
                   Pow'r
                   obey
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Neptune
                   shall
                   resign
                   the
                   Fasces
                   of
                   the
                   Sea.
                
                 
                   The
                   wat'ry
                   Virgins
                   for
                   thy
                   Bed
                   shall
                   strive
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Tethys
                   all
                   her
                   Waves
                   in
                   Dowry
                   give
                   .
                
                 
                   Or
                   wilt
                   thou
                   bless
                   our
                   Summers
                   with
                   thy
                   Rays
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   seated
                   near
                   the
                   Ballance
                   ,
                   poise
                   the
                   Days
                   :
                
                 
                   Where
                   in
                   the
                   Void
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   a
                   Space
                   is
                   free
                   ,
                
                 
                   Betwixt
                   the
                   Scorpion
                   and
                   the
                   Maid
                   for
                   thee
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Scorpion
                   ready
                   to
                   receive
                   thy
                   Laws
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yields
                   half
                   his
                   Region
                   ,
                   and
                   contracts
                   his
                   Claws
                   .
                
                 
                   Whatever
                   part
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   thou
                   shalt
                   obtain
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   let
                   not
                   Hell
                   presume
                   of
                   such
                   a
                   Reign
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   let
                   so
                   dire
                   a
                   Thirst
                   of
                   Empire
                   move
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Mind
                   ,
                   to
                   leave
                   thy
                   Kindred
                   Gods
                   above
                   .
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   Greece
                   admires
                   
                   Elysium's
                   blest
                   Retreat
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   Proserpine
                   affects
                   her
                   silent
                   Seat
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   importun'd
                   by
                   Ceres
                   to
                   remove
                   ,
                
                 
                   Prefers
                   the
                   Fields
                   below
                   to
                   those
                   above
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   thou
                   ,
                   propitious
                   Caesar
                   ,
                   guide
                   my
                   Course
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   to
                   my
                   bold
                   Endeavours
                   add
                   thy
                   Force
                   .
                
                 
                   Pity
                   the
                   Poet
                   's
                   and
                   the
                   Ploughman's
                   Cares
                   ,
                
                 
                   Int'rest
                   thy
                   Greatness
                   in
                   our
                   mean
                   Affairs
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   use
                   thy self
                   betimes
                   to
                   hear
                   our
                   Pray'rs
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   While
                   yet
                   the
                   Spring
                   is
                   young
                   ,
                   while
                   Earth
                   unbinds
                
                 
                   Her
                   frozen
                   Bosom
                   to
                   the
                   Western
                   Winds
                   ;
                
                 
                   While
                   Mountain
                   Snows
                   dissolve
                   against
                   the
                   Sun
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Streams
                   ,
                   yet
                   new
                   ,
                   from
                   Precipices
                   run
                   .
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   in
                   this
                   early
                   Dawning
                   of
                   the
                   Year
                   ,
                
                 
                   Produce
                   the
                   Plough
                   ,
                   and
                   yoke
                   the
                   sturdy
                   Steer
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   goad
                   him
                   till
                   he
                   groans
                   beneath
                   his
                   Toil
                   ,
                
                 
                   'Till
                   the
                   bright
                   Share
                   is
                   bury'd
                   in
                   the
                   Soil
                   .
                
                 
                   That
                   Crop
                   rewards
                   the
                   greedy
                   Peasant's
                   Pains
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   twice
                   the
                   Sun
                   ,
                   and
                   twice
                   the
                   Cold
                   sustains
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   bursts
                   the
                   crowded
                   Barns
                   ,
                   with
                   more
                   than
                   promis'd
                   Gains
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   e're
                   we
                   stir
                   the
                   yet
                   unbroken
                   Ground
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   various
                   Course
                   of
                   Seasons
                   must
                   be
                   found
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Weather
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   setting
                   of
                   the
                   Winds
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Culture
                   suiting
                   to
                   the
                   sev'ral
                   Kinds
                
                 
                   Of
                   Seeds
                   and
                   Plants
                   ;
                   and
                   what
                   will
                   thrive
                   and
                   rise
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   what
                   the
                   Genius
                   of
                   the
                   Soil
                   denies
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   Ground
                   with
                   Bacchus
                   ,
                   that
                   with
                   Ceres
                   suits
                   :
                
                 
                   That
                   other
                   loads
                   the
                   Trees
                   with
                   happy
                   Fruits
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   A
                   fourth
                   with
                   Grass
                   ,
                   unbidden
                   ,
                   decks
                   the
                   Ground
                   :
                
                 
                   Thus
                   Tmolus
                   is
                   with
                   yellow
                   Saffron
                   crown'd
                   :
                
                 
                   India
                   ,
                   black
                   Ebon
                   and
                   white
                   Ivory
                   bears
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   soft
                   Idume
                   weeps
                   her
                   od'rous
                   Tears
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   Pontus
                   sends
                   her
                   Beaver
                   Stones
                   from
                   far
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   naked
                   Spanyards
                   temper
                   Steel
                   for
                   War.
                
                 
                   Epirus
                   for
                   th'
                   Elean
                   Chariot
                   breeds
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   In
                   hopes
                   of
                   Palms
                   ,
                   )
                   a
                   Race
                   of
                   running
                   Steeds
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   is
                   the
                   Orig'nal
                   Contract
                   ;
                   these
                   the
                   Laws
                
                 
                   Impos'd
                   by
                   Nature
                   ,
                   and
                   by
                   Nature's
                   Cause
                   ,
                
                 
                   On
                   sundry
                   Places
                   ,
                   when
                   Deucalion
                   hurl'd
                
                 
                   his
                   Mother's
                   Entrails
                   on
                   the
                   desart
                   World
                   :
                
                 
                   Whence
                   Men
                   ,
                   a
                   hard
                   laborious
                   Kind
                   ,
                   were
                   born
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   borrow
                   part
                   of
                   Winter
                   for
                   thy
                   Corn
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   early
                   with
                   thy
                   Team
                   the
                   Gleeb
                   in
                   Furrows
                   turn
                   .
                
                 
                   That
                   while
                   the
                   Turf
                   lies
                   open
                   ,
                   and
                   unbound
                   ,
                
                 
                   Succeeding
                   Suns
                   may
                   bake
                   the
                   Mellow
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   if
                   the
                   Soil
                   be
                   barren
                   ,
                   only
                   scar
                
                 
                   The
                   Surface
                   ,
                   and
                   but
                   lightly
                   print
                   the
                   Share
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   cold
                   Arcturus
                   rises
                   with
                   the
                   Sun
                   :
                
                 
                   Lest
                   wicked
                   Weeds
                   the
                   Corn
                   shou'd
                   over-run
                
                 
                   In
                   watry
                   Soils
                   ;
                   or
                   lest
                   the
                   barren
                   Sand
                
                 
                   Shou'd
                   suck
                   the
                   Moisture
                   from
                   the
                   thirsty
                   Land.
                
                 
                   Both
                   these
                   unhappy
                   Soils
                   the
                   Swain
                   forbears
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   keeps
                   a
                   Sabbath
                   of
                   alternate
                   Years
                   :
                
                 
                   That
                   the
                   spent
                   Earth
                   may
                   gather
                   heart
                   again
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   better'd
                   by
                   Cessation
                   ,
                   bear
                   the
                   Grain
                   .
                
                 
                   At
                   least
                   where
                   Vetches
                   ,
                   Pulse
                   ,
                   and
                   Tares
                   have
                   stood
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Stalks
                   of
                   Lupines
                   grew
                   (
                   a
                   stubborn
                   Wood
                   :
                   )
                
                 
                   Th'
                   ensuing
                   Season
                   ,
                   in
                   return
                   ,
                   may
                   bear
                
                 
                   The
                   bearded
                   product
                   of
                   the
                   Golden
                   Year
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   Flax
                   and
                   Oats
                   will
                   burn
                   the
                   tender
                   Field
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   sleepy
                   Poppies
                   harmful
                   Harvests
                   yield
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   But
                   sweet
                   Vicissitudes
                   of
                   Rest
                   and
                   Toyl
                
                 
                   Make
                   easy
                   Labour
                   ,
                   and
                   renew
                   the
                   Soil
                   .
                
                 
                   Yet
                   sprinkle
                   sordid
                   Ashes
                   all
                   around
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   load
                   with
                   fat'ning
                   Dung
                   thy
                   fallow
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   change
                   of
                   Seeds
                   for
                   meagre
                   Soils
                   is
                   best
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Earth
                   manur'd
                   ,
                   not
                   idle
                   ,
                   though
                   at
                   rest
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Long
                   Practice
                   has
                   a
                   sure
                   Improvement
                   found
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   kindled
                   Fires
                   to
                   burn
                   the
                   barren
                   Ground
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   the
                   light
                   Stubble
                   ,
                   to
                   the
                   Flames
                   resign'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Is
                   driv'n
                   along
                   ,
                   and
                   crackles
                   in
                   the
                   Wind.
                
                 
                   Whether
                   from
                   hence
                   the
                   hollow
                   Womb
                   of
                   Earth
                
                 
                   Is
                   warm'd
                   with
                   secret
                   Strength
                   for
                   better
                   Birth
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   when
                   the
                   latent
                   Vice
                   is
                   cur'd
                   by
                   Fire
                   ,
                
                 
                   Redundant
                   Humours
                   thro'
                   the
                   Pores
                   expire
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   that
                   the
                   Warmth
                   distends
                   the
                   Chinks
                   ,
                   and
                   makes
                
                 
                   New
                   Breathings
                   ,
                   whence
                   new
                   Nourishment
                   she
                   takes
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   that
                   the
                   Heat
                   the
                   gaping
                   Ground
                   constrains
                   ,
                
                 
                   New
                   Knits
                   the
                   Surface
                   ,
                   and
                   new
                   Strings
                   the
                   Veins
                   ;
                
                 
                   Lest
                   soaking
                   Show'rs
                   shou'd
                   pierce
                   her
                   secret
                   Seat
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   freezing
                   Boreas
                   chill
                   her
                   genial
                   Heat
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   scorching
                   Suns
                   too
                   violently
                   beat
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Nor
                   is
                   the
                   Profit
                   small
                   ,
                   the
                   Peasant
                   makes
                   ;
                
                 
                   Who
                   smooths
                   with
                   Harrows
                   ,
                   or
                   who
                   pounds
                   with
                   Rakes
                
                 
                   The
                   crumbling
                   Clods
                   :
                   Nor
                   Ceres
                   from
                   on
                   high
                
                 
                   Regards
                   his
                   Labours
                   with
                   a
                   grudging
                   Eye
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   his
                   ,
                   who
                   plows
                   across
                   the
                   furrow'd
                   Grounds
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   on
                   the
                   Back
                   of
                   Earth
                   inflicts
                   new
                   Wounds
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   he
                   with
                   frequent
                   Exercise
                   Commands
                
                 
                   Th'
                   unwilling
                   Soil
                   ,
                   and
                   tames
                   the
                   stubborn
                   Lands
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Ye
                   Swains
                   ,
                   invoke
                   the
                   Pow'rs
                   who
                   rule
                   the
                   Sky
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   a
                   moist
                   Summer
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   Winter
                   dry
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   Winter
                   drout
                   rewards
                   the
                   Peasant's
                   Pain
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   broods
                   indulgent
                   on
                   the
                   bury'd
                   Grain
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Hence
                   Mysia
                   boasts
                   her
                   Harvests
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   tops
                
                 
                   Of
                   Gargarus
                   admire
                   their
                   happy
                   Crops
                   .
                
                 
                   When
                   first
                   the
                   Soil
                   receives
                   the
                   fruitful
                   Seed
                   ,
                
                 
                   Make
                   no
                   delay
                   ,
                   but
                   cover
                   it
                   with
                   speed
                   :
                
                 
                   So
                   fenc'd
                   from
                   Cold
                   ;
                   the
                   plyant
                   Furrows
                   break
                   ,
                
                 
                   Before
                   the
                   surly
                   Clod
                   resists
                   the
                   Rake
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   call
                   the
                   Floods
                   from
                   high
                   ,
                   to
                   rush
                   amain
                
                 
                   With
                   pregnant
                   Streams
                   ,
                   to
                   swell
                   the
                   teeming
                   Grain
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   when
                   the
                   fiery
                   Suns
                   too
                   fiercely
                   play
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   shrivell'd
                   Herbs
                   on
                   with'ring
                   Stems
                   decay
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   wary
                   Ploughman
                   ,
                   on
                   the
                   Mountain's
                   Brow
                   ,
                
                 
                   Undams
                   his
                   watry
                   Stores
                   ,
                   huge
                   Torrents
                   flow
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   ratling
                   down
                   the
                   Rocks
                   ,
                   large
                   moisture
                   yield
                   ,
                
                 
                   Temp'ring
                   the
                   thirsty
                   Fever
                   of
                   the
                   Field
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   lest
                   the
                   Stem
                   ,
                   too
                   feeble
                   for
                   the
                   freight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shou'd
                   scarce
                   sustain
                   the
                   head
                   's
                   unweildy
                   weight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sends
                   in
                   his
                   feeding
                   Flocks
                   betimes
                   t'
                   invade
                
                 
                   The
                   rising
                   bulk
                   of
                   the
                   luxuriant
                   Blade
                   ;
                
                 
                   E're
                   yet
                   th'
                   aspiring
                   Off-spring
                   of
                   the
                   Grain
                
                 
                   O'retops
                   the
                   ridges
                   of
                   the
                   furrow'd
                   Plain
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   drains
                   the
                   standing
                   Waters
                   ,
                   when
                   they
                   yield
                
                 
                   Too
                   large
                   a
                   Bev'rage
                   to
                   the
                   drunken
                   Field
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   most
                   in
                   Autumn
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   show'ry
                   Spring
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   dubious
                   Months
                   uncertain
                   weather
                   bring
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   Fountains
                   open
                   ,
                   when
                   impetuous
                   Rain
                
                 
                   Swells
                   hasty
                   Brooks
                   ,
                   and
                   pours
                   upon
                   the
                   Plain
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   Earth
                   with
                   Slime
                   and
                   Mud
                   is
                   cover'd
                   o're
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   hollow
                   places
                   spue
                   their
                   wat'ry
                   Store
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   yet
                   the
                   Ploughman
                   ,
                   nor
                   the
                   lab'ring
                   Steer
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sustain
                   alone
                   the
                   hazards
                   of
                   the
                   Year
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   glutton
                   Geese
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Strymonian
                   Crane
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   foreign
                   Troops
                   ,
                   invade
                   the
                   tender
                   Grain
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   tow'ring
                   Weeds
                   malignant
                   Shadows
                   yield
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   spreading
                   Succ'ry
                   choaks
                   the
                   rising
                   Field
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Sire
                   of
                   Gods
                   and
                   Men
                   ,
                   with
                   hard
                   Decrees
                   ,
                
                 
                   Forbids
                   our
                   Plenty
                   to
                   be
                   bought
                   with
                   Ease
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   wills
                   that
                   Mortal
                   Men
                   ,
                   inur'd
                   to
                   toil
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shou'd
                   exercise
                   ,
                   with
                   pains
                   ,
                   the
                   grudging
                   Soil
                   .
                
                 
                   Himself
                   invented
                   first
                   the
                   shining
                   Share
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   whetted
                   Humane
                   Industry
                   by
                   Care
                   :
                
                 
                   Himself
                   did
                   Handy-Crafts
                   and
                   Arts
                   ordain
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   suffer'd
                   Sloath
                   to
                   rust
                   his
                   active
                   Reign
                   .
                
                 
                   E're
                   this
                   ,
                   no
                   Peasant
                   vex'd
                   the
                   peaceful
                   Ground
                   ;
                
                 
                   Which
                   only
                   Turfs
                   and
                   Greens
                   for
                   Altars
                   found
                   :
                
                 
                   No
                   Fences
                   parted
                   Fields
                   ,
                   nor
                   Marks
                   nor
                   Bounds
                
                 
                   Distinguish'd
                   Acres
                   of
                   litigious
                   Grounds
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   all
                   was
                   common
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   fruitful
                   Earth
                
                 
                   Was
                   free
                   to
                   give
                   her
                   unexacted
                   Birth
                   .
                
                 
                   Jove
                   added
                   Venom
                   to
                   the
                   Viper's
                   Brood
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   swell'd
                   ,
                   with
                   raging
                   Storms
                   ,
                   the
                   peaceful
                   Flood
                   :
                
                 
                   Commission'd
                   hungry
                   Wolves
                   t'
                   infest
                   the
                   Fold
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   shook
                   from
                   Oaken
                   Leaves
                   the
                   liquid
                   Gold.
                
                 
                   Remov'd
                   from
                   Humane
                   reach
                   the
                   chearful
                   Fire
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   from
                   the
                   Rivers
                   bade
                   the
                   Wine
                   retire
                   :
                
                 
                   That
                   studious
                   Need
                   might
                   useful
                   Arts
                   explore
                   ;
                
                 
                   From
                   furrow'd
                   Fields
                   to
                   reap
                   the
                   foodful
                   Store
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   force
                   the
                   Veins
                   of
                   clashing
                   Flints
                   t'
                   expire
                
                 
                   The
                   lurking
                   Seeds
                   of
                   their
                   Coelestial
                   Fire
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   first
                   on
                   Seas
                   the
                   hollow'd
                   Alder
                   swam
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   Sailers
                   quarter'd
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   and
                   found
                   a
                   Name
                
                 
                   For
                   ev'ry
                   fix'd
                   and
                   ev'ry
                   wandring
                   Star
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   
                     Pleiads
                     ,
                     Hyads
                  
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Northern
                   Car.
                
                 
                   Then
                   Toils
                   for
                   Beasts
                   ,
                   and
                   Lime
                   for
                   Birds
                   were
                   found
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   deep-mouth
                   Dogs
                   did
                   Forrest
                   Walks
                   surround
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   casting
                   Nets
                   were
                   spread
                   in
                   shallow
                   Brooks
                   ,
                
                 
                   Drags
                   in
                   the
                   Deep
                   ,
                   and
                   Baits
                   were
                   hung
                   on
                   Hooks
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   Saws
                   were
                   tooth'd
                   ,
                   and
                   sounding
                   Axes
                   made
                   ;
                
                 
                   (
                   For
                   Wedges
                   first
                   did
                   yielding
                   Wood
                   invade
                   .
                   )
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   various
                   Arts
                   in
                   order
                   did
                   succeed
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   What
                   cannot
                   endless
                   Labour
                   urg'd
                   by
                   need
                   ?
                   )
                
              
               
                 
                   First
                   Ceres
                   taught
                   ,
                   the
                   Ground
                   with
                   Grain
                   to
                   sow
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   arm'd
                   with
                   Iron
                   Shares
                   the
                   crooked
                   Plough
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   now
                   Dodonian
                   Oaks
                   no
                   more
                   supply'd
                
                 
                   Their
                   Mast
                   ,
                   and
                   Trees
                   their
                   Forrest-fruit
                   deny'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Soon
                   was
                   his
                   Labour
                   doubl'd
                   to
                   the
                   Swain
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   blasting
                   Mildews
                   blackned
                   all
                   his
                   Grain
                   .
                
                 
                   Tough
                   Thistles
                   choak'd
                   the
                   Fields
                   ,
                   and
                   kill'd
                   the
                   Corn
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   an
                   unthrifty
                   Crop
                   of
                   Weeds
                   was
                   born
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   Burrs
                   and
                   Brambles
                   ,
                   an
                   unbidden
                   Crew
                
                 
                   Of
                   graceless
                   Guests
                   ,
                   th'
                   unhappy
                   Field
                   subdue
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   Oats
                   unblest
                   ,
                   and
                   Darnel
                   domineers
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   shoots
                   its
                   head
                   above
                   the
                   shining
                   Ears
                   .
                
                 
                   So
                   that
                   unless
                   the
                   Land
                   with
                   daily
                   Care
                
                 
                   Is
                   exercis'd
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   an
                   Iron
                   War
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   Rakes
                   and
                   Harrows
                   ,
                   the
                   proud
                   Foes
                   expell'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Birds
                   with
                   clamours
                   frighted
                   from
                   the
                   Field
                   ;
                
                 
                   Unless
                   the
                   Boughs
                   are
                   lopp'd
                   that
                   shade
                   the
                   Plain
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Heav'n
                   invok'd
                   with
                   Vows
                   for
                   fruitful
                   Rain
                   ,
                
                 
                   On
                   other
                   Crops
                   you
                   may
                   with
                   envy
                   look
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   shake
                   for
                   Food
                   the
                   long
                   abandon'd
                   Oak
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   must
                   we
                   pass
                   untold
                   what
                   Arms
                   they
                   wield
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   labour
                   Tillage
                   and
                   the
                   furrow'd
                   Field
                   :
                
                 
                   Without
                   whose
                   aid
                   the
                   Ground
                   her
                   Corn
                   denys
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   nothing
                   can
                   be
                   sown
                   ,
                   and
                   nothing
                   rise
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   crooked
                   Plough
                   ,
                   the
                   Share
                   ,
                   the
                   towr'ing
                   height
                
                 
                   Of
                   Waggons
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Cart's
                   unweildy
                   weight
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Sled
                   ,
                   the
                   Tumbril
                   ,
                   Hurdles
                   and
                   the
                   Flail
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Fan
                   of
                   Bacchus
                   ,
                   with
                   the
                   flying
                   Sail.
                
                 
                   These
                   all
                   must
                   be
                   prepar'd
                   ,
                   if
                   Plowmen
                   hope
                
                 
                   The
                   promis'd
                   Blessing
                   of
                   a
                   Bounteous
                   Crop.
                
                 
                   Young
                   Elms
                   with
                   early
                   force
                   in
                   Copses
                   bow
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fit
                   for
                   the
                   Figure
                   of
                   the
                   crooked
                   Plough
                   .
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     S
                     r
                     Iohn
                     Hawles
                     ▪
                     of
                     Lincolns
                     Inn
                     in
                     the
                     County
                     of
                     Midlesex
                     Kn
                     t
                     :
                     His
                     Majestyes
                     Solicitor
                     Gen
                     ll
                     :
                  
                   
                     Geor.
                     1.
                     
                     L.
                     240.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                 
                   Of
                   eight
                   Foot
                   long
                   a
                   fastned
                   Beam
                   prepare
                   ,
                
                 
                   On
                   either
                   side
                   the
                   Head
                   produce
                   an
                   Ear
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   sink
                   a
                   Socket
                   for
                   the
                   shining
                   Share
                   .
                
                 
                   Of
                   Beech
                   the
                   Plough-tail
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   bending
                   Yoke
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   softer
                   Linden
                   harden'd
                   in
                   the
                   Smoke
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   cou'd
                   be
                   long
                   in
                   Precepts
                   ,
                   but
                   I
                   fear
                
                 
                   So
                   mean
                   a
                   Subject
                   might
                   offend
                   your
                   Ear.
                
                 
                   Delve
                   of
                   convenient
                   Depth
                   your
                   thrashing
                   Floor
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   temper'd
                   Clay
                   ,
                   then
                   fill
                   and
                   face
                   it
                   o're
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   let
                   the
                   weighty
                   Rowler
                   run
                   the
                   round
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   smooth
                   the
                   Surface
                   of
                   th'
                   unequal
                   Ground
                   ;
                
                 
                   Lest
                   crack'd
                   with
                   Summer
                   Heats
                   the
                   flooring
                   flies
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   sinks
                   ,
                   and
                   thro'
                   the
                   Crannies
                   Weeds
                   arise
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   sundry
                   Foes
                   the
                   Rural
                   Realm
                   surround
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Field
                   Mouse
                   builds
                   her
                   Garner
                   under
                   ground
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   gather'd
                   Grain
                   the
                   blind
                   laborious
                   Mole
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   winding
                   Mazes
                   works
                   her
                   hidden
                   Hole
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   hollow
                   Caverns
                   Vermine
                   make
                   abode
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   hissing
                   Serpent
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   swelling
                   Toad
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Corn
                   devouring
                   Weezel
                   here
                   abides
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   wise
                   Ant
                   her
                   wintry
                   Store
                   provides
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Mark
                   well
                   the
                   flowring
                   Almonds
                   in
                   the
                   Wood
                   ;
                
                 
                   If
                   od'rous
                   Blooms
                   the
                   bearing
                   Branches
                   load
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Glebe
                   will
                   answer
                   to
                   the
                   Sylvan
                   Reign
                   ,
                
                 
                   Great
                   Heats
                   will
                   follow
                   ,
                   and
                   large
                   Crops
                   of
                   Grain
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   if
                   a
                   Wood
                   of
                   Leaves
                   o're-shade
                   the
                   Tree
                   ,
                
                 
                   Such
                   and
                   so
                   barren
                   will
                   thy
                   Harvest
                   be
                   :
                
                 
                   In
                   vain
                   the
                   Hind
                   shall
                   vex
                   the
                   thrashing
                   Floor
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   empty
                   Chaff
                   and
                   Straw
                   will
                   be
                   thy
                   Store
                   .
                
                 
                   Some
                   steep
                   their
                   Seed
                   ,
                   and
                   some
                   in
                   Cauldrons
                   boil
                
                 
                   With
                   vigorous
                   Nitre
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   Lees
                   of
                   Oyl
                   ,
                
                 
                   O're
                   gentle
                   Fires
                   ;
                   th'
                   exuberant
                   Juice
                   to
                   drain
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   swell
                   the
                   flatt'ring
                   Husks
                   with
                   fruitful
                   Grain
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Yet
                   is
                   not
                   the
                   Success
                   for
                   Years
                   assur'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tho
                   chosen
                   is
                   the
                   Seed
                   ,
                   and
                   fully
                   cur'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Unless
                   the
                   Peasant
                   ,
                   with
                   his
                   Annual
                   Pain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Renews
                   his
                   Choice
                   ,
                   and
                   culls
                   the
                   largest
                   Grain
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   all
                   below
                   ,
                   whether
                   by
                   Nature's
                   Curse
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   Fates
                   Decree
                   ,
                   degen'rate
                   still
                   to
                   worse
                   .
                
                 
                   So
                   the
                   Boats
                   brawny
                   Crew
                   the
                   Current
                   stem
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   slow
                   advancing
                   ,
                   struggle
                   with
                   the
                   Stream
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   if
                   they
                   slack
                   their
                   hands
                   ,
                   or
                   cease
                   to
                   strive
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   down
                   the
                   Flood
                   with
                   headlong
                   haste
                   they
                   drive
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Nor
                   must
                   the
                   Ploughman
                   less
                   observe
                   the
                   Skies
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   the
                   
                     Kidds
                     ,
                     Dragon
                  
                   ,
                   and
                   Arcturus
                   rise
                   ,
                
                 
                   Than
                   Saylors
                   homeward
                   bent
                   ,
                   who
                   cut
                   their
                   Way
                
                 
                   Thro'
                   
                   Helle's
                   stormy
                   Streights
                   ,
                   and
                   Oyster-breeding
                   Sea.
                
                 
                   But
                   when
                   
                   Astrea's
                   Ballance
                   ,
                   hung
                   on
                   high
                   ,
                
                 
                   Betwixt
                   the
                   Nights
                   and
                   Days
                   divides
                   the
                   Sky
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   Yoke
                   your
                   Oxen
                   ,
                   sow
                   your
                   Winter
                   Grain
                   ;
                
                 
                   'Till
                   cold
                   December
                   comes
                   with
                   driving
                   Rain
                   .
                
                 
                   Lineseed
                   and
                   fruitful
                   Poppy
                   bury
                   warm
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   a
                   dry
                   Season
                   ,
                   and
                   prevent
                   the
                   Storm
                   .
                
                 
                   Sow
                   Beans
                   and
                   Clover
                   in
                   a
                   rotten
                   Soyl
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Millet
                   rising
                   from
                   your
                   Annual
                   Toyl
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   with
                   his
                   Golden
                   Horns
                   ,
                   in
                   full
                   Cariere
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Bull
                   beats
                   down
                   the
                   Barriers
                   of
                   the
                   Year
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Arg●s
                   and
                   the
                   Dog
                   forsake
                   the
                   Northern
                   Sphere
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   if
                   your
                   Care
                   to
                   Wheat
                   alone
                   extend
                   ,
                
                 
                   Let
                   Maja
                   with
                   her
                   Sisters
                   first
                   descend
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   bright
                   Gnosian
                   Diadem
                   downward
                   bend
                   :
                
                 
                   Before
                   you
                   trust
                   in
                   Earth
                   your
                   future
                   Hope
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   else
                   expect
                   a
                   listless
                   lazy
                   Crop.
                
                 
                   Some
                   Swains
                   have
                   sown
                   before
                   ,
                   but
                   most
                   have
                   found
                
                 
                   A
                   husky
                   Harvest
                   ,
                   from
                   the
                   grudging
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                   Vile
                   Vetches
                   wou'd
                   you
                   sow
                   ,
                   or
                   Lentils
                   lean
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Growth
                   of
                   Egypt
                   ,
                   or
                   the
                   Kidney-bean
                   ?
                
                 
                 
                   Begin
                   when
                   the
                   slow
                   Waggoner
                   descends
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   cease
                   your
                   sowing
                   till
                   Mid-winter
                   ends
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   this
                   ,
                   thro'
                   twelve
                   bright
                   Signs
                   Apollo
                   guides
                
                 
                   The
                   Year
                   ,
                   and
                   Earth
                   in
                   sev'ral
                   Climes
                   divides
                   .
                
                 
                   Five
                   Girdles
                   bind
                   the
                   Skies
                   ,
                   the
                   torrid
                   Zone
                
                 
                   Glows
                   with
                   the
                   passing
                   and
                   repassing
                   Sun.
                
                 
                   Far
                   on
                   the
                   right
                   and
                   left
                   ,
                   th'
                   extreams
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   Frosts
                   and
                   Snows
                   ,
                   and
                   bitter
                   Blasts
                   are
                   giv'n
                   .
                
                 
                   Betwixt
                   the
                   midst
                   and
                   these
                   ,
                   the
                   Gods
                   assign'd
                
                 
                   Two
                   habitable
                   Seats
                   for
                   Humane
                   Kind
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   cross
                   their
                   limits
                   cut
                   a
                   sloping
                   way
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   the
                   twelve
                   Signs
                   in
                   beauteous
                   order
                   sway
                   .
                
                 
                   Two
                   Poles
                   turn
                   round
                   the
                   Globe
                   ;
                   one
                   seen
                   to
                   rise
                
                 
                   O're
                   Scythian
                   Hills
                   ,
                   and
                   one
                   in
                   Lybian
                   Skies
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   first
                   sublime
                   in
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   the
                   last
                   is
                   whirl'd
                
                 
                   Below
                   the
                   Regions
                   of
                   the
                   nether
                   World.
                
                 
                   Around
                   our
                   Pole
                   the
                   spiry
                   Dragon
                   glides
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   like
                   a
                   winding
                   Stream
                   the
                   Bears
                   divides
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   less
                   and
                   greater
                   ,
                   who
                   by
                   Fates
                   Decree
                
                 
                   Abhor
                   to
                   dive
                   beneath
                   the
                   Southern
                   Sea
                   :
                
                 
                   There
                   ,
                   as
                   they
                   say
                   ,
                   perpetual
                   Night
                   is
                   found
                
                 
                   In
                   silence
                   brooding
                   on
                   th'
                   unhappy
                   ground
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   when
                   Aurora
                   leaves
                   our
                   Northern
                   Sphere
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   lights
                   the
                   downward
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   and
                   rises
                   there
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   when
                   on
                   us
                   she
                   breaths
                   the
                   living
                   Light
                   ,
                
                 
                   Red
                   Vesper
                   kindles
                   there
                   the
                   Tapers
                   of
                   the
                   Night
                   .
                
                 
                   From
                   hence
                   uncertain
                   Seasons
                   we
                   may
                   know
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   when
                   to
                   reap
                   the
                   Grain
                   ,
                   and
                   when
                   to
                   sow
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   when
                   to
                   fell
                   the
                   Furzes
                   ,
                   when
                   't
                   is
                   meet
                
                 
                   To
                   spread
                   the
                   flying
                   Canvass
                   for
                   the
                   Fleet.
                
                 
                   Observe
                   what
                   Stars
                   arise
                   or
                   disappear
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   four
                   Quarters
                   of
                   the
                   rolling
                   Year
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   when
                   cold
                   Weather
                   and
                   continu'd
                   Rain
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   lab'ring
                   Husband
                   in
                   his
                   House
                   restrain
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Let
                   him
                   forecast
                   his
                   Work
                   with
                   timely
                   care
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   else
                   is
                   huddl'd
                   ,
                   when
                   the
                   Skies
                   are
                   fair
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   let
                   him
                   mark
                   the
                   Sheep
                   ,
                   or
                   whet
                   the
                   shining
                   Share
                   .
                
                 
                   Or
                   hollow
                   Trees
                   for
                   Boats
                   ,
                   or
                   number
                   o're
                
                 
                   His
                   Sacks
                   ,
                   or
                   measure
                   his
                   increasing
                   Store
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   sharpen
                   Stakes
                   ,
                   or
                   head
                   the
                   Forks
                   ,
                   or
                   twine
                
                 
                   The
                   Sallow
                   Twigs
                   to
                   tye
                   the
                   stragling
                   Vine
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   wicker
                   Baskets
                   weave
                   ,
                   or
                   aire
                   the
                   Corn
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   grinded
                   Grain
                   betwixt
                   two
                   Marbles
                   turn
                   .
                
                 
                   No
                   Laws
                   ,
                   Divine
                   or
                   Human
                   ,
                   can
                   restrain
                
                 
                   From
                   necessary
                   Works
                   ,
                   the
                   lab'ring
                   Swain
                   .
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   Holy-days
                   and
                   Feasts
                   permission
                   yield
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Meads
                   to
                   water
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   fence
                   the
                   Field
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   Fire
                   the
                   Brambles
                   ,
                   snare
                   the
                   Birds
                   ,
                   and
                   steep
                
                 
                   In
                   wholsom
                   Water-falls
                   the
                   woolly
                   Sheep
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   oft
                   the
                   drudging
                   Ass
                   is
                   driv'n
                   ,
                   with
                   Toyl
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   neighb'ring
                   Towns
                   with
                   Apples
                   and
                   with
                   Oyl
                   :
                
                 
                   Returning
                   late
                   ,
                   and
                   loaden
                   home
                   with
                   Gain
                
                 
                   Of
                   barter'd
                   Pitch
                   ,
                   and
                   Hand-mills
                   for
                   the
                   Grain
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   lucky
                   Days
                   ,
                   in
                   each
                   revolving
                   Moon
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   Labour
                   chuse
                   :
                   The
                   Fifth
                   be
                   sure
                   to
                   shun
                   ;
                
                 
                   That
                   gave
                   the
                   Furies
                   and
                   pale
                   Pluto
                   Birth
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   arm'd
                   ,
                   against
                   the
                   Skies
                   ,
                   the
                   Sons
                   of
                   Earth
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   Mountains
                   pil'd
                   on
                   Mountains
                   ,
                   thrice
                   they
                   strove
                
                 
                   To
                   scale
                   the
                   steepy
                   Battlements
                   of
                   Jove
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   thrice
                   his
                   Lightning
                   and
                   red
                   Thunder
                   play'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   their
                   demolish'd
                   Works
                   in
                   Ruin
                   laid
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Sev'nth
                   is
                   ,
                   next
                   the
                   Tenth
                   ,
                   the
                   best
                   to
                   joyn
                
                 
                   Young
                   Oxen
                   to
                   the
                   Yoke
                   ,
                   and
                   plant
                   the
                   Vine
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   Weavers
                   stretch
                   your
                   Stays
                   upon
                   the
                   Weft
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Ninth
                   is
                   good
                   for
                   Travel
                   ,
                   bad
                   for
                   Theft
                   .
                
                 
                   Some
                   Works
                   in
                   dead
                   of
                   Night
                   are
                   better
                   done
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   when
                   the
                   Morning
                   Dew
                   prevents
                   the
                   Sun.
                   
                
              
               
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     Joseph
                     Jekyll
                     of
                     the
                     middle
                     Temple
                     
                       Esq
                    
                  
                   
                     Geo
                     :
                     1.
                     l.
                     390
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Parch'd
                   Meads
                   and
                   Stubble
                   mow
                   ,
                   by
                   
                   Phoebe's
                   Light
                   ;
                
                 
                   Which
                   both
                   require
                   the
                   Coolness
                   of
                   the
                   Night
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   Moisture
                   then
                   abounds
                   ,
                   and
                   Pearly
                   Rains
                
                 
                   Descend
                   in
                   Silence
                   to
                   refresh
                   the
                   Plains
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Wife
                   and
                   Husband
                   equally
                   conspire
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   work
                   by
                   Night
                   ,
                   and
                   rake
                   the
                   Winter
                   Fire
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   sharpens
                   Torches
                   in
                   the
                   glim'ring
                   Room
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   shoots
                   the
                   flying
                   Shuttle
                   through
                   the
                   Loom
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   boils
                   in
                   Kettles
                   Must
                   of
                   Wine
                   ,
                   and
                   Skins
                
                 
                   With
                   Leaves
                   ,
                   the
                   Dregs
                   that
                   overflow
                   the
                   Brims
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   till
                   the
                   watchful
                   Cock
                   awakes
                   the
                   Day
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   sings
                   to
                   drive
                   the
                   tedious
                   hours
                   away
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   in
                   warm
                   Weather
                   ,
                   when
                   the
                   Skies
                   are
                   clear
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   Daylight
                   reap
                   the
                   Product
                   of
                   the
                   Year
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   the
                   Sun
                   your
                   golden
                   Grain
                   display
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   thrash
                   it
                   out
                   ,
                   and
                   winnow
                   it
                   by
                   Day
                   .
                
                 
                   Plough
                   naked
                   ,
                   Swain
                   ,
                   and
                   naked
                   sow
                   the
                   Land
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   lazy
                   Winter
                   numbs
                   the
                   lab'ring
                   Hand
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   Genial
                   Winter
                   ,
                   Swains
                   enjoy
                   their
                   Store
                   ,
                
                 
                   Forget
                   their
                   Hardships
                   ,
                   and
                   recruit
                   for
                   more
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Farmer
                   to
                   full
                   Bowls
                   invites
                   his
                   Friends
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   what
                   he
                   got
                   with
                   Pains
                   ,
                   with
                   Pleasure
                   spends
                   .
                
                 
                   So
                   Saylors
                   ,
                   when
                   escap'd
                   from
                   stormy
                   Seas
                   ,
                
                 
                   First
                   crown
                   their
                   Vessels
                   ,
                   then
                   indulge
                   their
                   Ease
                   .
                
                 
                   Yet
                   that
                   's
                   the
                   proper
                   Time
                   to
                   thrash
                   the
                   Wood
                
                 
                   For
                   Mast
                   of
                   Oak
                   ,
                   your
                   Father
                   's
                   homely
                   Food
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   gather
                   Laurel-berries
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Spoil
                
                 
                   Of
                   bloody
                   Myrtles
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   press
                   your
                   Oyl
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   stalking
                   Cranes
                   to
                   set
                   the
                   guileful
                   Snare
                   ,
                
                 
                   T'
                   inclose
                   the
                   Stags
                   in
                   Toyls
                   ,
                   and
                   hunt
                   the
                   Hare
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   Balearick
                   Slings
                   ,
                   or
                   Gnossian
                   Bow
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   persecute
                   from
                   far
                   the
                   flying
                   Doe
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   when
                   the
                   Fleecy
                   Skies
                   new
                   cloath
                   the
                   Wood
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   cakes
                   of
                   rustling
                   Ice
                   come
                   rolling
                   down
                   the
                   Flood
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Now
                   sing
                   we
                   stormy
                   Stars
                   ,
                   when
                   Autumn
                   weighs
                
                 
                   The
                   Year
                   ,
                   and
                   adds
                   to
                   Nights
                   ,
                   and
                   shortens
                   Days
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Suns
                   declining
                   shine
                   with
                   feeble
                   Rays
                   :
                
                 
                   What
                   Cares
                   must
                   then
                   attend
                   the
                   toiling
                   Swain
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   when
                   the
                   low'ring
                   Spring
                   ,
                   with
                   lavish
                   Rain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Beats
                   down
                   the
                   slender
                   Stem
                   and
                   bearded
                   Grain
                   :
                
                 
                   While
                   yet
                   the
                   Head
                   is
                   green
                   ,
                   or
                   lightly
                   swell'd
                
                 
                   With
                   Milky-moisture
                   ,
                   over-looks
                   the
                   Field
                   .
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   when
                   the
                   Farmer
                   ,
                   now
                   secure
                   of
                   Fear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sends
                   in
                   the
                   Swains
                   to
                   spoil
                   the
                   finish'd
                   Year
                   :
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   while
                   the
                   Reaper
                   fills
                   his
                   greedy
                   hands
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   binds
                   the
                   golden
                   Sheafs
                   in
                   brittle
                   bands
                   :
                
                 
                   Oft
                   have
                   I
                   seen
                   a
                   sudden
                   Storm
                   arise
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   all
                   the
                   warring
                   Winds
                   that
                   sweep
                   the
                   Skies
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   heavy
                   Harvest
                   from
                   the
                   Root
                   is
                   torn
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   whirl'd
                   aloft
                   the
                   lighter
                   Stubble
                   born
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   such
                   a
                   force
                   the
                   flying
                   rack
                   is
                   driv'n
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   such
                   a
                   Winter
                   wears
                   the
                   face
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   oft
                   whole
                   sheets
                   descend
                   of
                   slucy
                   Rain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Suck'd
                   by
                   the
                   spongy
                   Clouds
                   from
                   off
                   the
                   Main
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   lofty
                   Skies
                   at
                   once
                   come
                   pouring
                   down
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   promis'd
                   Crop
                   and
                   golden
                   Labours
                   drown
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Dykes
                   are
                   fill'd
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   a
                   roaring
                   sound
                
                 
                   The
                   rising
                   Rivers
                   float
                   the
                   nether
                   ground
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Rocks
                   the
                   bellowing
                   Voice
                   of
                   boiling
                   Seas
                   rebound
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Father
                   of
                   the
                   Gods
                   his
                   Glory
                   shrowds
                   ,
                
                 
                   Involv'd
                   in
                   Tempests
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   Night
                   of
                   Clouds
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   from
                   the
                   middle
                   Darkness
                   flashing
                   out
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   fits
                   he
                   deals
                   his
                   fiery
                   Bolts
                   about
                   .
                
                 
                   Earth
                   feels
                   the
                   Motions
                   of
                   her
                   angry
                   God
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   Entrails
                   tremble
                   ,
                   and
                   her
                   Mountains
                   nod
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   flying
                   Beasts
                   in
                   Forests
                   seek
                   abode
                   :
                
                 
                   Deep
                   horrour
                   seizes
                   ev'ry
                   Humane
                   Breast
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   Pride
                   is
                   humbled
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   Fear
                   confess'd
                   :
                
              
               
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     Thomas
                     Vernon
                     of
                     Hanbury
                     in
                     Worcester
                     -
                     Shire
                     
                       Esq
                    
                  
                   
                     Geo
                     :
                     1
                     L
                     475
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   While
                   he
                   from
                   high
                   his
                   rowling
                   Thunder
                   throws
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   fires
                   the
                   Mountains
                   with
                   repeated
                   blows
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Rocks
                   are
                   from
                   their
                   old
                   Foundations
                   rent
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Winds
                   redouble
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Rains
                   augment
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Waves
                   on
                   heaps
                   are
                   dash'd
                   against
                   the
                   Shoar
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   the
                   Woods
                   ,
                   and
                   now
                   the
                   Billows
                   roar
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   In
                   fear
                   of
                   this
                   ,
                   observe
                   the
                   starry
                   Signs
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   Saturn
                   houses
                   ,
                   and
                   where
                   Hermes
                   joins
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   first
                   to
                   Heav'n
                   thy
                   due
                   Devotions
                   pay
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Annual
                   Gifts
                   on
                   Ceres
                   Altars
                   lay
                   .
                
                 
                   When
                   Winter's
                   rage
                   abates
                   ,
                   when
                   chearful
                   Hours
                
                 
                   Awake
                   the
                   Spring
                   ,
                   and
                   Spring
                   awakes
                   the
                   Flow'rs
                   ,
                
                 
                   On
                   the
                   green
                   Turf
                   thy
                   careless
                   Limbs
                   display
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   celebrate
                   the
                   mighty
                   Mother's
                   day
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   then
                   the
                   Hills
                   with
                   pleasing
                   Shades
                   are
                   crown'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Sleeps
                   are
                   sweeter
                   on
                   the
                   silken
                   Ground
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   milder
                   Beams
                   the
                   Sun
                   securely
                   shines
                   ;
                
                 
                   Fat
                   are
                   the
                   Lambs
                   ,
                   and
                   luscious
                   are
                   the
                   Wines
                   .
                
                 
                   Let
                   ev'ry
                   Swain
                   adore
                   her
                   Pow'r
                   Divine
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Milk
                   and
                   Honey
                   mix
                   with
                   sparkling
                   Wine
                   :
                
                 
                   Let
                   all
                   the
                   Quire
                   of
                   Clowns
                   attend
                   the
                   Show
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   long
                   Procession
                   ,
                   shouting
                   as
                   they
                   go
                   ;
                
                 
                   Invoking
                   her
                   to
                   bless
                   their
                   yearly
                   Stores
                   ,
                
                 
                   Inviting
                   Plenty
                   to
                   their
                   crowded
                   Floors
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   in
                   the
                   Spring
                   ,
                   and
                   thus
                   in
                   Summer's
                   Heat
                   ,
                
                 
                   Before
                   the
                   Sickles
                   touch
                   the
                   ripening
                   Wheat
                   ,
                
                 
                   On
                   Ceres
                   call
                   ;
                   and
                   let
                   the
                   lab'ring
                   Hind
                
                 
                   With
                   Oaken
                   Wreaths
                   his
                   hollow
                   Temples
                   bind
                   :
                
                 
                   On
                   Ceres
                   let
                   him
                   call
                   ,
                   and
                   Ceres
                   praise
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   uncouth
                   Dances
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   Country
                   Lays
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   that
                   by
                   certain
                   signs
                   we
                   may
                   presage
                
                 
                   Of
                   Heats
                   and
                   Rains
                   ,
                   and
                   Wind
                   's
                   impetuous
                   rage
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Sov'reign
                   of
                   the
                   Heav'ns
                   has
                   set
                   on
                   high
                
                 
                   The
                   Moon
                   ,
                   to
                   mark
                   the
                   Changes
                   of
                   the
                   Skye
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   When
                   Southern
                   blasts
                   shou'd
                   cease
                   ,
                   and
                   when
                   the
                   Swain
                
                 
                   Shou'd
                   near
                   their
                   Folds
                   his
                   feeding
                   Flocks
                   restrain
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   e're
                   the
                   rising
                   Winds
                   begin
                   to
                   roar
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   working
                   Seas
                   advance
                   to
                   wash
                   the
                   Shoar
                   :
                
                 
                   Soft
                   whispers
                   run
                   along
                   the
                   leavy
                   Woods
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Mountains
                   whistle
                   to
                   the
                   murm'ring
                   Floods
                   :
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   then
                   the
                   doubtful
                   Billows
                   scarce
                   abstain
                
                 
                   From
                   the
                   toss'd
                   Vessel
                   on
                   the
                   troubled
                   Main
                   :
                
                 
                   When
                   crying
                   Cormorants
                   forsake
                   the
                   Sea
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   stretching
                   to
                   the
                   Covert
                   wing
                   their
                   way
                   :
                
                 
                   When
                   sportful
                   Coots
                   run
                   skimming
                   o're
                   the
                   Strand
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   watchful
                   Herons
                   leave
                   their
                   watry
                   Stand
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   mounting
                   upward
                   ,
                   with
                   erected
                   flight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Gain
                   on
                   the
                   Skyes
                   ,
                   and
                   soar
                   above
                   the
                   sight
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   oft
                   before
                   tempest'our
                   Winds
                   arise
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   seeming
                   Stars
                   fall
                   headlong
                   from
                   the
                   Skies
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   shooting
                   through
                   the
                   darkness
                   ,
                   guild
                   the
                   Night
                
                 
                   With
                   sweeping
                   Glories
                   ,
                   and
                   long
                   trails
                   of
                   Light
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   Chaff
                   with
                   eddy
                   Winds
                   is
                   whirl'd
                   around
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   dancing
                   Leaves
                   are
                   lifted
                   from
                   the
                   Ground
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   floating
                   Feathers
                   on
                   the
                   Waters
                   play
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   when
                   the
                   winged
                   Thunder
                   takes
                   his
                   way
                
                 
                   From
                   the
                   cold
                   North
                   ,
                   and
                   East
                   and
                   West
                   ingage
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   at
                   their
                   Frontiers
                   meet
                   with
                   equal
                   rage
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Clouds
                   are
                   crush'd
                   ,
                   a
                   glut
                   of
                   gather'd
                   Rain
                
                 
                   The
                   hollow
                   Ditches
                   fills
                   ,
                   and
                   floats
                   the
                   Plain
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Sailors
                   furl
                   their
                   dropping
                   Sheets
                   amain
                   .
                
                 
                   Wet
                   weather
                   seldom
                   hurts
                   the
                   most
                   unwise
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   plain
                   the
                   Signs
                   ,
                   such
                   Prophets
                   are
                   the
                   Skies
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   wary
                   Crane
                   foresees
                   it
                   first
                   ,
                   and
                   sails
                
                 
                   Above
                   the
                   Storm
                   ,
                   and
                   leaves
                   the
                   lowly
                   Vales
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Cow
                   looks
                   up
                   ,
                   and
                   from
                   afar
                   can
                   find
                
                 
                   The
                   change
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   and
                   snuffs
                   it
                   in
                   the
                   Wind.
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Swallow
                   skims
                   the
                   River's
                   watry
                   Face
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Frogs
                   renew
                   the
                   Croaks
                   of
                   their
                   loquacious
                   Race
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   careful
                   Ant
                   her
                   secret
                   Cell
                   forsakes
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   drags
                   her
                   Egs
                   along
                   the
                   narrow
                   Tracks
                   .
                
                 
                   At
                   either
                   Horn
                   the
                   Rainbow
                   drinks
                   the
                   Flood
                   ,
                
                 
                   Huge
                   Flocks
                   of
                   rising
                   Rooks
                   sorsake
                   their
                   Food
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   crying
                   ,
                   seek
                   the
                   Shelter
                   of
                   the
                   Wood.
                
                 
                   Besides
                   ,
                   the
                   sev'ral
                   sorts
                   of
                   watry
                   Fowls
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   swim
                   the
                   Seas
                   ,
                   or
                   haunt
                   the
                   standing
                   Pools
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Swans
                   that
                   sail
                   along
                   the
                   Silver
                   Flood
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   dive
                   with
                   stretching
                   Necks
                   to
                   search
                   their
                   Food
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   lave
                   their
                   Backs
                   with
                   sprinkling
                   Dews
                   in
                   vain
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   stem
                   tke
                   Stream
                   to
                   meet
                   the
                   promis'd
                   Rain
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Crow
                   with
                   clam'rous
                   Cries
                   the
                   Show'r
                   demands
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   single
                   stalks
                   along
                   the
                   Desart
                   Sands
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   nightly
                   Virgin
                   ,
                   while
                   her
                   Wheel
                   she
                   plies
                   ,
                
                 
                   Foresees
                   the
                   Storm
                   impending
                   in
                   the
                   Skies
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   sparkling
                   Lamps
                   their
                   sputt'ring
                   Light
                   advance
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   the
                   Sockets
                   Oyly
                   Bubbles
                   dance
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   after
                   Show'rs
                   ,
                   't
                   is
                   easie
                   to
                   descry
                
                 
                   Returning
                   Suns
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   serener
                   Sky
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Stars
                   shine
                   smarter
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Moon
                   adorns
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   with
                   unborrow'd
                   Beams
                   ,
                   her
                   sharpen'd
                   Horns
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   filmy
                   Gossamer
                   now
                   flitts
                   no
                   more
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Halcyons
                   bask
                   on
                   the
                   short
                   Sunny
                   Shoar
                   :
                
                 
                   Their
                   Litter
                   is
                   not
                   toss'd
                   by
                   Sows
                   unclean
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   a
                   blue
                   droughty
                   Mist
                   descends
                   upon
                   the
                   Plain
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   Owls
                   ,
                   that
                   mark
                   the
                   setting
                   Sun
                   ,
                   declare
                
                 
                   A
                   Star-light
                   Evening
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   Morning
                   fair
                   .
                
                 
                   Tow'ring
                   aloft
                   ,
                   avenging
                   Nisus
                   flies
                   ,
                
                 
                   While
                   dar'd
                   below
                   the
                   guilty
                   Scylla
                   lies
                   .
                
                 
                   Where-ever
                   frighted
                   Scylla
                   flies
                   away
                   ,
                
                 
                   Swift
                   Nisus
                   follows
                   ,
                   and
                   pursues
                   his
                   Prey
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Where
                   injur'd
                   Nisus
                   takes
                   his
                   Airy
                   Course
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thence
                   trembling
                   Scylla
                   flies
                   and
                   shuns
                   his
                   Force
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   punishment
                   pursues
                   th'
                   unhappy
                   Maid
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   thus
                   the
                   purple
                   Hair
                   is
                   dearly
                   paid
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   thrice
                   the
                   Ravens
                   rend
                   the
                   liquid
                   Air
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   croaking
                   Notes
                   proclaim
                   the
                   settled
                   fair
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   round
                   their
                   Airy
                   Palaces
                   they
                   fly
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   greet
                   the
                   Sun
                   ;
                   and
                   seis'd
                   with
                   secret
                   Joy
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   Storms
                   are
                   over-blown
                   ,
                   with
                   Food
                   repair
                
                 
                   To
                   their
                   forsaken
                   Nests
                   ,
                   and
                   callow
                   Care.
                
                 
                   Not
                   that
                   I
                   think
                   their
                   Breasts
                   with
                   Heav'nly
                   Souls
                
                 
                   Inspir'd
                   ,
                   as
                   Man
                   ,
                   who
                   Destiny
                   controls
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   with
                   the
                   changeful
                   Temper
                   of
                   the
                   Skies
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   Rams
                   condense
                   ,
                   and
                   Sun-shine
                   rarifies
                   ;
                
                 
                   So
                   turn
                   the
                   Species
                   in
                   their
                   alter'd
                   Minds
                   ,
                
                 
                   Compos'd
                   by
                   Calms
                   ,
                   and
                   disoompos'd
                   by
                   Winds
                   .
                
                 
                   From
                   hence
                   proceeds
                   the
                   Birds
                   harmonious
                   Voice
                   :
                
                 
                   From
                   hence
                   the
                   Cows
                   exult
                   ,
                   and
                   frisking
                   Lambs
                   rejoice
                   .
                
                 
                   Observe
                   the
                   daily
                   Circle
                   of
                   the
                   Sun
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   short
                   Year
                   of
                   each
                   revolving
                   Moon
                   :
                
                 
                   By
                   them
                   thou
                   shalt
                   foresee
                   the
                   following
                   day
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   shall
                   a
                   starry
                   Night
                   thy
                   Hopes
                   betray
                   .
                
                 
                   When
                   first
                   the
                   Moon
                   appears
                   ,
                   if
                   then
                   she
                   shrouds
                
                 
                   Her
                   silver
                   Crescent
                   ,
                   tip'd
                   with
                   sable
                   Clouds
                   ;
                
                 
                   Conclude
                   she
                   bodes
                   a
                   Tempest
                   on
                   the
                   Main
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   brews
                   for
                   Fields
                   impetuous
                   Floods
                   of
                   Rain
                   .
                
                 
                   Or
                   if
                   her
                   Face
                   with
                   fiery
                   Flushing
                   glow
                   ,
                
                 
                   Expect
                   the
                   ratling
                   Winds
                   aloft
                   to
                   blow
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   four
                   Nights
                   old
                   ,
                   (
                   for
                   that
                   's
                   the
                   surest
                   Sign
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                   With
                   sharpen'd
                   Horns
                   if
                   glorious
                   then
                   she
                   shine
                   :
                
                 
                   Next
                   Day
                   ,
                   nor
                   only
                   that
                   ,
                   but
                   all
                   the
                   Moon
                   ,
                
                 
                   Till
                   her
                   revolving
                   Race
                   be
                   wholly
                   run
                   ;
                
                 
                   Are
                   void
                   of
                   Tempests
                   ,
                   both
                   by
                   Land
                   and
                   Sea
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Saylors
                   in
                   the
                   Port
                   their
                   promis'd
                   Vow
                   shall
                   pay
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Above
                   the
                   rest
                   ,
                   the
                   Sun
                   ,
                   who
                   never
                   lies
                   ;
                
                 
                   Foretels
                   the
                   change
                   of
                   Weather
                   in
                   the
                   Skies
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   if
                   he
                   rise
                   ,
                   unwilling
                   to
                   his
                   Race
                   ,
                
                 
                   Clouds
                   on
                   his
                   Brows
                   ,
                   and
                   Spots
                   upon
                   his
                   Face
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   if
                   thro'
                   Mists
                   he
                   shoots
                   his
                   sullen
                   Beams
                   ,
                
                 
                   Frugal
                   of
                   Light
                   ,
                   in
                   loose
                   and
                   stragling
                   Streams
                   :
                
                 
                   Suspect
                   a
                   drisling
                   Day
                   ,
                   with
                   Southern
                   Rain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fatal
                   to
                   Fruits
                   ,
                   and
                   Flocks
                   ,
                   and
                   promis'd
                   Grain
                   .
                
                 
                   Or
                   if
                   Aurora
                   ,
                   with
                   half
                   open'd
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   a
                   pale
                   sickly
                   Cheek
                   ,
                   salute
                   the
                   Skies
                   ;
                
                 
                   How
                   shall
                   the
                   Vine
                   ,
                   with
                   tender
                   Leaves
                   ,
                   defend
                
                 
                   Her
                   teeming
                   Clusters
                   ,
                   when
                   the
                   Storms
                   descend
                   ?
                
                 
                   When
                   ridgy
                   Roofs
                   and
                   Tiles
                   can
                   scarce
                   avail
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   barr
                   the
                   Ruin
                   of
                   the
                   ratling
                   Hail
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   more
                   than
                   all
                   ,
                   the
                   setting
                   Sun
                   survey
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   down
                   the
                   Steep
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   he
                   drives
                   the
                   Day
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   oft
                   we
                   find
                   him
                   finishing
                   his
                   Race
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   various
                   Colours
                   erring
                   on
                   his
                   Face
                   ;
                
                 
                   If
                   fiery
                   red
                   his
                   glowing
                   Globe
                   descends
                   ,
                
                 
                   High
                   Winds
                   and
                   furious
                   Tempests
                   he
                   portends
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   if
                   his
                   Cheeks
                   are
                   swoln
                   with
                   livid
                   blue
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   bodes
                   wet
                   Weather
                   by
                   his
                   watry
                   Hue.
                
                 
                   If
                   dusky
                   Spots
                   are
                   vary'd
                   on
                   his
                   Brow
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   streak'd
                   with
                   red
                   ,
                   a
                   troubl'd
                   Colour
                   show
                   ;
                
                 
                   That
                   sullen
                   Mixture
                   shall
                   at
                   once
                   declare
                
                 
                   Winds
                   ,
                   Rain
                   ,
                   and
                   Storms
                   ,
                   and
                   Elemental
                   War
                   :
                
                 
                   What
                   desp'rate
                   Madman
                   then
                   wou'd
                   venture
                   o're
                
                 
                   The
                   Frith
                   ,
                   or
                   haul
                   his
                   Cables
                   from
                   the
                   Shoar
                   ?
                
                 
                   But
                   if
                   with
                   Purple
                   Rays
                   he
                   brings
                   the
                   Light
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   a
                   pure
                   Heav'n
                   resigns
                   to
                   quiet
                   Night
                   :
                
                 
                   No
                   rising
                   Winds
                   ,
                   or
                   falling
                   Storms
                   ,
                   are
                   nigh
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   Northern
                   Breezes
                   through
                   the
                   Forrest
                   fly
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   drive
                   the
                   rack
                   ,
                   and
                   purge
                   the
                   ruffl'd
                   Sky
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Th'
                   unerring
                   Sun
                   by
                   certain
                   Signs
                   declares
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   the
                   late
                   Ev'n
                   ,
                   or
                   early
                   Morn
                   prepares
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   when
                   the
                   South
                   projects
                   a
                   stormy
                   Day
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   when
                   the
                   clearing
                   North
                   will
                   puff
                   the
                   Clouds
                   away
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Sun
                   reveals
                   the
                   Secrets
                   of
                   the
                   Sky
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   who
                   dares
                   give
                   the
                   Source
                   of
                   Light
                   the
                   Lye
                   ?
                
                 
                   The
                   change
                   of
                   Empires
                   often
                   he
                   declares
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fierce
                   Tumults
                   ,
                   hidden
                   Treasons
                   ,
                   open
                   Wars
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   first
                   the
                   Fate
                   of
                   Caesar
                   did
                   foretel
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   pity'd
                   Rome
                   ,
                   when
                   Rome
                   in
                   Caesar
                   fell
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   Iron
                   Clouds
                   conceal'd
                   the
                   Publick
                   Light
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   Impious
                   Mortals
                   fear'd
                   Eternal
                   Night
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Nor
                   was
                   the
                   Fact
                   foretold
                   by
                   him
                   alone
                   :
                
                 
                   Nature
                   her self
                   stood
                   forth
                   ,
                   and
                   seconded
                   the
                   Sun.
                
                 
                   Earth
                   ,
                   Air
                   ,
                   and
                   Seas
                   ,
                   with
                   Prodigies
                   were
                   sign'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Birds
                   obscene
                   ,
                   and
                   howling
                   Dogs
                   divin'd
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   Rocks
                   did
                   
                   Aetna's
                   bellowing
                   Mouth
                   expire
                
                 
                   From
                   her
                   torn
                   Entrails
                   !
                   and
                   what
                   Floods
                   of
                   Fire
                   !
                
                 
                   What
                   Clanks
                   were
                   heard
                   ,
                   in
                   German
                   Skies
                   afar
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   Arms
                   and
                   Armies
                   ,
                   rushing
                   to
                   the
                   War
                   !
                
                 
                   Dire
                   Earthquakes
                   rent
                   the
                   solid
                   Alps
                   below
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   from
                   their
                   Summets
                   shook
                   th'
                   Eternal
                   Snow
                   .
                
                 
                   Pale
                   Specters
                   in
                   the
                   close
                   of
                   Night
                   were
                   seen
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Voices
                   heard
                   of
                   more
                   than
                   Mortal
                   Men.
                
                 
                   In
                   silent
                   Groves
                   ,
                   dumb
                   Sheep
                   and
                   Oxen
                   spoke
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Streams
                   ran
                   backward
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   Beds
                   forsook
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   yawning
                   Earth
                   disclos'd
                   th'
                   Abyss
                   of
                   Hell
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   weeping
                   Statues
                   did
                   the
                   Wars
                   foretel
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Holy
                   Sweat
                   from
                   Brazen
                   Idols
                   fell
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   rising
                   in
                   his
                   Might
                   ,
                   the
                   King
                   of
                   Floods
                   ,
                
                 
                   Rusht
                   thro'
                   the
                   Forrests
                   ,
                   tore
                   the
                   lofty
                   Woods
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   rolling
                   onward
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   sweepy
                   Sway
                   ,
                
                 
                   Bore
                   Houses
                   ,
                   Herds
                   ,
                   and
                   lab'ring
                   Hinds
                   away
                   .
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     William
                     Dobyns
                     of
                     Lincolns
                     Inn
                     
                       Esq.
                       
                    
                  
                   
                     Geo
                     1
                     :
                     625.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                 
                   Blood
                   sprang
                   from
                   Wells
                   ,
                   Wolfs
                   howl'd
                   in
                   Towns
                   by
                   Night
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   boding
                   Victims
                   did
                   the
                   Priests
                   affright
                   .
                
                 
                   Such
                   Peals
                   of
                   Thunder
                   never
                   pour'd
                   from
                   high
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Light'ning
                   flash'd
                   from
                   so
                   serene
                   a
                   Sky
                   .
                
                 
                   Red
                   Meteors
                   ran
                   along
                   th'
                   Etherial
                   Space
                   ;
                
                 
                   Stars
                   disappear'd
                   ,
                   and
                   Comets
                   took
                   their
                   place
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   this
                   ,
                   th'
                   Emathian
                   Plains
                   once
                   more
                   were
                   strow'd
                
                 
                   With
                   Roman
                   Bodies
                   ,
                   and
                   just
                   Heav'n
                   thought
                   good
                
                 
                   To
                   fatten
                   twice
                   those
                   Fields
                   with
                   Roman
                   Blood.
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   after
                   length
                   of
                   Time
                   ,
                   the
                   lab'ring
                   Swains
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   turn
                   the
                   Turfs
                   of
                   those
                   unhappy
                   Plains
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shall
                   rusty
                   Piles
                   from
                   the
                   plough'd
                   Furrows
                   take
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   over
                   empty
                   Helmets
                   pass
                   the
                   Rake
                   .
                
                 
                   Amaz'd
                   at
                   Antick
                   Titles
                   on
                   the
                   Stones
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   mighty
                   Relicks
                   of
                   Gygantick
                   Bones
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Ye
                   home-born
                   Deities
                   ,
                   of
                   Mortal
                   Birth
                   !
                
                 
                   Thou
                   Father
                   Romulus
                   ,
                   and
                   Mother
                   Earth
                   ,
                
                 
                   Goddess
                   unmov'd
                   !
                   whose
                   Guardian
                   Arms
                   extend
                
                 
                   O're
                   Thuscan
                   Tiber's
                   Course
                   ,
                   and
                   Roman
                   Tow'rs
                   defend
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   youthful
                   Caesar
                   your
                   joint
                   Pow'rs
                   ingage
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   hinder
                   him
                   to
                   save
                   the
                   sinking
                   Age.
                
                 
                   O!
                   let
                   the
                   Blood
                   ,
                   already
                   spilt
                   ,
                   atone
                
                 
                   For
                   the
                   past
                   Crimes
                   of
                   curst
                   Laomedon
                   !
                
                 
                   Heav'n
                   wants
                   thee
                   there
                   ,
                   and
                   long
                   the
                   Gods
                   ,
                   we
                   know
                   ,
                
                 
                   Have
                   grudg'd
                   thee
                   ,
                   Caesar
                   ,
                   to
                   the
                   World
                   below
                   .
                
                 
                   Where
                   Fraud
                   and
                   Rapine
                   ,
                   Right
                   and
                   Wrong
                   confound
                   ;
                
                 
                   Where
                   impious
                   Arms
                   from
                   ev'ry
                   part
                   resound
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   monstrous
                   Crimes
                   in
                   ev'ry
                   Shape
                   are
                   crown'd
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   peaceful
                   Peasant
                   to
                   the
                   Wars
                   is
                   prest
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Fields
                   lye
                   fallow
                   in
                   inglorious
                   Rest
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Plain
                   no
                   Pasture
                   to
                   the
                   Flock
                   affords
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   crooked
                   Scythes
                   are
                   streightned
                   into
                   Swords
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   there
                   Euphrates
                   her
                   soft
                   Off-spring
                   Arms
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   here
                   the
                   Rhine
                   rebellows
                   with
                   Alarms
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   neighb'ring
                   Cities
                   range
                   on
                   sev'ral
                   sides
                   ,
                
                 
                   Perfidious
                   Mars
                   long
                   plighted
                   Leagues
                   divides
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   o're
                   the
                   wasted
                   World
                   in
                   Triumph
                   rides
                   .
                
                 
                   So
                   four
                   fierce
                   Coursers
                   starting
                   to
                   the
                   Race
                   ,
                
                 
                   Scow'r
                   thro'
                   the
                   Plain
                   ,
                   and
                   lengthen
                   ev'ry
                   Pace
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Reigns
                   ,
                   nor
                   Curbs
                   ,
                   nor
                   threat'ning
                   Cries
                   they
                   fear
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   force
                   along
                   the
                   trembling
                   Charioteer
                   .
                
              
               
            
             
               
               
               
                 The
                 Second
                 Book
                 of
                 the
                 Georgics
                 .
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Argument
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     The
                     Subject
                     of
                     the
                     following
                     Book
                     is
                     Planting
                     .
                     In
                     handling
                     of
                     which
                     Argument
                     ,
                     the
                     Poet
                     shews
                     all
                     the
                     different
                     Methods
                     of
                     raising
                     Trees
                     :
                     Describes
                     their
                     Variety
                     ;
                     and
                     gives
                     Rules
                     for
                     the
                     management
                     of
                     each
                     in
                     particular
                     .
                     He
                     then
                     points
                     out
                     the
                     Soils
                     in
                     which
                     the
                     several
                     Plants
                     thrive
                     best
                     :
                     And
                     thence
                     takes
                     occasion
                     to
                     run
                     out
                     into
                     the
                     Praises
                     of
                  
                   Italy
                   .
                   
                     After
                     which
                     he
                     gives
                     some
                     Directions
                     for
                     discovering
                     the
                     Nature
                     of
                     every
                     Soil
                     ;
                     prescribes
                     Rules
                     for
                     the
                     Dressing
                     of
                     Vines
                     ,
                     Olives
                     ,
                  
                   &c.
                   
                   
                     And
                     concludes
                     the
                     Georgic
                     with
                     a
                     Panegyric
                     on
                     a
                     Country
                     Life
                     .
                  
                
              
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     S
                     r
                     :
                     William
                     Bowyer
                     Baronet
                     of
                     Denham
                     Court
                     in
                     the
                     County
                     of
                     Bucks
                     .
                  
                   
                     Geor
                     :
                     2.
                     
                     L.
                     1.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                   THus
                   far
                   of
                   Tillage
                   ,
                   and
                   of
                   Heav'nly
                   Signs
                   ;
                
                 
                   Now
                   sing
                   my
                   Muse
                   the
                   growth
                   of
                   gen'rous
                   Vines
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   shady
                   Groves
                   ,
                   the
                   Woodland
                   Progeny
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   slow
                   Product
                   of
                   
                   Minerva's
                   Tree
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Great
                   Father
                   Bacchus
                   !
                   to
                   my
                   Song
                   repair
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   clustring
                   Grapes
                   are
                   thy
                   peculiar
                   Care
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   thee
                   large
                   Bunches
                   load
                   the
                   bending
                   Vine
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   last
                   Blessings
                   of
                   the
                   Year
                   are
                   thine
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   thee
                   his
                   Joys
                   the
                   jolly
                   Autumn
                   owes
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   the
                   fermenting
                   Juice
                   the
                   Vat
                   o'reflows
                   .
                
                 
                   Come
                   strip
                   with
                   me
                   ,
                   my
                   God
                   ,
                   come
                   drench
                   all
                   o're
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Limbs
                   in
                   Must
                   of
                   Wine
                   ,
                   and
                   drink
                   at
                   ev'ry
                   Pore
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Some
                   Trees
                   their
                   birth
                   to
                   bounteous
                   Nature
                   owe
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   some
                   without
                   the
                   pains
                   of
                   Planting
                   grow
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   Osiers
                   thus
                   the
                   Banks
                   of
                   Brooks
                   abound
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sprung
                   from
                   the
                   watry
                   Genius
                   of
                   the
                   Ground
                   :
                
                 
                   From
                   the
                   same
                   Principles
                   grey
                   Willows
                   come
                   ;
                
                 
                   Herculean
                   Poplar
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   tender
                   Broom
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   some
                   from
                   Seeds
                   inclos'd
                   in
                   Earth
                   arise
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   thus
                   the
                   mastful
                   Chesnut
                   mates
                   the
                   Skies
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Hence
                   rise
                   the
                   branching
                   Beech
                   and
                   vocal
                   Oke
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   Jove
                   of
                   old
                   Oraculously
                   spoke
                   .
                
                 
                   Some
                   from
                   the
                   Root
                   a
                   rising
                   Wood
                   disclose
                   ;
                
                 
                   Thus
                   Elms
                   ,
                   and
                   thus
                   the
                   salvage
                   Cherry
                   grows
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   the
                   green
                   Bays
                   ,
                   that
                   binds
                   the
                   Poet's
                   Brows
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shoots
                   and
                   is
                   shelter'd
                   by
                   the
                   Mother's
                   Boughs
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   These
                   ways
                   of
                   Planting
                   ,
                   Nature
                   did
                   ordain
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   Trees
                   and
                   Shrubs
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   the
                   Sylvan
                   Reign
                   .
                
                 
                   Others
                   there
                   are
                   ,
                   by
                   late
                   Experience
                   found
                   :
                
                 
                   Some
                   cut
                   the
                   Shoots
                   ,
                   and
                   plant
                   in
                   furrow'd
                   ground
                   :
                
                 
                   Some
                   cover
                   rooted
                   Stalks
                   in
                   deeper
                   Mold
                   :
                
                 
                   Some
                   cloven
                   Stakes
                   ,
                   and
                   (
                   wond'rous
                   to
                   behold
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                   Their
                   sharpen'd
                   ends
                   in
                   Earth
                   their
                   footing
                   place
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   dry
                   Poles
                   produce
                   a
                   living
                   Race
                   .
                
                 
                   Some
                   bowe
                   their
                   Vines
                   ,
                   which
                   bury'd
                   in
                   the
                   Plain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   tops
                   in
                   distant
                   Arches
                   rise
                   again
                   .
                
                 
                   Others
                   no
                   Root
                   require
                   ,
                   the
                   Lab'rer
                   cuts
                
                 
                   Young
                   Slips
                   ,
                   and
                   in
                   the
                   Soil
                   securely
                   puts
                   .
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   Stumps
                   of
                   Olives
                   ,
                   bar'd
                   of
                   Leaves
                   ,
                   and
                   dead
                   ,
                
                 
                   Revive
                   ,
                   and
                   oft
                   redeem
                   their
                   wither'd
                   head
                   .
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   usual
                   now
                   ,
                   an
                   Inmate
                   Graff
                   to
                   see
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Insolence
                   invade
                   a
                   Foreign
                   Tree
                   :
                
                 
                   Thus
                   Pears
                   and
                   Quinces
                   from
                   the
                   Crabtree
                   come
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   thus
                   the
                   ruddy
                   Cornel
                   bears
                   the
                   Plum.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   let
                   the
                   Learned
                   Gard'ner
                   mark
                   with
                   care
                
                 
                   The
                   Kinds
                   of
                   Stocks
                   ,
                   and
                   what
                   those
                   Kinds
                   will
                   bear
                   :
                
                 
                   Explore
                   the
                   Nature
                   of
                   each
                   sev'ral
                   Tree
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   known
                   ,
                   improve
                   with
                   artful
                   Industry
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   let
                   no
                   spot
                   of
                   idle
                   Earth
                   be
                   found
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   cultivate
                   the
                   Genius
                   of
                   the
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   open
                   Ismarus
                   will
                   Bacchus
                   please
                   ;
                
                 
                   Taburnus
                   loves
                   the
                   shade
                   of
                   Olive
                   Trees
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Virtues
                   of
                   the
                   sev'ral
                   Soils
                   I
                   sing
                   ,
                
                 
                   Mecaenas
                   ,
                   now
                   thy
                   needful
                   Succour
                   bring
                   !
                
                 
                 
                   O
                   thou
                   !
                   the
                   better
                   part
                   of
                   my
                   Renown
                   ,
                
                 
                   Inspire
                   thy
                   Poet
                   ,
                   and
                   thy
                   Poem
                   crown
                   :
                
                 
                   Embarque
                   with
                   me
                   ,
                   while
                   I
                   new
                   Tracts
                   explore
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   flying
                   sails
                   and
                   breezes
                   from
                   the
                   shore
                   :
                
                 
                   Not
                   that
                   my
                   song
                   ,
                   in
                   such
                   a
                   scanty
                   space
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   large
                   a
                   Subject
                   fully
                   can
                   embrace
                   :
                
                 
                   Not
                   tho
                   I
                   were
                   supply'd
                   with
                   Iron
                   Lungs
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   hundred
                   Mouths
                   ,
                   fill'd
                   with
                   as
                   many
                   Tongues
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   steer
                   my
                   Vessel
                   with
                   a
                   steady
                   hand
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   coast
                   along
                   the
                   Shore
                   in
                   sight
                   of
                   Land.
                
                 
                   Nor
                   will
                   I
                   tire
                   thy
                   Patience
                   with
                   a
                   train
                
                 
                   Of
                   Preface
                   ,
                   or
                   what
                   ancient
                   Poets
                   feign
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Trees
                   ,
                   which
                   of
                   themselves
                   advance
                   in
                   Air
                   ,
                
                 
                   Are
                   barren
                   kinds
                   ,
                   but
                   strongly
                   built
                   and
                   fair
                   :
                
                 
                   Because
                   the
                   vigour
                   of
                   the
                   Native
                   Earth
                
                 
                   Maintains
                   the
                   Plant
                   ,
                   and
                   makes
                   a
                   Manly
                   Birth
                   .
                
                 
                   Yet
                   these
                   ,
                   receiving
                   Graffs
                   of
                   other
                   Kind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   thence
                   transplanted
                   ,
                   change
                   their
                   salvage
                   Mind
                   :
                
                 
                   Their
                   Wildness
                   lose
                   ,
                   and
                   quitting
                   Nature's
                   part
                   ,
                
                 
                   Obey
                   the
                   Rules
                   and
                   Discipline
                   of
                   Art.
                
                 
                   The
                   same
                   do
                   Trees
                   ,
                   that
                   ,
                   sprung
                   from
                   barren
                   Roots
                
                 
                   In
                   open
                   fields
                   ,
                   transplanted
                   bear
                   their
                   Fruits
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   where
                   they
                   grow
                   the
                   Native
                   Energy
                
                 
                   Turns
                   all
                   into
                   the
                   Substance
                   of
                   the
                   Tree
                   ,
                
                 
                   Starves
                   and
                   destroys
                   the
                   Fruit
                   ,
                   is
                   only
                   made
                
                 
                   For
                   brawny
                   bulk
                   ,
                   and
                   for
                   a
                   barren
                   shade
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Plant
                   that
                   shoots
                   from
                   Seed
                   ,
                   a
                   sullen
                   Tree
                
                 
                   At
                   leisure
                   grows
                   ,
                   for
                   late
                   Posterity
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   gen'rous
                   flavour
                   lost
                   ,
                   the
                   Fruits
                   decay
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   salvage
                   Grapes
                   are
                   made
                   the
                   Birds
                   ignoble
                   prey
                   .
                
                 
                   Much
                   labour
                   is
                   requir'd
                   in
                   Trees
                   ,
                   to
                   tame
                
                 
                   Their
                   wild
                   disorder
                   ,
                   and
                   in
                   ranks
                   reclaim
                   .
                
                 
                   Well
                   must
                   the
                   ground
                   be
                   dig'd
                   ,
                   and
                   better
                   dress'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   New
                   Soil
                   to
                   make
                   ,
                   and
                   meliorate
                   the
                   rest
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Old
                   Stakes
                   of
                   Olive
                   Trees
                   in
                   Plants
                   revive
                   ;
                
                 
                   By
                   the
                   same
                   Methods
                   Paphian
                   Myrtles
                   live
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   nobler
                   Vines
                   by
                   Propagation
                   thrive
                   .
                
                 
                   From
                   Roots
                   hard
                   Hazles
                   ,
                   and
                   from
                   Cyens
                   rise
                
                 
                   Tall
                   Ash
                   ,
                   and
                   taller
                   Oak
                   that
                   mates
                   the
                   Skies
                   :
                
                 
                   Palm
                   ,
                   Poplar
                   ,
                   Firr
                   ,
                   descending
                   from
                   the
                   Steep
                
                 
                   Of
                   Hills
                   ,
                   to
                   try
                   the
                   dangers
                   of
                   the
                   Deep
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   thin-leav'd
                   Arbute
                   Hazle
                   ,
                   graffs
                   receives
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Planes
                   huge
                   Apples
                   bear
                   ,
                   that
                   bore
                   but
                   Leaves
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   Mastful
                   Beech
                   the
                   bristly
                   Chesnut
                   bears
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   wild
                   Ash
                   is
                   white
                   with
                   blooming
                   Pears
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   greedy
                   Swine
                   from
                   grafted
                   Elms
                   are
                   fed
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   falling
                   Acorns
                   ,
                   that
                   on
                   Oaks
                   are
                   bred
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   various
                   are
                   the
                   ways
                   to
                   change
                   the
                   state
                
                 
                   Of
                   Plants
                   ,
                   to
                   Bud
                   ,
                   to
                   Graff
                   ,
                   t'
                   Inoculate
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   where
                   the
                   tender
                   Rinds
                   of
                   Trees
                   disclose
                
                 
                   Their
                   shooting
                   Gems
                   ,
                   a
                   swelling
                   Knot
                   there
                   grows
                   ;
                
                 
                   Just
                   in
                   that
                   space
                   a
                   narrow
                   Slit
                   we
                   make
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   other
                   Buds
                   from
                   bearing
                   Trees
                   we
                   take
                   :
                
                 
                   Inserted
                   thus
                   ,
                   the
                   wounded
                   Rind
                   we
                   close
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   whose
                   moist
                   Womb
                   th'
                   admitted
                   Infant
                   grows
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   when
                   the
                   smoother
                   Bole
                   from
                   Knots
                   is
                   free
                   ,
                
                 
                   We
                   make
                   a
                   deep
                   Incision
                   in
                   the
                   Tree
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   the
                   solid
                   Wood
                   the
                   Slip
                   inclose
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   bat'ning
                   Bastard
                   shoots
                   again
                   and
                   grows
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   short
                   space
                   the
                   laden
                   Boughs
                   arise
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   happy
                   Fruit
                   advancing
                   to
                   the
                   Skies
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Mother
                   Plant
                   admires
                   the
                   Leaves
                   unknown
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   Alien
                   Trees
                   ,
                   and
                   Apples
                   not
                   her
                   own
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Of
                   vegetable
                   Woods
                   are
                   various
                   Kinds
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   same
                   Species
                   are
                   of
                   sev'ral
                   Minds
                   .
                
                 
                   Lotes
                   ,
                   Willows
                   ,
                   Elms
                   ,
                   have
                   diff'rent
                   Forms
                   allow'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   fun'ral
                   Cypress
                   rising
                   like
                   a
                   Shrowd
                   .
                
              
               
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     Gilbert
                     Dolbin
                     of
                     Thindon
                     in
                     Northampton-Shire
                     
                       Esq
                    
                  
                   
                     Geo
                     :
                     2
                     L
                     ▪
                     145.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Fat
                   Olive
                   Trees
                   of
                   sundry
                   Sorts
                   appear
                   :
                
                 
                   Of
                   sundry
                   Shapes
                   their
                   unctuous
                   Berries
                   bear
                   .
                
                 
                   Radij
                   long
                   Olives
                   ,
                   Orchit's
                   round
                   produce
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   bitter
                   Pausia
                   ,
                   pounded
                   for
                   the
                   Juice
                   .
                
                 
                   Alcinous
                   Orchard
                   various
                   Apples
                   bears
                   :
                
                 
                   Unlike
                   are
                   Bergamotes
                   and
                   pounder
                   Pears
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   our
                   Italian
                   Vines
                   produce
                   the
                   Shape
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   Tast
                   ,
                   or
                   Flavour
                   of
                   the
                   Lesbian
                   Grape
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Thasian
                   Vines
                   in
                   richer
                   Soils
                   abound
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Mareotique
                   grow
                   in
                   barren
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Psythian
                   Grape
                   we
                   dry
                   :
                   Lagaean
                   Juice
                   ,
                
                 
                   Will
                   stamm'ring
                   Tongues
                   ,
                   and
                   stagg'ring
                   Feet
                   produce
                   .
                
                 
                   Rathe
                   ripe
                   are
                   some
                   ,
                   and
                   some
                   of
                   later
                   kind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   Golden
                   some
                   ,
                   and
                   some
                   of
                   Purple
                   Rind
                   .
                
                 
                   How
                   shall
                   I
                   praise
                   the
                   Raethean
                   Grape
                   divine
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   yet
                   contends
                   not
                   with
                   Falernian
                   Wine
                   !
                
                 
                   Th'
                   Aminean
                   many
                   a
                   Consulship
                   survives
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   longer
                   than
                   the
                   Lydian
                   Vintage
                   lives
                   ?
                
                 
                   Or
                   high
                   Phanaeus
                   King
                   of
                   Chian
                   growth
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   for
                   large
                   quantities
                   ,
                   and
                   lasting
                   both
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   less
                   Argitis
                   bears
                   the
                   Prize
                   away
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Rhodian
                   ,
                   sacred
                   to
                   the
                   Solemn
                   Day
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   second
                   Services
                   is
                   pour'd
                   to
                   Jove
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   best
                   accepted
                   by
                   the
                   Gods
                   above
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   must
                   Bumastus
                   his
                   old
                   Honours
                   lose
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   length
                   and
                   largeness
                   like
                   the
                   Dugs
                   of
                   Cows
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   pass
                   the
                   rest
                   ,
                   whose
                   ev'ry
                   Race
                   and
                   Name
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Kinds
                   ,
                   are
                   less
                   material
                   to
                   my
                   Theme
                   .
                
                 
                   Which
                   who
                   wou'd
                   learn
                   ,
                   as
                   soon
                   may
                   tell
                   the
                   Sands
                   ,
                
                 
                   Driv'n
                   by
                   the
                   Western
                   Wind
                   on
                   Lybian
                   Lands
                   .
                
                 
                   Or
                   number
                   ,
                   when
                   the
                   blust'ring
                   Eurus
                   roars
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Billows
                   beating
                   on
                   Ionian
                   Shoars
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Nor
                   ev'ry
                   Plant
                   on
                   ev'ry
                   Soil
                   will
                   grow
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Sallow
                   loves
                   the
                   watry
                   Ground
                   ,
                   and
                   low
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Marshes
                   ,
                   Alders
                   ;
                   Nature
                   seems
                   t'ordain
                
                 
                   The
                   rocky
                   Cliff
                   for
                   the
                   wild
                   Ashe's
                   reign
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   baleful
                   Yeugh
                   to
                   Northern
                   Blasts
                   assigns
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   Shores
                   the
                   Myrtles
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   Mounts
                   the
                   Vines
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Regard
                   th'
                   extremest
                   cultivated
                   Coast
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   hot
                   Arabia
                   to
                   the
                   Scythian
                   Frost
                   :
                
                 
                   All
                   sort
                   of
                   Trees
                   their
                   sev'ral
                   Countries
                   know
                   ;
                
                 
                   Black
                   Ebon
                   only
                   will
                   in
                   India
                   grow
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   od'rous
                   Frankincense
                   on
                   the
                   Sabaean
                   Bough
                   .
                
                 
                   Balm
                   slowly
                   trickles
                   through
                   the
                   bleeding
                   Veins
                
                 
                   Of
                   happy
                   Shrubs
                   ,
                   in
                   Idumaean
                   Plains
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   green
                   Egyptian
                   Thorn
                   ,
                   for
                   Med'cine
                   good
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   Ethiops
                   hoary
                   Trees
                   and
                   woolly
                   Wood
                   ,
                
                 
                   Let
                   others
                   tell
                   :
                   and
                   how
                   the
                   Seres
                   spin
                
                 
                   Their
                   fleecy
                   Forests
                   in
                   a
                   slender
                   Twine
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   mighty
                   Trunks
                   of
                   Trees
                   on
                   Indian
                   shoars
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whose
                   height
                   above
                   the
                   feather'd
                   Arrow
                   soars
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shot
                   from
                   the
                   toughest
                   Bow
                   ;
                   and
                   by
                   the
                   Brawn
                
                 
                   Of
                   expert
                   Archers
                   ,
                   with
                   vast
                   Vigour
                   drawn
                   .
                
                 
                   Sharp
                   tasted
                   Citrons
                   Median
                   Climes
                   produce
                   :
                
                 
                   Bitter
                   the
                   Rind
                   ,
                   but
                   gen'rous
                   is
                   the
                   Juice
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   cordial
                   Fruit
                   ,
                   a
                   present
                   Antidote
                
                 
                   Against
                   the
                   direful
                   Stepdam's
                   deadly
                   Draught
                   :
                
                 
                   Who
                   mixing
                   wicked
                   Weeds
                   with
                   Words
                   impure
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Fate
                   of
                   envy'd
                   Orphans
                   wou'd
                   procure
                   .
                
                 
                   Large
                   is
                   the
                   Plant
                   ,
                   and
                   like
                   a
                   Laurel
                   grows
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   did
                   it
                   not
                   a
                   diff'rent
                   Scent
                   disclose
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Laurel
                   were
                   :
                   the
                   fragrant
                   Flow'rs
                   contemn
                
                 
                   The
                   stormy
                   Winds
                   ,
                   tenacious
                   of
                   their
                   Stem
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   this
                   the
                   Medes
                   ,
                   to
                   lab'ring
                   Age
                   ,
                   bequeath
                
                 
                   New
                   Lungs
                   ,
                   and
                   cure
                   the
                   sourness
                   of
                   the
                   Breath
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   neither
                   Median
                   Woods
                   ,
                   (
                   a
                   plenteous
                   Land
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                   Fair
                   
                     Ganges
                     ,
                     Hermus
                  
                   rolling
                   Golden
                   Sand
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Nor
                   Bactria
                   ,
                   nor
                   the
                   richer
                   Indian
                   Fields
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   all
                   the
                   Gummy
                   Stores
                   Arabia
                   yields
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   any
                   foreign
                   Earth
                   of
                   greater
                   Name
                   ,
                
                 
                   Can
                   with
                   sweet
                   Italy
                   contend
                   in
                   Fame
                   .
                
                 
                   No
                   Bulls
                   ,
                   whose
                   Nostrils
                   breath
                   a
                   living
                   Flame
                   ,
                
                 
                   Have
                   turn'd
                   our
                   Turf
                   ,
                   no
                   Teeth
                   of
                   Serpents
                   here
                
                 
                   Were
                   sown
                   ,
                   an
                   armed
                   Host
                   ,
                   and
                   Iron
                   Crop
                   to
                   bear
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   fruitful
                   Vines
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   fat
                   Olives
                   fraight
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Harvests
                   heavy
                   with
                   their
                   fruitful
                   weight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Adorn
                   our
                   Fields
                   ;
                   and
                   on
                   the
                   chearful
                   Green
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   grazing
                   Flocks
                   and
                   lowing
                   Herds
                   are
                   seen
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Warrior
                   Horse
                   ,
                   here
                   bred
                   ,
                   is
                   taught
                   to
                   train
                   ,
                
                 
                   There
                   flows
                   Clitumnus
                   thro'
                   the
                   flow'ry
                   Plain
                   ;
                
                 
                   Whose
                   Waves
                   ,
                   for
                   Triumphs
                   after
                   prosp'rous
                   Wars
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Victim
                   Ox
                   ,
                   and
                   snowy
                   Sheep
                   prepares
                   .
                
                 
                   Perpetual
                   Spring
                   our
                   happy
                   Climate
                   sees
                   ,
                
                 
                   Twice
                   breed
                   the
                   Cattle
                   ,
                   and
                   twice
                   bear
                   the
                   Trees
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Summer
                   Suns
                   recede
                   by
                   slow
                   degrees
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Our
                   Land
                   is
                   from
                   the
                   Rage
                   of
                   Tygers
                   freed
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   nourishes
                   the
                   Lyon's
                   angry
                   Seed
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   pois'nous
                   Aconite
                   is
                   here
                   produc'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   grows
                   unknown
                   ,
                   or
                   is
                   ,
                   when
                   known
                   ,
                   refus'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   in
                   so
                   vast
                   a
                   length
                   our
                   Serpents
                   glide
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   rais'd
                   on
                   such
                   a
                   spiry
                   Volume
                   ride
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Next
                   add
                   our
                   Cities
                   of
                   Illustrious
                   Name
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   costly
                   Labour
                   and
                   stupend'ous
                   Frame
                   :
                
                 
                   Our
                   Forts
                   on
                   steepy
                   Hills
                   ,
                   that
                   far
                   below
                
                 
                   See
                   wanton
                   Streams
                   ,
                   in
                   winding
                   Valleys
                   flow
                   .
                
                 
                   Our
                   twofold
                   Seas
                   ,
                   that
                   washing
                   either
                   side
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   rich
                   Recruit
                   of
                   Foreign
                   Stores
                   provide
                   .
                
                 
                   Our
                   spacious
                   Lakes
                   ;
                   thee
                   ,
                   Larius
                   ,
                   first
                   ;
                   and
                   next
                
                 
                   Benacus
                   ,
                   with
                   tempest'ous
                   Billows
                   vext
                   .
                
                 
                   Or
                   shall
                   I
                   praise
                   thy
                   Ports
                   ,
                   or
                   mention
                   make
                
                 
                   Of
                   the
                   vast
                   Mound
                   ,
                   that
                   binds
                   the
                   Lucrine
                   Lake
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Or
                   the
                   disdainful
                   Sea
                   ,
                   that
                   ,
                   shut
                   from
                   thence
                   ,
                
                 
                   Roars
                   round
                   the
                   Structure
                   ,
                   and
                   invades
                   the
                   Fence
                   .
                
                 
                   There
                   ,
                   where
                   secure
                   the
                   Julian
                   Waters
                   glide
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   where
                   Avernus
                   Jaws
                   admit
                   the
                   Tyrrhene
                   Tide
                   .
                
                 
                   Our
                   Quarries
                   deep
                   in
                   Earth
                   ,
                   were
                   fam'd
                   of
                   old
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   Veins
                   of
                   Silver
                   ,
                   and
                   for
                   Ore
                   of
                   Gold.
                
                 
                   Th'
                   Inhabitants
                   themselves
                   ,
                   their
                   Country
                   grace
                   ;
                
                 
                   Hence
                   rose
                   the
                   Marsian
                   and
                   Sabellian
                   Race
                   :
                
                 
                   Strong
                   limb'd
                   and
                   stout
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   the
                   Wars
                   inclin'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   hard
                   Ligurians
                   ,
                   a
                   laborious
                   Kind
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   Volscians
                   arm'd
                   with
                   Iron-headed
                   Darts
                   .
                
                 
                   Besides
                   an
                   Off-spring
                   of
                   undaunted
                   Hearts
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   
                     Decij
                     ,
                     Marij
                  
                   ,
                   great
                   Camillus
                   came
                
                 
                   From
                   hence
                   ,
                   and
                   greater
                   
                   Scipio's
                   double
                   Name
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   mighty
                   Caesar
                   ,
                   whose
                   victorious
                   Arms
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   farthest
                   Asia
                   ,
                   carry
                   fierce
                   Alarms
                   :
                
                 
                   Avert
                   unwarlike
                   Indians
                   from
                   his
                   Rome
                   ;
                
                 
                   Triumph
                   abroad
                   ,
                   secure
                   our
                   Peace
                   at
                   home
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Hail
                   ,
                   sweet
                   Saturnian
                   Soil
                   !
                   of
                   fruitful
                   Grain
                
                 
                   Great
                   Parent
                   ,
                   greater
                   of
                   Illustrious
                   Men.
                
                 
                   For
                   thee
                   my
                   tuneful
                   Accents
                   will
                   I
                   raise
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   treat
                   of
                   Arts
                   disclos'd
                   in
                   Ancient
                   Days
                   :
                
                 
                   Once
                   more
                   unlock
                   for
                   thee
                   the
                   sacred
                   Spring
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   old
                   Ascraean
                   Verse
                   in
                   Roman
                   Cities
                   sing
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Nature
                   of
                   their
                   sev'ral
                   Soils
                   now
                   see
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   Strength
                   ,
                   their
                   Colour
                   ,
                   their
                   Fertility
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   first
                   for
                   Heath
                   ,
                   and
                   barren
                   hilly
                   Ground
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   meagre
                   Clay
                   and
                   flinty
                   Stones
                   abound
                   ;
                
                 
                   Where
                   the
                   poor
                   Soil
                   all
                   Succour
                   seems
                   to
                   want
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   this
                   suffices
                   the
                   Palladian
                   Plant.
                
                 
                   Undoubted
                   Signs
                   of
                   such
                   a
                   Soil
                   are
                   found
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   here
                   wild
                   Olive-shoots
                   o'respread
                   the
                   ground
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   heaps
                   of
                   Berries
                   strew
                   the
                   Fields
                   around
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   But
                   where
                   the
                   Soil
                   ,
                   with
                   fat'ning
                   Moisture
                   fill'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Is
                   cloath'd
                   with
                   Grass
                   ,
                   and
                   fruitful
                   to
                   be
                   till'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Such
                   as
                   in
                   chearful
                   Vales
                   we
                   view
                   from
                   high
                   ;
                
                 
                   Which
                   dripping
                   Rocks
                   with
                   rowling
                   Streams
                   supply
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   feed
                   with
                   Ooze
                   ;
                   where
                   rising
                   Hillocks
                   run
                
                 
                   In
                   length
                   ,
                   and
                   open
                   to
                   the
                   Southern
                   Sun
                   ;
                
                 
                   Where
                   Fern
                   succeeds
                   ,
                   ungrateful
                   to
                   the
                   Plough
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   gentle
                   ground
                   to
                   gen'rous
                   Grapes
                   allow
                   .
                
                 
                   Strong
                   Stocks
                   of
                   Vines
                   it
                   will
                   in
                   time
                   produce
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   overflow
                   the
                   Vats
                   with
                   friendly
                   Juice
                   .
                
                 
                   Such
                   as
                   our
                   Priests
                   in
                   golden
                   Goblets
                   pour
                
                 
                   To
                   Gods
                   ,
                   the
                   Givers
                   of
                   the
                   chearful
                   hour
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   when
                   the
                   bloated
                   Thuscan
                   blows
                   his
                   Horn
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   reeking
                   Entrails
                   are
                   in
                   Chargers
                   born
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   If
                   Herds
                   or
                   fleecy
                   Flocks
                   be
                   more
                   thy
                   Care
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   Goats
                   that
                   graze
                   the
                   Field
                   ,
                   and
                   burn
                   it
                   bare
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   seek
                   
                   Tarentum's
                   Lawns
                   ,
                   and
                   farthest
                   Coast
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   such
                   a
                   Field
                   as
                   hapless
                   Mantua
                   lost
                   :
                
                 
                   Where
                   Silver
                   Swans
                   sail
                   down
                   the
                   wat'ry
                   Rode
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   graze
                   the
                   floating
                   Herbage
                   of
                   the
                   Flood
                   .
                
                 
                   There
                   Crystal
                   Streams
                   perpetual
                   tenour
                   keep
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Food
                   nor
                   Springs
                   are
                   wanting
                   to
                   thy
                   Sheep
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   what
                   the
                   Day
                   devours
                   ,
                   the
                   nightly
                   Dew
                
                 
                   Shall
                   to
                   the
                   Morn
                   in
                   Perly
                   Drops
                   renew
                   .
                
                 
                   Fat
                   crumbling
                   Earth
                   is
                   fitter
                   for
                   the
                   Plough
                   ,
                
                 
                   Putrid
                   and
                   loose
                   above
                   ,
                   and
                   black
                   below
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   Ploughing
                   is
                   an
                   imitative
                   Toil
                   ,
                
                 
                   Resembling
                   Nature
                   in
                   an
                   easie
                   Soil
                   .
                
                 
                   No
                   Land
                   for
                   Seed
                   like
                   this
                   ,
                   no
                   Fields
                   afford
                
                 
                   So
                   large
                   an
                   Income
                   to
                   the
                   Village
                   Lord
                   :
                
                 
                   No
                   toiling
                   Teams
                   from
                   Harvest-labour
                   come
                
                 
                   So
                   late
                   at
                   Night
                   ,
                   so
                   heavy
                   laden
                   home
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   like
                   of
                   Forest
                   Land
                   is
                   understood
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   whence
                   the
                   spleenful
                   Ploughman
                   grubs
                   the
                   Wood
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   had
                   for
                   length
                   of
                   Ages
                   idle
                   stood
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   Birds
                   forsake
                   the
                   Ruines
                   of
                   their
                   Seat
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   flying
                   from
                   their
                   Nests
                   their
                   Callow
                   Young
                   forget
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   course
                   lean
                   Gravel
                   ,
                   on
                   the
                   Mountain
                   sides
                   ,
                
                 
                   Scarce
                   dewy
                   Bev'rage
                   for
                   the
                   Bees
                   provides
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Chalk
                   nor
                   crumbling
                   Stones
                   ,
                   the
                   food
                   of
                   Snakes
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   work
                   in
                   hollow
                   Earth
                   their
                   winding
                   Tracts
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Soil
                   exhaling
                   Clouds
                   of
                   subtile
                   Dews
                   ,
                
                 
                   Imbibing
                   moisture
                   which
                   with
                   ease
                   she
                   spews
                   ;
                
                 
                   Which
                   rusts
                   not
                   Iron
                   ,
                   and
                   whose
                   Mold
                   is
                   clean
                   ,
                
                 
                   Well
                   cloath'd
                   with
                   chearful
                   Grass
                   ,
                   and
                   ever
                   green
                   ,
                
                 
                   Is
                   good
                   for
                   Olives
                   and
                   aspiring
                   Vines
                   ;
                
                 
                   Embracing
                   Husband
                   Elms
                   in
                   am'rous
                   twines
                   ,
                
                 
                   Is
                   fit
                   for
                   feeding
                   Cattle
                   ,
                   fit
                   to
                   sowe
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   equal
                   to
                   the
                   Pasture
                   and
                   the
                   Plough
                   .
                
                 
                   Such
                   is
                   the
                   Soil
                   of
                   fat
                   Campanian
                   Fields
                   ,
                
                 
                   Such
                   large
                   increase
                   
                     Vesuvian
                     Nola
                  
                   yields
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   such
                   a
                   Country
                   cou'd
                   Acerra
                   boast
                   ,
                
                 
                   Till
                   Clanius
                   overflow'd
                   th'
                   unhappy
                   Coast
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   I
                   teach
                   thee
                   next
                   the
                   diff'ring
                   Soils
                   to
                   know
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   light
                   for
                   Vines
                   ,
                   the
                   heavyer
                   for
                   the
                   Plough
                   .
                
                 
                   Chuse
                   first
                   a
                   place
                   for
                   such
                   a
                   purpose
                   fit
                   ,
                
                 
                   There
                   dig
                   the
                   solid
                   Earth
                   ,
                   and
                   sink
                   a
                   Pit
                   :
                
                 
                   Next
                   fill
                   the
                   hole
                   with
                   its
                   own
                   Earth
                   agen
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   trample
                   with
                   thy
                   Feet
                   ,
                   and
                   tread
                   it
                   in
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   if
                   it
                   rise
                   not
                   to
                   the
                   former
                   height
                
                 
                   Of
                   superfice
                   ,
                   conclude
                   that
                   Soil
                   is
                   light
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   proper
                   Ground
                   for
                   Pasturage
                   and
                   Vines
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   if
                   the
                   sullen
                   Earth
                   ,
                   so
                   press'd
                   ,
                   repines
                
                 
                   Within
                   its
                   native
                   Mansion
                   to
                   retire
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   stays
                   without
                   ,
                   a
                   heap
                   of
                   heavy
                   Mire
                   ;
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     
                       To
                       George
                       London
                       of
                       his
                       ma
                       ties
                       :
                       Royall
                       Garden
                       in
                       S
                       t
                       James
                    
                     
                     '
                     s
                     
                       Park
                       Gent.
                    
                     
                  
                   
                     Geo
                     ▪
                     2
                     L
                     〈…〉
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   good
                   for
                   Arable
                   ,
                   a
                   Glebe
                   that
                   asks
                
                 
                   Tough
                   Teams
                   of
                   Oxen
                   ,
                   and
                   laborious
                   Tasks
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Salt
                   Earth
                   and
                   bitter
                   are
                   not
                   fit
                   to
                   sow
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   will
                   be
                   tam'd
                   or
                   mended
                   with
                   the
                   Plough
                   .
                
                 
                   Sweet
                   Grapes
                   degen'rate
                   there
                   ,
                   and
                   Fruits
                   declin'd
                
                 
                   From
                   their
                   first
                   flav'rous
                   Taste
                   ,
                   renounce
                   their
                   Kind
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   Truth
                   by
                   sure
                   Experiment
                   is
                   try'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   first
                   an
                   Ofier
                   Colendar
                   provide
                
                 
                   Of
                   Twigs
                   thick
                   wrought
                   ,
                   (
                   such
                   toiling
                   Peasants
                   twine
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   thro'
                   streight
                   Passages
                   they
                   strein
                   their
                   Wine
                   ;
                   )
                
                 
                   In
                   this
                   close
                   Vessel
                   place
                   that
                   Earth
                   accurs'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   fill'd
                   brimful
                   with
                   wholsom
                   Water
                   first
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   run
                   it
                   through
                   ,
                   the
                   Drops
                   will
                   rope
                   around
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   by
                   the
                   bitter
                   Taste
                   disclose
                   the
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   fatter
                   Earth
                   by
                   handling
                   we
                   may
                   find
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Ease
                   distinguish'd
                   from
                   the
                   meagre
                   Kind
                   :
                
                 
                   Poor
                   Soil
                   will
                   crumble
                   into
                   Dust
                   ,
                   the
                   Rich
                
                 
                   will
                   to
                   the
                   Fingers
                   cleave
                   like
                   clammy
                   Pitch
                   :
                
                 
                   Moist
                   Earth
                   produces
                   Corn
                   and
                   Grass
                   ,
                   but
                   both
                
                 
                   Too
                   rank
                   and
                   too
                   luxuriant
                   in
                   their
                   Growth
                   .
                
                 
                   Let
                   not
                   my
                   Land
                   so
                   large
                   a
                   Promise
                   boast
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lest
                   the
                   lank
                   Ears
                   in
                   length
                   of
                   Stem
                   be
                   lost
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   heavier
                   Earth
                   is
                   by
                   her
                   Weight
                   betray'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   lighter
                   in
                   the
                   poising
                   Hand
                   is
                   weigh'd
                   :
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   easy
                   to
                   distinguish
                   by
                   the
                   Sight
                
                 
                   The
                   Colour
                   of
                   the
                   Soil
                   ,
                   and
                   black
                   from
                   white
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   the
                   cold
                   Ground
                   is
                   difficult
                   to
                   know
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   this
                   the
                   Plants
                   that
                   prosper
                   there
                   ,
                   will
                   show
                   ;
                
                 
                   Black
                   Ivy
                   ,
                   Pitch
                   Trees
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   baleful
                   Yeugh
                   .
                
                 
                   These
                   Rules
                   consider'd
                   well
                   ,
                   with
                   early
                   Care
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Vineyard
                   destin'd
                   for
                   thy
                   Vines
                   prepare
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   ,
                   long
                   before
                   the
                   Planting
                   ,
                   dig
                   the
                   Ground
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Furrows
                   deep
                   that
                   cast
                   a
                   rising
                   Mound
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Clods
                   ,
                   expos'd
                   to
                   Winter
                   Winds
                   ,
                   will
                   bake
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   putrid
                   Earth
                   will
                   best
                   in
                   Vineyards
                   take
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   hoary
                   Frosts
                   ,
                   after
                   the
                   painful
                   Toyl
                
                 
                   Of
                   delving
                   Hinds
                   ,
                   will
                   rot
                   the
                   Mellow
                   Soil
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Some
                   Peasants
                   ,
                   not
                   t'
                   omit
                   the
                   nicest
                   Care
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   the
                   same
                   Soil
                   their
                   Nursery
                   prepare
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   that
                   of
                   their
                   Plantation
                   ;
                   lest
                   the
                   Tree
                
                 
                   Translated
                   ,
                   should
                   not
                   with
                   the
                   Soil
                   agree
                   .
                
                 
                   Beside
                   ,
                   to
                   plant
                   it
                   as
                   it
                   was
                   ,
                   they
                   mark
                
                 
                   The
                   Heav'ns
                   four
                   Quarters
                   on
                   the
                   tender
                   Bark
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   to
                   the
                   North
                   or
                   South
                   restore
                   the
                   Side
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   at
                   their
                   Birth
                   did
                   Heat
                   or
                   Cold
                   abide
                   .
                
                 
                   So
                   strong
                   is
                   Custom
                   ;
                   such
                   Effects
                   can
                   Use
                
                 
                   In
                   tender
                   Souls
                   of
                   pliant
                   Plants
                   produce
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Chuse
                   next
                   a
                   Province
                   ,
                   for
                   thy
                   Vineyards
                   Reign
                   ,
                
                 
                   On
                   Hills
                   above
                   ,
                   or
                   in
                   the
                   lowly
                   Plain
                   :
                
                 
                   If
                   fertile
                   Fields
                   or
                   Valleys
                   be
                   thy
                   Choice
                   ,
                
                 
                   Plant
                   thick
                   ,
                   for
                   bounteous
                   Bacchus
                   will
                   rejoice
                
                 
                   In
                   close
                   Plantations
                   there
                   :
                   But
                   if
                   the
                   Vine
                
                 
                   On
                   rising
                   Ground
                   be
                   plac'd
                   ,
                   or
                   Hills
                   supine
                   ,
                
                 
                   Extend
                   thy
                   loose
                   Battalions
                   largely
                   wide
                   ,
                
                 
                   Opening
                   thy
                   Ranks
                   and
                   Files
                   on
                   either
                   Side
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   marshall'd
                   all
                   in
                   order
                   as
                   they
                   Stand
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   let
                   no
                   Souldier
                   straggle
                   from
                   his
                   Band.
                
                 
                   As
                   Legions
                   in
                   the
                   Field
                   their
                   Front
                   display
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   try
                   the
                   Fortune
                   of
                   some
                   doubtful
                   Day
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   move
                   to
                   meet
                   their
                   Foes
                   with
                   sober
                   Pace
                   ,
                
                 
                   Strict
                   to
                   their
                   Figure
                   ,
                   tho'
                   in
                   wider
                   Space
                   ;
                
                 
                   Before
                   the
                   Battel
                   joins
                   ,
                   while
                   from
                   afar
                
                 
                   The
                   Field
                   yet
                   glitters
                   with
                   the
                   Pomp
                   of
                   War
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   equal
                   Mars
                   ,
                   like
                   an
                   impartial
                   Lord
                   ,
                
                 
                   Leaves
                   all
                   to
                   Fortune
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   dint
                   of
                   Sword
                   ;
                
                 
                   So
                   let
                   thy
                   Vines
                   in
                   Intervals
                   be
                   set
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   not
                   their
                   Rural
                   Discipline
                   forget
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Indulge
                   their
                   Width
                   ,
                   and
                   add
                   a
                   roomy
                   Space
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   their
                   extreamest
                   Lines
                   may
                   scarce
                   embrace
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   this
                   alone
                   t'indulge
                   a
                   vain
                   Delight
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   make
                   a
                   pleasing
                   Prospect
                   for
                   the
                   Sight
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   ,
                   for
                   the
                   Ground
                   it self
                   this
                   only
                   Way
                   ,
                
                 
                   Can
                   equal
                   Vigour
                   to
                   the
                   Plants
                   convey
                   ;
                
                 
                   Which
                   crowded
                   ,
                   want
                   the
                   room
                   ,
                   their
                   Branches
                   to
                   display
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   How
                   deep
                   they
                   must
                   be
                   planted
                   ,
                   woud'st
                   thou
                   know
                   ?
                
                 
                   In
                   shallow
                   Furrows
                   Vines
                   securely
                   grow
                   .
                
                 
                   Not
                   so
                   the
                   rest
                   of
                   Plants
                   ;
                   for
                   Joves
                   own
                   Tree
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   holds
                   the
                   Woods
                   in
                   awful
                   Sov'raignty
                   ,
                
                 
                   Requires
                   a
                   depth
                   of
                   Lodging
                   in
                   the
                   Ground
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   next
                   the
                   lower
                   Skies
                   ,
                   a
                   Bed
                   profound
                   :
                
                 
                   High
                   as
                   his
                   topmost
                   Boughs
                   to
                   Heav'n
                   ascend
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   low
                   his
                   Roots
                   to
                   Hell's
                   Dominion
                   tend
                   .
                
                 
                   Therefore
                   ,
                   nor
                   Winds
                   ,
                   nor
                   Winters
                   Rage
                   o'rethrows
                
                 
                   His
                   bulky
                   Body
                   ,
                   but
                   unmov'd
                   he
                   grows
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   length
                   of
                   Ages
                   lasts
                   his
                   happy
                   Reign
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Lives
                   of
                   Mortal
                   Man
                   contend
                   in
                   vain
                   .
                
                 
                   Full
                   in
                   the
                   midst
                   of
                   his
                   own
                   Strength
                   he
                   stands
                   ,
                
                 
                   Stretching
                   his
                   brawny
                   Arms
                   ,
                   and
                   leafy
                   Hands
                   ;
                
                 
                   His
                   Shade
                   protects
                   the
                   Plains
                   ,
                   his
                   Head
                   the
                   Hills
                   commands
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   hurtful
                   Hazle
                   in
                   thy
                   Vineyard
                   shun
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   plant
                   it
                   to
                   receive
                   the
                   setting
                   Sun
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   break
                   the
                   topmost
                   Branches
                   from
                   the
                   Tree
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   prune
                   ,
                   with
                   blunted
                   Knife
                   ,
                   the
                   Progeny
                   .
                
                 
                   Root
                   up
                   wild
                   Olives
                   from
                   thy
                   labour'd
                   Lands
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   sparkling
                   Fire
                   ,
                   from
                   Hinds
                   unwary
                   Hands
                   ,
                
                 
                   Is
                   often
                   scatter'd
                   o're
                   their
                   unctuous
                   rinds
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   after
                   spread
                   abroad
                   by
                   raging
                   Winds
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   first
                   the
                   smouldring
                   Flame
                   the
                   Trunk
                   receives
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ascending
                   thence
                   ,
                   it
                   crackles
                   in
                   the
                   Leaves
                   :
                
                 
                   At
                   length
                   victorious
                   to
                   the
                   Top
                   aspires
                   ,
                
                 
                   Involving
                   all
                   the
                   Wood
                   with
                   smoky
                   Fires
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   But
                   most
                   ,
                   when
                   driv'n
                   by
                   Winds
                   ,
                   the
                   flaming
                   Storm
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   the
                   long
                   Files
                   destroys
                   the
                   beauteous
                   Form.
                
                 
                   In
                   Ashes
                   then
                   th'
                   unhappy
                   Vineyard
                   lies
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   will
                   the
                   blasted
                   Plants
                   from
                   Ruin
                   rise
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   will
                   the
                   wither'd
                   Stock
                   be
                   green
                   again
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   the
                   wild
                   Olive
                   shoots
                   ,
                   and
                   shades
                   th'
                   ungrateful
                   Plain
                   .
                
                 
                   Be
                   not
                   seduc'd
                   with
                   Wisdom's
                   empty
                   Shows
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   stir
                   the
                   peaceful
                   Ground
                   when
                   Boreas
                   blows
                   .
                
                 
                   When
                   Winter
                   Frosts
                   constrain
                   the
                   Field
                   with
                   Cold
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   fainty
                   Root
                   can
                   take
                   no
                   steady
                   hold
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   when
                   the
                   Golden
                   Spring
                   reveals
                   the
                   Year
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   white
                   Bird
                   returns
                   ,
                   whom
                   Serpents
                   fear
                   :
                
                 
                   That
                   Season
                   deem
                   the
                   best
                   to
                   plant
                   thy
                   Vines
                   .
                
                 
                   Next
                   that
                   ,
                   is
                   when
                   Autumnal
                   Warmth
                   declines
                   :
                
                 
                   E're
                   Heat
                   is
                   quite
                   decay'd
                   ,
                   or
                   Cold
                   begun
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   Capricorn
                   admits
                   the
                   Winter
                   Sun.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Spring
                   adorns
                   the
                   Woods
                   ,
                   renews
                   the
                   Leaves
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Womb
                   of
                   Earth
                   the
                   genial
                   Seed
                   receives
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   then
                   Almighty
                   Jove
                   descends
                   ,
                   and
                   pours
                
                 
                   Into
                   his
                   buxom
                   Bride
                   his
                   fruitful
                   Show'rs
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   mixing
                   his
                   large
                   Limbs
                   with
                   hers
                   ,
                   he
                   feeds
                
                 
                   Her
                   Births
                   with
                   kindly
                   Juice
                   ,
                   and
                   fosters
                   teeming
                   Seeds
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   joyous
                   Birds
                   frequent
                   the
                   lonely
                   Grove
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Beasts
                   ,
                   by
                   Nature
                   stung
                   ,
                   renew
                   their
                   Love.
                
                 
                   Then
                   Fields
                   the
                   Blades
                   of
                   bury'd
                   Corn
                   disclose
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   while
                   the
                   balmy
                   Western
                   Spirit
                   blows
                   ,
                
                 
                   Earth
                   to
                   the
                   Breath
                   her
                   Bosom
                   dares
                   expose
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   kindly
                   Moisture
                   then
                   the
                   Plants
                   abound
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Grass
                   securely
                   springs
                   above
                   the
                   Ground
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   tender
                   Twig
                   shoots
                   upward
                   to
                   the
                   Skies
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   on
                   the
                   Faith
                   of
                   the
                   new
                   Sun
                   relies
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   swerving
                   Vines
                   on
                   the
                   tall
                   Elms
                   prevail
                   ,
                
                 
                   Unhurt
                   by
                   Southern
                   Show'rs
                   or
                   Northern
                   Hail
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   They
                   spread
                   their
                   Gems
                   the
                   genial
                   Warmth
                   to
                   share
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   boldly
                   trust
                   their
                   Buds
                   in
                   open
                   Air.
                
                 
                   In
                   this
                   soft
                   Season
                   (
                   so
                   sweet
                   Poets
                   sing
                   )
                
                 
                   The
                   World
                   was
                   hatch'd
                   by
                   Heav'ns
                   Imperial
                   King
                   :
                
                 
                   In
                   prime
                   of
                   all
                   the
                   Year
                   ,
                   and
                   Holydays
                   of
                   Spring
                   .
                
                 
                   Earth
                   knew
                   no
                   Season
                   then
                   ,
                   but
                   Spring
                   alone
                   :
                
                 
                   On
                   the
                   moist
                   Ground
                   the
                   Sun
                   serenely
                   shone
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   Winter
                   Winds
                   their
                   blustring
                   Rage
                   forbear
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   a
                   silent
                   Pomp
                   proceeds
                   the
                   mighty
                   Year
                   .
                
                 
                   Sheep
                   soon
                   were
                   sent
                   to
                   people
                   flow'ry
                   Fields
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   salvage
                   Beasts
                   were
                   banish'd
                   into
                   Wilds
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   Heav'n
                   was
                   lighted
                   up
                   with
                   Stars
                   ;
                   and
                   Man
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   hard
                   relentless
                   Race
                   ,
                   from
                   Stones
                   began
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   cou'd
                   the
                   tender
                   ,
                   new
                   Creation
                   ,
                   bear
                
                 
                   Th'
                   excessive
                   Heats
                   or
                   Coldness
                   of
                   the
                   Year
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   chill'd
                   by
                   Winter
                   ,
                   or
                   by
                   Summer
                   fir'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   middle
                   Temper
                   of
                   the
                   Spring
                   requir'd
                   .
                
                 
                   When
                   Infant
                   Nature
                   was
                   with
                   Quiet
                   crown'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Heav'ns
                   Indulgence
                   brooded
                   on
                   the
                   Ground
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   For
                   what
                   remains
                   ,
                   in
                   depth
                   of
                   Earth
                   secure
                
                 
                   Thy
                   cover'd
                   Plants
                   ,
                   and
                   dung
                   with
                   hot
                   Manure
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Shells
                   and
                   Gravel
                   in
                   the
                   Ground
                   inclose
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   thro'
                   their
                   hollow
                   Chinks
                   the
                   Water
                   flows
                   :
                
                 
                   Which
                   ,
                   thus
                   imbib'd
                   ,
                   returns
                   in
                   misty
                   Dews
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   steeming
                   up
                   ,
                   the
                   rising
                   Plant
                   renews
                   .
                
                 
                   Some
                   Husbandmen
                   ,
                   of
                   late
                   ,
                   have
                   found
                   the
                   Way
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   hilly
                   Heap
                   of
                   Stones
                   above
                   to
                   lay
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   press
                   the
                   Plants
                   with
                   Sherds
                   of
                   Potters
                   Clay
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   Fence
                   against
                   immod'rate
                   Rain
                   they
                   found
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   when
                   the
                   Dog-star
                   cleaves
                   the
                   thirsty
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                   Be
                   mindful
                   when
                   thou
                   hast
                   intomb'd
                   the
                   Shoot
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Store
                   of
                   Earth
                   around
                   to
                   feed
                   the
                   Root
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   Iron
                   Teeth
                   of
                   Rakes
                   and
                   Prongs
                   ,
                   to
                   move
                
                 
                   The
                   crusted
                   Earth
                   ,
                   and
                   loosen
                   it
                   above
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Then
                   exercise
                   thy
                   strugling
                   Steers
                   to
                   plough
                
                 
                   Betwixt
                   thy
                   Vines
                   ,
                   and
                   teach
                   thy
                   feeble
                   Row
                
                 
                   To
                   mount
                   on
                   Reeds
                   ,
                   and
                   Wands
                   ,
                   and
                   ,
                   upward
                   led
                   ,
                
                 
                   On
                   Ashen
                   Poles
                   to
                   raise
                   their
                   forky
                   Head.
                
                 
                   On
                   these
                   new
                   Crutches
                   let
                   them
                   learn
                   to
                   walk
                   ,
                
                 
                   Till
                   swerving
                   upwards
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   stronger
                   Stalk
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   brave
                   the
                   Winds
                   ,
                   and
                   ,
                   clinging
                   to
                   their
                   Gu
                
                 
                   On
                   tops
                   of
                   Elms
                   at
                   length
                   triumphant
                   ride
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   in
                   their
                   tender
                   Nonage
                   ,
                   while
                   they
                   spread
                
                 
                   Their
                   Springing
                   Leafs
                   ,
                   and
                   lift
                   their
                   Infant
                   Head
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   upward
                   while
                   they
                   shoot
                   in
                   open
                   Air
                   ,
                
                 
                   Indulge
                   their
                   Child-hood
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Nurseling
                   spare
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   exercise
                   thy
                   Rage
                   on
                   new-born
                   Life
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   let
                   thy
                   Hand
                   supply
                   the
                   Pruning-knife
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   crop
                   luxuriant
                   Straglers
                   ,
                   nor
                   be
                   loath
                
                 
                   To
                   strip
                   the
                   Branches
                   of
                   their
                   leafy
                   Growth
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   when
                   the
                   rooted
                   Vines
                   ,
                   with
                   steady
                   Hold
                   ,
                
                 
                   Can
                   clasp
                   their
                   Elms
                   ,
                   then
                   Husbandman
                   be
                   bold
                
                 
                   To
                   lop
                   the
                   disobedient
                   Boughs
                   ,
                   that
                   stray'd
                
                 
                   Beyond
                   their
                   Ranks
                   :
                   let
                   crooked
                   Steel
                   invade
                
                 
                   The
                   lawless
                   Troops
                   ,
                   which
                   Discipline
                   disclaim
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   their
                   superfluous
                   Growth
                   with
                   Rigour
                   tame
                   .
                
                 
                   Next
                   ,
                   fenc'd
                   with
                   Hedges
                   and
                   deep
                   Ditches
                   round
                   ,
                
                 
                   Exclude
                   th'
                   incroaching
                   Cattle
                   from
                   thy
                   Ground
                   ,
                
                 
                   While
                   yet
                   the
                   tender
                   Gems
                   but
                   just
                   appear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Unable
                   to
                   sustain
                   th'
                   uncertain
                   Year
                   ;
                
                 
                   Whose
                   Leaves
                   are
                   not
                   alone
                   foul
                   Winter's
                   Prey
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   oft
                   by
                   Summer
                   Suns
                   are
                   scorch'd
                   away
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   worse
                   than
                   both
                   ,
                   become
                   th'
                   unworthy
                   Browze
                
                 
                   Of
                   Buffal'os
                   ,
                   salt
                   Goats
                   ,
                   and
                   hungry
                   Cows
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   not
                   
                   December's
                   Frost
                   that
                   burns
                   the
                   Boughs
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Dog-days
                   parching
                   Heat
                   that
                   splits
                   the
                   Rocks
                   ,
                
                 
                   Are
                   half
                   so
                   harmful
                   as
                   the
                   greedy
                   Flocks
                   :
                
                 
                   Their
                   venom'd
                   Bite
                   ,
                   and
                   Scars
                   indented
                   on
                   the
                   Stocks
                   .
                
              
               
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     John
                     Loving
                     
                       Esq
                    
                     of
                     Little
                     Ealing
                     in
                     the
                     County
                     of
                     Middlesex
                     .
                  
                   
                     Geor.
                     2.
                     l.
                     530.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   For
                   this
                   the
                   Malefactor
                   Goat
                   was
                   laid
                
                 
                   On
                   
                   Bacchus's
                   Altar
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   forfeit
                   paid
                   .
                
                 
                   At
                   Athens
                   thus
                   old
                   Comedy
                   began
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   round
                   the
                   Streets
                   the
                   reeling
                   Actors
                   ran
                   ;
                
                 
                   In
                   Country
                   Villages
                   ,
                   and
                   crossing
                   ways
                   ,
                
                 
                   Contending
                   for
                   the
                   Prizes
                   of
                   their
                   Plays
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   glad
                   ,
                   with
                   Bacchus
                   ,
                   on
                   the
                   grassie
                   soil
                   ,
                
                 
                   Leapt
                   o're
                   the
                   Skins
                   of
                   Goats
                   besmear'd
                   with
                   Oyl
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   Roman
                   Youth
                   deriv'd
                   from
                   ruin'd
                   Troy
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   rude
                   Saturnian
                   Rhymes
                   express
                   their
                   Joy
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   Taunts
                   ,
                   and
                   Laughter
                   loud
                   ,
                   their
                   Audience
                   please
                   ,
                
                 
                   Deform'd
                   with
                   Vizards
                   ,
                   cut
                   from
                   Barks
                   of
                   Trees
                   :
                
                 
                   In
                   jolly
                   Hymns
                   they
                   praise
                   the
                   God
                   of
                   Wine
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whose
                   Earthen
                   Images
                   adorn
                   the
                   Pine
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   there
                   are
                   hung
                   on
                   high
                   ,
                   in
                   honour
                   of
                   the
                   Vine
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   madness
                   so
                   devout
                   the
                   Vineyards
                   fills
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   hollow
                   Valleys
                   and
                   on
                   rising
                   Hills
                   ;
                
                 
                   On
                   what
                   e're
                   side
                   he
                   turns
                   his
                   honest
                   face
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   dances
                   in
                   the
                   Wind
                   ,
                   those
                   Fields
                   are
                   in
                   his
                   grace
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   Bacchus
                   therefore
                   let
                   us
                   tune
                   our
                   Lays
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   our
                   Mother
                   Tongue
                   resound
                   his
                   Praise
                   .
                
                 
                   Thin
                   Cakes
                   in
                   Chargers
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   Guilty
                   Goat
                   ,
                
                 
                   Dragg'd
                   by
                   the
                   Horns
                   ,
                   be
                   to
                   his
                   Altars
                   brought
                   ;
                
                 
                   Whose
                   offer'd
                   Entrails
                   shall
                   his
                   Crime
                   reproach
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   drip
                   their
                   Fatness
                   from
                   the
                   Hazle
                   Broach
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   dress
                   thy
                   Vines
                   new
                   labour
                   is
                   requir'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   must
                   the
                   painful
                   Husbandman
                   be
                   tir'd
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   thrice
                   ,
                   at
                   least
                   ,
                   in
                   Compass
                   of
                   the
                   Year
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Vineyard
                   must
                   employ
                   the
                   sturdy
                   Steer
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   turn
                   the
                   Glebe
                   ;
                   besides
                   thy
                   daily
                   pain
                
                 
                   To
                   break
                   the
                   Clods
                   ,
                   and
                   make
                   the
                   Surface
                   plain
                   :
                
                 
                   T'
                   unload
                   the
                   Branches
                   or
                   the
                   Leaves
                   to
                   thin
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   suck
                   the
                   Vital
                   Moisture
                   of
                   the
                   Vine
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Thus
                   in
                   a
                   Circle
                   runs
                   the
                   Peasant's
                   Pain
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   Year
                   rowls
                   within
                   it self
                   again
                   .
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   in
                   the
                   lowest
                   Months
                   ,
                   when
                   Storms
                   have
                   shed
                
                 
                   From
                   Vines
                   the
                   hairy
                   Honours
                   of
                   their
                   Head
                   ;
                
                 
                   Not
                   then
                   the
                   drudging
                   Hind
                   his
                   Labour
                   ends
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   to
                   the
                   coming
                   Year
                   his
                   Care
                   extends
                   :
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   then
                   the
                   naked
                   Vine
                   he
                   persecutes
                   ;
                
                 
                   His
                   Pruning
                   Knife
                   at
                   once
                   Reforms
                   and
                   Cuts
                   .
                
                 
                   Be
                   first
                   to
                   dig
                   the
                   Ground
                   ,
                   be
                   first
                   to
                   burn
                
                 
                   The
                   Branches
                   lopt
                   ,
                   and
                   first
                   the
                   Props
                   return
                
                 
                   Into
                   thy
                   House
                   ,
                   that
                   bore
                   the
                   burden'd
                   Vines
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   last
                   to
                   reap
                   the
                   Vintage
                   of
                   thy
                   Wines
                   .
                
                 
                   Twice
                   in
                   the
                   Year
                   luxuriant
                   Leaves
                   o'reshade
                
                 
                   The
                   incumber'd
                   Vine
                   ;
                   rough
                   Brambles
                   twice
                   invade
                   :
                
                 
                   Hard
                   Labour
                   both
                   !
                   commend
                   the
                   large
                   excess
                
                 
                   Of
                   spacious
                   Vineyards
                   ;
                   cultivate
                   the
                   less
                   .
                
                 
                   Besides
                   ,
                   in
                   Woods
                   the
                   Shrubs
                   of
                   prickly
                   Thorn
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sallows
                   and
                   Reeds
                   ,
                   on
                   Banks
                   of
                   Rivers
                   born
                   ,
                
                 
                   Remain
                   to
                   cut
                   ;
                   for
                   Vineyards
                   useful
                   found
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   stay
                   thy
                   Vines
                   ,
                   and
                   fence
                   thy
                   fruitful
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   when
                   thy
                   tender
                   Trees
                   at
                   length
                   are
                   bound
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   peaceful
                   Vines
                   from
                   Pruning
                   Hooks
                   are
                   free
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   Husbands
                   have
                   survey'd
                   the
                   last
                   degree
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   utmost
                   Files
                   of
                   Plants
                   ,
                   and
                   order'd
                   ev'ry
                   Tree
                   ;
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   when
                   they
                   sing
                   at
                   ease
                   in
                   full
                   Content
                   ,
                
                 
                   Insulting
                   o're
                   the
                   Toils
                   they
                   underwent
                   ;
                
                 
                   Yet
                   still
                   they
                   find
                   a
                   future
                   Task
                   remain
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   turn
                   the
                   Soil
                   ,
                   and
                   break
                   the
                   Clods
                   again
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   after
                   all
                   ,
                   their
                   Joys
                   are
                   unsincere
                   ,
                
                 
                   While
                   falling
                   Rains
                   on
                   ripening
                   Grapes
                   they
                   fear
                   .
                
                 
                   Quite
                   opposite
                   to
                   these
                   are
                   Olives
                   found
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   dressing
                   they
                   require
                   ,
                   and
                   dread
                   no
                   wound
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Rakes
                   nor
                   Harrows
                   need
                   ,
                   but
                   fix'd
                   below
                   ,
                
                 
                   Rejoyce
                   in
                   open
                   Air
                   ,
                   and
                   unconcerndly
                   grow
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Soil
                   it self
                   due
                   Nourishment
                   supplies
                   :
                
                 
                   Plough
                   but
                   the
                   Furrows
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Fruits
                   arise
                   :
                
                 
                   Content
                   with
                   small
                   Endeavours
                   ,
                   'till
                   they
                   spring
                   .
                
                 
                   Soft
                   Peace
                   they
                   figure
                   ,
                   and
                   sweet
                   Plenty
                   bring
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   Olives
                   plant
                   ,
                   and
                   Hymns
                   to
                   Pallas
                   sing
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Thus
                   Apple
                   Trees
                   ,
                   whose
                   Trunks
                   are
                   strong
                   to
                   bear
                
                 
                   Their
                   spreading
                   Boughs
                   ,
                   exert
                   themselves
                   in
                   Air
                   :
                
                 
                   Want
                   no
                   supply
                   ,
                   but
                   stand
                   secure
                   alone
                   ,
                
                 
                   Not
                   trusting
                   foreign
                   Forces
                   ,
                   but
                   their
                   own
                   :
                
                 
                   'Till
                   with
                   the
                   ruddy
                   freight
                   the
                   bending
                   Branches
                   groan
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   Trees
                   of
                   Nature
                   ,
                   and
                   each
                   common
                   Bush
                   ,
                
                 
                   Uncultivated
                   thrive
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   red
                   Berries
                   blush
                   .
                
                 
                   Vile
                   Shrubs
                   are
                   shorn
                   for
                   Browze
                   :
                   the
                   tow'ring
                   hight
                
                 
                   Of
                   unctuous
                   Trees
                   ,
                   are
                   Torches
                   for
                   the
                   Night
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   shall
                   we
                   doubt
                   ,
                   (
                   indulging
                   easie
                   Sloath
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                   To
                   sow
                   ,
                   to
                   set
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   reform
                   their
                   growth
                   ?
                
                 
                   To
                   leave
                   the
                   lofty
                   Plants
                   ;
                   the
                   lowly
                   kind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Are
                   for
                   the
                   Shepherd
                   ,
                   or
                   the
                   Sheep
                   design'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   humble
                   Broom
                   and
                   Osiers
                   have
                   their
                   use
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Shade
                   for
                   Sleep
                   ,
                   and
                   Food
                   for
                   Flocks
                   produce
                   ;
                
                 
                   Hedges
                   for
                   Corn
                   ,
                   and
                   Honey
                   for
                   the
                   Bees
                   :
                
                 
                   Besides
                   the
                   pleasing
                   Prospect
                   of
                   the
                   Trees
                   .
                
                 
                   How
                   goodly
                   looks
                   Cytorus
                   ,
                   ever
                   green
                
                 
                   With
                   Boxen
                   Groves
                   ,
                   with
                   what
                   delight
                   are
                   seen
                
                 
                   Narycian
                   Woods
                   of
                   Pitch
                   ,
                   whose
                   gloomy
                   shade
                   ,
                
                 
                   Seems
                   for
                   retreat
                   of
                   thoughtful
                   Muses
                   made
                   !
                
                 
                   But
                   much
                   more
                   pleasing
                   are
                   those
                   Fields
                   to
                   see
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   need
                   not
                   Ploughs
                   ,
                   nor
                   Human
                   Industry
                   .
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   cold
                   Caucasean
                   Rocks
                   with
                   Trees
                   are
                   spread
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   wear
                   green
                   Forests
                   on
                   their
                   hilly
                   Head.
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   bending
                   from
                   the
                   blast
                   of
                   Eastern
                   Storms
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   shent
                   their
                   Leaves
                   ,
                   and
                   shatter'd
                   are
                   their
                   Arms
                   ;
                
                 
                   Yet
                   Heav'n
                   their
                   various
                   Plants
                   for
                   use
                   designs
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   Houses
                   Cedars
                   ,
                   and
                   for
                   Shipping
                   Pines
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Cypress
                   provides
                   for
                   Spokes
                   ,
                   and
                   Wheels
                   of
                   Wains
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   for
                   Keels
                   of
                   Ships
                   ,
                   that
                   scour
                   the
                   watry
                   Plains
                   .
                
                 
                   Willows
                   in
                   Twigs
                   are
                   fruitful
                   ,
                   Elms
                   in
                   Leaves
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   War
                   ,
                   from
                   stubborn
                   Myrtle
                   Shafts
                   receives
                   :
                
                 
                   From
                   Cornels
                   Jav'lins
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   tougher
                   Yeugh
                
                 
                   Receives
                   the
                   bending
                   Figure
                   of
                   a
                   Bow.
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Box
                   ,
                   nor
                   Limes
                   ,
                   without
                   their
                   use
                   are
                   made
                   ,
                
                 
                   Smooth-grain'd
                   ,
                   and
                   proper
                   for
                   the
                   Turner's
                   Trade
                   :
                
                 
                   Which
                   curious
                   Hands
                   may
                   kerve
                   ,
                   and
                   Steel
                   with
                   Ease
                   invade
                   .
                
                 
                   Light
                   Alder
                   stems
                   the
                   
                   Po's
                   impetuous
                   Tide
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Bees
                   in
                   hollow
                   Oaks
                   their
                   Hony
                   hide
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   ballance
                   ,
                   with
                   these
                   Gifts
                   ,
                   the
                   fumy
                   Joys
                
                 
                   Of
                   Wine
                   ,
                   attended
                   with
                   eternal
                   Noise
                   .
                
                 
                   Wine
                   urg'd
                   to
                   lawless
                   Lust
                   the
                   Centaurs
                   Train
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thro'
                   Wine
                   they
                   quarrell'd
                   ,
                   and
                   thro'
                   Wine
                   were
                   slain
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Oh
                   happy
                   ,
                   if
                   he
                   knew
                   his
                   happy
                   State
                   !
                
                 
                   The
                   Swain
                   ,
                   who
                   ,
                   free
                   from
                   Business
                   and
                   Debate
                   ;
                
                 
                   Receives
                   his
                   easy
                   Food
                   from
                   Nature's
                   Hand
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   just
                   Returns
                   of
                   cultivated
                   Land
                   !
                
                 
                   No
                   Palace
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   lofty
                   Gate
                   ,
                   he
                   wants
                   ,
                
                 
                   T'
                   admit
                   the
                   Tydes
                   of
                   early
                   Visitants
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   eager
                   Eyes
                   devouring
                   ,
                   as
                   they
                   pass
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   breathing
                   Figures
                   of
                   Corinthian
                   Brass
                   .
                
                 
                   No
                   Statues
                   threaten
                   ,
                   from
                   high
                   Pedestals
                   ;
                
                 
                   No
                   Persian
                   Arras
                   hides
                   his
                   homely
                   Walls
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Antick
                   Vests
                   ;
                   which
                   thro'
                   their
                   shady
                   fold
                   ,
                
                 
                   Betray
                   the
                   Streaks
                   of
                   ill
                   dissembl'd
                   Gold.
                
                 
                   He
                   boasts
                   no
                   Wool
                   ,
                   whose
                   native
                   white
                   is
                   dy'd
                
                 
                   With
                   Purple
                   Poyson
                   of
                   Assyrian
                   Pride
                   .
                
                 
                   No
                   costly
                   Drugs
                   of
                   Araby
                   defile
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   foreign
                   Scents
                   ,
                   the
                   Sweetness
                   of
                   his
                   Oyl
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   easie
                   Quiet
                   ,
                   a
                   secure
                   Retreat
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   harmless
                   Life
                   that
                   knows
                   not
                   how
                   to
                   cheat
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   With
                   homebred
                   Plenty
                   the
                   rich
                   Owner
                   bless
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   rural
                   Pleasures
                   crown
                   his
                   Happiness
                   .
                
                 
                   Unvex'd
                   with
                   Quarrels
                   ,
                   undisturb'd
                   with
                   Noise
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Country
                   King
                   his
                   peaceful
                   Realm
                   enjoys
                   :
                
                 
                   Cool
                   Grots
                   ,
                   and
                   living
                   Lakes
                   ,
                   the
                   Flow'ry
                   Pride
                
                 
                   Of
                   Meads
                   ,
                   and
                   Streams
                   that
                   thro'
                   the
                   Valley
                   glide
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   shady
                   Groves
                   that
                   easie
                   Sleep
                   invite
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   after
                   toilsome
                   Days
                   ,
                   a
                   sweet
                   repose
                   at
                   Night
                   .
                
                 
                   Wild
                   Beasts
                   of
                   Nature
                   in
                   his
                   Woods
                   abound
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Youth
                   ,
                   of
                   Labour
                   patient
                   ,
                   plow
                   the
                   Ground
                   ,
                
                 
                   Inur'd
                   to
                   Hardship
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   homely
                   Fare
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   venerable
                   Age
                   is
                   wanting
                   there
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   great
                   Examples
                   to
                   the
                   Youthful
                   Train
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   are
                   the
                   Gods
                   ador'd
                   with
                   Rites
                   prophane
                   .
                
                 
                   From
                   hence
                   Astrea
                   took
                   her
                   Flight
                   ,
                   and
                   here
                
                 
                   the
                   Prints
                   of
                   her
                   departing
                   Steps
                   appear
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Ye
                   sacred
                   Muses
                   ,
                   with
                   whose
                   Beauty
                   fir'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Soul
                   is
                   ravish'd
                   ,
                   and
                   my
                   Brain
                   inspir'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Whose
                   Priest
                   I
                   am
                   ,
                   whose
                   holy
                   Fillets
                   wear
                   ;
                
                 
                   Wou'd
                   you
                   your
                   
                   Virgil's
                   first
                   Petition
                   hear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Give
                   me
                   the
                   Ways
                   of
                   wandring
                   Stars
                   to
                   know
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Depths
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   above
                   ,
                   and
                   Earth
                   below
                   .
                
                 
                   Teach
                   me
                   the
                   various
                   Labours
                   of
                   the
                   Moon
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   whence
                   proceed
                   th'
                   Eclipses
                   of
                   the
                   Sun.
                
                 
                   Why
                   flowing
                   Tides
                   prevail
                   upon
                   the
                   Main
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   what
                   dark
                   Recess
                   they
                   shrink
                   again
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   shakes
                   the
                   solid
                   Earth
                   ,
                   what
                   Cause
                   delays
                
                 
                   The
                   Summer
                   Nights
                   ,
                   and
                   shortens
                   Winter
                   Days
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   if
                   my
                   heavy
                   Blood
                   restrain
                   the
                   Flight
                
                 
                   Of
                   my
                   free
                   Soul
                   ,
                   aspiring
                   to
                   the
                   Height
                
                 
                   Of
                   Nature
                   ,
                   and
                   unclouded
                   Fields
                   of
                   Light
                   :
                
                 
                   My
                   next
                   Desire
                   is
                   ,
                   void
                   of
                   Care
                   and
                   Strife
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   lead
                   a
                   soft
                   ,
                   secure
                   ,
                   inglorious
                   Life
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   A
                   Country
                   Cottage
                   near
                   a
                   Crystal
                   Flood
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   winding
                   Vally
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   lofty
                   Wood.
                
                 
                   Some
                   God
                   conduct
                   me
                   to
                   the
                   sacred
                   Shades
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   Bacchanals
                   are
                   sung
                   by
                   Spartan
                   Maids
                   .
                
                 
                   Or
                   lift
                   me
                   high
                   to
                   Hemus
                   hilly
                   Crown
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   in
                   the
                   Plains
                   of
                   Tempe
                   lay
                   me
                   down
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   lead
                   me
                   to
                   some
                   solitary
                   Place
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   cover
                   my
                   Retreat
                   from
                   Human
                   Race
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Happy
                   the
                   Man
                   ,
                   who
                   ,
                   studying
                   Nature's
                   Laws
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thro'
                   known
                   Effects
                   can
                   trace
                   the
                   secret
                   Cause
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   Mind
                   possessing
                   ,
                   in
                   a
                   quiet
                   state
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fearless
                   of
                   Fortune
                   ,
                   and
                   resign'd
                   to
                   Fate
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   happy
                   too
                   is
                   he
                   ,
                   who
                   decks
                   the
                   Bow'rs
                
                 
                   Of
                   Sylvans
                   ,
                   and
                   adores
                   the
                   Rural
                   Pow'rs
                   :
                
                 
                   Whose
                   Mind
                   ,
                   unmov'd
                   ,
                   the
                   Bribes
                   of
                   Courts
                   can
                   see
                   ;
                
                 
                   Their
                   glitt'ring
                   Baits
                   ,
                   and
                   Purple
                   Slavery
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   hopes
                   the
                   People's
                   Praise
                   ,
                   nor
                   fears
                   their
                   Frown
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   ,
                   when
                   contending
                   Kindred
                   tear
                   the
                   Crown
                   ,
                
                 
                   Will
                   set
                   up
                   one
                   ,
                   or
                   pull
                   another
                   down
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Without
                   Concern
                   he
                   hears
                   ,
                   but
                   hears
                   from
                   far
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   Tumults
                   and
                   Descents
                   ,
                   and
                   distant
                   War
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   with
                   a
                   Superstitious
                   Fear
                   is
                   aw'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   what
                   befals
                   at
                   home
                   ,
                   or
                   what
                   abroad
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   envies
                   he
                   the
                   Rich
                   their
                   heapy
                   Store
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   with
                   a
                   helpless
                   Hand
                   condoles
                   the
                   Poor
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   feeds
                   on
                   Fruits
                   ,
                   which
                   ,
                   of
                   their
                   own
                   accord
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   willing
                   Ground
                   ,
                   and
                   laden
                   Trees
                   afford
                   .
                
                 
                   From
                   his
                   lov'd
                   Home
                   no
                   Lucre
                   him
                   can
                   draw
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Senates
                   mad
                   Decrees
                   he
                   never
                   saw
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   heard
                   ,
                   at
                   bawling
                   Bars
                   ,
                   corrupted
                   Law.
                
                 
                   Some
                   to
                   the
                   Seas
                   ,
                   and
                   some
                   to
                   Camps
                   resort
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   some
                   with
                   Impudence
                   invade
                   the
                   Court.
                
                 
                   In
                   foreign
                   Countries
                   others
                   seek
                   Renown
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Wars
                   and
                   Taxes
                   others
                   waste
                   their
                   own
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   Houses
                   burn
                   ,
                   and
                   houshold
                   Gods
                   deface
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   drink
                   in
                   Bowls
                   which
                   glitt'ring
                   Gems
                   enchase
                   :
                
                 
                   To
                   loll
                   on
                   Couches
                   ,
                   rich
                   with
                   Cytron
                   Steds
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   lay
                   their
                   guilty
                   Limbs
                   in
                   Tyrian
                   Beds
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   Wretch
                   in
                   Earth
                   intombs
                   his
                   Golden
                   Ore
                   ,
                
                 
                   Hov'ring
                   and
                   brooding
                   on
                   his
                   bury'd
                   Store
                   .
                
                 
                   Some
                   Patriot
                   Fools
                   to
                   pop'lar
                   Praise
                   aspire
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   Publick
                   Speeches
                   ,
                   which
                   worse
                   Fools
                   admire
                   .
                
                 
                   While
                   from
                   both
                   Benches
                   ,
                   with
                   redoubl'd
                   Sounds
                   ,
                
                 
                   Th'
                   Applause
                   of
                   Lords
                   and
                   Commoners
                   abounds
                   .
                
                 
                   Some
                   through
                   Ambition
                   ,
                   or
                   thro'
                   Thirst
                   of
                   Gold
                   ;
                
                 
                   Have
                   slain
                   their
                   Brothers
                   ,
                   or
                   their
                   Country
                   sold
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   leaving
                   their
                   sweet
                   Homes
                   ,
                   in
                   Exile
                   run
                
                 
                   To
                   Lands
                   that
                   lye
                   beneath
                   another
                   Sun.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Peasant
                   ,
                   innocent
                   of
                   all
                   these
                   Ills
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   crooked
                   Ploughs
                   the
                   fertile
                   Fallows
                   tills
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   round
                   Year
                   with
                   daily
                   Labour
                   fills
                   .
                
                 
                   From
                   hence
                   the
                   Country
                   Markets
                   are
                   supply'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Enough
                   remains
                   for
                   houshold
                   Charge
                   beside
                   ;
                
                 
                   His
                   Wife
                   ,
                   and
                   tender
                   Children
                   to
                   sustain
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   gratefully
                   to
                   feed
                   his
                   dumb
                   deserving
                   Train
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   cease
                   his
                   Labours
                   ,
                   till
                   the
                   Yellow
                   Field
                
                 
                   A
                   full
                   return
                   of
                   bearded
                   Harvest
                   yield
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   Crop
                   so
                   plenteous
                   ,
                   as
                   the
                   Land
                   to
                   load
                   ,
                
                 
                   O'recome
                   the
                   crowded
                   Barns
                   ,
                   and
                   lodge
                   on
                   Ricks
                   abroad
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   ev'ry
                   sev'ral
                   Season
                   is
                   employ'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Some
                   spent
                   in
                   Toyl
                   ,
                   and
                   some
                   in
                   Ease
                   enjoy'd
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   yeaning
                   Ewes
                   prevent
                   the
                   springing
                   Year
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   laded
                   Boughs
                   their
                   Fruits
                   in
                   Autumn
                   bear
                   .
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   then
                   the
                   Vine
                   her
                   liquid
                   Harvest
                   yields
                   ,
                
                 
                   Bak'd
                   in
                   the
                   Sun-shine
                   of
                   ascending
                   Fields
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Winter
                   comes
                   ,
                   and
                   then
                   the
                   falling
                   Mast
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   greedy
                   Swine
                   ,
                   provides
                   a
                   full
                   repast
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Then
                   Olives
                   ,
                   ground
                   in
                   Mills
                   ,
                   their
                   fatness
                   boast
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Winter
                   Fruits
                   are
                   mellow'd
                   by
                   the
                   Frost
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   Cares
                   are
                   eas'd
                   with
                   Intervals
                   of
                   bliss
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   little
                   Children
                   climbing
                   for
                   a
                   Kiss
                   ,
                
                 
                   Welcome
                   their
                   Father's
                   late
                   return
                   at
                   Night
                   ;
                
                 
                   His
                   faithful
                   Bed
                   is
                   crown'd
                   with
                   chast
                   delight
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   Kine
                   with
                   swelling
                   Udders
                   ready
                   stand
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   lowing
                   for
                   the
                   Pail
                   ,
                   invite
                   the
                   Milker's
                   hand
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   wanton
                   Kids
                   ,
                   with
                   budding
                   Horns
                   prepar'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fight
                   harmless
                   Battels
                   in
                   his
                   homely
                   Yard
                   :
                
                 
                   Himself
                   in
                   Rustick
                   Pomp
                   ,
                   on
                   Holy-days
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   Rural
                   Pow'rs
                   a
                   just
                   Oblation
                   pays
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   on
                   the
                   Green
                   his
                   careless
                   Limbs
                   displays
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Hearth
                   is
                   in
                   the
                   midst
                   ;
                   the
                   Herdsmen
                   round
                
                 
                   The
                   chearful
                   Fire
                   ,
                   provoke
                   his
                   health
                   in
                   Goblets
                   crown'd
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   calls
                   on
                   Bacchus
                   ,
                   and
                   propounds
                   the
                   Prize
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Groom
                   his
                   Fellow
                   Groom
                   at
                   Buts
                   defies
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   bends
                   his
                   Bow
                   ,
                   and
                   levels
                   with
                   his
                   Eyes
                   .
                
                 
                   Or
                   stript
                   for
                   Wrestling
                   ,
                   smears
                   his
                   Limbs
                   with
                   Oyl
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   watches
                   with
                   a
                   trip
                   his
                   Foe
                   to
                   foil
                   .
                
                 
                   Such
                   was
                   the
                   life
                   the
                   frugal
                   Sabines
                   led
                   ;
                
                 
                   So
                   Remus
                   and
                   his
                   Brother
                   God
                   were
                   bred
                   :
                
                 
                   From
                   whom
                   th'
                   austere
                   Etrurian
                   Virtue
                   rose
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   this
                   rude
                   life
                   our
                   homely
                   Fathers
                   chose
                   .
                
                 
                   Old
                   Rome
                   from
                   such
                   a
                   Race
                   deriv'd
                   her
                   birth
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   The
                   Seat
                   of
                   Empire
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   conquer'd
                   Earth
                   :
                   )
                
                 
                   Which
                   now
                   on
                   sev'n
                   high
                   Hills
                   triumphant
                   reigns
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   that
                   compass
                   all
                   the
                   World
                   contains
                   .
                
                 
                   E're
                   
                   Saturn's
                   Rebel
                   Son
                   usurp'd
                   the
                   Skies
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   Beasts
                   were
                   only
                   slain
                   for
                   Sacrifice
                   :
                
                 
                   While
                   peaceful
                   Crete
                   enjoy'd
                   her
                   ancient
                   Lord
                   ,
                
                 
                   E're
                   sounding
                   Hammers
                   forg'd
                   th'
                   inhumane
                   Sword
                   :
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     William
                     Walsh
                     of
                     Abberley
                     in
                     Worcester-shire
                     
                       Esq
                    
                  
                   
                     Geo
                     :
                     2.
                     l.
                     760.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                 
                   E're
                   hollow
                   Drums
                   were
                   beat
                   ,
                   before
                   the
                   Breath
                
                 
                   Of
                   brazen
                   Trumpets
                   rung
                   the
                   Peals
                   of
                   Death
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   good
                   old
                   God
                   his
                   Hunger
                   did
                   asswage
                
                 
                   With
                   Roots
                   and
                   Herbs
                   ,
                   and
                   gave
                   the
                   Golden
                   Age.
                
                 
                   But
                   over
                   labour'd
                   with
                   so
                   long
                   a
                   Course
                   ,
                
                 
                   T
                   is
                   time
                   to
                   set
                   at
                   ease
                   the
                   smoaking
                   Horse
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 The
                 Third
                 Book
                 of
                 the
                 Georgics
                 .
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Argument
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     This
                     Book
                     begins
                     with
                     an
                     Invocation
                     of
                     some
                     Rural
                     Deities
                     ,
                     and
                     a
                     Compliment
                     to
                  
                   Augustus
                   :
                   
                     After
                     which
                  
                   Virgil
                   
                     directs
                     himself
                     to
                  
                   Mecaenas
                   ,
                   
                     and
                     enters
                     on
                     his
                     Subject
                     .
                     He
                     lays
                     down
                     Rules
                     for
                     the
                     Breeding
                     and
                     Management
                     of
                     Horses
                     ,
                     Oxen
                     ,
                     Sheep
                     ,
                     Goats
                     ,
                     and
                     Dogs
                     :
                     And
                     interweaves
                     several
                     pleasant
                     Descriptions
                     of
                     a
                     Chariot-Race
                     ,
                     of
                     the
                     Battel
                     of
                     the
                     Bulls
                     ,
                     of
                     the
                     Force
                     of
                     Love
                     ,
                     and
                     of
                     the
                  
                   Scythian
                   
                     Winter
                     .
                     In
                     the
                     latter
                     part
                     of
                     the
                     Book
                     he
                     relates
                     the
                     Diseases
                     incident
                     to
                     Cattel
                     ;
                     and
                     ends
                     with
                     the
                     Description
                     of
                     a
                     fatal
                     Murrain
                     that
                     formerly
                     rag'd
                     among
                     the
                  
                   Alps.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   THY
                   Fields
                   ,
                   propitious
                   Pales
                   ,
                   I
                   reherse
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   sing
                   thy
                   Pastures
                   in
                   no
                   vulgar
                   Verse
                   ,
                
                 
                   Amphrysian
                   Shepherd
                   ;
                   the
                   Lycaean
                   Woods
                   ;
                
                 
                   
                   Arcadia's
                   flow'ry
                   Plains
                   ,
                   and
                   pleasing
                   Floods
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   5
                   All
                   other
                   Themes
                   ,
                   that
                   careless
                   Minds
                   invite
                   ,
                
                 
                   Are
                   worn
                   with
                   use
                   ;
                   unworthy
                   me
                   to
                   write
                   .
                
                 
                   
                   Busiri's
                   Altars
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   dire
                   Decrees
                
                 
                   Of
                   hard
                   Euristheus
                   ,
                   ev'ry
                   Reader
                   sees
                   :
                
                 
                   Hylas
                   the
                   Boy
                   ,
                   
                   Latona's
                   erring
                   Isle
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   
                   Pelop's
                   Iv'ry
                   Shoulder
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Toil
                
                 
                   For
                   fair
                   Hippodamé
                   ,
                   with
                   all
                   the
                   rest
                
                 
                   Of
                   Grecian
                   Tales
                   ,
                   by
                   Poets
                   are
                   exprest
                   :
                
                 
                   New
                   ways
                   I
                   must
                   attempt
                   ,
                   my
                   groveling
                   Name
                
                 
                   To
                   raise
                   aloft
                   ,
                   and
                   wing
                   my
                   flight
                   to
                   Fame
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   I
                   ,
                   first
                   of
                   Romans
                   shall
                   in
                   Triumph
                   come
                
                 
                   From
                   conquer'd
                   Greece
                   ,
                   and
                   bring
                   her
                   Trophies
                   home
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   Foreign
                   Spoils
                   adorn
                   my
                   native
                   place
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   
                   Idume's
                   Palms
                   ,
                   my
                   Mantua
                   grace
                   .
                
                 
                   Of
                   Parian
                   Stone
                   a
                   Temple
                   will
                   I
                   raise
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   the
                   slow
                   Mincius
                   through
                   the
                   Vally
                   strays
                   :
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     the
                     most
                     Noble
                     and
                     Illustrious
                     Prince
                     Charles
                     Duke
                     of
                     Richmond
                     and
                     Lenox
                     Earl
                     of
                     Marsh
                     and
                     Darnley
                     Baron
                     of
                     Siterington
                     Knight
                     of
                     the
                     most
                     noble
                     Order
                     of
                     the
                     Garter
                     .
                  
                   
                     Geo
                     ▪
                     3
                     l
                     1
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                 
                   Where
                   cooling
                   Streams
                   invite
                   the
                   Flocks
                   to
                   drink
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   Reeds
                   defend
                   the
                   winding
                   Waters
                   Brink
                   .
                
                 
                   Full
                   in
                   the
                   midst
                   shall
                   mighty
                   Caesar
                   stand
                   :
                
                 
                   Hold
                   the
                   chief
                   Honours
                   ;
                   and
                   the
                   Dome
                   command
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   I
                   ,
                   conspicuous
                   in
                   my
                   Tyrian
                   Gown
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   Submitting
                   to
                   his
                   Godhead
                   my
                   Renown
                   )
                
                 
                   A
                   hundred
                   Coursers
                   from
                   the
                   Goal
                   will
                   drive
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   rival
                   Chariots
                   in
                   the
                   Race
                   shall
                   strive
                   .
                
                 
                   All
                   Greece
                   shall
                   flock
                   from
                   far
                   ,
                   my
                   Games
                   to
                   see
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Whorlbat
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   rapid
                   Race
                   ,
                   shall
                   be
                
                 
                   Reserv'd
                   for
                   Caesar
                   ,
                   and
                   ordain'd
                   by
                   me
                   .
                
                 
                   My self
                   ,
                   with
                   Olive
                   crown'd
                   ,
                   the
                   Gifts
                   will
                   bear
                   :
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   now
                   methinks
                   the
                   publick
                   shouts
                   I
                   hear
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   passing
                   Pageants
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Pomps
                   appear
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   ,
                   to
                   the
                   Temple
                   will
                   conduct
                   the
                   Crew
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Sacrifice
                   and
                   Sacrificers
                   view
                   ;
                
                 
                   From
                   thence
                   return
                   ,
                   attended
                   with
                   my
                   Train
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   the
                   proud
                   Theatres
                   disclose
                   the
                   Scene
                   :
                
                 
                   Which
                   interwoven
                   Britains
                   seem
                   to
                   raise
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   shew
                   the
                   Triumph
                   which
                   their
                   Shame
                   displays
                   .
                
                 
                   High
                   o're
                   the
                   Gate
                   ,
                   in
                   Elephant
                   and
                   Gold
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Crowd
                   shall
                   
                   Caesar's
                   Indian
                   War
                   behold
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Nile
                   shall
                   flow
                   beneath
                   ;
                   and
                   on
                   the
                   side
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   shatter'd
                   Ships
                   on
                   Brazen
                   Pillars
                   ride
                   .
                
                 
                   Next
                   him
                   Niphates
                   with
                   inverted
                   Urn
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   dropping
                   Sedge
                   ,
                   shall
                   his
                   Armenia
                   mourn
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Asian
                   Cities
                   in
                   our
                   Triumph
                   born
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   backward
                   Bows
                   the
                   Parthians
                   shall
                   be
                   there
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   spurring
                   from
                   the
                   Fight
                   confess
                   their
                   Fear
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   double
                   Wreath
                   shall
                   crown
                   our
                   
                   Caesar's
                   Brows
                   ;
                
                 
                   Two
                   differing
                   Trophies
                   ,
                   from
                   two
                   different
                   Foes
                   .
                
                 
                   Europe
                   with
                   Africk
                   in
                   his
                   Fame
                   shall
                   join
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   neither
                   Shoar
                   his
                   Conquest
                   shall
                   confine
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Parian
                   Marble
                   ,
                   there
                   ,
                   shall
                   feem
                   to
                   move
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   breathing
                   Statues
                   ,
                   not
                   unworthy
                   Jove
                   .
                
                 
                   Resembling
                   Heroes
                   ,
                   whose
                   Etherial
                   Root
                   ,
                
                 
                   Is
                   Jove
                   himself
                   ,
                   and
                   Caesar
                   is
                   the
                   Fruit.
                
                 
                   Tros
                   and
                   his
                   Race
                   the
                   Sculptor
                   shall
                   employ
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   he
                   the
                   God
                   ,
                   who
                   built
                   the
                   Walls
                   of
                   Troy.
                
                 
                   Envy
                   her self
                   at
                   last
                   ,
                   grown
                   pale
                   and
                   dumb
                   ;
                
                 
                   (
                   By
                   Caesar
                   combated
                   and
                   overcome
                   )
                
                 
                   Shall
                   give
                   her
                   Hands
                   ;
                   and
                   fear
                   the
                   curling
                   Snakes
                
                 
                   Of
                   lashing
                   Furies
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   burning
                   Lakes
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Pains
                   of
                   famisht
                   Tantalus
                   shall
                   feel
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Sisyphus
                   that
                   labours
                   up
                   the
                   Hill
                
                 
                   The
                   rowling
                   Rock
                   in
                   vain
                   ;
                   and
                   curst
                   
                   Ixion's
                   Wheel
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Mean
                   time
                   we
                   must
                   pursue
                   the
                   Sylvan
                   Lands
                   ;
                
                 
                   (
                   Th'
                   abode
                   of
                   Nymphs
                   ,
                   )
                   untouch'd
                   by
                   former
                   Hands
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   such
                   ,
                   Maecenas
                   ,
                   are
                   thy
                   hard
                   Commands
                   .
                
                 
                   Without
                   thee
                   nothing
                   lofty
                   can
                   I
                   sing
                   ;
                
                 
                   Come
                   then
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   thy self
                   thy
                   Genius
                   bring
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   which
                   inspir'd
                   ,
                   I
                   brook
                   no
                   dull
                   delay
                   .
                
                 
                   Cytheron
                   loudly
                   calls
                   me
                   to
                   my
                   way
                   ;
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Hounds
                   ,
                   Taygetus
                   ,
                   open
                   and
                   pursue
                   their
                   Prey
                   .
                
                 
                   High
                   Epidaurus
                   urges
                   on
                   my
                   speed
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fam'd
                   for
                   his
                   Hills
                   ,
                   and
                   for
                   his
                   Horses
                   breed
                   :
                
                 
                   From
                   Hills
                   and
                   Dales
                   the
                   chearful
                   Cries
                   rebound
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   Echo
                   hunts
                   along
                   ;
                   and
                   propagates
                   the
                   sound
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   A
                   time
                   will
                   come
                   ,
                   when
                   my
                   maturer
                   Muse
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   
                   Caesar's
                   Wars
                   ,
                   a
                   Nobler
                   Theme
                   shall
                   chuse
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   through
                   more
                   Ages
                   bear
                   my
                   Soveraign's
                   Praise
                   ;
                
                 
                   Than
                   have
                   from
                   Tithon
                   past
                   to
                   
                   Caesar's
                   Days
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Generous
                   Youth
                   ,
                   who
                   studious
                   of
                   the
                   Prize
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Race
                   of
                   running
                   Coursers
                   multiplies
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   to
                   the
                   Plough
                   the
                   sturdy
                   Bullock
                   breeds
                   ,
                
                 
                   May
                   know
                   that
                   from
                   the
                   Dam
                   the
                   worth
                   of
                   each
                   proceeds
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Mother
                   Cow
                   must
                   wear
                   a
                   low'ring
                   look
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sour
                   headed
                   ,
                   strongly
                   neck'd
                   ,
                   to
                   bear
                   the
                   Yoke
                   .
                
                 
                   Her
                   double
                   Dew-lap
                   from
                   her
                   Chin
                   descends
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   at
                   her
                   Thighs
                   the
                   pondrous
                   burthen
                   ends
                   .
                
                 
                   Long
                   are
                   her
                   sides
                   and
                   large
                   ,
                   her
                   Limbs
                   are
                   great
                   ;
                
                 
                   Rough
                   are
                   her
                   Ears
                   ,
                   and
                   broad
                   her
                   horny
                   Feet
                   .
                
                 
                   Her
                   Colour
                   shining
                   Black
                   ,
                   but
                   fleck'd
                   with
                   white
                   ;
                
                 
                   She
                   tosses
                   from
                   the
                   Yoke
                   ;
                   provokes
                   the
                   Fight
                   :
                
                 
                   She
                   rises
                   in
                   her
                   Gate
                   ,
                   is
                   free
                   from
                   Fears
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   her
                   Face
                   a
                   Bull
                   's
                   Resemblance
                   bears
                   :
                
                 
                   Her
                   ample
                   Forehead
                   with
                   a
                   Star
                   is
                   crown'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   her
                   length
                   of
                   Tail
                   she
                   sweeps
                   the
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Bull
                   's
                   Insult
                   at
                   Four
                   she
                   may
                   sustain
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   ,
                   after
                   Ten
                   ,
                   from
                   Nuptial
                   Rites
                   refrain
                   .
                
                 
                   Six
                   Seasons
                   use
                   ;
                   but
                   then
                   release
                   the
                   Cow
                   ,
                
                 
                   Unfit
                   for
                   Love
                   ,
                   and
                   for
                   the
                   lab'ring
                   Plough
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Now
                   while
                   their
                   Youth
                   is
                   fill'd
                   with
                   kindly
                   Fire
                   ,
                
                 
                   Submit
                   thy
                   Females
                   to
                   the
                   lusty
                   Sire
                   :
                
                 
                   Watch
                   the
                   quick
                   motions
                   of
                   the
                   frisking
                   Tail
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   serve
                   their
                   fury
                   with
                   the
                   rushing
                   Male
                   ,
                
                 
                   Indulging
                   Pleasure
                   lest
                   the
                   Breed
                   shou'd
                   fail
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   In
                   Youth
                   alone
                   ,
                   unhappy
                   Mortals
                   live
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   ,
                   ah
                   !
                   the
                   mighty
                   Bliss
                   is
                   fugitive
                   ;
                
                 
                   Discolour'd
                   Sickness
                   ,
                   anxious
                   Labours
                   come
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Age
                   ,
                   and
                   Death's
                   inexorable
                   Doom
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Yearly
                   thy
                   Herds
                   in
                   vigour
                   will
                   impair
                   ;
                
                 
                   Recruit
                   and
                   mend
                   'em
                   with
                   thy
                   Yearly
                   care
                   :
                
                 
                   Still
                   propagate
                   ,
                   for
                   still
                   they
                   fall
                   away
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   Prudence
                   to
                   prevent
                   th'
                   entire
                   decay
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Like
                   Diligence
                   requires
                   the
                   Courser's
                   Race
                   ;
                
                 
                   In
                   early
                   Choice
                   ;
                   and
                   for
                   a
                   longer
                   space
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Colt
                   ,
                   that
                   for
                   a
                   Stallion
                   is
                   design'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   sure
                   Presages
                   shows
                   his
                   generous
                   Kind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   able
                   Body
                   ,
                   sound
                   of
                   Limb
                   and
                   Wind.
                
                 
                 
                   Upright
                   he
                   walks
                   ,
                   on
                   Pasterns
                   firm
                   and
                   straight
                   ;
                
                 
                   His
                   Motions
                   easy
                   ;
                   prancing
                   in
                   his
                   Gate
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   first
                   to
                   lead
                   the
                   Way
                   ,
                   to
                   tempt
                   the
                   Flood
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   pass
                   the
                   Bridge
                   unknown
                   ,
                   nor
                   fear
                   the
                   trembling
                   Wood.
                
                 
                   Dauntless
                   at
                   empty
                   Noises
                   ;
                   lofty
                   neck'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Sharp
                   headed
                   ,
                   Barrel
                   belly'd
                   ,
                   broadly
                   back'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Brawny
                   his
                   Chest
                   ,
                   and
                   deep
                   ,
                   his
                   Colour
                   gray
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   Beauty
                   dappled
                   ,
                   or
                   the
                   brightest
                   Bay
                   :
                
                 
                   Faint
                   white
                   and
                   Dun
                   will
                   scarce
                   the
                   Rearing
                   pay
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   fiery
                   Courser
                   ,
                   when
                   he
                   hears
                   from
                   far
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   sprightly
                   Trumpet
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   shouts
                   of
                   War
                   ,
                
                 
                   Pricks
                   up
                   his
                   Ears
                   ;
                   and
                   trembling
                   with
                   Delight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shifts
                   place
                   ,
                   and
                   paws
                   ;
                   and
                   hopes
                   the
                   promis'd
                   Fight
                   .
                
                 
                   On
                   his
                   right
                   Shoulder
                   his
                   thick
                   Mane
                   reclin'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ruffles
                   at
                   speed
                   ;
                   and
                   dances
                   in
                   the
                   Wind.
                
                 
                   His
                   horny
                   Hoofs
                   are
                   jetty
                   black
                   ,
                   and
                   round
                   ;
                
                 
                   His
                   Chine
                   is
                   double
                   ;
                   starting
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   bound
                
                 
                   He
                   turns
                   the
                   Turf
                   ,
                   and
                   shakes
                   the
                   solid
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                   Fire
                   from
                   his
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   Clouds
                   from
                   his
                   Nostrils
                   flow
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   bears
                   his
                   Rider
                   headlong
                   on
                   the
                   Foe
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Such
                   was
                   the
                   Steed
                   in
                   Graecian
                   Poets
                   fam'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Proud
                   Cyllarus
                   ,
                   by
                   
                     Spartan
                     Castor
                  
                   tam'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Such
                   Coursers
                   bore
                   to
                   Fight
                   the
                   God
                   of
                   Thrace
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   such
                   ,
                   Achilles
                   ,
                   was
                   thy
                   warlike
                   Race
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   such
                   a
                   Shape
                   ,
                   old
                   Saturn
                   did
                   restrain
                
                 
                   His
                   Heav'nly
                   Limbs
                   ,
                   and
                   flow'd
                   with
                   such
                   a
                   Mane.
                
                 
                   When
                   ,
                   half
                   surpriz'd
                   ,
                   and
                   fearing
                   to
                   be
                   seen
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Leacher
                   gallop'd
                   from
                   his
                   Jealous
                   Queen
                   :
                
                 
                   Ran
                   up
                   the
                   ridges
                   of
                   the
                   Rocks
                   amain
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   shrill
                   Neighings
                   fill'd
                   the
                   Neigb'ring
                   Plain
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   worn
                   with
                   Years
                   ,
                   when
                   dire
                   Diseases
                   come
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   hide
                   his
                   not
                   Ignoble
                   Age
                   ,
                   at
                   Home
                   :
                
                 
                   In
                   Peace
                   t'
                   enjoy
                   his
                   former
                   Palms
                   and
                   Pains
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   gratefully
                   be
                   kind
                   to
                   his
                   Remains
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   For
                   when
                   his
                   Blood
                   no
                   Youthful
                   Spirits
                   move
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   languishes
                   and
                   labours
                   in
                   his
                   Love.
                
                 
                   And
                   when
                   the
                   sprightly
                   Seed
                   shou'd
                   swiftly
                   come
                   ,
                
                 
                   Dribling
                   he
                   drudges
                   ,
                   and
                   defrauds
                   the
                   Womb.
                
                 
                   In
                   vain
                   he
                   burns
                   ,
                   like
                   fainty
                   Stubble
                   Fires
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   himself
                   his
                   former
                   self
                   requires
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   His
                   Age
                   and
                   Courage
                   weigh
                   :
                   Nor
                   those
                   alone
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   note
                   his
                   Father's
                   Virtues
                   with
                   his
                   own
                   ;
                
                 
                   Observe
                   if
                   he
                   disdains
                   to
                   yield
                   the
                   Prize
                   ;
                
                 
                   Of
                   Loss
                   impatient
                   ,
                   proud
                   of
                   Victories
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Hast
                   thou
                   beheld
                   ,
                   when
                   from
                   the
                   Goal
                   they
                   start
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Youthful
                   Charioteers
                   with
                   beating
                   Heart
                   ,
                
                 
                   Rush
                   to
                   the
                   Race
                   ;
                   and
                   panting
                   ,
                   scarcely
                   bear
                
                 
                   Th'
                   extreams
                   of
                   feaverish
                   hope
                   ,
                   and
                   chilling
                   Fear
                   ;
                
                 
                   Stoop
                   to
                   the
                   Reins
                   ,
                   and
                   lash
                   with
                   all
                   their
                   force
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   flying
                   Chariot
                   kindles
                   in
                   the
                   Course
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   aloft
                   ;
                   and
                   now
                   alow
                   they
                   fly
                   ,
                
                 
                   Now
                   seem
                   to
                   sink
                   in
                   Earth
                   ,
                   and
                   now
                   to
                   touch
                   the
                   Sky
                   ;
                
                 
                   No
                   stop
                   ,
                   no
                   stay
                   ,
                   but
                   Clouds
                   of
                   Sand
                   arise
                   ;
                
                 
                   Spurn'd
                   ,
                   and
                   cast
                   backward
                   on
                   the
                   Follower's
                   Eyes
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   hindmost
                   blows
                   the
                   foam
                   upon
                   the
                   first
                   :
                
                 
                   Such
                   is
                   the
                   love
                   of
                   Praise
                   ,
                   an
                   Honourable
                   Thirst
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Bold
                   Ericthonius
                   was
                   the
                   first
                   ,
                   who
                   join'd
                
                 
                   Four
                   Horses
                   for
                   the
                   rapid
                   Race
                   design'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   o're
                   the
                   dusty
                   Wheels
                   presiding
                   sate
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Lapythae
                   to
                   Chariots
                   ,
                   added
                   State
                
                 
                   Of
                   Bits
                   and
                   Bridles
                   ;
                   taught
                   the
                   Steed
                   to
                   bound
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   run
                   the
                   Ring
                   ,
                   and
                   trace
                   the
                   mazy
                   round
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   stop
                   ,
                   to
                   fly
                   ,
                   the
                   Rules
                   of
                   War
                   to
                   know
                   :
                
                 
                   T'
                   obey
                   the
                   Rider
                   ;
                   and
                   to
                   dare
                   the
                   Foe
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   To
                   chuse
                   a
                   Youthful
                   Steed
                   ,
                   with
                   Courage
                   fir'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   breed
                   him
                   ,
                   break
                   him
                   ,
                   back
                   him
                   ,
                   are
                   requir'd
                
                 
                   Experienc'd
                   Masters
                   ;
                   and
                   in
                   sundry
                   Ways
                   :
                
                 
                   Their
                   Labours
                   equal
                   ,
                   and
                   alike
                   their
                   Praise
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   But
                   once
                   again
                   the
                   batter'd
                   Horse
                   beware
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   weak
                   old
                   Stallion
                   will
                   deceive
                   thy
                   care
                   .
                
                 
                   Though
                   Famous
                   in
                   his
                   Youth
                   for
                   force
                   and
                   speed
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   was
                   of
                   Argos
                   or
                   Epirian
                   breed
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   did
                   from
                   
                   Neptune's
                   Race
                   ,
                   or
                   from
                   himself
                   proceed
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   These
                   things
                   premis'd
                   ,
                   when
                   now
                   the
                   Nuptial
                   time
                
                 
                   Approaches
                   for
                   the
                   stately
                   Steed
                   to
                   climb
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   Food
                   inable
                   him
                   ,
                   to
                   make
                   his
                   Court
                   ;
                
                 
                   Distend
                   his
                   Chine
                   ,
                   and
                   pamper
                   him
                   for
                   sport
                   .
                
                 
                   Feed
                   him
                   with
                   Herbs
                   ,
                   whatever
                   thou
                   can'st
                   find
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   generous
                   warmth
                   ;
                   and
                   of
                   salacious
                   kind
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   Water
                   him
                   ,
                   and
                   (
                   drinking
                   what
                   he
                   can
                   )
                
                 
                   Encourage
                   him
                   to
                   thirst
                   again
                   ,
                   with
                   Bran.
                
                 
                   Instructed
                   thus
                   ,
                   produce
                   him
                   to
                   the
                   Faire
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   joyn
                   in
                   Wedlock
                   to
                   the
                   longing
                   Mare
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   if
                   the
                   Sire
                   be
                   faint
                   ,
                   or
                   out
                   of
                   case
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   will
                   be
                   copied
                   in
                   his
                   famish'd
                   Race
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   sink
                   beneath
                   the
                   pleasing
                   Task
                   assign'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   (
                   For
                   all
                   's
                   too
                   little
                   for
                   the
                   craving
                   Kind
                   .
                   )
                
              
               
                 
                   As
                   for
                   the
                   Females
                   ,
                   with
                   industrious
                   care
                
                 
                   Take
                   down
                   their
                   Mettle
                   ,
                   keep
                   'em
                   lean
                   and
                   bare
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   conscious
                   of
                   their
                   past
                   delight
                   ,
                   and
                   keen
                
                 
                   To
                   take
                   the
                   leap
                   ,
                   and
                   prove
                   the
                   sport
                   agen
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   scanty
                   measure
                   then
                   supply
                   their
                   food
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   when
                   athirst
                   ,
                   restrain
                   'em
                   from
                   the
                   flood
                   :
                
                 
                   Their
                   Bodies
                   harrass
                   ,
                   sink
                   'em
                   when
                   they
                   run
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   fry
                   their
                   melting
                   Marrow
                   in
                   the
                   Sun.
                
                 
                   Starve
                   'em
                   ,
                   when
                   Barns
                   beneath
                   their
                   burthen
                   groan
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   winnow'd
                   Chaff
                   ,
                   by
                   western
                   winds
                   is
                   blown
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   Fear
                   the
                   rankness
                   of
                   the
                   swelling
                   Womb
                
                 
                   Shou'd
                   scant
                   the
                   passage
                   ,
                   and
                   confine
                   the
                   room
                   .
                
                 
                   Lest
                   the
                   Fat
                   Furrows
                   shou'd
                   the
                   sense
                   destroy
                
                 
                   Of
                   Genial
                   Lust
                   ;
                   and
                   dull
                   the
                   Seat
                   of
                   Joy.
                
                 
                 
                   But
                   let
                   'em
                   suck
                   the
                   Seed
                   with
                   greedy
                   force
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   there
                   enclose
                   the
                   Vigour
                   of
                   the
                   Horse
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   No
                   more
                   of
                   Coursers
                   yet
                   :
                   We
                   now
                   proceed
                
                 
                   To
                   teeming
                   Kine
                   ;
                   and
                   their
                   laborious
                   breed
                   .
                
                 
                   First
                   let
                   'em
                   run
                   at
                   large
                   ;
                   and
                   never
                   know
                
                 
                   The
                   taming
                   Yoak
                   ,
                   or
                   draw
                   the
                   crooked
                   Plough
                   .
                
                 
                   Let
                   'em
                   not
                   leap
                   the
                   Ditch
                   ,
                   or
                   swim
                   the
                   Flood
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   lumber
                   o're
                   the
                   Meads
                   ;
                   or
                   cross
                   the
                   Wood.
                
                 
                   But
                   range
                   the
                   Forrest
                   ,
                   by
                   the
                   silver
                   side
                
                 
                   Of
                   some
                   cool
                   Stream
                   ,
                   where
                   Nature
                   shall
                   provide
                
                 
                   Green
                   Grass
                   and
                   fat'ning
                   Clover
                   for
                   their
                   fare
                   !
                
                 
                   And
                   Mossy
                   Caverns
                   for
                   their
                   Evening
                   lare
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   Rocks
                   above
                   ,
                   to
                   shield
                   the
                   sharp
                   Nocturnal
                   air
                   .
                
                 
                   About
                   th'
                   Alburnian
                   Groves
                   ,
                   with
                   Holly
                   green
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   winged
                   Insects
                   mighty
                   swarms
                   are
                   seen
                   :
                
                 
                   This
                   flying
                   Plague
                   (
                   to
                   mark
                   its
                   quality
                   ;
                   )
                
                 
                   Oestros
                   the
                   Grecians
                   call
                   :
                   Asylus
                   ,
                   we
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   fierce
                   loud
                   buzzing
                   Breez
                   ;
                   their
                   stings
                   draw
                   blood
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   drive
                   the
                   Cattel
                   gadding
                   through
                   the
                   Wood.
                
                 
                   Seiz'd
                   with
                   unusual
                   pains
                   ,
                   they
                   loudly
                   cry
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tanagrus
                   hastens
                   thence
                   ;
                   and
                   leaves
                   his
                   Channel
                   dry
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   Curse
                   the
                   jealous
                   Juno
                   did
                   invent
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   first
                   imploy'd
                   for
                   
                   Io's
                   Punishment
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   shun
                   this
                   Ill
                   ,
                   the
                   cunning
                   Leach
                   ordains
                
                 
                   In
                   Summer's
                   Sultry
                   Heats
                   (
                   for
                   then
                   it
                   reigns
                   )
                
                 
                   To
                   feed
                   the
                   Females
                   ,
                   e're
                   the
                   Sun
                   arise
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   late
                   at
                   Night
                   ,
                   when
                   Stars
                   adorn
                   the
                   Skies
                   .
                
                 
                   When
                   she
                   has
                   calv'd
                   ,
                   then
                   set
                   the
                   Dam
                   aside
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   for
                   the
                   tender
                   Progeny
                   provide
                   .
                
                 
                   Distinguish
                   all
                   betimes
                   ,
                   with
                   branding
                   Fire
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   note
                   the
                   Tribe
                   ,
                   the
                   Lineage
                   ,
                   and
                   The
                   Sire
                   .
                
                 
                   Whom
                   to
                   reserve
                   for
                   Husband
                   of
                   the
                   Herd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   who
                   shall
                   be
                   to
                   Sacrifice
                   preferr'd
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   Or
                   whom
                   thou
                   shalt
                   to
                   turn
                   thy
                   Glebe
                   allow
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   harrow
                   Furrows
                   ,
                   and
                   sustain
                   the
                   Plough
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   rest
                   ,
                   for
                   whom
                   no
                   Lot
                   is
                   yet
                   decreed
                   ,
                
                 
                   May
                   run
                   in
                   Pastures
                   ,
                   and
                   at
                   pleasure
                   feed
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Calf
                   ,
                   by
                   Nature
                   and
                   by
                   Genius
                   made
                
                 
                   To
                   turn
                   the
                   Glebe
                   ,
                   breed
                   to
                   the
                   Rural
                   Trade
                   .
                
                 
                   Set
                   him
                   betimes
                   to
                   School
                   ;
                   and
                   let
                   him
                   be
                
                 
                   Instructed
                   there
                   in
                   Rules
                   of
                   Husbandry
                   :
                
                 
                   While
                   yet
                   his
                   youth
                   is
                   flexible
                   and
                   green
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   bad
                   Examples
                   of
                   the
                   World
                   has
                   seen
                   .
                
                 
                   Early
                   begin
                   the
                   stubborn
                   Child
                   to
                   break
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   his
                   soft
                   Neck
                   ,
                   a
                   supple
                   Collar
                   make
                
                 
                   Of
                   bending
                   Osiers
                   ;
                   and
                   (
                   with
                   time
                   and
                   care
                
                 
                   Enur'd
                   that
                   easie
                   Servitude
                   to
                   bear
                   )
                
                 
                   Thy
                   flattering
                   Method
                   on
                   the
                   Youth
                   pursue
                   :
                
                 
                   Join'd
                   with
                   his
                   School-Fellows
                   ,
                   by
                   two
                   and
                   two
                   ,
                
                 
                   Perswade
                   'em
                   first
                   to
                   lead
                   an
                   empty
                   Wheel
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   scarce
                   the
                   dust
                   can
                   raise
                   ;
                   or
                   they
                   can
                   feel
                   :
                
                 
                   In
                   length
                   of
                   Time
                   produce
                   the
                   lab'ring
                   Yoke
                
                 
                   And
                   shining
                   Shares
                   ,
                   that
                   make
                   the
                   Furrow
                   smoak
                   .
                
                 
                   E're
                   the
                   licentious
                   Youth
                   be
                   thus
                   restrain'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   Moral
                   Precepts
                   on
                   their
                   Minds
                   have
                   gain'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Their
                   wanton
                   appetites
                   not
                   only
                   feed
                
                 
                   With
                   delicates
                   of
                   Leaves
                   ,
                   and
                   marshy
                   Weed
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   with
                   thy
                   Sickle
                   reap
                   the
                   rankest
                   land
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   minister
                   the
                   blade
                   ,
                   with
                   bounteous
                   hand
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   be
                   with
                   harmful
                   parsimony
                   won
                
                 
                   To
                   follow
                   what
                   our
                   homely
                   Sires
                   have
                   done
                   ;
                
                 
                   Who
                   fill'd
                   the
                   Pail
                   with
                   Beestings
                   of
                   the
                   Cow
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   all
                   her
                   Udder
                   to
                   the
                   Calf
                   allow
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   If
                   to
                   the
                   Warlike
                   Steed
                   thy
                   Studies
                   bend
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   for
                   the
                   Prize
                   in
                   Chariots
                   to
                   contend
                   ;
                
                 
                   Near
                   
                   Pisa's
                   Flood
                   the
                   rapid
                   Wheels
                   to
                   guide
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   in
                   Olympian
                   Groves
                   aloft
                   to
                   ride
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   generous
                   Labours
                   of
                   the
                   Courser
                   ,
                   first
                
                 
                   Must
                   be
                   with
                   sight
                   of
                   Arms
                   and
                   sounds
                   of
                   Trumpets
                   nurst
                   :
                
                 
                   Inur'd
                   the
                   groaning
                   Axle-tree
                   to
                   bear
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   let
                   him
                   clashing
                   Whips
                   in
                   Stables
                   hear
                   .
                
                 
                   Sooth
                   him
                   with
                   Praise
                   ,
                   and
                   make
                   him
                   understand
                
                 
                   The
                   loud
                   Applauses
                   of
                   his
                   Master's
                   Hand
                   :
                
                 
                   This
                   from
                   his
                   Weaning
                   ,
                   let
                   him
                   well
                   be
                   taught
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   then
                   betimes
                   in
                   a
                   soft
                   Snaffle
                   wrought
                   :
                
                 
                   Before
                   his
                   tender
                   Joints
                   with
                   Nerves
                   are
                   knit
                   ;
                
                 
                   Guiltless
                   of
                   Arms
                   ,
                   and
                   trembling
                   at
                   the
                   Bit.
                
                 
                   But
                   when
                   to
                   four
                   full
                   Springs
                   his
                   years
                   advance
                   ,
                
                 
                   Teach
                   him
                   to
                   run
                   the
                   round
                   ,
                   with
                   Pride
                   to
                   prance
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   (
                   rightly
                   manag'd
                   )
                   equal
                   time
                   to
                   beat
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   turn
                   ,
                   to
                   bound
                   in
                   measure
                   ;
                   and
                   Curvet
                   .
                
                 
                   Let
                   him
                   ,
                   to
                   this
                   ,
                   with
                   easie
                   pains
                   be
                   brought
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   seem
                   to
                   labour
                   ,
                   when
                   he
                   labours
                   not
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   ,
                   form'd
                   for
                   speed
                   ,
                   he
                   challenges
                   the
                   Wind
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   leaves
                   the
                   Scythian
                   Arrow
                   far
                   behind
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   scours
                   along
                   the
                   Field
                   ,
                   with
                   loosen'd
                   Reins
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   treads
                   so
                   light
                   ,
                   he
                   scarcely
                   prints
                   the
                   Plains
                   .
                
                 
                   Like
                   Boreas
                   in
                   his
                   Race
                   ,
                   when
                   rushing
                   forth
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   sweeps
                   the
                   Skies
                   ,
                   and
                   clears
                   the
                   cloudy
                   North
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   waving
                   Harvest
                   bends
                   beneath
                   his
                   blast
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Forest
                   shakes
                   ,
                   the
                   Groves
                   their
                   Honours
                   cast
                   ;
                
                 
                   He
                   flies
                   aloft
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   impetuous
                   roar
                
                 
                   Pursues
                   the
                   foaming
                   Surges
                   to
                   the
                   Shoar
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   o're
                   th'
                   Elean
                   Plains
                   ,
                   thy
                   well-breath'd
                   Horse
                
                 
                   Sustains
                   the
                   goring
                   Spurs
                   ,
                   and
                   wins
                   the
                   Course
                   .
                
                 
                   Or
                   ,
                   bred
                   to
                   Belgian
                   Waggons
                   ,
                   leads
                   the
                   Way
                   ;
                
                 
                   Untir'd
                   at
                   night
                   ,
                   and
                   chearful
                   all
                   the
                   Day
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   When
                   once
                   he
                   's
                   broken
                   ,
                   feed
                   him
                   full
                   and
                   high
                   :
                
                 
                   Indulge
                   his
                   Growth
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   gaunt
                   sides
                   supply
                   .
                
                 
                   Before
                   his
                   Training
                   ,
                   keep
                   him
                   poor
                   and
                   low
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   his
                   stout
                   Stomach
                   with
                   his
                   Food
                   will
                   grow
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   pamper'd
                   Colt
                   will
                   Discipline
                   disdain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Impatient
                   of
                   the
                   Lash
                   ,
                   and
                   restiff
                   to
                   the
                   Rein.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Wou'dst
                   thou
                   their
                   Courage
                   and
                   their
                   Strength
                   improve
                   ,
                
                 
                   Too
                   soon
                   they
                   must
                   not
                   feel
                   the
                   stings
                   of
                   Love.
                
                 
                   Whether
                   the
                   Bull
                   or
                   Courser
                   be
                   thy
                   Care
                   ,
                
                 
                   Let
                   him
                   not
                   leap
                   the
                   Cow
                   ,
                   nor
                   mount
                   the
                   Mare
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   youthful
                   Bull
                   must
                   wander
                   in
                   the
                   Wood
                   ;
                
                 
                   Behind
                   the
                   Mountain
                   ,
                   or
                   beyond
                   the
                   Flood
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   ,
                   in
                   the
                   Stall
                   at
                   home
                   his
                   Fodder
                   find
                   ;
                
                 
                   Far
                   from
                   the
                   Charms
                   of
                   that
                   alluring
                   Kind
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   two
                   fair
                   Eyes
                   his
                   Mistress
                   burns
                   his
                   Breast
                   ;
                
                 
                   He
                   looks
                   ,
                   and
                   languishes
                   ,
                   and
                   leaves
                   his
                   Rest
                   ;
                
                 
                   Forsakes
                   his
                   Food
                   ,
                   and
                   pining
                   for
                   the
                   Lass
                   ,
                
                 
                   Is
                   joyless
                   of
                   the
                   Grove
                   ,
                   and
                   spurns
                   the
                   growing
                   grass
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   soft
                   Seducer
                   ,
                   with
                   enticing
                   Looks
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   bellowing
                   Rivals
                   to
                   the
                   Fight
                   provokes
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   A
                   beauteous
                   Heifer
                   in
                   the
                   Woods
                   is
                   bred
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   stooping
                   Warriours
                   ,
                   aiming
                   Head
                   to
                   Head
                   ,
                
                 
                   Engage
                   their
                   clashing
                   Horns
                   ;
                   with
                   dreadful
                   Sound
                
                 
                   The
                   Forest
                   rattles
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Rocks
                   rebound
                   .
                
                 
                   They
                   fence
                   ,
                   they
                   push
                   ,
                   and
                   pushing
                   loudly
                   roar
                   ;
                
                 
                   Their
                   Dewlaps
                   and
                   their
                   Sides
                   are
                   bath'd
                   in
                   Gore
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   when
                   the
                   War
                   is
                   over
                   ,
                   is
                   it
                   Peace
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   will
                   the
                   vanquish'd
                   Bull
                   his
                   Claim
                   release
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   feeding
                   in
                   his
                   Breast
                   his
                   ancient
                   Fires
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   cursing
                   Fate
                   ,
                   from
                   his
                   proud
                   Foe
                   retires
                   .
                
                 
                   Driv'n
                   from
                   his
                   Native
                   Land
                   ,
                   to
                   foreign
                   Grounds
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   with
                   a
                   gen'rous
                   Rage
                   resents
                   his
                   Wounds
                   ;
                
                 
                   His
                   ignominious
                   Flight
                   ,
                   the
                   Victor's
                   boast
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   more
                   than
                   both
                   ,
                   the
                   Loves
                   ,
                   which
                   unreveng'd
                   he
                   lost
                   .
                
                 
                   Often
                   he
                   turns
                   his
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   and
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   Groan
                   ,
                
                 
                   Surveys
                   the
                   pleasing
                   Kingdoms
                   ,
                   once
                   his
                   own
                   .
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     S
                     r
                     Iustinian
                     Isham
                     of
                     Lamport
                     in
                     Northampton
                     Shire
                     Barronet
                  
                   
                     Geo
                     3.
                     
                     L
                     340.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                 
                   And
                   therefore
                   to
                   repair
                   his
                   Strength
                   he
                   tries
                   :
                
                 
                   Hardning
                   his
                   Limbs
                   with
                   painful
                   Exercise
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   rough
                   upon
                   the
                   flinty
                   Rock
                   he
                   lies
                   .
                
                 
                   On
                   prickly
                   Leaves
                   ,
                   and
                   on
                   sharp
                   Herbs
                   he
                   feeds
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   to
                   the
                   Prelude
                   of
                   a
                   War
                   proceeds
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   Horns
                   ,
                   yet
                   sore
                   ,
                   he
                   tries
                   against
                   a
                   Tree
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   meditates
                   his
                   absent
                   Enemy
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   snuffs
                   the
                   Wind
                   ,
                   his
                   heels
                   the
                   Sand
                   excite
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   ,
                   when
                   he
                   stands
                   collected
                   in
                   his
                   might
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   roars
                   ,
                   and
                   promises
                   a
                   more
                   successful
                   Fight
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   to
                   redeem
                   his
                   Honour
                   at
                   a
                   blow
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   moves
                   his
                   Camp
                   ,
                   to
                   meet
                   his
                   careless
                   Foe
                   .
                
                 
                   Not
                   with
                   more
                   Madness
                   ,
                   rolling
                   from
                   afar
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   spumy
                   Waves
                   proclaim
                   the
                   watry
                   War.
                
                 
                   And
                   mounting
                   upwards
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   mighty
                   Roar
                   ,
                
                 
                   March
                   onwards
                   ,
                   and
                   insult
                   the
                   rocky
                   shoar
                   .
                
                 
                   They
                   mate
                   the
                   middle
                   Region
                   with
                   their
                   height
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   fall
                   no
                   less
                   ,
                   than
                   with
                   a
                   Mountain's
                   weight
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Waters
                   boil
                   ,
                   and
                   belching
                   from
                   below
                
                 
                   Black
                   Sands
                   ,
                   as
                   from
                   a
                   forceful
                   Engine
                   throw
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Thus
                   every
                   Creature
                   ,
                   and
                   of
                   every
                   Kind
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   secret
                   Joys
                   of
                   sweet
                   Coition
                   find
                   :
                
                 
                   Not
                   only
                   Man
                   's
                   Imperial
                   Race
                   ;
                   but
                   they
                
                 
                   That
                   wing
                   the
                   liquid
                   Air
                   ;
                   or
                   swim
                   the
                   Sea
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   haunt
                   the
                   Desart
                   ,
                   rush
                   into
                   the
                   flame
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   Love
                   is
                   Lord
                   of
                   all
                   ;
                   and
                   is
                   in
                   all
                   the
                   same
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   with
                   this
                   rage
                   ,
                   the
                   Mother
                   Lion
                   stung
                   ,
                
                 
                   Scours
                   o're
                   the
                   Plain
                   ;
                   regardless
                   of
                   her
                   young
                   :
                
                 
                   Demanding
                   Rites
                   of
                   Love
                   ;
                   she
                   sternly
                   stalks
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   hunts
                   her
                   Lover
                   in
                   his
                   lonely
                   Walks
                   .
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   then
                   the
                   shapeless
                   Bear
                   his
                   Den
                   forsakes
                   ;
                
                 
                   In
                   Woods
                   and
                   Fields
                   a
                   wild
                   destruction
                   makes
                   .
                
                 
                   Boars
                   whet
                   their
                   Tusks
                   ;
                   to
                   battel
                   Tygers
                   move
                   ;
                
                 
                   Enrag'd
                   with
                   Hunger
                   ,
                   more
                   enrag'd
                   with
                   Love.
                
                 
                 
                   Then
                   wo
                   to
                   him
                   ,
                   that
                   in
                   the
                   desart
                   Land
                
                 
                   Of
                   Lybia
                   travels
                   ,
                   o're
                   the
                   burning
                   Sand.
                
                 
                   The
                   Stallion
                   snuffs
                   the
                   well-known
                   Scent
                   afar
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   snorts
                   and
                   trembles
                   for
                   the
                   distant
                   Mare
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Bits
                   nor
                   Bridles
                   can
                   his
                   Rage
                   restrain
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   rugged
                   Rocks
                   are
                   interpos'd
                   in
                   vain
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   makes
                   his
                   way
                   o're
                   Mountains
                   ,
                   and
                   contemns
                
                 
                   Unruly
                   Torrents
                   ,
                   and
                   unfoorded
                   Streams
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   bristled
                   Boar
                   ,
                   who
                   feels
                   the
                   pleasing
                   Wound
                   ,
                
                 
                   New
                   grinds
                   his
                   arming
                   Tusks
                   ,
                   and
                   digs
                   the
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   sleepy
                   Leacher
                   shuts
                   his
                   little
                   Eyes
                   ;
                
                 
                   About
                   his
                   churning
                   Chaps
                   the
                   frothy
                   bubbles
                   rise
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   rubs
                   his
                   sides
                   against
                   a
                   Tree
                   ;
                   prepares
                
                 
                   And
                   hardens
                   both
                   his
                   Shoulders
                   for
                   the
                   Wars
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   did
                   the
                   Youth
                   ,
                   when
                   Love's
                   unerring
                   Dart
                
                 
                   Transfixt
                   his
                   Liver
                   ;
                   and
                   inflam'd
                   his
                   heart
                   ?
                
                 
                   Alone
                   ,
                   by
                   night
                   ,
                   his
                   watry
                   way
                   he
                   took
                   ;
                
                 
                   About
                   him
                   ,
                   and
                   above
                   ,
                   the
                   Billows
                   broke
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Sluces
                   of
                   the
                   Skie
                   were
                   open
                   spread
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   rowling
                   Thunder
                   rattl'd
                   o're
                   his
                   Head.
                
                 
                   The
                   raging
                   Tempest
                   call'd
                   him
                   back
                   in
                   vain
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   every
                   boding
                   Omen
                   of
                   the
                   Main
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   cou'd
                   his
                   Kindred
                   ;
                   nor
                   the
                   kindly
                   Force
                
                 
                   Of
                   weeping
                   Parents
                   ,
                   change
                   his
                   fatal
                   Course
                   .
                
                 
                   No
                   ,
                   not
                   the
                   dying
                   Maid
                   who
                   must
                   deplore
                
                 
                   His
                   floating
                   Carcass
                   on
                   the
                   Sestian
                   shore
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   I
                   pass
                   the
                   Wars
                   that
                   spotted
                   Linx's
                   make
                
                 
                   With
                   their
                   fierce
                   Rivals
                   ,
                   for
                   the
                   Females
                   sake
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   howling
                   Wolves
                   ,
                   the
                   Mastiffs
                   amorous
                   rage
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   ev'n
                   the
                   fearsul
                   Stag
                   dares
                   for
                   his
                   Hind
                   engage
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   far
                   above
                   the
                   rest
                   ,
                   the
                   furious
                   Mare
                   ,
                
                 
                   Barr'd
                   from
                   the
                   Male
                   ,
                   is
                   frantick
                   with
                   despair
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   when
                   her
                   pouting
                   Vent
                   declares
                   her
                   pain
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   tears
                   the
                   Harness
                   ,
                   and
                   she
                   rends
                   the
                   Reyn
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   For
                   this
                   ;
                   (
                   when
                   Venus
                   gave
                   them
                   rage
                   and
                   pow'r
                   )
                
                 
                   Their
                   Masters
                   mangl'd
                   Members
                   they
                   devour
                   ;
                
                 
                   Of
                   Love
                   defrauded
                   in
                   their
                   longing
                   Hour
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   Love
                   they
                   force
                   thro'
                   Thickets
                   of
                   the
                   Wood
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   climb
                   the
                   steepy
                   Hills
                   ,
                   and
                   stem
                   the
                   Flood
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   When
                   at
                   the
                   Spring
                   's
                   approach
                   their
                   Marrow
                   burns
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   For
                   with
                   the
                   Spring
                   their
                   genial
                   Warmth
                   returns
                   )
                
                 
                   The
                   Mares
                   to
                   Cliffs
                   of
                   rugged
                   Rocks
                   repair
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   wide
                   Nostrils
                   snuff
                   the
                   Western
                   Air
                   :
                
                 
                   When
                   (
                   wondrous
                   to
                   relate
                   )
                   the
                   Parent
                   Wind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Without
                   the
                   Stallion
                   ,
                   propagates
                   the
                   Kind
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   fir'd
                   with
                   amorous
                   rage
                   ,
                   they
                   take
                   their
                   Flight
                
                 
                   Through
                   Plains
                   ,
                   and
                   mount
                   the
                   Hills
                   unequal
                   height
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   to
                   the
                   North
                   ,
                   nor
                   to
                   the
                   Rising
                   Sun
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Southward
                   to
                   the
                   Rainy
                   Regions
                   run
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   boring
                   to
                   the
                   West
                   ,
                   and
                   hov'ring
                   there
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   gaping
                   Mouths
                   ,
                   they
                   draw
                   prolifick
                   air
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   which
                   impregnate
                   ,
                   from
                   their
                   Groins
                   they
                   shed
                
                 
                   A
                   slimy
                   Juice
                   ,
                   by
                   false
                   Conception
                   bred
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Shepherd
                   knows
                   it
                   well
                   ;
                   and
                   calls
                   by
                   Name
                
                 
                   Hippomanes
                   ,
                   to
                   note
                   the
                   Mother's
                   Flame
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   ,
                   gather'd
                   in
                   the
                   Planetary
                   Hour
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   noxious
                   Weeds
                   ,
                   and
                   spell'd
                   with
                   Words
                   of
                   pow'r
                   ▪
                
                 
                   Dire
                   Stepdames
                   in
                   the
                   Magick
                   Bowl
                   infuse
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   mix
                   ,
                   for
                   deadly
                   Draughts
                   ,
                   the
                   poys'nous
                   Juice
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   time
                   is
                   lost
                   ,
                   which
                   never
                   will
                   renew
                   ,
                
                 
                   While
                   we
                   too
                   far
                   the
                   pleasing
                   Path
                   pursue
                   ;
                
                 
                   Surveying
                   Nature
                   ,
                   with
                   too
                   nice
                   a
                   view
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Let
                   this
                   suffice
                   for
                   Herds
                   :
                   our
                   following
                   Care
                
                 
                   Shall
                   woolly
                   Flocks
                   ,
                   and
                   shaggy
                   Goats
                   declare
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   can
                   I
                   doubt
                   what
                   Oyl
                   I
                   must
                   bestow
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   raise
                   my
                   Subject
                   from
                   a
                   Ground
                   so
                   low
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   mean
                   Matter
                   which
                   my
                   Theme
                   affords
                   ,
                
                 
                   T'embellish
                   with
                   Magnificence
                   of
                   Words
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   But
                   the
                   commanding
                   Muse
                   my
                   Chariot
                   guides
                   ;
                
                 
                   Which
                   o're
                   the
                   dubious
                   Cliff
                   securely
                   rides
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   pleas'd
                   I
                   am
                   ,
                   no
                   beaten
                   Road
                   to
                   take
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   first
                   the
                   way
                   to
                   new
                   Discov'ries
                   make
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Now
                   ,
                   sacred
                   Pales
                   ,
                   in
                   a
                   lofty
                   strain
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   sing
                   the
                   Rural
                   Honours
                   of
                   thy
                   Reign
                   .
                
                 
                   First
                   with
                   assiduous
                   care
                   ,
                   from
                   Winter
                   keep
                
                 
                   Well
                   fodder'd
                   in
                   the
                   Stalls
                   ,
                   thy
                   tender
                   ,
                   Sheep
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   spread
                   with
                   Straw
                   ,
                   the
                   bedding
                   of
                   thy
                   Fold
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   Fern
                   beneath
                   ,
                   to
                   fend
                   the
                   bitter
                   Gold.
                
                 
                   That
                   free
                   from
                   Gouts
                   thou
                   may'st
                   preserve
                   thy
                   Care
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   clear
                   from
                   Scabs
                   ,
                   produc'd
                   by
                   freezing
                   Air.
                
                 
                   Next
                   let
                   thy
                   Goats
                   officiously
                   be
                   nurs'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   led
                   to
                   living
                   Streams
                   ;
                   to
                   quench
                   their
                   Thirst
                   .
                
                 
                   Feed
                   'em
                   with
                   Winter-brouze
                   ,
                   and
                   for
                   their
                   lare
                
                 
                   A
                   Cot
                   that
                   opens
                   to
                   the
                   South
                   prepare
                   :
                
                 
                   Where
                   basking
                   in
                   the
                   Sun-shine
                   they
                   may
                   lye
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   short
                   Remnants
                   of
                   his
                   Heat
                   enjoy
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   during
                   Winter's
                   drisly
                   Reign
                   be
                   done
                   :
                
                 
                   'Till
                   the
                   new
                   Ram
                   receives
                   th'
                   exalted
                   Sun
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   hairy
                   Goats
                   of
                   equal
                   profit
                   are
                
                 
                   With
                   woolly
                   Sheep
                   ,
                   and
                   ask
                   an
                   equal
                   Care.
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   true
                   ,
                   the
                   Fleece
                   ,
                   when
                   drunk
                   with
                   Tyrian
                   Juice
                   ,
                
                 
                   Is
                   dearly
                   sold
                   ;
                   but
                   not
                   for
                   needful
                   use
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   the
                   sallacious
                   Goat
                   encreases
                   more
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   twice
                   as
                   largely
                   yields
                   her
                   milky
                   Store
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   still
                   distended
                   Udders
                   never
                   fail
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   when
                   they
                   seem
                   exhausted
                   swell
                   the
                   Pail
                   .
                
                 
                   Mean
                   time
                   the
                   Pastor
                   shears
                   their
                   hoary
                   Beards
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   eases
                   of
                   their
                   Hair
                   ,
                   the
                   loaden
                   Herds
                   .
                
                 
                   Their
                   Camelots
                   ,
                   warm
                   in
                   Tents
                   ,
                   the
                   Souldier
                   hold
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   shield
                   the
                   wretched
                   Mariner
                   from
                   Cold.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   On
                   Shrubs
                   they
                   brouze
                   ,
                   and
                   on
                   the
                   bleaky
                   Top
                
                 
                   Of
                   rugged
                   Hills
                   ,
                   the
                   thorny
                   Bramble
                   crop
                   .
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     the
                     Right
                     Worshipfull
                     Sr.
                     Thomas
                     Mompesson
                     of
                     Bathampton
                     in
                     the
                     County
                     of
                     Wilts
                     ,
                     Knight
                     .
                  
                   
                     Geor
                     :
                     3.
                     l.
                     465
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                 
                   Attended
                   with
                   their
                   Family
                   they
                   come
                
                 
                   At
                   Night
                   unask'd
                   ,
                   and
                   mindful
                   of
                   their
                   home
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   scarce
                   their
                   swelling
                   Bags
                   the
                   threshold
                   overcome
                   .
                
                 
                   So
                   much
                   the
                   more
                   thy
                   diligence
                   bestow
                
                 
                   In
                   depth
                   of
                   Winter
                   ,
                   to
                   defend
                   the
                   Snow
                   :
                
                 
                   By
                   how
                   much
                   less
                   the
                   tender
                   helpless
                   Kind
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   their
                   own
                   ills
                   ,
                   can
                   fit
                   Provision
                   find
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   minister
                   the
                   browze
                   ,
                   with
                   bounteous
                   hand
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   open
                   let
                   thy
                   Stacks
                   all
                   Winter
                   stand
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   when
                   the
                   Western
                   Winds
                   with
                   vital
                   pow'r
                
                 
                   Call
                   forth
                   the
                   tender
                   Grass
                   ,
                   and
                   budding
                   Flower
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   at
                   the
                   last
                   ,
                   produce
                   in
                   open
                   Air
                
                 
                   Both
                   Flocks
                   ;
                   and
                   send
                   'em
                   to
                   their
                   Summer
                   fare
                   .
                
                 
                   Before
                   the
                   Sun
                   ,
                   while
                   Hesperus
                   appears
                   ;
                
                 
                   First
                   let
                   'em
                   sip
                   from
                   Herbs
                   the
                   pearly
                   tears
                
                 
                   Of
                   Morning
                   Dews
                   :
                   And
                   after
                   break
                   their
                   Fast
                
                 
                   On
                   Green-sword
                   Ground
                   ;
                   (
                   a
                   cool
                   and
                   grateful
                   taste
                   :
                   )
                
                 
                   But
                   when
                   the
                   day's
                   fourth
                   hour
                   has
                   drawn
                   the
                   Dews
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   Sun
                   's
                   sultry
                   heat
                   their
                   thirst
                   renews
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   creaking
                   Grashoppers
                   on
                   Shrubs
                   complain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   lead
                   'em
                   to
                   their
                   wat'ring
                   Troughs
                   again
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   Summer's
                   heat
                   ,
                   some
                   bending
                   Valley
                   find
                   ,
                
                 
                   Clos'd
                   from
                   the
                   Sun
                   ,
                   but
                   open
                   to
                   the
                   Wind
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   seek
                   some
                   ancient
                   Oak
                   ,
                   whose
                   Arms
                   extend
                
                 
                   In
                   ample
                   breadth
                   ,
                   thy
                   Cattle
                   to
                   defend
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   solitary
                   Grove
                   ,
                   or
                   gloomy
                   Glade
                   :
                
                 
                   To
                   shield
                   'em
                   with
                   its
                   venerable
                   Shade
                   .
                
                 
                   Once
                   more
                   to
                   wat'ring
                   lead
                   ;
                   and
                   feed
                   again
                
                 
                   When
                   the
                   low
                   Sun
                   is
                   sinking
                   to
                   the
                   Main
                   .
                
                 
                   When
                   rising
                   Cynthia
                   sheds
                   her
                   silver
                   Dews
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   cool
                   Evening-breeze
                   the
                   Meads
                   renews
                   :
                
                 
                   When
                   Linnets
                   fill
                   the
                   Woods
                   with
                   tunesul
                   sound
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   hollow
                   shoars
                   the
                   Halcyons
                   Voice
                   rebound
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Why
                   shou'd
                   my
                   Muse
                   enlarge
                   on
                   Lybian
                   Swains
                   ;
                
                 
                   Their
                   scatter'd
                   Cottages
                   ,
                   and
                   ample
                   Plains
                   ?
                
                 
                   Where
                   oft
                   the
                   Flocks
                   ,
                   without
                   a
                   Leader
                   stray
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   through
                   continu'd
                   Desarts
                   take
                   their
                   way
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   feeding
                   ,
                   add
                   the
                   length
                   of
                   Night
                   to
                   day
                   .
                
                 
                   Whole
                   Months
                   they
                   wander
                   ,
                   grazing
                   as
                   they
                   go
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Folds
                   ,
                   nor
                   hospitable
                   Harbour
                   know
                   .
                
                 
                   Such
                   an
                   extent
                   of
                   Plains
                   ,
                   so
                   vast
                   a
                   space
                
                 
                   Of
                   Wilds
                   unknown
                   ,
                   and
                   of
                   untasted
                   Grass
                
                 
                   Allures
                   their
                   Eyes
                   :
                   The
                   Shepherd
                   last
                   appears
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   him
                   all
                   his
                   Patrimony
                   bears
                   :
                
                 
                   His
                   House
                   and
                   household
                   Gods
                   !
                   his
                   trade
                   of
                   War
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Bow
                   and
                   Quiver
                   ;
                   and
                   his
                   trusty
                   Cur.
                
                 
                   Thus
                   ,
                   under
                   heavy
                   Arms
                   ,
                   the
                   Youth
                   of
                   Rome
                
                 
                   Their
                   long
                   laborious
                   Marches
                   overcome
                   ;
                
                 
                   Chearly
                   their
                   tedious
                   Travels
                   undergo
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   pitch
                   their
                   sudden
                   Camp
                   before
                   the
                   Foe
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Not
                   so
                   the
                   Scythian
                   Shepherd
                   tends
                   his
                   Fold
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   he
                   who
                   bears
                   in
                   Thrace
                   the
                   bitter
                   cold
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   he
                   ,
                   who
                   treads
                   the
                   bleak
                   Meotian
                   Strand
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   where
                   proud
                   Ister
                   rouls
                   his
                   yellow
                   Sand.
                
                 
                   Early
                   they
                   stall
                   their
                   Flocks
                   and
                   Herds
                   ;
                   for
                   there
                
                 
                   No
                   Grass
                   the
                   Fields
                   ,
                   no
                   Leaves
                   the
                   Forests
                   wear
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   frozen
                   Earth
                   lies
                   buried
                   there
                   ,
                   below
                
                 
                   A
                   hilly
                   heap
                   ,
                   sev'n
                   Cubits
                   deep
                   in
                   Snow
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   the
                   West
                   Allies
                   of
                   stormy
                   Boreas
                   blow
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Sun
                   from
                   far
                   ,
                   peeps
                   with
                   a
                   sickly
                   face
                   ;
                
                 
                   Too
                   weak
                   the
                   Clouds
                   ,
                   and
                   mighty
                   Fogs
                   to
                   chace
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   up
                   the
                   Skies
                   ,
                   he
                   shoots
                   his
                   rosie
                   Head
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   in
                   the
                   ruddy
                   Ocean
                   seeks
                   his
                   Bed.
                
                 
                   Swift
                   Rivers
                   ,
                   are
                   with
                   sudden
                   Ice
                   constrain'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   studded
                   Wheels
                   are
                   on
                   its
                   back
                   sustain'd
                   .
                
                 
                   An
                   Hostry
                   now
                   sor
                   Waggons
                   ;
                   which
                   before
                
                 
                   Tall
                   Ships
                   of
                   burthen
                   ,
                   on
                   its
                   Bosom
                   bore
                   .
                
              
               
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     John
                     Dormer
                     of
                     Rowshan
                     in
                     the
                     County
                     of
                     Oxford
                     
                       Esq
                    
                  
                   
                     Geo
                     :
                     3
                     :
                     L
                     570.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   The
                   brazen
                   Cauldrons
                   ,
                   with
                   the
                   Frost
                   are
                   flaw'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Garment
                   ,
                   stiff
                   with
                   Ice
                   ,
                   at
                   Hearths
                   is
                   thaw'd
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   Axes
                   first
                   they
                   cleave
                   the
                   Wine
                   ,
                   and
                   thence
                
                 
                   By
                   weight
                   ,
                   the
                   solid
                   portions
                   they
                   dispence
                   .
                
                 
                   From
                   Locks
                   uncomb'd
                   ,
                   and
                   from
                   the
                   frozen
                   Beard
                   ,
                
                 
                   Long
                   Isicles
                   depend
                   ,
                   and
                   crackling
                   Sounds
                   are
                   heard
                   .
                
                 
                   Mean
                   time
                   perpetual
                   Sleet
                   ,
                   and
                   driving
                   Snow
                   ,
                
                 
                   Obscure
                   the
                   Skies
                   ,
                   and
                   hang
                   on
                   Herds
                   below
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   starving
                   Cattle
                   perish
                   in
                   their
                   Stalls
                   ,
                
                 
                   Huge
                   Oxen
                   stand
                   enclos'd
                   in
                   wint'ry
                   Walls
                
                 
                   Of
                   Snow
                   congeal'd
                   ;
                   whole
                   Herds
                   are
                   bury'd
                   there
                
                 
                   Of
                   mighty
                   Stags
                   ,
                   and
                   scarce
                   their
                   Horns
                   appear
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   dext'rous
                   Huntsman
                   wounds
                   not
                   these
                   afar
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Shafts
                   ,
                   or
                   Darts
                   ,
                   or
                   makes
                   a
                   distant
                   War
                
                 
                   With
                   Dogs
                   ;
                   or
                   pitches
                   Toyls
                   to
                   stop
                   their
                   Flight
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   close
                   engages
                   in
                   unequal
                   Fight
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   while
                   they
                   strive
                   in
                   vain
                   to
                   make
                   their
                   way
                
                 
                   Through
                   hills
                   of
                   Snow
                   ,
                   and
                   pitifully
                   bray
                   ;
                
                 
                   Assaults
                   with
                   dint
                   of
                   Sword
                   ,
                   or
                   pointed
                   Spears
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   homeward
                   ,
                   on
                   his
                   Back
                   ,
                   the
                   joyful
                   burthen
                   bears
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Men
                   to
                   subterranean
                   Caves
                   retire
                   ;
                
                 
                   Secure
                   from
                   Cold
                   ;
                   and
                   crowd
                   the
                   chearful
                   Fire
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   Trunks
                   of
                   Elms
                   and
                   Oaks
                   ,
                   the
                   Hearth
                   they
                   load
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   tempt
                   th'
                   inclemency
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   abroad
                   .
                
                 
                   Their
                   jovial
                   Nights
                   ,
                   in
                   frollicks
                   and
                   in
                   play
                
                 
                   They
                   pass
                   ,
                   to
                   drive
                   the
                   tedious
                   Hours
                   away
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   their
                   cold
                   Stomachs
                   with
                   crown'd
                   Goblets
                   cheer
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   windy
                   Cider
                   ,
                   and
                   of
                   barmy
                   Beer
                   .
                
                 
                   Such
                   are
                   the
                   cold
                   Ryphean
                   Race
                   ;
                   and
                   such
                
                 
                   The
                   savage
                   Scythian
                   ,
                   and
                   unwarlike
                   Dutch.
                
                 
                   Where
                   Skins
                   of
                   Beasts
                   ,
                   the
                   rude
                   Barbarians
                   wear
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   spoils
                   of
                   Foxes
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   furry
                   Bear.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Is
                   Wool
                   thy
                   care
                   ?
                   Let
                   not
                   thy
                   Cattle
                   go
                
                 
                   Where
                   Bushes
                   are
                   ,
                   where
                   Burs
                   and
                   Thistles
                   grow
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   Nor
                   in
                   too
                   rank
                   a
                   Pasture
                   let
                   'em
                   feed
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   of
                   the
                   purest
                   white
                   select
                   thy
                   Breed
                   .
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   though
                   a
                   snowy
                   Ram
                   thou
                   shalt
                   behold
                   ,
                
                 
                   Prefer
                   him
                   not
                   in
                   haste
                   ,
                   for
                   Husband
                   to
                   thy
                   Fold
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   search
                   his
                   Mouth
                   ;
                   and
                   if
                   a
                   swarthy
                   Tongue
                
                 
                   Is
                   underneath
                   his
                   humid
                   Pallat
                   hung
                   ;
                
                 
                   Reject
                   him
                   ,
                   lest
                   he
                   darken
                   all
                   the
                   Flock
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   substitute
                   another
                   from
                   thy
                   Stock
                   .
                
                 
                   T
                   was
                   thus
                   with
                   Fleeces
                   milky
                   white
                   (
                   if
                   we
                
                 
                   May
                   trust
                   report
                   ,
                   )
                   Pan
                   God
                   of
                   Arcady
                
                 
                   Did
                   bribe
                   thee
                   Cynthia
                   ;
                   nor
                   didst
                   thou
                   disdain
                
                 
                   When
                   call'd
                   in
                   woody
                   shades
                   ,
                   to
                   cure
                   a
                   Lover's
                   pain
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   If
                   Milk
                   be
                   thy
                   design
                   ;
                   with
                   plenteous
                   hand
                
                 
                   Bring
                   Clover-grass
                   ;
                   and
                   from
                   the
                   marshy
                   Land
                
                 
                   Salt
                   Herbage
                   for
                   the
                   fodd'ring
                   Rack
                   provide
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   fill
                   their
                   Bags
                   ,
                   and
                   swell
                   the
                   milky
                   Tide
                   :
                
                 
                   These
                   raise
                   their
                   Thirst
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   the
                   Taste
                   restore
                
                 
                   The
                   savour
                   of
                   the
                   Salt
                   ,
                   on
                   which
                   they
                   fed
                   before
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Some
                   ,
                   when
                   the
                   Kids
                   their
                   Dams
                   too
                   deeply
                   drain
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   gags
                   and
                   muzzles
                   their
                   soft
                   Mouths
                   restrain
                   .
                
                 
                   Their
                   morning
                   Milk
                   ,
                   the
                   Peasants
                   press
                   at
                   Night
                   :
                
                 
                   Their
                   Evening
                   Meal
                   ,
                   before
                   the
                   rising
                   Light
                
                 
                   To
                   Market
                   bear
                   :
                   or
                   sparingly
                   they
                   steep
                
                 
                   With
                   seas'ning
                   Salt
                   ,
                   and
                   stor'd
                   ,
                   for
                   Winter
                   keep
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Nor
                   last
                   ,
                   forget
                   thy
                   faithful
                   Dogs
                   :
                   but
                   feed
                
                 
                   With
                   fat'ning
                   Whey
                   the
                   Mastiffs
                   gen'rous
                   breed
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Spartan
                   Race
                   :
                   who
                   for
                   the
                   Folds
                   relief
                
                 
                   Will
                   prosecute
                   with
                   Cries
                   the
                   Nightly
                   Thief
                   :
                
                 
                   Repulse
                   the
                   prouling
                   Wolf
                   ,
                   and
                   hold
                   at
                   Bay
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Mountain
                   Robbers
                   ,
                   rushing
                   to
                   the
                   Prey
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   cries
                   of
                   Hounds
                   ,
                   thou
                   may'st
                   pursue
                   the
                   fear
                
                 
                   Of
                   flying
                   Hares
                   ,
                   and
                   chace
                   the
                   fallow
                   Deer
                   ;
                
                 
                   Rouze
                   from
                   their
                   desart
                   Dens
                   ,
                   the
                   brisl'd
                   Rage
                
                 
                   Of
                   Boars
                   ,
                   and
                   beamy
                   Stags
                   in
                   Toyls
                   engage
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   With
                   smoak
                   of
                   burning
                   Cedar
                   scent
                   thy
                   Walls
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   fume
                   with
                   stinking
                   Galbanum
                   thy
                   Stalls
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   that
                   rank
                   Odour
                   from
                   thy
                   dwelling
                   Place
                
                 
                   To
                   drive
                   the
                   Viper's
                   brood
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   the
                   venom'd
                   Race
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   often
                   under
                   Stalls
                   unmov'd
                   ,
                   they
                   lye
                   ,
                
                 
                   Obscure
                   in
                   shades
                   ,
                   and
                   shunning
                   Heav'ns
                   broad
                   Eye
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   Snakes
                   ,
                   familiar
                   ,
                   to
                   the
                   Hearth
                   succeed
                   ,
                
                 
                   Disclose
                   their
                   Eggs
                   ,
                   and
                   near
                   the
                   Chimny
                   breed
                   .
                
                 
                   Whether
                   ,
                   to
                   roofy
                   Houses
                   they
                   repair
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   Sun
                   themselves
                   abroad
                   in
                   open
                   Air
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   all
                   abodes
                   of
                   pestilential
                   Kind
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   Sheep
                   and
                   Oxen
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   painful
                   Hind
                   .
                
                 
                   Take
                   ,
                   Shepherd
                   take
                   ,
                   a
                   plant
                   of
                   stubborn
                   Oak
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   labour
                   him
                   with
                   many
                   a
                   sturdy
                   stroak
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   with
                   hard
                   Stones
                   ,
                   demolish
                   from
                   a-far
                
                 
                   His
                   haughty
                   Crest
                   ,
                   the
                   seat
                   of
                   all
                   the
                   War.
                
                 
                   Invade
                   his
                   hissing
                   Throat
                   ,
                   and
                   winding
                   spires
                   ;
                
                 
                   'Till
                   stretch'd
                   in
                   length
                   ,
                   th'
                   unfolded
                   Foe
                   retires
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   drags
                   his
                   Tail
                   ;
                   and
                   for
                   his
                   Head
                   provides
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   some
                   secret
                   cranny
                   slowly
                   glides
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   leaves
                   expos'd
                   to
                   blows
                   ,
                   his
                   Back
                   and
                   batter'd
                   sides
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   In
                   fair
                   
                   Calabria's
                   Woods
                   ,
                   a
                   Snake
                   is
                   bred
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   curling
                   Crest
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   advancing
                   Head
                   :
                
                 
                   Waving
                   he
                   rolls
                   ,
                   and
                   makes
                   a
                   winding
                   Track
                   ;
                
                 
                   His
                   Belly
                   spotted
                   ,
                   burnisht
                   is
                   his
                   Back
                   :
                
                 
                   While
                   Springs
                   are
                   broken
                   ,
                   while
                   the
                   Southern
                   Air
                
                 
                   And
                   dropping
                   Heav'ns
                   ,
                   the
                   moisten'd
                   Earth
                   repair
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   lives
                   on
                   standing
                   Lakes
                   ,
                   and
                   trembling
                   Bogs
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   fills
                   his
                   Maw
                   with
                   Fish
                   ,
                   or
                   with
                   loquacious
                   Frogs
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   when
                   ,
                   in
                   muddy
                   Pools
                   ,
                   the
                   water
                   sinks
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   chapt
                   Earth
                   is
                   furrow'd
                   o're
                   with
                   Chinks
                   ;
                
                 
                   He
                   leaves
                   the
                   Fens
                   ,
                   and
                   leaps
                   upon
                   the
                   Ground
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   hissing
                   ,
                   rowls
                   his
                   glaring
                   Eyes
                   around
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   With
                   Thirst
                   inflam'd
                   ,
                   impatient
                   of
                   the
                   heats
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   rages
                   in
                   the
                   Fields
                   ,
                   and
                   wide
                   Destruction
                   threats
                   .
                
                 
                   Oh
                   let
                   not
                   Sleep
                   ,
                   my
                   closing
                   Eyes
                   invade
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   open
                   Plains
                   ,
                   or
                   in
                   the
                   secret
                   Shade
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   he
                   ,
                   renew'd
                   in
                   all
                   the
                   speckl'd
                   Pride
                
                 
                   Of
                   pompous
                   Youth
                   ,
                   has
                   cast
                   his
                   slough
                   aside
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   his
                   Summer
                   Liv'ry
                   rowls
                   along
                   :
                
                 
                   Erect
                   ,
                   and
                   brandishing
                   his
                   forky
                   Tongue
                   ,
                
                 
                   Leaving
                   his
                   Nest
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   imperfect
                   Young
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   thoughtless
                   of
                   his
                   Egs
                   ,
                   forgets
                   to
                   rear
                
                 
                   The
                   hopes
                   of
                   Poyson
                   ,
                   for
                   the
                   foll'wing
                   Year
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Causes
                   and
                   the
                   Signs
                   shall
                   next
                   be
                   told
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   ev'ry
                   Sickness
                   that
                   infects
                   the
                   Fold
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   scabby
                   Tetter
                   on
                   their
                   pelts
                   will
                   stick
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   the
                   raw
                   Rain
                   has
                   pierc'd
                   'em
                   to
                   the
                   quick
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   searching
                   Frosts
                   ,
                   have
                   eaten
                   through
                   the
                   Skin
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   burning
                   Isicles
                   are
                   lodg'd
                   within
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   when
                   the
                   Fleece
                   is
                   shorn
                   ,
                   if
                   sweat
                   remains
                
                 
                   Unwash'd
                   ,
                   and
                   soaks
                   into
                   their
                   empty
                   Veins
                   :
                
                 
                   When
                   their
                   defenceless
                   Limbs
                   ,
                   the
                   Brambles
                   tear
                   ;
                
                 
                   Short
                   of
                   their
                   Wool
                   ,
                   and
                   naked
                   from
                   the
                   Sheer
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Good
                   Shepherds
                   after
                   sheering
                   ,
                   drench
                   their
                   Sheep
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   their
                   Flocks
                   Father
                   (
                   forc'd
                   from
                   high
                   to
                   leap
                   )
                
                 
                   Swims
                   down
                   the
                   Stream
                   ,
                   and
                   plunges
                   in
                   the
                   deep
                   .
                
                 
                   They
                   oint
                   their
                   naked
                   Limbs
                   with
                   mother'd
                   Oyl
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   from
                   the
                   Founts
                   where
                   living
                   Sulphurs
                   boyl
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   mix
                   a
                   Med'cine
                   to
                   foment
                   their
                   Limbs
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   Scum
                   that
                   on
                   the
                   molten
                   Silver
                   swims
                   .
                
                 
                   Fat
                   Pitch
                   ,
                   and
                   black
                   Bitumen
                   ,
                   add
                   to
                   these
                   ,
                
                 
                   Besides
                   ,
                   the
                   waxen
                   labour
                   of
                   the
                   Bees
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   Hellebore
                   ,
                   and
                   Squills
                   deep
                   rooted
                   in
                   the
                   Seas
                   ,
                
                 
                   Receits
                   abound
                   ;
                   but
                   searching
                   all
                   thy
                   Store
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   best
                   is
                   still
                   at
                   hand
                   ,
                   to
                   launch
                   the
                   Sore
                   :
                
              
               
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     Fredrick
                     Filney
                     of
                     Filney
                     Hall
                     in
                     Hant-Shire
                     
                       Esq
                    
                  
                   
                     Geo
                     3
                     :
                     L
                     721
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   And
                   cut
                   the
                   Head
                   ;
                   for
                   till
                   the
                   Core
                   be
                   found
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   secret
                   Vice
                   is
                   fed
                   ,
                   and
                   gathers
                   Ground
                   :
                
                 
                   While
                   making
                   fruitless
                   Moan
                   ,
                   the
                   Shepherd
                   stands
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   when
                   the
                   launching
                   Knife
                   requires
                   his
                   hands
                   ,
                
                 
                   Vain
                   help
                   ,
                   with
                   idle
                   Pray'rs
                   from
                   Heav'n
                   demands
                   .
                
                 
                   Deep
                   in
                   their
                   Bones
                   when
                   Feavers
                   fix
                   their
                   seat
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   rack
                   their
                   Limbs
                   ;
                   and
                   lick
                   the
                   vital
                   heat
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   ready
                   Cure
                   to
                   cool
                   the
                   raging
                   Pain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Is
                   underneath
                   the
                   Foot
                   to
                   breath
                   a
                   Vein
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   remedy
                   the
                   Scythian
                   Shepherds
                   found
                   :
                
                 
                   Th'
                   Inhabitants
                   of
                   
                   Thracia's
                   hilly
                   Ground
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Gelons
                   use
                   it
                   ;
                   when
                   for
                   Drink
                   and
                   Food
                
                 
                   They
                   mix
                   their
                   cruddl'd
                   Milk
                   with
                   Horses
                   Blood.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   where
                   thou
                   seest
                   a
                   single
                   Sheep
                   remain
                
                 
                   In
                   shades
                   aloof
                   ,
                   or
                   couch'd
                   upon
                   the
                   Plain
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   listlesly
                   to
                   crop
                   the
                   tender
                   Grass
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   late
                   to
                   lag
                   behind
                   ,
                   with
                   truant
                   pace
                   ;
                
                 
                   Revenge
                   the
                   Crime
                   ;
                   and
                   take
                   the
                   Traytor
                   's
                   head
                   ,
                
                 
                   E're
                   in
                   the
                   faultless
                   Flock
                   the
                   dire
                   Contagion
                   spread
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   On
                   Winter
                   Seas
                   we
                   fewer
                   Storms
                   behold
                   ,
                
                 
                   Than
                   foul
                   Diseases
                   that
                   infect
                   the
                   Fold
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   do
                   those
                   ills
                   ,
                   on
                   single
                   Bodies
                   prey
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   oft'ner
                   bring
                   the
                   Nation
                   to
                   decay
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   sweep
                   the
                   present
                   Stock
                   ,
                   and
                   future
                   Hope
                   away
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   A
                   dire
                   Example
                   of
                   this
                   Truth
                   appears
                   :
                
                 
                   When
                   ,
                   after
                   such
                   a
                   length
                   of
                   rowling
                   Years
                   ,
                
                 
                   We
                   see
                   the
                   naked
                   Alps
                   ,
                   and
                   thin
                   Remains
                
                 
                   Of
                   scatter'd
                   Cotts
                   ,
                   and
                   yet
                   unpeopl'd
                   Plains
                   :
                
                 
                   Once
                   fill'd
                   with
                   grazing
                   Flocks
                   ,
                   the
                   Shepherds
                   happy
                   Reigns
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Here
                   from
                   the
                   vicious
                   Air
                   ,
                   and
                   sickly
                   Skies
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Plague
                   did
                   on
                   the
                   dumb
                   Creation
                   rise
                   :
                
                 
                   During
                   th'
                   Autumnal
                   Heats
                   th'
                   Infection
                   grew
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tame
                   Cattle
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Beasts
                   of
                   Nature
                   slew
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Poys'ning
                   the
                   Standing
                   Lakes
                   ;
                   and
                   Pools
                   Impure
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   was
                   the
                   foodful
                   Grass
                   in
                   Fields
                   secure
                   .
                
                 
                   Strange
                   Death
                   !
                   For
                   when
                   the
                   thirsty
                   fire
                   had
                   drunk
                
                 
                   Their
                   vital
                   Blood
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   dry
                   Nerves
                   were
                   shrunk
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   the
                   contracted
                   Limbs
                   were
                   cramp'd
                   ,
                   ev'n
                   then
                
                 
                   A
                   wat'rish
                   Humour
                   swell'd
                   and
                   ooz'd
                   agen
                   :
                
                 
                   Converting
                   into
                   Bane
                   the
                   kindly
                   Juice
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ordain'd
                   by
                   Nature
                   for
                   a
                   better
                   use
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Victim
                   Ox
                   ,
                   that
                   was
                   for
                   Altars
                   prest
                   ,
                
                 
                   Trim'd
                   with
                   white
                   Ribbons
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   Garlands
                   drest
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sunk
                   of
                   himself
                   ,
                   without
                   the
                   Gods
                   Command
                   :
                
                 
                   Preventing
                   the
                   slow
                   Sacrificer's
                   Hand
                   .
                
                 
                   Or
                   ,
                   by
                   the
                   holy
                   Butcher
                   ,
                   if
                   he
                   fell
                   ,
                
                 
                   Th'
                   inspected
                   Entrails
                   ,
                   cou'd
                   no
                   Fates
                   foretel
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   ,
                   laid
                   on
                   Altars
                   ,
                   did
                   pure
                   Flames
                   arise
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   Clouds
                   of
                   smouldring
                   Smoke
                   ,
                   forbad
                   the
                   Sacrifice
                   .
                
                 
                   Scarcely
                   the
                   Knife
                   was
                   redden'd
                   with
                   his
                   Gore
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   the
                   black
                   Poyson
                   stain'd
                   the
                   sandy
                   Floor
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   thriven
                   Calves
                   in
                   Meads
                   their
                   Food
                   forsake
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   render
                   their
                   sweet
                   Souls
                   before
                   the
                   plenteous
                   Rack
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   fawning
                   Dog
                   runs
                   mad
                   ;
                   the
                   wheasing
                   Swine
                
                 
                   With
                   Coughs
                   is
                   choak'd
                   ;
                   and
                   labours
                   from
                   the
                   Chine
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Victor
                   Horse
                   ,
                   forgetful
                   of
                   his
                   Food
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Palm
                   renounces
                   ,
                   and
                   abhors
                   the
                   Flood
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   paws
                   the
                   Ground
                   ,
                   and
                   on
                   his
                   hanging
                   Ears
                
                 
                   A
                   doubtful
                   Sweat
                   in
                   clammy
                   drops
                   appears
                   :
                
                 
                   Parch'd
                   is
                   his
                   Hide
                   ,
                   and
                   rugged
                   are
                   his
                   Hairs
                   .
                
                 
                   Such
                   are
                   the
                   Symptoms
                   of
                   the
                   young
                   Disease
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   in
                   time's
                   process
                   ,
                   when
                   his
                   pains
                   encrease
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   rouls
                   his
                   mournful
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   he
                   deeply
                   groans
                
                 
                   With
                   patient
                   sobbing
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   manly
                   Moans
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   heaves
                   for
                   Breath
                   :
                   which
                   ,
                   from
                   his
                   Lungs
                   supply'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   fetch'd
                   from
                   far
                   ,
                   distends
                   his
                   lab'ring
                   side
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   To
                   his
                   rough
                   Palat
                   ,
                   his
                   dry
                   Tongue
                   succeeds
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   roapy
                   Gore
                   ,
                   he
                   from
                   his
                   Nostrils
                   bleeds
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   Drench
                   of
                   Wine
                   has
                   with
                   success
                   been
                   us'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   through
                   a
                   Horn
                   ,
                   the
                   gen'rous
                   Juice
                   infus'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Which
                   timely
                   taken
                   op'd
                   his
                   closing
                   Jaws
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   ,
                   if
                   too
                   late
                   ,
                   the
                   Patient's
                   death
                   did
                   cause
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   the
                   too
                   vig'rous
                   Dose
                   ,
                   too
                   fiercely
                   wrought
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   added
                   Fury
                   to
                   the
                   Srength
                   it
                   brought
                   .
                
                 
                   Recruited
                   into
                   Rage
                   ,
                   he
                   grinds
                   his
                   Teeth
                
                 
                   In
                   his
                   own
                   Flesh
                   ,
                   and
                   feeds
                   approaching
                   Death
                   .
                
                 
                   Ye
                   Gods
                   ,
                   to
                   better
                   Fate
                   ,
                   good
                   Men
                   dispose
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   turn
                   that
                   Impious
                   Errour
                   on
                   our
                   Foes
                   !
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Steer
                   ,
                   who
                   to
                   the
                   Yoke
                   was
                   bred
                   to
                   bow
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   Studious
                   of
                   Tillage
                   ;
                   and
                   the
                   crooked
                   Plough
                   )
                
                 
                   Falls
                   down
                   and
                   dies
                   ;
                   and
                   dying
                   spews
                   a
                   Flood
                
                 
                   Of
                   foamy
                   Madness
                   ,
                   mix'd
                   with
                   clotted
                   Blood.
                
                 
                   The
                   Clown
                   ,
                   who
                   cursing
                   Providence
                   repines
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Mournful
                   Fellow
                   from
                   the
                   Team
                   disjoyns
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   many
                   a
                   groan
                   ,
                   forsakes
                   his
                   fruitless
                   care
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   th'
                   unfinish'd
                   Furrow
                   ,
                   leaves
                   the
                   Share
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   pineing
                   Steer
                   ,
                   no
                   Shades
                   of
                   lofty
                   Woods
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   flow'ry
                   Meads
                   can
                   ease
                   ;
                   nor
                   Crystal
                   floods
                
                 
                   Roul'd
                   from
                   the
                   Rock
                   :
                   His
                   flabby
                   Flanks
                   decrease
                   ;
                
                 
                   His
                   Eyes
                   are
                   settled
                   in
                   a
                   stupid
                   peace
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   bulk
                   too
                   weighty
                   for
                   his
                   Thighs
                   is
                   grown
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   his
                   unweildy
                   Neck
                   ,
                   hangs
                   drooping
                   down
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   what
                   avails
                   his
                   well-deserving
                   Toil
                
                 
                   To
                   turn
                   the
                   Glebe
                   ;
                   or
                   smooth
                   the
                   rugged
                   Soil
                   !
                
                 
                   And
                   yet
                   he
                   never
                   supt
                   in
                   solemn
                   State
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   undigested
                   Feasts
                   did
                   urge
                   his
                   Fate
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   day
                   ,
                   to
                   Night
                   ,
                   luxuriously
                   did
                   joyn
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   surfeited
                   on
                   rich
                   Campanian
                   Wine
                   .
                
                 
                   Simple
                   his
                   Bev'rage
                   ;
                   homely
                   was
                   his
                   Food
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   wholsom
                   Herbage
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   running
                   Flood
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   No
                   dreadful
                   Dreams
                   awak'd
                   him
                   with
                   affright
                   ;
                
                 
                   His
                   Pains
                   by
                   Day
                   ,
                   secur'd
                   his
                   Rest
                   by
                   Night
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   'T
                   was
                   then
                   that
                   
                   Buffalo's
                   ,
                   ill
                   pair'd
                   ,
                   were
                   seen
                
                 
                   To
                   draw
                   the
                   Carr
                   of
                   
                   Jove's
                   Imperial
                   Queen
                
                 
                   For
                   want
                   of
                   Oxen
                   :
                   and
                   the
                   lab'ring
                   Swain
                
                 
                   Scratch'd
                   with
                   a
                   Rake
                   ,
                   a
                   Furrow
                   for
                   his
                   Grain
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   cover'd
                   ,
                   with
                   his
                   hand
                   ,
                   the
                   shallow
                   Seed
                   again
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   Yokes
                   himself
                   ,
                   and
                   up
                   the
                   Hilly
                   height
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   his
                   own
                   Shoulders
                   ,
                   draws
                   the
                   Waggon's
                   weight
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   nightly
                   Wolf
                   ,
                   that
                   round
                   th'
                   Enclosure
                   proul'd
                
                 
                   To
                   leap
                   the
                   Fence
                   ;
                   now
                   plots
                   not
                   on
                   the
                   Fold
                   .
                
                 
                   Tam'd
                   with
                   a
                   sharper
                   Pain
                   .
                   The
                   fearful
                   Doe
                
                 
                   And
                   flying
                   Stag
                   ,
                   amidst
                   the
                   Grey-Hounds
                   go
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   round
                   the
                   Dwellings
                   roam
                   of
                   Man
                   ,
                   their
                   fiercer
                   Foe
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   scaly
                   Nations
                   of
                   the
                   Sea
                   profound
                   ,
                
                 
                   Like
                   Shipwreck'd
                   Carcasses
                   are
                   driv'n
                   aground
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   mighty
                   Phocae
                   ,
                   never
                   seen
                   before
                
                 
                   In
                   shallow
                   Streams
                   ,
                   are
                   stranded
                   on
                   the
                   shore
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Viper
                   dead
                   ,
                   within
                   her
                   Hole
                   is
                   found
                   :
                
                 
                   Defenceless
                   was
                   the
                   shelter
                   of
                   the
                   ground
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   water-Snake
                   ,
                   whom
                   Fish
                   and
                   Paddocks
                   fed
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   staring
                   Scales
                   lies
                   poyson'd
                   in
                   his
                   Bed
                   :
                
                 
                   To
                   Birds
                   their
                   Native
                   Heav'ns
                   contagious
                   prove
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   Clouds
                   they
                   fall
                   ,
                   and
                   leave
                   their
                   Souls
                   above
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Besides
                   ,
                   to
                   change
                   their
                   Pasture
                   't
                   is
                   in
                   vain
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   trust
                   to
                   Physick
                   ;
                   Physick
                   is
                   their
                   Bane
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Learned
                   Leaches
                   in
                   despair
                   depart
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   shake
                   their
                   Heads
                   ,
                   desponding
                   of
                   their
                   Art.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Tisiphone
                   ,
                   let
                   loose
                   from
                   under
                   ground
                   ,
                
                 
                   Majestically
                   pale
                   ,
                   now
                   treads
                   the
                   round
                   :
                
                 
                   Before
                   her
                   drives
                   Diseases
                   ,
                   and
                   affright
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   every
                   moment
                   rises
                   to
                   the
                   sight
                   :
                
                 
                   Aspiring
                   to
                   the
                   Skies
                   ;
                   encroaching
                   on
                   the
                   light
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Rivers
                   and
                   their
                   Banks
                   ,
                   and
                   Hills
                   around
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   lowings
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   dying
                   Bleats
                   resound
                   .
                
                 
                   At
                   length
                   ,
                   she
                   strikes
                   an
                   Universal
                   Blow
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   Death
                   at
                   once
                   whole
                   Herds
                   of
                   Cattle
                   go
                   :
                
                 
                   Sheep
                   ,
                   Oxen
                   ,
                   Horses
                   fall
                   ;
                   and
                   ,
                   heap'd
                   on
                   high
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   diff'ring
                   Species
                   in
                   Confusion
                   lie
                   .
                
                 
                   'Till
                   warn'd
                   by
                   frequent
                   ills
                   ,
                   the
                   way
                   they
                   found
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   lodge
                   their
                   loathsom
                   Carrion
                   underground
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   ,
                   useless
                   to
                   the
                   Currier
                   were
                   their
                   Hides
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   cou'd
                   their
                   tainted
                   Flesh
                   with
                   Ocean
                   Tides
                
                 
                   Be
                   freed
                   from
                   Filth
                   ;
                   nor
                   cou'd
                   Vulcanian
                   Flame
                
                 
                   The
                   Stench
                   abolish
                   ;
                   or
                   the
                   Savour
                   tame
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   safely
                   cou'd
                   they
                   shear
                   their
                   fleecy
                   Store
                   ;
                
                 
                   (
                   Made
                   drunk
                   with
                   poys'nous
                   Juice
                   ,
                   and
                   stiff
                   with
                   Gore
                   :
                   )
                
                 
                   Or
                   touch
                   the
                   Web
                   :
                   But
                   if
                   the
                   Vest
                   they
                   wear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Red
                   Blisters
                   rising
                   on
                   their
                   Paps
                   appear
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   flaming
                   Carbuncles
                   ;
                   and
                   noisom
                   Sweat
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   clammy
                   Dews
                   ,
                   that
                   loathsom
                   Lice
                   beget
                   :
                
                 
                   'Till
                   the
                   slow
                   creeping
                   Evil
                   eats
                   his
                   way
                   ,
                
                 
                   Consumes
                   the
                   parching
                   Limbs
                   ;
                   and
                   makes
                   the
                   Life
                   his
                   prey
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 The
                 Fourth
                 Book
                 of
                 the
                 Georgics
                 .
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Argument
                   .
                
                 
                   Virgil
                   
                     has
                     taken
                     care
                     to
                     raise
                     the
                     Subject
                     of
                     each
                     Georgic
                     :
                     In
                     the
                     First
                     he
                     has
                     only
                     dead
                     Matter
                     on
                     which
                     to
                     work
                     .
                     In
                     the
                     second
                     he
                     just
                     steps
                     on
                     the
                     World
                     of
                     Life
                     ,
                     and
                     describes
                     that
                     degree
                     of
                     it
                     which
                     is
                     to
                     be
                     found
                     in
                     Vegetables
                     .
                     In
                     the
                     third
                     he
                     advances
                     to
                     Animals
                     .
                     And
                     in
                     the
                     last
                     ,
                     singles
                     out
                     the
                     Bee
                     ,
                     which
                     may
                     be
                     reckon'd
                     the
                     most
                     sagacious
                     of
                     'em
                     ,
                     for
                     his
                     Subject
                     .
                  
                
                 
                   
                     In
                     this
                     Georgic
                     he
                     shews
                     us
                     what
                     Station
                     is
                     most
                     proper
                     for
                     the
                     Bees
                     ,
                     and
                     when
                     they
                     begin
                     to
                     gather
                     Honey
                     :
                     how
                     to
                     call
                     'em
                     home
                     when
                     they
                     swarm
                     ;
                     and
                     how
                     to
                     part
                     'em
                     when
                     they
                     are
                     engag'd
                     in
                     Battel
                     .
                     From
                     hence
                     he
                     takes
                     occasion
                     to
                     discover
                     their
                     different
                     Kinds
                     ;
                     and
                     ,
                     after
                     an
                     Excursion
                     relates
                     their
                     prudent
                     and
                     politick
                     Administration
                     of
                     Affairs
                     and
                     the
                     several
                     Diseases
                     that
                     often
                     rage
                     in
                     their
                     Hives
                     ,
                     with
                     the
                     proper
                     Symptoms
                     and
                     Remedies
                     of
                     each
                     Disease
                     .
                     In
                     the
                     last
                     place
                     he
                     lays
                     down
                     a
                     method
                     of
                     repairing
                     their
                     Kind
                     ,
                     supposing
                     their
                     whole
                     Breed
                     lost
                     ;
                     and
                     gives
                     at
                     large
                     the
                     History
                     of
                     its
                     Invention
                     .
                  
                
              
               
                 
                   THE
                   Gifts
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   my
                   foll'wing
                   Song
                   pursues
                   ,
                
                 
                   Aerial
                   Honey
                   ,
                   and
                   Ambrosial
                   Dews
                   .
                
                 
                   Maecenas
                   ,
                   read
                   this
                   other
                   part
                   ,
                   that
                   sings
                
                 
                   Fmbattel'd
                   Sqadrons
                   and
                   advent'rous
                   Kings
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   mighty
                   Pomp
                   ,
                   tho'
                   made
                   of
                   little
                   Things
                   .
                
                 
                   Their
                   Arms
                   ,
                   their
                   Arts
                   ,
                   their
                   Manners
                   I
                   disclose
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   how
                   they
                   War
                   ,
                   and
                   whence
                   the
                   People
                   rose
                   :
                
                 
                   Slight
                   is
                   the
                   Subject
                   ,
                   but
                   the
                   Praise
                   not
                   small
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   Heav'n
                   assist
                   ,
                   and
                   Phoebus
                   hear
                   my
                   Call.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   First
                   ,
                   for
                   thy
                   Bees
                   a
                   quiet
                   Station
                   find
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   lodge
                   'em
                   under
                   Covert
                   of
                   the
                   Wind
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   Winds
                   ,
                   when
                   homeward
                   they
                   return
                   ,
                   will
                   drive
                
                 
                   The
                   loaded
                   Carriers
                   from
                   their
                   Ev'ning
                   Hive
                   .
                
                 
                   Far
                   from
                   the
                   Cows
                   and
                   Goats
                   insulting
                   Crew
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   trample
                   down
                   the
                   Flow'rs
                   ,
                   and
                   brush
                   the
                   Dew
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   painted
                   Lizard
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Birds
                   of
                   Prey
                   ,
                
                 
                   Foes
                   of
                   the
                   frugal
                   Kind
                   ,
                   be
                   far
                   away
                   .
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     Richard
                     Norton
                     of
                     Southwick
                     in
                     Hant-shire
                     
                       Esq.
                       
                    
                  
                   
                     Geo
                     4
                     :
                     L
                     1
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                 
                   The
                   Titmouse
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Peckers
                   hungry
                   Brood
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Progne
                   ,
                   with
                   her
                   Bosom
                   stain'd
                   in
                   Blood
                   :
                
                 
                   These
                   rob
                   the
                   trading
                   Citizens
                   ,
                   and
                   bear
                
                 
                   The
                   trembling
                   Captives
                   thro'
                   the
                   liquid
                   Air
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   for
                   their
                   callow
                   young
                   a
                   cruel
                   Feast
                   prepare
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   near
                   a
                   living
                   Stream
                   their
                   Mansion
                   place
                   ,
                
                 
                   Edg'd
                   round
                   with
                   Moss
                   ,
                   and
                   tufts
                   of
                   matted
                   Grass
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   plant
                   (
                   the
                   Winds
                   impetuous
                   rage
                   to
                   stop
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                   Wild
                   Olive
                   Trees
                   ,
                   or
                   Palms
                   ,
                   before
                   the
                   buisy
                   Shop
                   :
                
                 
                   That
                   when
                   the
                   youthful
                   Prince
                   ,
                   with
                   loud
                   allarm
                   ,
                
                 
                   Calls
                   out
                   the
                   vent'rous
                   Colony
                   to
                   swarm
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   first
                   their
                   way
                   thro'
                   yielding
                   Air
                   they
                   wing
                   ,
                
                 
                   New
                   to
                   the
                   Pleasures
                   of
                   their
                   native
                   Spring
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Banks
                   of
                   Brooks
                   may
                   make
                   a
                   cool
                   retreat
                
                 
                   For
                   the
                   raw
                   Souldiers
                   from
                   the
                   scalding
                   Heat
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   neighb'ring
                   Trees
                   ,
                   with
                   friendly
                   Shade
                   invite
                
                 
                   The
                   Troops
                   unus'd
                   to
                   long
                   laborious
                   Flight
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   o're
                   the
                   running
                   Stream
                   ,
                   or
                   standing
                   Lake
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Passage
                   for
                   thy
                   weary
                   People
                   make
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   Osier
                   Floats
                   the
                   standing
                   Water
                   strow
                   ;
                
                 
                   Of
                   massy
                   Stones
                   make
                   Bridges
                   ,
                   if
                   it
                   flow
                   :
                
                 
                   That
                   basking
                   in
                   the
                   Sun
                   thy
                   Bees
                   may
                   lye
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   resting
                   there
                   ,
                   their
                   flaggy
                   Pinions
                   dry
                   :
                
                 
                   When
                   late
                   returning
                   home
                   ,
                   the
                   laden
                   Host
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   raging
                   Winds
                   is
                   wreck'd
                   upon
                   the
                   Coast
                   .
                
                 
                   Wild
                   Thyme
                   and
                   Sav'ry
                   set
                   around
                   their
                   Cell
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sweet
                   to
                   the
                   Taste
                   ,
                   and
                   fragrant
                   to
                   the
                   Smell
                   :
                
                 
                   Set
                   rows
                   of
                   Rosemary
                   with
                   flow'ring
                   Stem
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   let
                   the
                   purple
                   Vi'lets
                   drink
                   the
                   Stream
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Whether
                   thou
                   build
                   the
                   Palace
                   of
                   thy
                   Bees
                
                 
                   With
                   twisted
                   Osiers
                   ,
                   or
                   with
                   Barks
                   of
                   Trees
                   ;
                
                 
                   Make
                   but
                   a
                   narrow
                   Mouth
                   :
                   for
                   as
                   the
                   Cold
                
                 
                   Congeals
                   into
                   a
                   Lump
                   the
                   liquid
                   Gold
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   So
                   't
                   is
                   again
                   dissolv'd
                   by
                   Summer's
                   heat
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   sweet
                   Labours
                   both
                   Extreams
                   defeat
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   therefore
                   ,
                   not
                   in
                   vain
                   ,
                   th'
                   industrious
                   Kind
                
                 
                   With
                   dawby
                   Wax
                   and
                   Flow'rs
                   the
                   Chinks
                   have
                   lin'd
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   with
                   their
                   Stores
                   of
                   gather'd
                   Glue
                   ,
                   contrive
                
                 
                   To
                   stop
                   the
                   Vents
                   ,
                   and
                   Crannies
                   of
                   their
                   Hive
                   .
                
                 
                   Not
                   Birdlime
                   ,
                   or
                   Idean
                   Pitch
                   produce
                
                 
                   A
                   more
                   tenacious
                   Mass
                   of
                   clammy
                   Juice
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Nor
                   Bees
                   are
                   lodg'd
                   in
                   Hives
                   alone
                   ,
                   but
                   found
                
                 
                   In
                   Chambers
                   of
                   their
                   own
                   ,
                   beneath
                   the
                   Ground
                   :
                
                 
                   Their
                   vaulted
                   Roofs
                   are
                   hung
                   in
                   Pumices
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   the
                   rotten
                   Trunks
                   of
                   hollow
                   Trees
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   plaister
                   thou
                   the
                   chinky
                   Hives
                   with
                   Clay
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   leafy
                   Branches
                   o're
                   their
                   Lodgings
                   lay
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   place
                   them
                   where
                   too
                   deep
                   a
                   Water
                   flows
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   where
                   the
                   Yeugh
                   their
                   pois'nous
                   Neighbour
                   grows
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   rost
                   red
                   Crabs
                   t'
                   offend
                   the
                   niceness
                   of
                   their
                   Nose
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   near
                   the
                   steaming
                   Stench
                   of
                   muddy
                   Ground
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   hollow
                   Rocks
                   that
                   render
                   back
                   the
                   Sound
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   doubled
                   Images
                   of
                   Voice
                   rebound
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   For
                   what
                   remains
                   ,
                   when
                   Golden
                   Suns
                   appear
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   under
                   Earth
                   have
                   driv'n
                   the
                   Winter
                   Year
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   winged
                   Nation
                   wanders
                   thro'
                   the
                   Skies
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   o're
                   the
                   Plains
                   ,
                   and
                   shady
                   Forrest
                   flies
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   stooping
                   on
                   the
                   Meads
                   and
                   leafy
                   Bow'rs
                   ;
                
                 
                   They
                   skim
                   the
                   Floods
                   ,
                   and
                   sip
                   the
                   purple
                   Flow'rs
                   .
                
                 
                   Exalted
                   hence
                   ,
                   and
                   drunk
                   with
                   secret
                   Joy
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   young
                   Succession
                   all
                   their
                   Cares
                   employ
                   :
                
                 
                   They
                   breed
                   ,
                   they
                   brood
                   ,
                   instruct
                   and
                   educate
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   make
                   Provision
                   for
                   the
                   future
                   State
                   :
                
                 
                   They
                   work
                   their
                   waxen
                   Lodgings
                   in
                   their
                   Hives
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   labour
                   Honey
                   to
                   sustain
                   their
                   Lives
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   when
                   thou
                   seest
                   a
                   swarming
                   Cloud
                   arise
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   sweeps
                   aloft
                   ,
                   and
                   darkens
                   all
                   the
                   Skies
                   :
                
              
               
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     the
                     Right
                     Hon
                     ble
                     :
                     Sr.
                     William
                     Trumbull
                     Kt.
                     Principall
                     Secretary
                     of
                     State
                     &
                     one
                     of
                     his
                     Mai
                     ties
                     :
                     Most
                     Hon
                     ble
                     :
                     Priry
                     Councill
                     .
                  
                   
                     Geo
                     :
                     4.
                     l.
                     85.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   The
                   Motions
                   of
                   their
                   hasty
                   Flight
                   attend
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   know
                   to
                   Floods
                   ,
                   or
                   Woods
                   ,
                   their
                   airy
                   march
                   they
                   bend
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   Melfoil
                   beat
                   ,
                   and
                   Honey-suckles
                   pound
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   these
                   alluring
                   Savours
                   strew
                   the
                   Ground
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   mix
                   with
                   tinkling
                   Brass
                   ,
                   the
                   Cymbals
                   droning
                   Sound
                   .
                
                 
                   Streight
                   to
                   their
                   ancient
                   Cells
                   ,
                   recall'd
                   from
                   Air
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   reconcil'd
                   Deserters
                   will
                   repair
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   if
                   intestine
                   Broils
                   allarm
                   the
                   Hive
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   For
                   two
                   Pretenders
                   oft
                   for
                   Empire
                   strive
                   )
                
                 
                   The
                   Vulgar
                   in
                   divided
                   Factions
                   jar
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   murm'ring
                   Sounds
                   proclaim
                   the
                   Civil
                   War.
                
                 
                   Inflam'd
                   with
                   Ire
                   ,
                   and
                   trembling
                   with
                   Disdain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Scarce
                   can
                   their
                   Limbs
                   ,
                   their
                   mighty
                   Souls
                   contain
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   Shouts
                   ,
                   the
                   Cowards
                   Courage
                   they
                   excite
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   martial
                   Clangors
                   call
                   'em
                   out
                   to
                   fight
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   hoarse
                   Allarms
                   the
                   hollow
                   Camp
                   rebounds
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   imitates
                   the
                   Trumpets
                   angry
                   Sounds
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   to
                   their
                   common
                   Standard
                   they
                   repair
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   nimble
                   Horsemen
                   scour
                   the
                   Fields
                   of
                   Air.
                
                 
                   In
                   form
                   of
                   Battel
                   drawn
                   ,
                   they
                   issue
                   forth
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ev'ry
                   Knight
                   is
                   proud
                   to
                   prove
                   his
                   Worth.
                
                 
                   Prest
                   for
                   their
                   Country's
                   Honour
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   King
                   's
                   ,
                
                 
                   On
                   their
                   sharp
                   Beaks
                   they
                   whet
                   their
                   pointed
                   Stings
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   exercise
                   their
                   Arms
                   ,
                   and
                   tremble
                   with
                   their
                   Wings
                   .
                
                 
                   Full
                   in
                   the
                   midst
                   ,
                   the
                   haughty
                   Monarchs
                   ride
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   trusty
                   Guards
                   come
                   up
                   ,
                   and
                   close
                   the
                   Side
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   Shouts
                   the
                   daring
                   Foe
                   to
                   Battel
                   is
                   defy'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   in
                   the
                   Season
                   of
                   unclouded
                   Spring
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   War
                   they
                   follow
                   their
                   undaunted
                   King
                   :
                
                 
                   Crowd
                   thro'their
                   Gates
                   ,
                   and
                   in
                   the
                   Fields
                   of
                   Light
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   shocking
                   Squadrons
                   meet
                   in
                   mortal
                   Fight
                   :
                
                 
                   Headlong
                   they
                   fall
                   from
                   high
                   ,
                   and
                   wounded
                   wound
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   heaps
                   of
                   slaughter'd
                   Souldiers
                   bite
                   the
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                   Hard
                   Hailstones
                   lye
                   not
                   thicker
                   on
                   the
                   Plain
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   shaken
                   Oaks
                   such
                   Show'rs
                   of
                   Acorns
                   rain
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   With
                   gorgeous
                   Wings
                   the
                   Marks
                   of
                   Sov'raign
                   sway
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   two
                   contending
                   Princes
                   make
                   their
                   way
                   ;
                
                 
                   Intrepid
                   thro'
                   the
                   midst
                   of
                   danger
                   go
                   ;
                
                 
                   Their
                   friends
                   encourage
                   ,
                   and
                   amaze
                   the
                   Foe
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   mighty
                   Souls
                   in
                   narrow
                   Bodies
                   prest
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   challenge
                   ,
                   and
                   encounter
                   Breast
                   to
                   Breast
                   ;
                
                 
                   So
                   fix'd
                   on
                   Fame
                   ,
                   unknowing
                   how
                   to
                   fly
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   obstinately
                   bent
                   to
                   win
                   or
                   dye
                   ;
                
                 
                   That
                   long
                   the
                   doubtful
                   Combat
                   they
                   maintain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Till
                   one
                   prevails
                   (
                   for
                   one
                   can
                   only
                   Reign
                   .
                   )
                
                 
                   Yet
                   all
                   those
                   dreadful
                   deeds
                   ,
                   this
                   deadly
                   fray
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   cast
                   of
                   scatter'd
                   Dust
                   will
                   soon
                   alay
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   undecided
                   leave
                   the
                   Fortune
                   of
                   the
                   day
                   .
                
                 
                   When
                   both
                   the
                   Chiefs
                   are
                   sund'red
                   from
                   the
                   Fight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   to
                   the
                   lawful
                   King
                   restore
                   his
                   Right
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   let
                   the
                   wastful
                   Prodigal
                   be
                   slain
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   he
                   ,
                   who
                   best
                   deserves
                   ,
                   alone
                   may
                   reign
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   ease
                   distinguish'd
                   is
                   the
                   Regal
                   Race
                   ,
                
                 
                   One
                   Monarch
                   wears
                   an
                   honest
                   open
                   Face
                   ;
                
                 
                   Large
                   are
                   his
                   Limbs
                   ,
                   and
                   Godlike
                   to
                   behold
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Royal
                   Body
                   shines
                   with
                   specks
                   of
                   Gold
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ruddy
                   Skales
                   ;
                   for
                   Empire
                   he
                   design'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Is
                   better
                   born
                   ,
                   and
                   of
                   a
                   Nobler
                   Kind
                   .
                
                 
                   That
                   other
                   looks
                   like
                   Nature
                   in
                   disgrace
                   ,
                
                 
                   Gaunt
                   are
                   his
                   sides
                   ,
                   and
                   sullen
                   is
                   his
                   face
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   like
                   their
                   grizly
                   Prince
                   appears
                   his
                   gloomy
                   Race
                   :
                
                 
                   Grim
                   ,
                   ghastly
                   ,
                   rugged
                   ,
                   like
                   a
                   thirsty
                   train
                
                 
                   That
                   long
                   have
                   travel'd
                   through
                   a
                   desart
                   plain
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   spet
                   from
                   their
                   dry
                   Chaps
                   the
                   gather'd
                   dust
                   again
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   better
                   Brood
                   ,
                   unlike
                   the
                   Bastard
                   Crew
                   ,
                
                 
                   Are
                   mark'd
                   with
                   Royal
                   streaks
                   of
                   shining
                   hue
                   ;
                
                 
                   Glitt'ring
                   and
                   ardent
                   ,
                   though
                   in
                   Body
                   less
                   :
                
                 
                   From
                   these
                   at
                   pointed
                   Seasons
                   hope
                   to
                   press
                
                 
                 
                   Huge
                   heavy
                   Honey-Combs
                   ,
                   of
                   Golden
                   Juice
                   ,
                
                 
                   Not
                   only
                   sweet
                   ,
                   but
                   pure
                   ,
                   and
                   fit
                   for
                   use
                   :
                
                 
                   T'
                   allay
                   the
                   Strength
                   and
                   Hardness
                   of
                   the
                   Wine
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   old
                   Bacchus
                   ,
                   new
                   Metheglin
                   join
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   when
                   the
                   Swarms
                   are
                   eager
                   of
                   their
                   play
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   loath
                   their
                   empty
                   Hives
                   ,
                   and
                   idly
                   stray
                   ,
                
                 
                   Restrain
                   the
                   wanton
                   Fugitives
                   ,
                   and
                   take
                
                 
                   A
                   timely
                   Care
                   to
                   bring
                   the
                   Truants
                   back
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Task
                   is
                   easy
                   :
                   but
                   to
                   clip
                   the
                   Wings
                
                 
                   Of
                   their
                   high-flying
                   Arbitrary
                   Kings
                   :
                
                 
                   At
                   their
                   Command
                   ,
                   the
                   People
                   swarm
                   away
                   ;
                
                 
                   Confine
                   the
                   Tyrant
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Slaves
                   will
                   stay
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Sweet
                   Gardens
                   ,
                   full
                   of
                   Saffron
                   Flow'rs
                   ,
                   invite
                
                 
                   The
                   wandring
                   Gluttons
                   ,
                   and
                   retard
                   their
                   Flight
                   .
                
                 
                   Besides
                   ,
                   the
                   God
                   obscene
                   ,
                   who
                   frights
                   away
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   his
                   Lath
                   Sword
                   ,
                   the
                   Thiefs
                   and
                   Birds
                   of
                   Prey
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   his
                   own
                   hand
                   ,
                   the
                   Guardian
                   of
                   the
                   Bees
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   Slips
                   of
                   Pines
                   ,
                   may
                   search
                   the
                   Mountain
                   Trees
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   wild
                   Thyme
                   and
                   Sav'ry
                   ,
                   plant
                   the
                   Plain
                   ,
                
                 
                   'Till
                   his
                   hard
                   horny
                   Fingers
                   ake
                   with
                   Pain
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   deck
                   with
                   fruitful
                   Trees
                   the
                   Fields
                   around
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   refreshing
                   Waters
                   drench
                   the
                   Ground
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Now
                   ,
                   did
                   I
                   not
                   so
                   near
                   my
                   Labours
                   end
                   ,
                
                 
                   Strike
                   Sail
                   ,
                   and
                   hast'ning
                   to
                   the
                   Harbour
                   tend
                   ;
                
                 
                   My
                   Song
                   to
                   Flow'ry
                   Gardens
                   might
                   extend
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   teach
                   the
                   vegetable
                   Arts
                   ,
                   to
                   sing
                
                 
                   The
                   Paestan
                   Roses
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   double
                   Spring
                   :
                
                 
                   How
                   Succ'ry
                   drinks
                   the
                   running
                   Streams
                   ,
                   and
                   how
                
                 
                   Green
                   Beds
                   of
                   Parsley
                   near
                   the
                   River
                   grow
                   ;
                
                 
                   How
                   Cucumers
                   along
                   the
                   Surface
                   creep
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   crooked
                   Bodies
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   Bellies
                   deep
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   late
                   Narcissus
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   winding
                   Trail
                
                 
                   Of
                   Bears-foot
                   ,
                   Myrtles
                   green
                   ,
                   and
                   Ivy
                   pale
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   For
                   where
                   with
                   stately
                   Tow'rs
                   Tarentum
                   stands
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   deep
                   Galesus
                   soaks
                   the
                   yellow
                   Sands
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   chanc'd
                   an
                   Old
                   Corycian
                   Swain
                   to
                   know
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lord
                   of
                   few
                   Acres
                   ,
                   and
                   those
                   barren
                   too
                   ;
                
                 
                   Unfit
                   for
                   Sheep
                   or
                   Vines
                   ,
                   and
                   more
                   unfit
                   to
                   sow
                   :
                
                 
                   Yet
                   lab'ring
                   well
                   his
                   little
                   Spot
                   of
                   Ground
                   ,
                
                 
                   Some
                   scatt'ring
                   Potherbs
                   here
                   and
                   there
                   he
                   found
                   :
                
                 
                   Which
                   cultivated
                   with
                   his
                   daily
                   Care
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   bruis'd
                   with
                   Vervain
                   ,
                   were
                   his
                   frugal
                   Fare
                   .
                
                 
                   Sometimes
                   white
                   Lyllies
                   did
                   their
                   Leaves
                   afford
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   wholsom
                   Poppy-flow'rs
                   ,
                   to
                   mend
                   his
                   homely
                   Board
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   late
                   returning
                   home
                   he
                   sup'd
                   at
                   ease
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   wisely
                   deem'd
                   the
                   Wealth
                   of
                   Monarchs
                   less
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   little
                   of
                   his
                   own
                   ,
                   because
                   his
                   own
                   ,
                   did
                   please
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   quit
                   his
                   Care
                   ,
                   he
                   gather'd
                   first
                   of
                   all
                
                 
                   In
                   Spring
                   the
                   Roses
                   ,
                   Apples
                   in
                   the
                   Fall
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   when
                   cold
                   Winter
                   split
                   the
                   Rocks
                   in
                   twain
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Ice
                   the
                   running
                   Rivers
                   did
                   restrain
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   strip'd
                   the
                   Bears-foot
                   of
                   its
                   leafy
                   growth
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   calling
                   Western
                   Winds
                   ,
                   accus'd
                   the
                   Spring
                   of
                   sloath
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   therefore
                   first
                   among
                   the
                   Swains
                   was
                   found
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   reap
                   the
                   Product
                   of
                   his
                   labour'd
                   Ground
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   squeese
                   the
                   Combs
                   with
                   Golden
                   Liquor
                   Crown'd
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   Limes
                   were
                   first
                   in
                   Flow'rs
                   ,
                   his
                   lofty
                   Pines
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   friendly
                   Shade
                   ,
                   secur'd
                   his
                   tender
                   Vines
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   ev'ry
                   Bloom
                   his
                   Trees
                   in
                   Spring
                   afford
                   ,
                
                 
                   An
                   Autumn
                   Apple
                   was
                   by
                   tale
                   restor'd
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   knew
                   to
                   rank
                   his
                   Elms
                   in
                   even
                   rows
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   Fruit
                   the
                   grafted
                   Peartree
                   to
                   dispose
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   tame
                   to
                   Plums
                   ,
                   the
                   sourness
                   of
                   the
                   Sloes
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   spreading
                   Planes
                   he
                   made
                   a
                   cool
                   retreat
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   shade
                   good
                   Fellows
                   from
                   the
                   Summer's
                   heat
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   streighten'd
                   in
                   my
                   space
                   ,
                   I
                   must
                   forsake
                
                 
                   This
                   Task
                   ;
                   for
                   others
                   afterwards
                   to
                   take
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Describe
                   we
                   next
                   the
                   Nature
                   of
                   the
                   Bees
                   ,
                
                 
                   bestow'd
                   by
                   Jove
                   for
                   secret
                   Services
                   :
                
                 
                   When
                   by
                   the
                   tinkling
                   Sound
                   of
                   Timbrels
                   led
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   King
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   in
                   Cretan
                   Caves
                   they
                   fed
                   .
                
                 
                   Of
                   all
                   the
                   Race
                   of
                   Animals
                   ,
                   alone
                
                 
                   The
                   Bees
                   have
                   common
                   Cities
                   of
                   their
                   own
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   common
                   Sons
                   ,
                   beneath
                   one
                   Law
                   they
                   live
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   one
                   common
                   Stock
                   their
                   Traffick
                   drive
                   .
                
                 
                   Each
                   has
                   a
                   certain
                   home
                   ,
                   a
                   sev'ral
                   Stall
                   :
                
                 
                   All
                   is
                   the
                   States
                   ,
                   the
                   State
                   provides
                   for
                   all
                   .
                
                 
                   Mindful
                   of
                   coming
                   Cold
                   ,
                   they
                   share
                   the
                   Pain
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   hoard
                   ,
                   for
                   Winter's
                   use
                   ,
                   the
                   Summer's
                   gain
                   .
                
                 
                   Some
                   o're
                   the
                   Publick
                   Magazines
                   preside
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   some
                   are
                   sent
                   new
                   Forrage
                   to
                   provide
                   :
                
                 
                   These
                   drudge
                   in
                   Fields
                   abroad
                   ,
                   and
                   those
                   at
                   home
                
                 
                   Lay
                   deep
                   Foundations
                   for
                   the
                   labour'd
                   Comb
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   dew
                   ,
                   Narcissus
                   Leaves
                   ,
                   and
                   clammy
                   Gum.
                
                 
                   To
                   pitch
                   the
                   waxen
                   Flooring
                   some
                   contrive
                   :
                
                 
                   Some
                   nurse
                   the
                   future
                   Nation
                   of
                   the
                   Hive
                   :
                
                 
                   Sweet
                   Honey
                   some
                   condense
                   ,
                   some
                   purge
                   the
                   Grout
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   rest
                   ,
                   in
                   Cells
                   apart
                   ,
                   the
                   liquid
                   Nectar
                   shut
                   .
                
                 
                   All
                   ,
                   with
                   united
                   Force
                   ,
                   combine
                   to
                   drive
                
                 
                   The
                   lazy
                   Drones
                   from
                   the
                   laborious
                   Hive
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   Envy
                   stung
                   ,
                   they
                   view
                   each
                   others
                   Deeds
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   Diligence
                   the
                   fragrant
                   Work
                   proceeds
                   .
                
                 
                   As
                   when
                   the
                   Cyclops
                   ,
                   at
                   th'
                   Almighty
                   Nod
                   ,
                
                 
                   New
                   Thunder
                   hasten
                   for
                   their
                   angry
                   God
                   :
                
                 
                   Subdu'd
                   in
                   Fire
                   the
                   Stubborn
                   Mettal
                   lyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   One
                   brawny
                   Smith
                   the
                   puffing
                   Bellows
                   plyes
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   draws
                   ,
                   and
                   blows
                   reciprocating
                   Air
                   :
                
                 
                   Others
                   to
                   quench
                   the
                   hissing
                   Mass
                   prepare
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   lifted
                   Arms
                   they
                   order
                   ev'ry
                   Blow
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   chime
                   their
                   sounding
                   Hammers
                   in
                   a
                   Row
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   strokes
                   of
                   Anvils
                   Aetna
                   groans
                   below
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Strongly
                   they
                   strike
                   ,
                   huge
                   Flakes
                   of
                   Flames
                   expire
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Tongs
                   they
                   turn
                   the
                   Steel
                   ,
                   and
                   vex
                   it
                   in
                   the
                   Fire
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   little
                   things
                   with
                   great
                   we
                   may
                   compare
                   ,
                
                 
                   Such
                   are
                   the
                   Bees
                   ,
                   and
                   such
                   their
                   native
                   Care
                   :
                
                 
                   Studious
                   of
                   Honey
                   ,
                   each
                   in
                   his
                   Degree
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   youthful
                   Swain
                   ,
                   the
                   grave
                   experienc'd
                   Bee
                   :
                
                 
                   That
                   in
                   the
                   Field
                   ;
                   this
                   in
                   Affairs
                   of
                   State
                   ,
                
                 
                   Employ'd
                   at
                   home
                   ,
                   abides
                   within
                   the
                   Gate
                   :
                
                 
                   To
                   fortify
                   the
                   Combs
                   ,
                   to
                   build
                   the
                   Wall
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   prop
                   the
                   Ruins
                   lest
                   the
                   Fabrick
                   fall
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   late
                   at
                   Night
                   ,
                   with
                   weary
                   Pinions
                   come
                
                 
                   The
                   labr'ring
                   Youth
                   ,
                   and
                   heavy
                   laden
                   home
                   .
                
                 
                   Plains
                   ,
                   Meads
                   ,
                   and
                   Orchards
                   all
                   the
                   day
                   he
                   plies
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   gleans
                   of
                   yellow
                   Thime
                   distend
                   his
                   Thighs
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   spoils
                   the
                   Saffron
                   Flow'rs
                   ,
                   he
                   sips
                   the
                   blues
                
                 
                   Of
                   Vi'lets
                   ,
                   wilding
                   Blooms
                   ,
                   and
                   Willow
                   Dews
                   .
                
                 
                   Their
                   Toyl
                   is
                   common
                   ,
                   common
                   is
                   their
                   Sleep
                   ;
                
                 
                   They
                   shake
                   their
                   Wings
                   when
                   Morn
                   begins
                   to
                   peep
                   ;
                
                 
                   Rush
                   through
                   the
                   City
                   Gates
                   without
                   delay
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   ends
                   their
                   Work
                   ,
                   but
                   with
                   declining
                   Day
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   having
                   spent
                   the
                   last
                   remains
                   of
                   Light
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   give
                   thir
                   Bodies
                   due
                   repose
                   at
                   Night
                   :
                
                 
                   When
                   hollow
                   Murmurs
                   of
                   their
                   Ev'ning
                   Bells
                   ,
                
                 
                   Dismiss
                   the
                   sleepy
                   Swains
                   ,
                   and
                   toll
                   'em
                   to
                   their
                   Cells
                   .
                
                 
                   When
                   once
                   in
                   Beds
                   their
                   weary
                   Limbs
                   they
                   steep
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   buzzing
                   Sounds
                   disturb
                   thir
                   Golden
                   Sleep
                   .
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   sacred
                   Silence
                   all
                   .
                   Nor
                   dare
                   they
                   stray
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   Rain
                   is
                   promis'd
                   ,
                   or
                   a
                   stormy
                   Day
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   near
                   the
                   City
                   Walls
                   their
                   Watring
                   take
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Forrage
                   far
                   ,
                   but
                   short
                   Excursions
                   make
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   as
                   when
                   empty
                   Barks
                   on
                   Billows
                   float
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   sandy
                   Ballast
                   Sailors
                   trim
                   the
                   Boat
                   ;
                
                 
                   So
                   Bees
                   bear
                   Gravel
                   Stones
                   ,
                   whose
                   poising
                   Weight
                
                 
                   Steers
                   thro'
                   the
                   whistling
                   Winds
                   their
                   steddy
                   Flight
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   But
                   what
                   's
                   more
                   strange
                   ,
                   their
                   modest
                   Appetites
                   ,
                
                 
                   Averse
                   from
                   Venus
                   ,
                   fly
                   the
                   nuptial
                   Rites
                   .
                
                 
                   No
                   lust
                   enervates
                   their
                   Heroic
                   Mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   wasts
                   their
                   Strength
                   on
                   wanton
                   Woman-Kind
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   in
                   their
                   Mouths
                   reside
                   their
                   Genial
                   Pow'rs
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   gather
                   Children
                   from
                   the
                   Leaves
                   and
                   Flow'rs
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   make
                   they
                   Kings
                   to
                   fill
                   the
                   Regal
                   Seat
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   thus
                   their
                   little
                   Citizens
                   create
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   waxen
                   Cities
                   build
                   ,
                   and
                   Palaces
                   of
                   State.
                
                 
                   And
                   oft
                   on
                   Rocks
                   their
                   tender
                   Wings
                   they
                   tear
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   sink
                   beneath
                   the
                   Burthens
                   which
                   they
                   bear
                   .
                
                 
                   Such
                   Rage
                   of
                   Honey
                   in
                   their
                   Bosom
                   beats
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   such
                   a
                   Zeal
                   they
                   have
                   for
                   flow'ry
                   Sweets
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Thus
                   tho'
                   the
                   race
                   of
                   Life
                   they
                   quickly
                   run
                   ;
                
                 
                   Which
                   in
                   the
                   space
                   of
                   seven
                   short
                   Years
                   is
                   done
                   ,
                
                 
                   Th'
                   immortal
                   Line
                   in
                   fure
                   Succession
                   reigns
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Fortune
                   of
                   the
                   Family
                   remains
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   Grandsires
                   Grandsons
                   the
                   long
                   List
                   contains
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Besides
                   ,
                   not
                   
                     Egypt
                     ,
                     India
                     ,
                     Media
                  
                   more
                
                 
                   With
                   servile
                   Awe
                   ,
                   their
                   Idol
                   King
                   adore
                   :
                
                 
                   While
                   he
                   survives
                   ,
                   in
                   Concord
                   and
                   Content
                
                 
                   The
                   Commons
                   live
                   ,
                   by
                   no
                   Divisions
                   rent
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   the
                   great
                   Monarch's
                   Death
                   dissolves
                   the
                   Government
                   .
                
                 
                   All
                   goes
                   to
                   Ruin
                   ,
                   they
                   themselves
                   contrive
                
                 
                   To
                   rob
                   the
                   Honey
                   ,
                   and
                   subvert
                   the
                   Hive
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   King
                   presides
                   ,
                   his
                   Subjects
                   Toil
                   surveys
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   servile
                   Rout
                   their
                   careful
                   Caesar
                   praise
                   :
                
                 
                   Him
                   they
                   extol
                   ,
                   they
                   worship
                   him
                   alone
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   crowd
                   his
                   Levees
                   ,
                   and
                   support
                   his
                   Throne
                   :
                
                 
                   They
                   raise
                   him
                   on
                   their
                   shoulders
                   with
                   a
                   Shout
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   when
                   their
                   Sov'raigns
                   Quarrel
                   calls
                   'em
                   out
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Foes
                   to
                   mortal
                   Combat
                   they
                   defy
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   think
                   it
                   honour
                   at
                   his
                   feet
                   to
                   die
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Induc'd
                   by
                   such
                   Examples
                   ,
                   some
                   have
                   taught
                
                 
                   That
                   Bees
                   have
                   Portions
                   of
                   Etherial
                   Thought
                   :
                
                 
                   Endu'd
                   with
                   Particles
                   of
                   Heavenly
                   Fires
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   God
                   the
                   whole
                   created
                   Mass
                   inspires
                   ;
                
                 
                   Thro'
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   and
                   Earth
                   ,
                   and
                   Oceans
                   depth
                   he
                   throws
                
                 
                   His
                   Influence
                   round
                   ,
                   and
                   kindles
                   as
                   he
                   goes
                   .
                
                 
                   Hence
                   Flocks
                   ,
                   and
                   Herds
                   ,
                   and
                   Men
                   ,
                   and
                   Beasts
                   ,
                   and
                   Fowls
                
                 
                   With
                   Breath
                   are
                   quicken'd
                   ;
                   and
                   attract
                   their
                   Souls
                   .
                
                 
                   Hence
                   take
                   the
                   Forms
                   his
                   Prescience
                   did
                   ordain
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   into
                   him
                   at
                   length
                   resolve
                   again
                   .
                
                 
                   No
                   room
                   is
                   left
                   for
                   Death
                   ,
                   they
                   mount
                   the
                   Sky
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   to
                   their
                   own
                   congenial
                   Planets
                   fly
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Now
                   when
                   thou
                   hast
                   decreed
                   to
                   seize
                   their
                   Stores
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   by
                   Prerogative
                   to
                   break
                   their
                   Doors
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   sprinkl'd
                   Water
                   first
                   the
                   City
                   choak
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   then
                   pursue
                   the
                   Citizens
                   with
                   Smoak
                   .
                
                 
                   Two
                   Honey
                   Harvests
                   fall
                   in
                   ev'ry
                   Year
                   :
                
                 
                   First
                   ,
                   when
                   the
                   pleasing
                   Pleiades
                   appear
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   springing
                   upward
                   spurn
                   the
                   briny
                   Seas
                   :
                
                 
                   Again
                   ,
                   when
                   their
                   affrighted
                   Quire
                   surveys
                
                 
                   The
                   watry
                   Scorpion
                   mend
                   his
                   Pace
                   behind
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   a
                   black
                   Train
                   of
                   Storms
                   ,
                   and
                   winter
                   Wind
                   ;
                
                 
                   They
                   plunge
                   into
                   the
                   Deep
                   ,
                   and
                   safe
                   Protection
                   find
                   .
                
                 
                   Prone
                   to
                   Revenge
                   ,
                   the
                   Bees
                   ,
                   a
                   wrathful
                   Race
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   once
                   provok'd
                   assault
                   th'
                   Agressor's
                   Face
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   through
                   the
                   purple
                   Veins
                   a
                   passage
                   find
                   ;
                
                 
                   There
                   fix
                   their
                   Stings
                   ,
                   and
                   leave
                   their
                   Souls
                   behind
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   if
                   a
                   pinching
                   Winter
                   thou
                   foresee
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   woud'st
                   preserve
                   thy
                   famish'd
                   Family
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   fragant
                   Thyme
                   the
                   City
                   fumigate
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   break
                   the
                   waxen
                   Walls
                   to
                   save
                   the
                   State.
                
                 
                   For
                   lurking
                   Lizards
                   often
                   lodge
                   ,
                   by
                   Stealth
                   ,
                
                 
                   Within
                   the
                   Suburbs
                   ,
                   and
                   purloyn
                   their
                   Wealth
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   Worms
                   that
                   shun
                   the
                   Light
                   ,
                   a
                   dark
                   Retreat
                
                 
                   Have
                   found
                   in
                   Combs
                   ,
                   and
                   undermin'd
                   the
                   Seat.
                
                 
                   Or
                   lazy
                   Drones
                   ,
                   without
                   their
                   Share
                   of
                   Pain
                   ;
                
                 
                   In
                   Winter
                   Quarters
                   free
                   ,
                   devour
                   the
                   Gain
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   Wasps
                   infest
                   the
                   Camp
                   with
                   loud
                   Alarms
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   mix
                   in
                   Battel
                   with
                   unequal
                   Arms
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   secret
                   Moaths
                   are
                   there
                   in
                   Silence
                   fed
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   Spiders
                   in
                   the
                   Vault
                   ,
                   their
                   snary
                   Webs
                   have
                   spred
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   more
                   oppress'd
                   by
                   Foes
                   ,
                   or
                   Famine
                   pin'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   more
                   increase
                   thy
                   Care
                   to
                   save
                   the
                   sinking
                   Kind
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   Greens
                   and
                   Flow'rs
                   recruit
                   their
                   empty
                   Hives
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   seek
                   fresh
                   Forrage
                   to
                   sustain
                   their
                   Lives
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   since
                   they
                   share
                   with
                   us
                   one
                   common
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   Health
                   and
                   Sickness
                   ,
                   and
                   in
                   Turns
                   of
                   State
                   ;
                
                 
                   Observe
                   the
                   Symptoms
                   when
                   they
                   fall
                   away
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   languish
                   with
                   insensible
                   Decay
                   .
                
                 
                   They
                   change
                   their
                   Hue
                   ,
                   with
                   hagger'd
                   Eyes
                   they
                   stare
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lean
                   are
                   their
                   Looks
                   ,
                   and
                   shagged
                   is
                   their
                   Hair
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   Crowds
                   of
                   dead
                   ,
                   that
                   never
                   must
                   return
                
                 
                   To
                   their
                   lov'd
                   Hives
                   ,
                   in
                   decent
                   Pomp
                   are
                   born
                   :
                
                 
                   Their
                   Friends
                   attend
                   the
                   Herse
                   ,
                   the
                   next
                   Relations
                   Mourn
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   sick
                   ,
                   for
                   Air
                   before
                   the
                   Portal
                   gasp
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   feeble
                   Legs
                   within
                   each
                   other
                   clasp
                   .
                
                 
                   Or
                   idle
                   in
                   their
                   empty
                   Hives
                   remain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Benum'd
                   with
                   Cold
                   ,
                   and
                   listless
                   of
                   their
                   Gain
                   .
                
                 
                   Soft
                   Whispers
                   then
                   ,
                   and
                   broken
                   Sounds
                   are
                   heard
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   when
                   the
                   Woods
                   by
                   gentle
                   Winds
                   are
                   stir'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Such
                   stifled
                   noise
                   as
                   the
                   close
                   Furnace
                   hides
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   dying
                   Murmurs
                   of
                   departing
                   Tides
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   when
                   thou
                   seest
                   ,
                   Galbanean
                   Odours
                   use
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Honey
                   in
                   the
                   sickly
                   Hive
                   infuse
                   .
                
                 
                   Thro'
                   reeden
                   Pipes
                   convey
                   the
                   Golden
                   Flood
                   ,
                
                 
                   T'
                   invite
                   the
                   People
                   to
                   their
                   wonted
                   Food
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Mix
                   it
                   with
                   thicken'd
                   Juice
                   of
                   sodden
                   Wines
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Raisins
                   from
                   the
                   Grapes
                   of
                   Psythian
                   Vines
                   :
                
                 
                   To
                   these
                   add
                   pounded
                   Galls
                   ,
                   and
                   Roses
                   dry
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   Cecropian
                   Thyme
                   ,
                   strong
                   scented
                   Centaury
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   A
                   Flow'r
                   there
                   is
                   that
                   grows
                   in
                   Meadow
                   Ground
                   ,
                
                 
                   Amellus
                   call'd
                   ,
                   and
                   easy
                   to
                   be
                   found
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   from
                   one
                   Root
                   the
                   rising
                   Stem
                   bestows
                
                 
                   A
                   Wood
                   of
                   Leaves
                   ,
                   and
                   vi'let-purple
                   Boughs
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Flow'r
                   it self
                   is
                   glorious
                   to
                   behold
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   shines
                   on
                   Altars
                   like
                   refulgent
                   Gold
                   :
                
                 
                   Sharp
                   to
                   the
                   Taste
                   ,
                   by
                   Shepherds
                   near
                   the
                   Stream
                
                 
                   Of
                   Mella
                   found
                   ,
                   and
                   thence
                   they
                   gave
                   the
                   Name
                   .
                
                 
                   Boyl
                   this
                   restoring
                   Root
                   in
                   gen'rous
                   Wine
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   set
                   beside
                   the
                   Door
                   ,
                   the
                   sickly
                   Stock
                   to
                   dine
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   if
                   the
                   lab'ring
                   Kind
                   be
                   wholly
                   lost
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   not
                   to
                   be
                   retriev'd
                   with
                   Care
                   or
                   Cost
                   ;
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   time
                   to
                   touch
                   the
                   Precepts
                   of
                   an
                   Art
                   ,
                
                 
                   Th'
                   Arcadian
                   Master
                   did
                   of
                   old
                   impart
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   how
                   he
                   stock'd
                   his
                   empty
                   Hives
                   again
                   ;
                
                 
                   Renew'd
                   with
                   putrid
                   Gore
                   of
                   Oxen
                   slain
                   .
                
                 
                   An
                   ancient
                   Legend
                   I
                   prepare
                   to
                   sing
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   upward
                   follow
                   Fame's
                   immortal
                   Spring
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   For
                   where
                   with
                   sev'n-fold
                   Horns
                   mysterious
                   Nile
                
                 
                   Surrounds
                   the
                   Skirts
                   of
                   
                   Egypt's
                   fruitful
                   Isle
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   where
                   in
                   Pomp
                   the
                   Sun-burnt
                   People
                   ride
                
                 
                   On
                   painted
                   Barges
                   ,
                   o're
                   the
                   teeming
                   Tide
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   pouring
                   down
                   from
                   Ethiopian
                   Lands
                   ,
                
                 
                   Makes
                   green
                   the
                   Soyl
                   with
                   Slime
                   ,
                   and
                   black
                   prolific
                   Sands
                   ;
                
                 
                   That
                   length
                   of
                   Region
                   ,
                   and
                   large
                   Tract
                   of
                   Ground
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   this
                   one
                   Art
                   a
                   sure
                   relief
                   have
                   found
                   .
                
                 
                   First
                   ,
                   in
                   a
                   place
                   ,
                   by
                   Nature
                   closs
                   ,
                   they
                   build
                
                 
                   A
                   narrow
                   Flooring
                   ,
                   gutter'd
                   ,
                   wall'd
                   ,
                   and
                   til'd
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   In
                   this
                   ,
                   four
                   Windows
                   are
                   contriv'd
                   ,
                   that
                   strike
                
                 
                   To
                   the
                   four
                   Winds
                   oppos'd
                   ,
                   their
                   Beams
                   oblique
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   Steer
                   of
                   two
                   Years
                   old
                   they
                   take
                   ,
                   whose
                   Head
                
                 
                   Now
                   first
                   with
                   burnish'd
                   Horns
                   begins
                   to
                   spread
                   :
                
                 
                   They
                   stop
                   his
                   Nostrils
                   ,
                   while
                   he
                   strives
                   in
                   vain
                
                 
                   To
                   breath
                   free
                   Air
                   ,
                   and
                   struggles
                   with
                   his
                   Pain
                   .
                
                 
                   Knock'd
                   down
                   ,
                   he
                   dyes
                   :
                   his
                   Bowels
                   bruis'd
                   within
                   ,
                
                 
                   Betray
                   no
                   Wound
                   on
                   his
                   unbroken
                   Skin
                   .
                
                 
                   Extended
                   thus
                   ,
                   in
                   this
                   obscene
                   Abode
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   leave
                   the
                   Beast
                   ;
                   but
                   first
                   sweet
                   Flow'rs
                   are
                   strow'd
                
                 
                   Beneath
                   his
                   Body
                   ,
                   broken
                   Boughs
                   and
                   Thyme
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   pleasing
                   Cassia
                   just
                   renew'd
                   in
                   prime
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   must
                   be
                   done
                   ,
                   e're
                   Spring
                   makes
                   equal
                   Day
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   Western
                   Winds
                   on
                   curling
                   Waters
                   play
                   :
                
                 
                   E're
                   painted
                   Meads
                   produce
                   their
                   Flow'ry
                   Crops
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   Swallows
                   twitter
                   on
                   the
                   Chimney
                   Tops
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   tainted
                   Blood
                   ,
                   in
                   this
                   close
                   Prison
                   pent
                   ,
                
                 
                   Begins
                   to
                   boyl
                   and
                   through
                   the
                   Bones
                   ferment
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   wondrous
                   to
                   behold
                   ,
                   new
                   Creatures
                   rise
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   moving
                   Mass
                   at
                   first
                   ,
                   and
                   short
                   of
                   Thighs
                   ;
                
                 
                   'Till
                   shooting
                   out
                   with
                   Legs
                   ,
                   and
                   imp'd
                   with
                   Wings
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Grubs
                   proceed
                   to
                   Bees
                   with
                   pointed
                   Stings
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   more
                   and
                   more
                   affecting
                   Air
                   ,
                   they
                   try
                
                 
                   Their
                   tender
                   Pinions
                   ,
                   and
                   begin
                   to
                   fly
                   :
                
                 
                   At
                   length
                   ,
                   like
                   Summer
                   Storms
                   from
                   spreading
                   Clouds
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   burst
                   at
                   once
                   ,
                   and
                   pour
                   impetuous
                   Floods
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   Flights
                   of
                   Arrows
                   from
                   the
                   Parthian
                   Bows
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   from
                   afar
                   they
                   gaul
                   embattel'd
                   Foes
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   such
                   a
                   Tempest
                   thro'
                   the
                   Skies
                   they
                   Steer
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   such
                   a
                   form
                   the
                   winged
                   Squadrons
                   bear
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   What
                   God
                   ,
                   O
                   Muse
                   !
                   this
                   useful
                   Science
                   taught
                   ?
                
                 
                   Or
                   by
                   what
                   Man's
                   Experience
                   was
                   it
                   brought
                   ?
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Sad
                   Aristaeus
                   from
                   fair
                   Tempe
                   fled
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Bees
                   with
                   Famine
                   ,
                   or
                   Diseases
                   dead
                   :
                
                 
                   On
                   
                   Peneus's
                   Banks
                   he
                   stood
                   ,
                   and
                   near
                   his
                   holy
                   Head.
                
                 
                   And
                   while
                   his
                   falling
                   Tears
                   the
                   Stream
                   supply'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thus
                   mourning
                   ,
                   to
                   his
                   Mother
                   Goddess
                   cry'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Mother
                   Cyrene
                   ,
                   Mother
                   ,
                   whose
                   abode
                
                 
                   Is
                   in
                   the
                   depth
                   of
                   this
                   immortal
                   Flood
                   :
                
                 
                   What
                   boots
                   it
                   ,
                   that
                   from
                   
                   Phoebus's
                   Loyns
                   I
                   spring
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   third
                   by
                   him
                   and
                   thee
                   ,
                   from
                   Heav'ns
                   high
                   King
                   ?
                
                 
                   O!
                   Where
                   is
                   all
                   thy
                   boasted
                   Pity
                   gone
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Promise
                   of
                   the
                   Skies
                   to
                   thy
                   deluded
                   Son
                   ?
                
                 
                   Why
                   didst
                   thou
                   me
                   ,
                   unhappy
                   me
                   ,
                   create
                   ?
                
                 
                   Odious
                   to
                   Gods
                   ,
                   and
                   born
                   to
                   bitter
                   Fate
                   .
                
                 
                   Whom
                   ▪
                   scarce
                   my
                   Sheep
                   ,
                   and
                   scarce
                   my
                   painful
                   Plough
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   needsul
                   Aids
                   of
                   Human
                   Life
                   allow
                   ;
                
                 
                   So
                   wretched
                   is
                   thy
                   Son
                   ,
                   so
                   hard
                   a
                   Mother
                   thou
                   .
                
                 
                   Proceed
                   ,
                   inhuman
                   Parent
                   in
                   thy
                   Scorn
                   ;
                
                 
                   Root
                   up
                   my
                   Trees
                   ,
                   with
                   Blites
                   destroy
                   my
                   Corn
                   ;
                
                 
                   My
                   Vineyards
                   Ruin
                   ,
                   and
                   my
                   Sheepfolds
                   burn
                   .
                
                 
                   Let
                   loose
                   thy
                   Rage
                   ,
                   let
                   all
                   thy
                   Spite
                   be
                   shown
                   ,
                
                 
                   Since
                   thus
                   thou
                   hat'st
                   the
                   Praises
                   of
                   thy
                   Son.
                
                 
                   But
                   from
                   her
                   Mossy
                   Bow'r
                   below
                   the
                   Ground
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   careful
                   Mother
                   heard
                   the
                   Plaintive
                   sound
                   ;
                
                 
                   Encompass'd
                   with
                   her
                   Sea-green
                   Sisters
                   round
                   .
                
                 
                   One
                   common
                   Work
                   they
                   ply'd
                   :
                   their
                   Distaffs
                   full
                
                 
                   With
                   carded
                   Locks
                   of
                   blue
                   Milesian
                   Wool.
                
                 
                   Spio
                   with
                   Drymo
                   brown
                   ,
                   and
                   Xanthe
                   fair
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   sweet
                   Phyllodoce
                   with
                   long
                   dishevel'd
                   Hair
                   :
                
                 
                   Cydippe
                   with
                   Licorias
                   ,
                   one
                   a
                   Maid
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   one
                   that
                   once
                   had
                   call'd
                   
                   Lucina's
                   Aid
                   .
                
                 
                   Clio
                   and
                   Beroe
                   ,
                   from
                   one
                   Father
                   both
                   ,
                
                 
                   Both
                   girt
                   with
                   Gold
                   ,
                   and
                   clad
                   in
                   particolour'd
                   Cloth.
                
                 
                 
                   Opis
                   the
                   meek
                   ,
                   and
                   Deiopeia
                   proud
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nisaea
                   softly
                   ,
                   with
                   Ligaea
                   loud
                   ;
                
                 
                   Thalia
                   joyous
                   ,
                   Ephyre
                   the
                   sad
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Arethusa
                   once
                   
                   Diana's
                   Maid
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   now
                   ,
                   her
                   Quiver
                   left
                   ,
                   to
                   Love
                   betray'd
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   these
                   ,
                   Climene
                   the
                   sweet
                   Theft
                   declares
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   Mars
                   and
                   Vulcans
                   unavailing
                   Cares
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   the
                   Rapes
                   of
                   Gods
                   ,
                   and
                   ev'ry
                   Love
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   antient
                   Chaos
                   down
                   to
                   youthful
                   Jove
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Thus
                   while
                   she
                   sings
                   ,
                   the
                   Sisters
                   turn
                   the
                   Wheel
                   ,
                
                 
                   Empty
                   the
                   wooly
                   Rock
                   ,
                   and
                   fill
                   the
                   Reel
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   mournful
                   Sound
                   ,
                   agen
                   the
                   Mother
                   hears
                   ;
                
                 
                   Agen
                   the
                   mournful
                   Sound
                   invades
                   the
                   Sister's
                   Ears
                   :
                
                 
                   Starting
                   at
                   once
                   from
                   their
                   green
                   Seats
                   ,
                   they
                   rise
                   ;
                
                 
                   Fear
                   in
                   their
                   Heart
                   ,
                   Amazement
                   in
                   their
                   Eyes
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   Arethusa
                   leaping
                   from
                   her
                   Bed
                   ,
                
                 
                   First
                   lifts
                   above
                   the
                   Waves
                   her
                   beauteous
                   Head
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   crying
                   from
                   afar
                   ,
                   thus
                   to
                   Cyrene
                   said
                   .
                
                 
                   O
                   Sister
                   !
                   not
                   with
                   causeless
                   Fear
                   possest
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   Stranger
                   Voice
                   disturbs
                   thy
                   tender
                   Breast
                   .
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   Aristeus
                   ,
                   't
                   is
                   thy
                   darling
                   Son
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   to
                   his
                   careless
                   Mother
                   makes
                   his
                   Moan
                   .
                
                 
                   Near
                   his
                   Paternal
                   Stream
                   he
                   sadly
                   stands
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   down-cast
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   wet
                   Cheeks
                   ,
                   and
                   folded
                   Hands
                   :
                
                 
                   Upbraiding
                   Heav'n
                   from
                   whence
                   his
                   Lineage
                   came
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   cruel
                   calls
                   the
                   Gods
                   ,
                   and
                   cruel
                   thee
                   ,
                   by
                   Name
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Cyrene
                   mov'd
                   with
                   Love
                   ,
                   and
                   seiz'd
                   with
                   Fear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Cries
                   out
                   ,
                   conduct
                   my
                   Son
                   ,
                   conduct
                   him
                   here
                   :
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   lawful
                   for
                   the
                   Youth
                   ,
                   deriv'd
                   from
                   Gods
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   view
                   the
                   Secrets
                   of
                   our
                   deep
                   Abodes
                   .
                
                 
                   At
                   once
                   she
                   wav'd
                   her
                   Hand
                   on
                   either
                   side
                   ,
                
                 
                   At
                   once
                   the
                   Ranks
                   of
                   swelling
                   Streams
                   divide
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Two
                   rising
                   Heaps
                   of
                   liquid
                   Crystal
                   stand
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   leave
                   a
                   Space
                   betwixt
                   ,
                   of
                   empty
                   Sand.
                
                 
                   Thus
                   safe
                   receiv'd
                   ,
                   the
                   downward
                   track
                   he
                   treads
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   to
                   his
                   Mother's
                   watry
                   Palace
                   leads
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   wond'ring
                   Eyes
                   he
                   views
                   the
                   secret
                   Store
                
                 
                   Of
                   Lakes
                   ,
                   that
                   pent
                   in
                   hollow
                   Caverns
                   ,
                   roar
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   hears
                   the
                   crackling
                   Sound
                   of
                   Coral
                   Woods
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   sees
                   the
                   secret
                   Source
                   of
                   subterranean
                   Floods
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   where
                   ,
                   distinguish'd
                   in
                   their
                   sev'ral
                   Cells
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Fount
                   of
                   Phasis
                   ;
                   and
                   of
                   Lycus
                   dwells
                   ;
                
                 
                   Where
                   swift
                   Enipeus
                   in
                   his
                   Bed
                   appears
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Tiber
                   his
                   Majestick
                   Forehead
                   rears
                   .
                
                 
                   Whence
                   Anio
                   flows
                   ,
                   and
                   Hypanis
                   ,
                   profound
                   ,
                
                 
                   Breaks
                   through
                   th'
                   opposing
                   Rocks
                   with
                   raging
                   Sound
                   .
                
                 
                   Where
                   Po
                   first
                   issues
                   from
                   his
                   dark
                   abodes
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   awful
                   in
                   his
                   Cradle
                   ,
                   rules
                   the
                   Floods
                   .
                
                 
                   Two
                   Golden
                   Horns
                   on
                   his
                   large
                   Front
                   he
                   wears
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   his
                   grim
                   Face
                   a
                   Bull
                   's
                   Resemblance
                   bears
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   rapid
                   Course
                   he
                   seeks
                   the
                   sacred
                   Main
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   fattens
                   ,
                   as
                   he
                   runs
                   ,
                   the
                   fruitful
                   Plain
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Now
                   to
                   the
                   Court
                   arriv'd
                   ,
                   th'
                   admiring
                   Son
                
                 
                   Beholds
                   the
                   vaulted
                   Roofs
                   of
                   Pory
                   Stone
                   ;
                
                 
                   Now
                   to
                   his
                   Mother
                   Goddess
                   tells
                   his
                   Grief
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   she
                   with
                   Pity
                   hears
                   ,
                   and
                   promises
                   Relief
                   .
                
                 
                   Th'
                   officious
                   Nymphs
                   ,
                   attending
                   in
                   a
                   Ring
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Waters
                   drawn
                   from
                   their
                   perpetual
                   Spring
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   earthly
                   dregs
                   his
                   Body
                   purify
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   rub
                   his
                   Temples
                   ,
                   with
                   fine
                   Towels
                   ,
                   dry
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   load
                   the
                   Tables
                   with
                   a
                   lib'ral
                   Feast
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   honour
                   with
                   full
                   Bowls
                   their
                   friendly
                   Guest
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   sacred
                   Altars
                   are
                   involv'd
                   in
                   Smoak
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   bright
                   Quire
                   their
                   kindred
                   Gods
                   invoke
                   .
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     S
                     r
                     Bartholomen
                     Shower
                     of
                     the
                     Midle
                     Temple
                     .
                     Knt.
                  
                   
                     Go
                     :
                     4.
                     l.
                     535.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                 
                   Two
                   Bowls
                   the
                   Mother
                   fills
                   with
                   Lydian
                   Wine
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   thus
                   ,
                   Let
                   these
                   be
                   pour'd
                   ,
                   with
                   Rites
                   divine
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   the
                   great
                   Authors
                   of
                   our
                   wat'ry
                   Line
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   Father
                   Ocean
                   ,
                   this
                   ;
                   and
                   this
                   ,
                   she
                   said
                   ,
                
                 
                   Be
                   to
                   the
                   Nymphs
                   his
                   sacred
                   Sisters
                   paid
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   rule
                   the
                   wat'ry
                   Plains
                   ,
                   and
                   hold
                   the
                   woodland
                   Shade
                   .
                
                 
                   She
                   sprinkl'd
                   thrice
                   ,
                   with
                   Wine
                   ,
                   the
                   Vestal
                   Fire
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thrice
                   to
                   the
                   vaulted
                   Roof
                   the
                   Flames
                   aspire
                   .
                
                 
                   Rais'd
                   with
                   so
                   blest
                   an
                   Omen
                   ,
                   she
                   begun
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Words
                   like
                   these
                   ,
                   to
                   chear
                   her
                   drooping
                   Son.
                
                 
                   In
                   the
                   Carpathian
                   Bottom
                   makes
                   abode
                
                 
                   The
                   Shepherd
                   of
                   the
                   Seas
                   ,
                   a
                   Prophet
                   and
                   a
                   God
                   ;
                
                 
                   High
                   o're
                   the
                   Main
                   in
                   wat'ry
                   Pomp
                   he
                   rides
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   azure
                   Carr
                   and
                   finny
                   Coursers
                   guides
                   :
                
                 
                   Proteus
                   his
                   Name
                   :
                   to
                   his
                   Pallenian
                   Port
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   see
                   from
                   far
                   the
                   weary
                   God
                   resort
                   .
                
                 
                   Him
                   ,
                   not
                   alone
                   ,
                   we
                   River
                   Gods
                   adore
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   aged
                   Nereus
                   hearkens
                   to
                   his
                   Lore
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   sure
                   foresight
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   unerring
                   Doom
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   sees
                   what
                   is
                   ,
                   and
                   was
                   ,
                   and
                   is
                   to
                   come
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   Neptune
                   gave
                   him
                   ,
                   when
                   he
                   gave
                   to
                   keep
                
                 
                   His
                   scaly
                   Flocks
                   ,
                   that
                   graze
                   the
                   wat'ry
                   deep
                   .
                
                 
                   Implore
                   his
                   Aid
                   ,
                   for
                   Proteus
                   onely
                   knows
                
                 
                   The
                   secret
                   Cause
                   ,
                   and
                   Cure
                   of
                   all
                   thy
                   Woes
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   first
                   the
                   wily
                   Wizard
                   must
                   be
                   caught
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   unconstrain'd
                   he
                   nothing
                   tells
                   for
                   naught
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   is
                   with
                   Pray'rs
                   ,
                   or
                   Bribes
                   ,
                   or
                   Flatt'ry
                   bought
                   .
                
                 
                   Surprise
                   him
                   first
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   hard
                   Fetters
                   bind
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   all
                   his
                   Frauds
                   will
                   vanish
                   into
                   Wind.
                
                 
                   I
                   will
                   my self
                   conduct
                   thee
                   on
                   thy
                   Way
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   next
                   the
                   Southing
                   Sun
                   inflames
                   the
                   Day
                   :
                
                 
                   When
                   the
                   dry
                   Herbage
                   thirsts
                   for
                   Dews
                   in
                   vain
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Sheep
                   ,
                   in
                   Shades
                   ,
                   avoid
                   the
                   parching
                   Plain
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Then
                   will
                   I
                   lead
                   thee
                   to
                   his
                   secret
                   Seat
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   weary
                   with
                   his
                   Toyl
                   ,
                   and
                   scorch'd
                   with
                   Heat
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   wayward
                   Sire
                   frequents
                   his
                   cool
                   Retreat
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   Eyes
                   with
                   heavy
                   Slumber
                   overcast
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   Force
                   invade
                   his
                   Limbs
                   ,
                   and
                   bind
                   him
                   fast
                   :
                
                 
                   Thus
                   surely
                   bound
                   ,
                   yet
                   be
                   not
                   over
                   bold
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   slipp'ry
                   God
                   will
                   try
                   to
                   loose
                   his
                   hold
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   various
                   Forms
                   assume
                   ,
                   to
                   cheat
                   thy
                   sight
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   vain
                   Images
                   of
                   Beasts
                   affright
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   foamy
                   Tusks
                   he
                   seems
                   a
                   bristly
                   Boar
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   imitates
                   the
                   Lion's
                   angry
                   Roar
                   ;
                
                 
                   Breaks
                   out
                   in
                   crackling
                   Flames
                   to
                   shun
                   thy
                   Snares
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Dragon
                   hisses
                   ,
                   or
                   a
                   Tyger
                   stares
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   with
                   a
                   Wile
                   ,
                   thy
                   Caution
                   to
                   betray
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   fleeting
                   Streams
                   attempts
                   to
                   slide
                   away
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   thou
                   ,
                   the
                   more
                   he
                   varies
                   Forms
                   ,
                   beware
                
                 
                   To
                   strain
                   his
                   Fetters
                   with
                   a
                   stricter
                   Care
                   :
                
                 
                   'Till
                   tiring
                   all
                   his
                   Arts
                   ,
                   he
                   turns
                   agen
                
                 
                   To
                   his
                   true
                   Shape
                   ,
                   in
                   which
                   he
                   first
                   was
                   seen
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   This
                   said
                   ,
                   with
                   Nectar
                   she
                   her
                   Son
                   anoints
                   ;
                
                 
                   Infusing
                   Vigour
                   through
                   his
                   mortal
                   Joynts
                   :
                
                 
                   Down
                   from
                   his
                   Head
                   the
                   liquid
                   Odours
                   ran
                   ;
                
                 
                   He
                   breath'd
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   and
                   look'd
                   above
                   a
                   Man.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Within
                   a
                   Mountain's
                   hollow
                   Womb
                   ,
                   there
                   lies
                
                 
                   A
                   large
                   Recess
                   ,
                   conceal'd
                   from
                   Human
                   Eyes
                   ;
                
                 
                   Where
                   heaps
                   of
                   Billows
                   ,
                   driv'n
                   by
                   Wind
                   and
                   Tide
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   Form
                   of
                   War
                   ,
                   their
                   wat'ry
                   Ranks
                   divide
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   there
                   ,
                   like
                   Centries
                   set
                   ,
                   without
                   the
                   Mouth
                   abide
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   Station
                   safe
                   for
                   Ships
                   ,
                   when
                   Tempests
                   roar
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   silent
                   Harbour
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   cover'd
                   Shoar
                   .
                
                 
                   Secure
                   within
                   resides
                   the
                   various
                   God
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   draws
                   a
                   Rock
                   upon
                   his
                   dark
                   Abode
                   .
                
              
               
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     Simon
                     Harcourt
                     of
                     Stanton
                     Harcourt
                     in
                     the
                     County
                     of
                     Oxon
                     
                       Esq.
                    
                     .
                  
                   
                     Geo
                     4
                     :
                     L
                     :
                     635.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Hether
                   with
                   silent
                   Steps
                   ,
                   secure
                   from
                   Sight
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Goddess
                   guides
                   her
                   Son
                   ,
                   and
                   turns
                   him
                   from
                   the
                   Light
                   :
                
                 
                   Her self
                   ,
                   involv'd
                   in
                   Clouds
                   ,
                   precipitates
                   her
                   Flight
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   'T
                   was
                   Noon
                   ;
                   the
                   sultry
                   Dog-star
                   from
                   the
                   Sky
                
                 
                   Scorch'd
                   Indian
                   Swains
                   ,
                   the
                   rivell'd
                   Grass
                   was
                   dry
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Sun
                   with
                   flaming
                   Arrows
                   pierc'd
                   the
                   Flood
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   darting
                   to
                   the
                   bottom
                   ,
                   bak'd
                   the
                   Mud
                   :
                
                 
                   When
                   weary
                   Proteus
                   ,
                   from
                   the
                   briny
                   Waves
                   ,
                
                 
                   Retir'd
                   for
                   Shelter
                   to
                   his
                   wonted
                   Caves
                   :
                
                 
                   His
                   finny
                   Flocks
                   about
                   their
                   Shepherd
                   play
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   rowling
                   round
                   him
                   ,
                   spirt
                   the
                   bitter
                   Sea.
                
                 
                   Unweildily
                   they
                   wallow
                   first
                   in
                   Ooze
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   in
                   the
                   shady
                   Covert
                   seek
                   Repose
                   .
                
                 
                   Himself
                   their
                   Herdsman
                   ,
                   on
                   the
                   middle
                   Mount
                   ,
                
                 
                   Takes
                   of
                   his
                   muster'd
                   Flocks
                   a
                   just
                   Account
                   .
                
                 
                   So
                   ,
                   seated
                   on
                   a
                   Rock
                   ,
                   a
                   Shepherd's
                   Groom
                
                 
                   Surveys
                   his
                   Ev'ning
                   Flocks
                   returning
                   Home
                   :
                
                 
                   When
                   lowing
                   Calves
                   ,
                   and
                   bleating
                   Lambs
                   ,
                   from
                   far
                   ,
                
                 
                   Provoke
                   the
                   prouling
                   Wolf
                   to
                   nightly
                   War.
                
                 
                   Th'
                   Occasion
                   offers
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Youth
                   complies
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   scarce
                   the
                   weary
                   God
                   had
                   clos'd
                   his
                   Eyes
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   rushing
                   on
                   ,
                   with
                   shouts
                   ,
                   he
                   binds
                   in
                   Chains
                
                 
                   The
                   drowzy
                   Prophet
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Limbs
                   constrains
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   ,
                   not
                   unmindful
                   of
                   his
                   usual
                   Art
                   ,
                
                 
                   First
                   in
                   dissembled
                   Fire
                   attempts
                   to
                   part
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   roaring
                   Beasts
                   ,
                   and
                   running
                   Streams
                   he
                   tryes
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   wearies
                   all
                   his
                   Miracles
                   of
                   Lies
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   having
                   shifted
                   ev'ry
                   Form
                   to
                   scape
                   ,
                
                 
                   Convinc'd
                   of
                   Conquest
                   ,
                   he
                   resum'd
                   his
                   shape
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   thus
                   ,
                   at
                   length
                   ,
                   in
                   human
                   Accent
                   spoke
                   ▪
                
                 
                   Audacious
                   Youth
                   ,
                   what
                   madness
                   cou'd
                   provoke
                
                 
                   A
                   Mortal
                   Man
                   t'
                   invade
                   a
                   sleeping
                   God
                   ?
                
                 
                   What
                   Buis'ness
                   brought
                   thee
                   to
                   my
                   dark
                   abode
                   ?
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   To
                   this
                   ,
                   th'
                   audacious
                   Youth
                   ;
                   Thou
                   know'st
                   full
                   well
                
                 
                   My
                   Name
                   ,
                   and
                   Buis'ness
                   ,
                   God
                   ,
                   nor
                   need
                   I
                   tell
                   :
                
                 
                   No
                   Man
                   can
                   Proteus
                   cheat
                   ;
                   but
                   Proteus
                   leave
                
                 
                   Thy
                   fraudful
                   Arts
                   ,
                   and
                   do
                   not
                   thou
                   deceive
                   .
                
                 
                   Foll'wing
                   the
                   Gods
                   Command
                   ,
                   I
                   come
                   t'implore
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Help
                   ,
                   my
                   perish'd
                   People
                   to
                   restore
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Seer
                   ,
                   who
                   could
                   not
                   yet
                   his
                   Wrath
                   asswage
                   ,
                
                 
                   Rowl'd
                   his
                   green
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   that
                   sparkl'd
                   with
                   his
                   Rage
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   gnash'd
                   his
                   Teeth
                   ,
                   and
                   cry'd
                   ,
                   No
                   vulgar
                   God
                
                 
                   Pursues
                   thy
                   Crimes
                   ,
                   nor
                   with
                   a
                   Common
                   Rod.
                
                 
                   Thy
                   great
                   Misdeeds
                   have
                   met
                   a
                   due
                   Reward
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   
                   Orpheus's
                   dying
                   Pray'rs
                   at
                   length
                   are
                   heard
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   Crimes
                   ,
                   not
                   his
                   ,
                   the
                   Lover
                   lost
                   his
                   Life
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   at
                   thy
                   Hands
                   requires
                   his
                   murther'd
                   Wife
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   (
                   if
                   the
                   Fates
                   assist
                   not
                   )
                   canst
                   thou
                   scape
                
                 
                   The
                   just
                   Revenge
                   of
                   that
                   intended
                   Rape
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   shun
                   thy
                   lawless
                   Lust
                   ,
                   the
                   dying
                   Bride
                   ,
                
                 
                   Unwary
                   ,
                   took
                   along
                   the
                   River's
                   side
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   ,
                   at
                   her
                   Heels
                   perceiv'd
                   the
                   deadly
                   Snake
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   kept
                   the
                   Bank
                   ,
                   in
                   Covert
                   of
                   the
                   Brake
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   all
                   her
                   fellow
                   Nymphs
                   the
                   Mountains
                   tear
                
                 
                   With
                   loud
                   Laments
                   ,
                   and
                   break
                   the
                   yielding
                   Air
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Realms
                   of
                   Mars
                   remurmur'd
                   all
                   around
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Echoes
                   to
                   th'
                   Athenian
                   Shoars
                   rebound
                   .
                
                 
                   Th'
                   unhappy
                   Husband
                   ,
                   Husband
                   now
                   no
                   more
                   ,
                
                 
                   Did
                   on
                   his
                   tuneful
                   Harp
                   his
                   Loss
                   deplore
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   sought
                   ,
                   his
                   mournful
                   Mind
                   with
                   Musick
                   to
                   restore
                   .
                
                 
                   On
                   thee
                   ,
                   dear
                   Wife
                   ,
                   in
                   Desarts
                   all
                   alone
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   call'd
                   ,
                   sigh'd
                   ,
                   sung
                   ,
                   his
                   Griefs
                   with
                   Day
                   begun
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   were
                   they
                   finish'd
                   with
                   the
                   setting
                   Sun.
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   to
                   the
                   dark
                   Dominions
                   of
                   the
                   Night
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   took
                   his
                   way
                   ,
                   thro'
                   Forrests
                   void
                   of
                   Light
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   dar'd
                   amidst
                   the
                   trembling
                   Ghosts
                   to
                   sing
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   stood
                   before
                   th'
                   inexorable
                   King.
                
                 
                   Th'
                   Infernal
                   Troops
                   like
                   passing
                   Shadows
                   glide
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   list'ning
                   ,
                   crowd
                   the
                   sweet
                   Musician's
                   side
                   .
                
                 
                   Not
                   flocks
                   of
                   Birds
                   when
                   driv'n
                   by
                   Storms
                   ,
                   or
                   Night
                   ,
                
                 
                   Stretch
                   to
                   the
                   Forest
                   with
                   so
                   thick
                   a
                   flight
                   .
                
                 
                   Men
                   ,
                   Matrons
                   ,
                   Children
                   ,
                   and
                   th'
                   unmarry'd
                   Maid
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   *
                   The
                   mighty
                   Heroes
                   more
                   Majestic
                   shade
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Youths
                   on
                   Fun'ral
                   Piles
                   before
                   their
                   Parents
                   laid
                   .
                
                 
                   All
                   these
                   Cocytus
                   bounds
                   with
                   squalid
                   Reeds
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Muddy
                   Ditches
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   deadly
                   Weeds
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   baleful
                   Styx
                   encompasses
                   around
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Nine
                   slow
                   circling
                   Streams
                   ,
                   th'
                   unhappy
                   ground
                   .
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   from
                   the
                   depths
                   of
                   Hell
                   the
                   Damn'd
                   advance
                   ,
                
                 
                   Th'
                   Infernal
                   Mansions
                   nodding
                   seem
                   to
                   dance
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   gaping
                   three-mouth'd
                   Dog
                   forgets
                   to
                   snarl
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Furies
                   harken
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   Snakes
                   uncurl
                   :
                
                 
                   Ixion
                   seems
                   no
                   more
                   his
                   Pains
                   to
                   feel
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   leans
                   attentive
                   on
                   his
                   standing
                   Wheel
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   All
                   Dangers
                   past
                   ,
                   at
                   length
                   the
                   lovely
                   Bride
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   safety
                   goes
                   ,
                   with
                   her
                   Melodious
                   Guide
                   ;
                
                 
                   Longing
                   the
                   common
                   Light
                   again
                   to
                   share
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   draw
                   the
                   vital
                   breath
                   of
                   upper
                   Air
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   first
                   ,
                   and
                   close
                   behind
                   him
                   follow'd
                   she
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   such
                   was
                   Proserpine's
                   severe
                   Decree
                   .
                
                 
                   When
                   strong
                   Desires
                   th'
                   impatient
                   Youth
                   invade
                   ;
                
                 
                   By
                   little
                   Caution
                   and
                   much
                   love
                   betray'd
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   fault
                   which
                   easy
                   Pardon
                   might
                   receive
                   ,
                
                 
                   Were
                   Lovers
                   Judges
                   ,
                   or
                   cou'd
                   Hell
                   forgive
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   near
                   the
                   Confines
                   of
                   Etherial
                   Light
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   longing
                   for
                   the
                   glimm'ring
                   of
                   a
                   sight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Th'
                   unwary
                   Lover
                   cast
                   his
                   Eyes
                   behind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Forgetful
                   of
                   the
                   Law
                   ,
                   nor
                   Master
                   of
                   his
                   Mind
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Straight
                   all
                   his
                   Hopes
                   exhal'd
                   in
                   empty
                   Smoke
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   his
                   long
                   Toils
                   were
                   forfeit
                   for
                   a
                   Look
                   .
                
                 
                   Three
                   flashes
                   of
                   blue
                   Light'ning
                   gave
                   the
                   sign
                
                 
                   Of
                   Cov'nants
                   broke
                   ,
                   three
                   peals
                   of
                   Thunder
                   joyn
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   thus
                   the
                   Bride
                   ;
                   What
                   fury
                   seiz'd
                   on
                   thee
                   ,
                
                 
                   Unhappy
                   Man
                   !
                   to
                   lose
                   thy self
                   and
                   Me
                   ?
                
                 
                   Dragg'd
                   back
                   again
                   by
                   cruel
                   Destinies
                   ,
                
                 
                   An
                   Iron
                   Slumber
                   shuts
                   my
                   swimming
                   Eyes
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   farewel
                   ,
                   involv'd
                   in
                   Shades
                   of
                   Night
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   ever
                   I
                   am
                   ravish'd
                   from
                   thy
                   sight
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   vain
                   I
                   reach
                   my
                   feeble
                   hands
                   ,
                   to
                   joyn
                
                 
                   In
                   sweet
                   Embraces
                   ;
                   ah
                   !
                   no
                   longer
                   thine
                   !
                
                 
                   She
                   said
                   ,
                   and
                   from
                   his
                   Eyes
                   the
                   fleeting
                   Fair
                
                 
                   Retir'd
                   like
                   subtile
                   Smoke
                   dissolv'd
                   in
                   Air
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   left
                   her
                   hopeless
                   Lover
                   in
                   despair
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   vain
                   ,
                   with
                   folding
                   Arms
                   ,
                   the
                   Youth
                   assay'd
                
                 
                   To
                   stop
                   her
                   flight
                   ,
                   and
                   strain
                   the
                   flying
                   Shade
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   prays
                   ,
                   he
                   raves
                   ,
                   all
                   Means
                   in
                   vain
                   he
                   tries
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   rage
                   inflam'd
                   ,
                   astonish'd
                   with
                   surprise
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   she
                   return'd
                   no
                   more
                   ,
                   to
                   bless
                   his
                   longing
                   Eyes
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   wou'd
                   th'
                   Infernal
                   Ferry-Man
                   once
                   more
                
                 
                   Be
                   brib'd
                   ,
                   to
                   waft
                   him
                   to
                   the
                   farther
                   shore
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   shou'd
                   He
                   do
                   ,
                   who
                   twice
                   had
                   lost
                   his
                   Love
                   ?
                
                 
                   What
                   Notes
                   invent
                   ,
                   what
                   new
                   Petitions
                   move
                   ?
                
                 
                   Her
                   Soul
                   already
                   was
                   consign'd
                   to
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   shiv'ring
                   in
                   the
                   leaky
                   Sculler
                   sate
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   seven
                   continu'd
                   Months
                   ,
                   if
                   Fame
                   say
                   true
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   wretched
                   Swain
                   his
                   Sorrows
                   did
                   renew
                   ;
                
                 
                   By
                   Strymon's
                   freezing
                   Streams
                   he
                   sate
                   alone
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Rocks
                   were
                   mov'd
                   to
                   pity
                   with
                   his
                   moan
                   :
                
                 
                   Trees
                   bent
                   their
                   heads
                   to
                   hear
                   him
                   sing
                   his
                   Wrongs
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fierce
                   Tygers
                   couch'd
                   around
                   ,
                   and
                   loll'd
                   their
                   fawning
                   Tongues
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   So
                   ,
                   close
                   in
                   Poplar
                   Shades
                   ,
                   her
                   Children
                   gone
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Mother
                   Nightingale
                   laments
                   alone
                   :
                
                 
                   Whose
                   Nest
                   some
                   prying
                   Churl
                   had
                   found
                   ,
                   and
                   thence
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   Stealth
                   ,
                   convey'd
                   th'
                   unfeather'd
                   Innocence
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   she
                   supplies
                   the
                   Night
                   with
                   mournful
                   Strains
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   one
                   continu'd
                   Tenor
                   still
                   complains
                   ;
                
                 
                   Which
                   fills
                   the
                   Forrest
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   neighb'ring
                   Plains
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Sad
                   Orpheus
                   thus
                   his
                   tedious
                   Hours
                   employs
                   ,
                
                 
                   Averse
                   from
                   Venus
                   ,
                   and
                   from
                   nuptial
                   Joys
                   .
                
                 
                   Alone
                   he
                   tempts
                   the
                   frozen
                   Floods
                   ,
                   alone
                
                 
                   Th'
                   unhappy
                   Climes
                   ,
                   where
                   Spring
                   was
                   never
                   known
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   mourn'd
                   his
                   wretched
                   Wife
                   ,
                   in
                   vain
                   restor'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   
                   Pluto's
                   unavailing
                   Boon
                   deplor'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Thracian
                   Matrons
                   ,
                   who
                   the
                   Youth
                   accus'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   Love
                   disdain'd
                   ,
                   and
                   Marriage
                   Rites
                   refus'd
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   Furies
                   ,
                   and
                   Nocturnal
                   Orgies
                   fir'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   At
                   length
                   ,
                   against
                   his
                   sacred
                   Life
                   conspir'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Whom
                   ev'n
                   the
                   salvage
                   Beasts
                   had
                   spar'd
                   ,
                   they
                   kill'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   strew'd
                   his
                   mangl'd
                   Limbs
                   about
                   the
                   Field
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   when
                   his
                   Head
                   ,
                   from
                   his
                   fair
                   Shoulders
                   torn
                   ,
                
                 
                   Wash'd
                   by
                   the
                   Waters
                   ,
                   was
                   on
                   Hebrus
                   born
                   ;
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   then
                   his
                   trembling
                   Tongue
                   invok'd
                   his
                   Bride
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   his
                   last
                   Voice
                   ,
                   Eurydice
                   ,
                   he
                   cry'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Eurydice
                   ,
                   the
                   Rocks
                   and
                   River-banks
                   reply'd
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   answer
                   Proteus
                   gave
                   ,
                   nor
                   more
                   he
                   said
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   in
                   the
                   Billows
                   plung'd
                   his
                   hoary
                   Head
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   where
                   he
                   leap'd
                   ,
                   the
                   Waves
                   in
                   Circles
                   widely
                   spread
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Nymph
                   return'd
                   ,
                   her
                   drooping
                   Son
                   to
                   chear
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   bade
                   him
                   banish
                   his
                   superfluous
                   fear
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   now
                   ,
                   said
                   she
                   ,
                   the
                   Cause
                   is
                   known
                   ,
                   from
                   whence
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Woe
                   succeeded
                   ,
                   and
                   for
                   what
                   Offence
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Nymphs
                   ,
                   Companions
                   of
                   th'
                   unhappy
                   Maid
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   punishment
                   upon
                   thy
                   Crimes
                   have
                   laid
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   sent
                   a
                   Plague
                   among
                   thy
                   thriving
                   Bees
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   Vows
                   and
                   suppliant
                   Pray'rs
                   their
                   Pow'rs
                   appease
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   soft
                   Napaean
                   Race
                   will
                   soon
                   repent
                
                 
                   Their
                   Anger
                   ,
                   and
                   remit
                   the
                   Punishment
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   secret
                   in
                   an
                   easy
                   Method
                   lies
                   ;
                
                 
                   Select
                   four
                   Brawny
                   Bulls
                   for
                   Sacrifice
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   on
                   Lycaeus
                   graze
                   ,
                   without
                   a
                   Guide
                   ;
                
                 
                   Add
                   four
                   fair
                   Heifars
                   yet
                   in
                   Yoke
                   untry'd
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   these
                   ,
                   four
                   Altars
                   in
                   their
                   Temple
                   rear
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   then
                   adore
                   the
                   Woodland
                   Pow'rs
                   with
                   Pray'r
                   .
                
                 
                   From
                   the
                   slain
                   Victims
                   pour
                   the
                   streaming
                   Blood
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   leave
                   their
                   Bodies
                   in
                   the
                   shady
                   Wood
                   :
                
                 
                   Nine
                   Mornings
                   thence
                   ,
                   Lethean
                   Poppy
                   bring
                   ,
                
                 
                   T'
                   appease
                   the
                   Manes
                   of
                   the
                   Poets
                   King
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   to
                   propitiate
                   his
                   offended
                   Bride
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   fatted
                   Calf
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   black
                   Ewe
                   provide
                   :
                
                 
                   This
                   finish'd
                   ,
                   to
                   the
                   former
                   Woods
                   repair
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   Mother's
                   Precepts
                   he
                   performs
                   with
                   care
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Temple
                   visits
                   ,
                   and
                   adores
                   with
                   Pray'r
                   .
                
                 
                   Four
                   Altars
                   raises
                   ,
                   from
                   his
                   Herd
                   he
                   culls
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   Slaughter
                   ,
                   four
                   the
                   fairest
                   of
                   his
                   Bulls
                   ;
                
                 
                   Four
                   Heifars
                   from
                   his
                   Female
                   Store
                   he
                   took
                   ,
                
                 
                   All
                   fair
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   unknowing
                   of
                   the
                   Yoke
                   .
                
                 
                   Nine
                   Mornings
                   thence
                   ,
                   with
                   Sacrifice
                   and
                   Pray'rs
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Pow'rs
                   aton'd
                   ,
                   he
                   to
                   the
                   Grove
                   repairs
                   .
                
                 
                   Behold
                   a
                   Prodigy
                   !
                   for
                   from
                   within
                
                 
                   The
                   broken
                   Bowels
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   bloated
                   Skin
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   buzzing
                   noise
                   of
                   Bees
                   their
                   Ears
                   alarms
                   ,
                
                 
                   Straight
                   issue
                   through
                   the
                   Sides
                   assembling
                   Swarms
                   :
                
                 
                   Dark
                   as
                   a
                   Cloud
                   they
                   make
                   a
                   wheeling
                   Flight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   on
                   a
                   neighb'ring
                   Tree
                   ,
                   descending
                   ,
                   light
                   :
                
                 
                   Like
                   a
                   large
                   Cluster
                   of
                   black
                   Grapes
                   they
                   show
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   make
                   a
                   large
                   dependance
                   from
                   the
                   Bough
                   .
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     the
                     Hon
                     ble
                     :
                     John
                     Granville
                     second
                     Son
                     to
                     John
                     EARL
                     of
                     BATH
                     one
                     of
                     the
                     Com
                     ●s
                     :
                     appointed
                     by
                     Act
                     of
                     Parliam
                     t
                     :
                     for
                     Examining
                     Taking
                     &
                     Stating
                     the
                     Publick
                     Accounts
                     of
                     the
                     Kingdome
                     .
                  
                   
                     Geor
                     :
                     4
                     :
                     l.
                     795.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                 
                   Thus
                   have
                   I
                   sung
                   of
                   Fields
                   ,
                   and
                   Flocks
                   ,
                   and
                   Trees
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   of
                   the
                   waxen
                   Work
                   of
                   lab'ring
                   Bees
                   ;
                
                 
                   While
                   mighty
                   Caesar
                   ,
                   thund'ring
                   from
                   afar
                   ,
                
                 
                   Seeks
                   on
                   Euphrates
                   Banks
                   the
                   Spoils
                   of
                   War
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   conq'ring
                   Arms
                   asserts
                   his
                   Country's
                   Cause
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Arts
                   of
                   Peace
                   the
                   willing
                   People
                   draws
                   :
                
                 
                   On
                   the
                   glad
                   Earth
                   the
                   Golden
                   Age
                   renews
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   his
                   great
                   Father's
                   Path
                   to
                   Heav'n
                   pursues
                   .
                
                 
                   While
                   I
                   at
                   Naples
                   pass
                   my
                   peaceful
                   Days
                   ,
                
                 
                   Affecting
                   Studies
                   of
                   less
                   noisy
                   Praise
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   bold
                   ,
                   through
                   Youth
                   ,
                   beneath
                   the
                   Beechen
                   Shade
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Lays
                   of
                   Shepherds
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   Loves
                   have
                   plaid
                   .
                
              
            
          
        
      
       
         
           
             
             
             
               TO
               THE
               MOST
               HONOURABLE
               John
               ,
               Lord
               Marquess
               of
               Normanby
               ,
               EARL
               of
               MULGRAVE
               ,
               &c.
               AND
               Knight
               of
               the
               
                 Most
                 Noble
                 Order
                 of
                 the
                 Garter
                 .
              
            
             
               A
               HEROICK
               Poem
               ,
               truly
               such
               ,
               is
               undoubtedly
               the
               greatest
               Work
               which
               the
               Soul
               of
               Man
               is
               capable
               to
               perform
               .
               The
               Design
               of
               it
               ,
               is
               to
               form
               the
               Mind
               to
               Heroick
               Virtue
               by
               Example
               ;
               't
               is
               convey'd
               in
               Verse
               ,
               that
               it
               may
               delight
               ,
               while
               it
               instructs
               :
               The
               Action
               of
               it
               is
               always
               one
               ,
               entire
               ,
               and
               great
               .
               The
               least
               and
               most
               trivial
               Episodes
               ,
               or
               under-Actions
               ,
               which
               are
               interwoven
               in
               it
               ,
               are
               parts
               either
               necessary
               ,
               or
               convenient
               to
               carry
               on
               the
               main
               Design
               .
               Either
               so
               necessary
               ,
               that
               without
               them
               the
               Poem
               must
               be
               Imperfect
               ,
               or
               so
               convenient
               ,
               that
               no
               others
               can
               be
               imagin'd
               more
               suitable
               to
               the
               place
               in
               which
               they
               are
               .
               There
               is
               nothing
               to
               be
               left
               void
               in
               a
               firm
               Building
               ;
               even
               the
               Cavities
               ought
               not
               to
               be
               fill'd
               with
               Rubbish
               ,
               which
               is
               of
               a
               perishable
               kind
               ,
               destructive
               to
               the
               strength
               :
               But
               with
               Brick
               or
               Stone
               ,
               though
               of
               less
               pieces
               ,
               yet
               of
               the
               same
               Nature
               ,
               and
               fitted
               to
               the
               Cranies
               .
               Even
               the
               least
               portions
               of
               them
               must
               be
               of
               the
               Epick
               kind
               ;
               all
               things
               must
               be
               Grave
               ,
               Majestical
               ,
               and
               Sublime
               :
               Nothing
               of
               a
               Foreign
               Nature
               ,
               like
               the
               trifling
               Novels
               ,
               which
               Aristotle
               and
               others
               have
               inserted
               in
               their
               Poems
               .
               By
               which
               the
               Reader
               is
               miss-led
               into
               another
               sort
               of
               Pleasure
               ,
               opposite
               to
               that
               which
               is
               design'd
               in
               an
               Epick
               Poem
               .
               One
               raises
               the
               Soul
               and
               hardens
               it
               to
               Virtue
               ,
               the
               other
               softens
               it
               again
               and
               unbends
               it
               into
               Vice.
               One
               conduces
               to
               the
               Poet's
               aim
               ,
               the
               compleating
               of
               his
               Work
               ;
               which
               he
               is
               driving
               on
               ,
               labouring
               and
               hast'ning
               in
               every
               Line
               :
               the
               other
               slackens
               his
               pace
               ,
               diverts
               him
               from
               his
               Way
               ,
               and
               locks
               him
               up
               like
               a
               Knight
               Errant
               in
               an
               Enchanted
               Castle
               ,
               when
               he
               should
               be
               pursuing
               his
               first
               Adventure
               .
               Statius
               ,
               as
               Bossu
               has
               well
               observ'd
               ,
               was
               ambitious
               of
               trying
               his
               strength
               with
               his
               Master
               Virgil
               ,
               as
               Virgil
               had
               before
               try'd
               his
               with
               Homer
               .
               The
               Grecian
               gave
               the
               two
               Romans
               an
               Example
               ,
               in
               the
               Games
               which
               were
               Celebrated
               at
               the
               Funerals
               of
               
                 Patroclus
                 .
                 Virgil
              
               imitated
               the
               Invention
               of
               Homer
               ,
               but
               chang'd
               the
               Sports
               .
               But
               both
               the
               Greek
               and
               Latin
               Poet
               ,
               took
               their
               occasions
               from
               the
               Subject
               ;
               though
               to
               confess
               the
               Truth
               ,
               they
               were
               both
               Ornamental
               ,
               or
               at
               best
               ,
               convenient
               parts
               of
               it
               ,
               rather
               than
               of
               necessity
               arising
               
               from
               it
               .
               Statius
               ,
               who
               through
               his
               whole
               Poem
               ,
               is
               noted
               for
               want
               of
               Conduct
               and
               Judgment
               ;
               instead
               of
               staying
               ,
               as
               he
               might
               have
               done
               ,
               for
               the
               Death
               of
               
                 Capaneus
                 ,
                 Hippomedon
                 ,
                 Tideus
              
               ,
               or
               some
               other
               of
               his
               Seven
               Champions
               ,
               (
               who
               are
               Heroes
               all
               alike
               )
               or
               more
               properly
               for
               the
               Tragical
               end
               of
               the
               two
               Brothers
               ,
               whose
               Exequies
               the
               next
               Successor
               had
               leisure
               to
               perform
               ,
               when
               the
               Siege
               was
               rais'd
               ,
               and
               in
               the
               Interval
               betwixt
               the
               Poets
               first
               Action
               ,
               and
               his
               second
               ;
               went
               out
               of
               his
               way
               ,
               as
               it
               were
               on
               propense
               Malice
               to
               commit
               a
               Fault
               .
               For
               he
               took
               his
               opportunity
               to
               kill
               a
               Royal
               Infant
               ,
               by
               the
               means
               of
               a
               Serpent
               ,
               (
               that
               Author
               of
               all
               Evil
               )
               to
               make
               way
               for
               those
               Funeral
               Honours
               ,
               which
               he
               intended
               for
               him
               .
               Now
               if
               this
               Innocent
               had
               been
               of
               any
               Relation
               to
               his
               Thebais
               ;
               if
               he
               had
               either
               farther'd
               or
               hinder'd
               the
               taking
               of
               the
               Town
               ,
               the
               Poet
               might
               have
               found
               some
               sorry
               Excuse
               at
               least
               ,
               for
               detaining
               the
               Reader
               from
               the
               promis'd
               Siege
               .
               I
               can
               think
               of
               nothing
               to
               plead
               for
               him
               ,
               but
               what
               I
               verily
               believe
               he
               thought
               himself
               ;
               which
               was
               ,
               that
               as
               the
               Funerals
               of
               Anchises
               were
               solemniz'd
               in
               Sicily
               ,
               so
               those
               of
               Archemorus
               should
               be
               celebrated
               in
               Candy
               .
               For
               the
               last
               was
               an
               Island
               ;
               and
               a
               better
               than
               the
               first
               ,
               because
               Jove
               was
               Born
               there
               .
               On
               these
               terms
               ,
               this
               Capaneus
               of
               a
               Poet
               ingag'd
               his
               two
               Immortal
               Predecessours
               ,
               and
               his
               Success
               was
               answerable
               to
               his
               Enterprise
               .
            
             
               If
               this
               Oeconomy
               must
               be
               observ'd
               in
               the
               minutest
               Parts
               of
               an
               Epick
               Poem
               ,
               which
               ,
               to
               a
               common
               Reader
               ,
               seem
               to
               be
               detach'd
               from
               the
               Body
               ,
               and
               almost
               independent
               of
               it
               ;
               what
               Soul
               ,
               tho'
               sent
               into
               the
               World
               with
               great
               advantages
               of
               Nature
               ,
               cultivated
               with
               the
               liberal
               Arts
               and
               Sciences
               ;
               conversant
               with
               Histories
               of
               the
               Dead
               ,
               and
               enrich'd
               with
               Observations
               on
               the
               Living
               ,
               can
               be
               sufficient
               to
               inform
               the
               whole
               Body
               of
               so
               great
               a
               Work
               ?
               I
               touch
               here
               but
               transiently
               ,
               without
               any
               strict
               Method
               ,
               on
               some
               few
               of
               those
               many
               Rules
               of
               imitating
               Nature
               ,
               which
               Aristotle
               drew
               from
               
               Homer's
               Iliads
               and
               Odysses
               ,
               and
               which
               he
               fitted
               to
               the
               Drama
               ;
               furnishing
               himself
               also
               with
               Observations
               from
               the
               Practice
               of
               the
               Theater
               ,
               when
               it
               flourish'd
               under
               
                 Aeschilus
                 ,
                 Eurypides
              
               ,
               and
               Sophocles
               .
               For
               the
               Original
               of
               the
               Stage
               was
               from
               the
               Epick
               Poem
               .
               Narration
               ,
               doubtless
               ,
               preceded
               Acting
               ,
               and
               gave
               Laws
               to
               it
               :
               What
               at
               first
               was
               told
               Artfully
               ,
               was
               ,
               in
               process
               of
               time
               ,
               represented
               gracefully
               to
               the
               sight
               ,
               and
               hearing
               .
               Those
               Episodes
               of
               Homer
               ,
               which
               were
               proper
               for
               the
               Stage
               ,
               the
               Poets
               amplify'd
               each
               into
               an
               Action
               :
               Out
               of
               his
               Limbs
               they
               form'd
               their
               Bodies
               :
               What
               he
               had
               Contracted
               they
               Enlarg'd
               :
               Out
               of
               one
               Hercules
               were
               made
               infinite
               of
               Pigmies
               ;
               yet
               all
               endued
               with
               humane
               Souls
               :
               For
               from
               him
               ,
               their
               great
               Creator
               ,
               they
               have
               each
               of
               them
               the
               
                 Divinae
                 particulam
                 Aurae
              
               .
               They
               flow'd
               from
               him
               at
               first
               ,
               and
               are
               at
               last
               resolv'd
               into
               him
               .
               Nor
               were
               they
               only
               animated
               by
               him
               ,
               but
               their
               Measure
               and
               Symetry
               was
               owing
               to
               him
               .
               His
               one
               ,
               entire
               ,
               and
               great
               Action
               was
               Copied
               by
               them
               according
               to
               the
               proportions
               of
               the
               Drama
               :
               If
               he
               finish'd
               his
               Orb
               within
               the
               Year
               ,
               it
               suffic'd
               to
               teach
               them
               ,
               that
               their
               Action
               being
               less
               ,
               and
               being
               also
               less
               diversify'd
               with
               Incidents
               ,
               their
               Orb
               ,
               of
               consequence
               ,
               must
               be
               circumscrib'd
               in
               a
               less
               compass
               ,
               which
               they
               reduc'd
               ,
               within
               the
               limits
               either
               of
               a
               Natural
               or
               an
               Artificial
               Day
               .
               So
               that
               as
               he
               taught
               them
               to
               amplifie
               what
               he
               had
               shorten'd
               ,
               by
               the
               same
               Rule
               apply'd
               the
               contrary
               way
               ,
               he
               taught
               them
               to
               shorten
               what
               he
               had
               amplifi'd
               .
               Tragedy
               is
               the
               minature
               of
               Humane
               Life
               ;
               an
               Epick
               Poem
               is
               the
               draught
               at
               length
               .
               Here
               ,
               my
               Lord
               ,
               I
               must
               contract
               also
               ,
               for
               ,
               before
               I
               was
               aware
               ,
               I
               was
               almost
               running
               into
               a
               long
               digression
               ,
               to
               prove
               that
               there
               is
               no
               such
               absolute
               necessity
               that
               the
               
               time
               of
               a
               Stage-Action
               shou'd
               so
               strictly
               be
               confin'd
               to
               Twenty
               Four
               Hours
               ,
               as
               never
               to
               exceed
               them
               ,
               for
               which
               Aristotle
               contends
               ,
               and
               the
               Grecian
               Stage
               has
               practis'd
               .
               Some
               longer
               space
               ,
               on
               some
               occasions
               ,
               I
               think
               may
               be
               allow'd
               ,
               especially
               for
               the
               English
               Theater
               ,
               which
               requires
               more
               variety
               of
               Incidents
               than
               the
               
                 French.
                 Corneille
              
               himself
               ,
               after
               long
               Practice
               ,
               was
               inclin'd
               to
               think
               ,
               that
               the
               time
               allotted
               by
               the
               Ancients
               was
               too
               short
               to
               raise
               and
               finish
               a
               great
               Action
               :
               And
               better
               a
               Mechanick
               Rule
               were
               stretch'd
               or
               broken
               ,
               than
               a
               great
               Beauty
               were
               omitted
               .
               To
               raise
               ,
               and
               afterwards
               to
               calm
               the
               Passions
               ,
               to
               purge
               the
               Soul
               from
               Pride
               ,
               by
               the
               Examples
               of
               Humane
               Miseries
               ,
               which
               befall
               the
               greatest
               ;
               in
               few
               words
               ,
               to
               expel
               Arrogance
               ,
               and
               introduce
               Compassion
               ,
               are
               the
               great
               effects
               of
               Tragedy
               .
               Great
               ,
               I
               must
               confess
               ,
               if
               they
               were
               altogether
               as
               true
               as
               they
               are
               pompous
               .
               But
               are
               Habits
               to
               be
               introduc'd
               at
               three
               Hours
               warning
               ?
               Are
               radical
               Diseases
               so
               suddenly
               remov'd
               ?
               A
               Mountebank
               may
               promise
               such
               a
               Cure
               ,
               but
               a
               skilful
               Physician
               will
               not
               undertake
               it
               .
               An
               Epick
               Poem
               is
               not
               in
               so
               much
               haste
               ;
               it
               works
               leisurely
               ;
               the
               Changes
               which
               it
               makes
               are
               slow
               ;
               but
               the
               Cure
               is
               likely
               to
               be
               more
               perfect
               .
               The
               effects
               of
               Tragedy
               ,
               as
               I
               said
               ,
               are
               too
               violent
               to
               be
               lasting
               .
               If
               it
               be
               answer'd
               that
               for
               this
               Reason
               Tragedies
               are
               often
               to
               be
               seen
               ,
               and
               the
               Dose
               to
               be
               repeated
               ;
               this
               is
               tacitely
               to
               confess
               ,
               that
               there
               is
               more
               Virtue
               in
               one
               Heroick
               Poem
               than
               in
               many
               Tragedies
               .
               A
               Man
               is
               humbled
               one
               Day
               ,
               and
               his
               Pride
               returns
               the
               next
               .
               Chymical
               Medicines
               are
               observ'd
               to
               Relieve
               oft'ner
               than
               to
               Cure
               :
               For
               't
               is
               the
               nature
               of
               Spirits
               to
               make
               swift
               impressions
               ,
               but
               not
               deep
               .
               Galenical
               Decoctions
               ,
               to
               which
               I
               may
               properly
               compare
               an
               Epick
               Poem
               ,
               have
               more
               of
               Body
               in
               them
               ;
               they
               work
               by
               their
               substance
               and
               their
               weight
               .
               It
               is
               one
               Reason
               of
               
               Aristotle's
               to
               prove
               ,
               that
               Tragedy
               is
               the
               more
               Noble
               ,
               because
               it
               turns
               in
               a
               shorter
               Compass
               ;
               the
               whole
               Action
               being
               circumscrib'd
               within
               the
               space
               of
               Four-and-Twenty
               Hours
               .
               He
               might
               prove
               as
               well
               that
               a
               Mushroom
               is
               to
               be
               preferr'd
               before
               a
               Peach
               ,
               because
               it
               shoots
               up
               in
               the
               compass
               of
               a
               Night
               .
               A
               Chariot
               may
               be
               driven
               round
               the
               Pillar
               in
               less
               space
               than
               a
               large
               Machine
               ,
               because
               the
               Bulk
               is
               not
               so
               great
               :
               Is
               the
               Moon
               a
               more
               Noble
               Planet
               than
               Saturn
               ,
               because
               she
               makes
               her
               Revolution
               in
               less
               than
               Thirty
               Days
               ,
               and
               He
               in
               little
               less
               than
               Thirty
               Years
               ?
               Both
               their
               Orbs
               are
               in
               proportion
               to
               their
               several
               Magnitudes
               ;
               and
               ,
               consequently
               ,
               the
               quickness
               or
               slowness
               of
               their
               Motion
               ,
               and
               the
               time
               of
               their
               circumvolutions
               ,
               is
               no
               Argument
               of
               the
               greater
               or
               less
               Perfection
               .
               And
               besides
               ,
               what
               Virtue
               is
               there
               in
               a
               Tragedy
               ,
               which
               is
               not
               contain'd
               in
               an
               Epick
               Poem
               ?
               Where
               Pride
               is
               humbled
               ,
               Vertue
               rewarded
               ,
               and
               Vice
               punish'd
               ;
               and
               those
               more
               amply
               treated
               ,
               than
               the
               narrowness
               of
               the
               Drama
               can
               admit
               ?
               The
               shining
               Qualitiy
               of
               an
               Epick
               Heroe
               ,
               his
               Magnanimity
               ,
               his
               Constancy
               ,
               his
               Patience
               ,
               his
               Piety
               ,
               or
               whatever
               Characteristical
               Virtue
               his
               Poet
               gives
               him
               ,
               raises
               first
               our
               Admiration
               :
               We
               are
               naturally
               prone
               to
               imitate
               what
               we
               admire
               :
               And
               frequent
               Acts
               produce
               a
               habit
               .
               If
               the
               Hero's
               chief
               quality
               be
               vicious
               ,
               as
               for
               Example
               ,
               the
               Choler
               and
               obstinate
               desire
               of
               Vengeance
               in
               Achilles
               ,
               yet
               the
               Moral
               is
               Instructive
               :
               And
               besides
               ,
               we
               are
               inform'd
               in
               the
               very
               proposition
               of
               the
               Iliads
               ,
               that
               this
               anger
               was
               pernicious
               :
               That
               it
               brought
               a
               thousand
               ills
               on
               the
               Grecian
               Camp.
               The
               Courage
               of
               Achilles
               is
               propos'd
               to
               imitation
               ,
               not
               his
               Pride
               and
               Disobedience
               to
               his
               General
               ,
               nor
               his
               brutal
               Cruelty
               to
               his
               dead
               Enemy
               ,
               nor
               the
               selling
               his
               Body
               to
               his
               Father
               .
               We
               abhor
               these
               Actions
               while
               we
               read
               them
               ,
               and
               what
               we
               abhor
               we
               never
               imitate
               :
               The
               Poet
               only
               shews
               them
               like
               Rocks
               or
               Quick-Sands
               ,
               to
               be
               shun'd
               .
            
             
             
               By
               this
               Example
               the
               Criticks
               have
               concluded
               that
               it
               is
               not
               necessary
               the
               Manners
               of
               the
               Heroe
               should
               be
               virtuous
               .
               They
               are
               Poetically
               good
               if
               they
               are
               of
               a
               Piece
               .
               Though
               where
               a
               Character
               of
               perfect
               Virtue
               is
               set
               before
               us
               ,
               't
               is
               more
               lovely
               :
               for
               there
               the
               whole
               Heroe
               is
               to
               be
               imitated
               .
               This
               is
               the
               Aeneas
               of
               our
               Author
               :
               this
               is
               that
               Idea
               of
               perfection
               in
               an
               Epick
               Poem
               ,
               which
               Painters
               and
               Statuaries
               have
               only
               in
               their
               minds
               ;
               and
               which
               no
               hands
               are
               able
               to
               express
               .
               These
               are
               the
               Beauties
               of
               a
               God
               in
               a
               Humane
               Body
               .
               When
               the
               Picture
               of
               Achilles
               is
               drawn
               in
               Tragedy
               ,
               he
               is
               taken
               with
               those
               Warts
               ,
               and
               Moles
               ,
               and
               hard
               Features
               ,
               by
               those
               who
               represent
               him
               on
               the
               Stage
               ,
               or
               he
               is
               no
               more
               Achilles
               :
               for
               his
               Creatour
               Homer
               has
               so
               describ'd
               him
               .
               Yet
               even
               thus
               he
               appears
               a
               perfect
               Heroe
               ,
               though
               an
               imperfect
               Character
               of
               Vertue
               .
               Horace
               Paints
               him
               after
               Homer
               ,
               and
               delivers
               him
               to
               be
               Copied
               on
               the
               Stage
               with
               all
               those
               imperfections
               .
               Therefore
               they
               are
               either
               not
               faults
               in
               a
               Heroick
               Poem
               ,
               or
               faults
               common
               to
               the
               Drama
               .
               After
               all
               ,
               on
               the
               whole
               merits
               of
               the
               Cause
               ,
               it
               must
               be
               acknowledg'd
               that
               the
               Epick
               Poem
               is
               more
               for
               the
               Manners
               ,
               and
               Tragedy
               for
               the
               Passions
               .
               The
               Passions
               ,
               as
               I
               have
               said
               ,
               are
               violent
               :
               and
               acute
               Distempers
               require
               Medicines
               of
               a
               strong
               and
               speedy
               operation
               .
               Ill
               habits
               of
               the
               Mind
               are
               like
               Chronical
               Diseases
               ,
               to
               be
               corrected
               by
               degrees
               ,
               and
               Cur'd
               by
               Alteratives
               :
               wherein
               though
               Purges
               are
               sometimes
               necessary
               ,
               yet
               Diet
               ,
               good
               Air
               ,
               and
               moderate
               Exercise
               ,
               have
               the
               greatest
               part
               .
               The
               Matter
               being
               thus
               stated
               ,
               it
               will
               appear
               that
               both
               sorts
               of
               Poetry
               are
               of
               use
               for
               their
               proper
               ends
               .
               The
               Stage
               is
               more
               active
               ,
               the
               Epick
               Poem
               works
               at
               greater
               leisure
               ,
               yet
               is
               active
               too
               ,
               when
               need
               requires
               .
               For
               Dialogue
               is
               imitated
               by
               the
               Drama
               ,
               from
               the
               more
               active
               parts
               of
               it
               .
               One
               puts
               off
               a
               Fit
               like
               the
               Quinquina
               ,
               and
               relieves
               us
               only
               for
               a
               time
               ;
               the
               other
               roots
               out
               the
               Distemper
               ,
               and
               gives
               a
               healthful
               habit
               .
               The
               Sun
               enlightens
               and
               chears
               us
               ,
               dispels
               Fogs
               ,
               and
               warms
               the
               ground
               with
               his
               daily
               Beams
               ;
               but
               the
               Corn
               is
               sow'd
               ,
               increases
               ,
               is
               ripen'd
               ,
               and
               is
               reap'd
               for
               use
               in
               process
               of
               time
               ,
               and
               in
               its
               proper
               Season
               .
               I
               proceed
               from
               the
               greatness
               of
               the
               Action
               ,
               to
               the
               Dignity
               of
               the
               Actours
               ,
               I
               mean
               to
               the
               Persons
               employ'd
               in
               both
               Poems
               .
               There
               likewise
               Tragedy
               will
               be
               seen
               to
               borrow
               from
               the
               Epopee
               ;
               and
               that
               which
               borrows
               is
               always
               of
               less
               Dignity
               ,
               because
               it
               has
               not
               of
               its
               own
               .
               A
               Subject
               ,
               't
               is
               true
               ,
               may
               lend
               to
               his
               Soveraign
               ,
               but
               the
               act
               of
               borrowing
               makes
               the
               King
               inferiour
               ,
               because
               he
               wants
               ,
               and
               the
               Subject
               supplies
               .
               And
               suppose
               the
               Persons
               of
               the
               Drama
               wholly
               Fabulous
               ,
               or
               of
               the
               Poet's
               Invention
               ,
               yet
               Heroick
               Poetry
               gave
               him
               the
               Examples
               of
               that
               Invention
               ,
               because
               it
               was
               first
               ,
               and
               Homer
               the
               common
               Father
               of
               the
               Stage
               .
               I
               know
               not
               of
               any
               one
               advantage
               ,
               which
               Tragedy
               can
               boast
               above
               Heroick
               Poetry
               ,
               but
               that
               it
               is
               represented
               to
               the
               view
               ,
               as
               well
               as
               read
               :
               and
               instructs
               in
               the
               Closet
               ,
               as
               well
               as
               on
               the
               Theatre
               .
               This
               is
               an
               uncontended
               Excellence
               ,
               and
               a
               chief
               Branch
               of
               its
               Prerogative
               ;
               yet
               I
               may
               be
               allow'd
               to
               say
               without
               partiality
               ,
               that
               herein
               the
               Actors
               share
               the
               Poet's
               praise
               .
               Your
               Lordship
               knows
               some
               Modern
               Tragedies
               which
               are
               beautiful
               on
               the
               Stage
               ,
               and
               yet
               I
               am
               confident
               you
               wou'd
               not
               read
               them
               .
               Tryphon
               the
               Stationer
               complains
               they
               are
               seldom
               ask'd
               for
               in
               his
               Shop
               .
               The
               Poet
               who
               Flourish'd
               in
               the
               Scene
               ,
               is
               damn'd
               in
               the
               Ruelle
               ;
               nay
               more
               ,
               he
               is
               not
               esteem'd
               a
               good
               Poet
               by
               those
               who
               see
               and
               hear
               his
               Extravagancies
               with
               delight
               .
               They
               are
               a
               sort
               of
               stately
               Fustian
               ,
               and
               lofty
               Childishness
               .
               Nothing
               but
               Nature
               can
               give
               a
               sincere
               pleasure
               ;
               where
               that
               is
               not
               imitated
               ,
               't
               is
               Grotesque
               Painting
               ,
               the
               fine
               Woman
               ends
               in
               a
               Fishes
               Tail.
               
            
             
               I
               might
               also
               add
               ,
               that
               many
               things
               ,
               which
               not
               only
               please
               ,
               but
               are
               
               real
               Beauties
               in
               the
               reading
               ,
               wou'd
               appear
               absurd
               upon
               the
               Stage
               :
               and
               those
               not
               only
               the
               
                 Speciosa
                 Miracula
              
               ,
               as
               Horace
               calls
               them
               ;
               of
               Transformations
               ,
               of
               
                 Scylla
                 ,
                 Antiphates
              
               ,
               and
               the
               Lestrigons
               ,
               which
               cannot
               be
               represented
               even
               in
               Opera's
               ;
               but
               the
               prowess
               of
               Achilles
               or
               Aeneas
               wou'd
               appear
               ridiculous
               in
               our
               Dwarf-Heroes
               of
               the
               Theatre
               .
               We
               can
               believe
               they
               routed
               Armies
               in
               Homer
               or
               in
               Virgil
               ,
               but
               
                 ne
                 Hercules
                 contraduos
              
               in
               the
               Drama
               .
               I
               forbear
               to
               instance
               in
               many
               things
               which
               the
               Stage
               cannot
               or
               ought
               not
               to
               represent
               .
               For
               I
               have
               said
               already
               more
               than
               I
               intended
               on
               this
               Subject
               ,
               and
               shou'd
               fear
               it
               might
               be
               turn'd
               against
               me
               ;
               that
               I
               plead
               for
               the
               pre-eminence
               of
               Epick
               Poetry
               ,
               because
               I
               have
               taken
               some
               pains
               in
               translating
               Virgil
               ;
               if
               this
               were
               the
               first
               time
               that
               I
               had
               deliver'd
               my
               Opinion
               in
               this
               Dispute
               .
               But
               I
               have
               more
               than
               once
               already
               maintain'd
               the
               Rights
               of
               my
               two
               Masters
               against
               their
               Rivals
               of
               the
               Scene
               ,
               even
               while
               I
               wrote
               Tragedies
               my self
               ,
               and
               had
               no
               thoughts
               of
               this
               present
               Undertaking
               .
               I
               submit
               my
               Opinion
               to
               your
               Judgment
               ,
               who
               are
               better
               qualified
               than
               any
               Man
               I
               know
               to
               decide
               this
               Controversie
               .
               You
               come
               ,
               my
               Lord
               ,
               instructed
               in
               the
               Cause
               ,
               and
               needed
               not
               that
               I
               shou'd
               open
               it
               .
               Your
               Essay
               of
               Poetry
               ,
               which
               was
               publish'd
               without
               a
               Name
               ,
               and
               of
               which
               I
               was
               not
               honour'd
               with
               the
               Confidence
               ,
               I
               read
               over
               and
               over
               with
               much
               delight
               ,
               and
               as
               much
               instruction
               :
               and
               ,
               without
               flattering
               you
               ,
               or
               making
               my self
               more
               Moral
               than
               I
               am
               ,
               not
               without
               some
               Envy
               .
               I
               was
               loath
               to
               be
               inform'd
               how
               an
               Epick
               Poem
               shou'd
               be
               written
               ,
               or
               how
               a
               Tragedy
               shou'd
               be
               contriv'd
               and
               manag'd
               in
               better
               Verse
               and
               with
               more
               judgment
               than
               I
               cou'd
               teach
               others
               .
               A
               Native
               of
               Parnassus
               ,
               and
               bred
               up
               in
               the
               Studies
               of
               its
               Fundamental
               Laws
               ,
               may
               receive
               new
               Lights
               from
               his
               Contemporaries
               ,
               but
               't
               is
               a
               grudging
               kind
               of
               praise
               which
               he
               gives
               his
               Benefactors
               .
               He
               is
               more
               oblig'd
               than
               he
               is
               willing
               to
               acknowledge
               :
               there
               is
               a
               tincture
               of
               Malice
               in
               his
               Commendations
               .
               For
               where
               I
               own
               I
               am
               taught
               ,
               I
               confess
               my
               want
               of
               Knowledge
               .
               A
               Judge
               upon
               the
               Bench
               ,
               may
               ,
               out
               of
               good
               Nature
               ,
               or
               at
               least
               interest
               ,
               encourage
               the
               Pleadings
               of
               a
               puny
               Councellor
               ,
               but
               he
               does
               not
               willingly
               commend
               his
               Brother
               Serjeant
               at
               the
               Bar
               ,
               especially
               when
               he
               controuls
               his
               Law
               ,
               and
               exposes
               that
               ignorance
               which
               is
               made
               Sacred
               by
               his
               Place
               .
               I
               gave
               the
               unknown
               Author
               his
               due
               Commendation
               ,
               I
               must
               consess
               ,
               but
               who
               can
               answer
               for
               me
               ,
               and
               for
               the
               rest
               of
               the
               Poets
               ,
               who
               heard
               me
               read
               the
               Poem
               ,
               whether
               we
               shou'd
               not
               have
               been
               better
               pleas'd
               to
               have
               seen
               our
               own
               Names
               at
               the
               bottom
               of
               the
               Title
               Page
               ?
               perhaps
               we
               commended
               it
               the
               more
               ,
               that
               we
               might
               seem
               to
               be
               above
               the
               Censure
               .
               We
               are
               naturally
               displeas'd
               with
               an
               unknown
               Critick
               ,
               as
               the
               Ladies
               are
               with
               a
               Lampooner
               ,
               because
               we
               are
               bitten
               in
               the
               dark
               ,
               and
               know
               not
               where
               to
               fasten
               our
               Revenge
               .
               But
               great
               Excellencies
               will
               work
               their
               way
               through
               all
               sorts
               of
               opposition
               .
               I
               applauded
               rather
               out
               of
               decency
               than
               Affection
               ;
               and
               was
               Ambitious
               ,
               as
               some
               yet
               can
               witness
               ,
               to
               be
               acquainted
               with
               a
               Man
               ,
               with
               whom
               I
               had
               the
               honour
               to
               Converse
               ,
               and
               that
               almost
               daily
               ,
               for
               so
               many
               years
               together
               .
               Heaven
               knows
               if
               I
               have
               heartily
               forgiven
               you
               this
               deceit
               .
               You
               extorted
               a
               Praise
               which
               I
               shou'd
               willingly
               have
               given
               had
               I
               known
               you
               .
               Nothing
               had
               been
               more
               easie
               than
               to
               commend
               a
               Patron
               of
               a
               long
               standing
               .
               The
               World
               wou'd
               joyn
               with
               me
               ,
               if
               the
               Encomiums
               were
               just
               ;
               and
               if
               unjust
               ,
               wou'd
               excuse
               a
               grateful
               Flatterer
               .
               But
               to
               come
               Anonymous
               upon
               me
               ,
               and
               force
               me
               to
               commend
               you
               against
               my
               interest
               ,
               was
               not
               altogether
               so
               fair
               ,
               give
               me
               leave
               to
               say
               ,
               as
               it
               was
               Politick
               .
               For
               by
               concealing
               your
               Quality
               ,
               you
               might
               clearly
               understand
               how
               your
               Work
               
               succeeded
               ;
               and
               that
               the
               general
               approbation
               was
               given
               to
               your
               Merit
               not
               your
               Titles
               .
               Thus
               like
               Apelles
               you
               stood
               unseen
               behind
               your
               own
               Venus
               ,
               and
               receiv'd
               the
               praises
               of
               the
               passing
               Multitude
               :
               the
               Work
               was
               commended
               ,
               not
               the
               Author
               :
               And
               I
               doubt
               not
               this
               was
               one
               of
               the
               most
               pleasing
               Adventures
               of
               your
               Life
               .
            
             
               I
               have
               detain'd
               your
               Lordship
               longer
               than
               I
               intended
               in
               this
               Dispute
               of
               preference
               betwixt
               the
               Epick
               Poem
               ,
               and
               the
               Dramae
               :
               and
               yet
               have
               not
               formally
               answer'd
               any
               of
               the
               Arguments
               which
               are
               brought
               by
               Aristotle
               on
               the
               other
               side
               ,
               and
               set
               in
               the
               fairest
               light
               by
               Dacier
               .
               But
               I
               suppose
               ,
               without
               looking
               on
               the
               Book
               ,
               I
               may
               have
               touch'd
               on
               some
               of
               the
               Objections
               .
               For
               in
               this
               Address
               to
               your
               Lordship
               ,
               I
               design
               not
               a
               Treatise
               of
               Heroick
               Poetry
               ,
               but
               write
               in
               a
               loose
               Epistolary
               way
               ,
               somewhat
               tending
               to
               that
               Subject
               ,
               after
               the
               Example
               of
               Horace
               ,
               in
               his
               First
               Epistle
               of
               the
               Second
               Book
               to
               
                 Augustus
                 Caesar
              
               ,
               and
               of
               that
               to
               the
               
               Piso's
               ,
               which
               we
               call
               his
               
                 Art
                 of
                 Poetry
              
               .
               In
               both
               of
               which
               he
               observes
               no
               Method
               that
               I
               can
               trace
               ,
               whatever
               Scaliger
               the
               Father
               ,
               or
               Heinsius
               may
               have
               seen
               ,
               or
               rather
               think
               they
               had
               seen
               .
               I
               have
               taken
               up
               ,
               laid
               down
               ,
               and
               resum'd
               as
               often
               as
               I
               pleas'd
               the
               same
               Subject
               :
               and
               this
               loose
               proceeding
               I
               shall
               use
               thro'
               all
               this
               Prefatory
               Dedication
               .
               Yet
               all
               this
               while
               I
               have
               been
               Sailing
               with
               some
               side-wind
               or
               other
               toward
               the
               Point
               I
               propos'd
               in
               the
               beginning
               ;
               the
               Greatness
               and
               Excellency
               of
               an
               Heroick
               Poem
               ,
               with
               some
               of
               the
               difficulties
               which
               attend
               that
               work
               .
               The
               Comparison
               therefore
               which
               I
               made
               betwixt
               the
               Epopee
               and
               the
               Tragedy
               was
               not
               altogether
               a
               digression
               ;
               for
               't
               is
               concluded
               on
               all
               hands
               ,
               that
               they
               are
               both
               the
               Master-pieces
               of
               Humane
               Wit.
               
            
             
               In
               the
               mean
               time
               I
               may
               be
               bold
               to
               draw
               this
               Corollary
               from
               what
               has
               been
               already
               said
               ,
               That
               the
               File
               of
               Heroick
               Poets
               is
               very
               short
               :
               all
               are
               not
               such
               who
               have
               assum'd
               that
               lofty
               Title
               in
               Ancient
               or
               Modern
               Ages
               ,
               or
               have
               been
               so
               esteem'd
               by
               their
               partial
               and
               ignorant
               Admirers
               .
            
             
               There
               have
               been
               but
               one
               great
               Ilias
               and
               one
               Aeneis
               in
               so
               many
               Ages
               .
               The
               next
               ,
               but
               the
               next
               with
               a
               long
               interval
               betwixt
               ,
               was
               the
               Jerusalem
               :
               I
               mean
               not
               so
               much
               in
               distance
               of
               time
               ,
               as
               in
               Excellency
               .
               After
               these
               three
               are
               entred
               ,
               some
               Lord
               Chamberlain
               should
               be
               appointed
               ,
               some
               Critick
               of
               Authority
               shou'd
               be
               set
               before
               the
               door
               ,
               to
               keep
               out
               a
               Crowd
               of
               little
               Poets
               ,
               who
               press
               for
               Admission
               ,
               and
               are
               not
               of
               Quality
               .
               Maevius
               wou'd
               be
               deafning
               your
               Lordship's
               Ears
               with
               his
               
                 Fortunam
                 Priami
                 ,
                 Cantabo
                 ,
                 &
                 Nobile
                 Bellum
                 .
              
               meer
               Fustian
               ,
               as
               Horace
               would
               tell
               you
               from
               behind
               ,
               without
               pressing
               forward
               ,
               and
               more
               smoak
               than
               fire
               .
               
                 Pulci
                 ,
                 Boyardo
              
               ,
               and
               Ariosto
               ,
               wou'd
               cry
               out
               ,
               make
               room
               for
               the
               Italian
               Poets
               ,
               the
               descendants
               of
               Virgil
               in
               a
               right
               Line
               .
               Father
               
                 Le
                 Moin
              
               with
               his
               Saint
               Louis
               ;
               and
               Scudery
               with
               his
               Alaric
               ,
               for
               a
               godly
               King
               ,
               and
               a
               Gothick
               Conquerour
               ;
               and
               Chapelain
               wou'd
               take
               it
               ill
               that
               his
               Maid
               shou'd
               be
               refus'd
               a
               place
               with
               Helen
               and
               
                 Lavinia
                 .
                 Spencer
              
               has
               a
               better
               plea
               for
               his
               Fairy-Queen
               ,
               had
               his
               action
               been
               finish'd
               ,
               or
               had
               been
               one
               .
               And
               Milton
               ,
               if
               the
               Devil
               had
               not
               been
               his
               Heroe
               instead
               of
               Adam
               ,
               if
               the
               Gyant
               had
               not
               foil'd
               the
               Knight
               ,
               and
               driven
               him
               out
               of
               his
               strong
               hold
               ,
               to
               wander
               through
               the
               World
               with
               his
               Lady
               Errant
               :
               and
               if
               there
               had
               not
               been
               more
               Machining
               Persons
               than
               Humane
               ,
               in
               his
               Poem
               .
               After
               these
               ,
               the
               rest
               of
               our
               English
               Poets
               shall
               not
               be
               mention'd
               .
               I
               have
               that
               Honour
               for
               them
               which
               I
               ought
               to
               have
               :
               but
               if
               they
               are
               Worthies
               ,
               they
               are
               not
               to
               be
               rank'd
               amongst
               
               the
               three
               whom
               I
               have
               nam'd
               ,
               and
               who
               are
               establish'd
               in
               their
               Reputation
               .
            
             
               Before
               I
               quitted
               the
               Comparison
               betwixt
               Epick
               Poetry
               and
               Tragedy
               ,
               I
               shou'd
               have
               acquainted
               my
               Judge
               with
               one
               advantage
               of
               the
               former
               over
               the
               latter
               ,
               which
               I
               now
               casually
               remember
               out
               of
               the
               Preface
               of
               Segrais
               before
               his
               Translation
               of
               the
               Aeneis
               ,
               or
               out
               of
               Bossu
               ,
               no
               matter
               which
               .
               The
               stile
               of
               the
               Heroick
               Poem
               is
               and
               ought
               to
               be
               more
               lofty
               than
               that
               of
               the
               Drama
               .
               The
               Critick
               is
               certainly
               in
               the
               right
               ,
               for
               the
               Reason
               already
               urg'd
               :
               The
               work
               of
               Tragedy
               is
               on
               the
               Passions
               ,
               and
               in
               Dialogue
               ,
               both
               of
               them
               abhor
               strong
               Metaphors
               ,
               in
               which
               the
               Epopee
               delights
               .
               A
               Poet
               cannot
               speak
               too
               plainly
               on
               the
               Stage
               :
               for
               
                 Volat
                 irrevocabile
                 verbum
              
               ;
               the
               sense
               is
               lost
               if
               it
               be
               not
               taken
               flying
               :
               but
               what
               we
               read
               alone
               we
               have
               leisure
               to
               digest
               .
               There
               an
               Author
               may
               beautifie
               his
               Sense
               by
               the
               boldness
               of
               his
               Expression
               ,
               which
               if
               we
               understand
               not
               fully
               at
               the
               first
               ,
               we
               may
               dwell
               upon
               it
               ,
               'till
               we
               find
               the
               secret
               force
               and
               excellence
               .
               That
               which
               cures
               the
               Manners
               by
               alterative
               Physick
               ,
               as
               I
               said
               before
               ,
               must
               proceed
               by
               insensible
               degrees
               ;
               but
               that
               which
               purges
               the
               Passions
               ,
               must
               do
               its
               business
               all
               at
               once
               ,
               or
               wholly
               fail
               of
               its
               effect
               ,
               at
               least
               in
               the
               present
               Operation
               ,
               and
               without
               repeated
               Doses
               .
               We
               must
               beat
               the
               Iron
               while
               't
               is
               hot
               ,
               but
               we
               may
               polish
               it
               at
               leisure
               .
               Thus
               ,
               my
               Lord
               ,
               you
               pay
               the
               Fine
               of
               my
               forgetfulness
               ,
               and
               yet
               the
               merits
               of
               both
               Causes
               are
               where
               they
               were
               ,
               and
               undecided
               ,
               'till
               you
               declare
               whether
               it
               be
               more
               for
               the
               benefit
               of
               Mankind
               to
               have
               their
               Manners
               in
               general
               corrected
               ,
               or
               their
               Pride
               and
               hard-heartedness
               remov'd
               .
            
             
               I
               must
               now
               come
               closer
               to
               my
               present
               business
               :
               and
               not
               think
               of
               making
               more
               invasive
               Wars
               abroad
               ,
               when
               like
               Hannibal
               ,
               I
               am
               call'd
               back
               to
               the
               defence
               of
               my
               own
               Country
               .
               Virgil
               is
               attack'd
               by
               many
               Enemies
               :
               He
               has
               a
               whole
               Confederacy
               against
               him
               ,
               and
               I
               must
               endeavour
               to
               defend
               him
               as
               well
               as
               I
               am
               able
               .
               But
               their
               principal
               Objections
               being
               against
               his
               Moral
               ,
               the
               duration
               or
               length
               of
               time
               taken
               up
               in
               the
               action
               of
               the
               Poem
               ,
               and
               what
               they
               have
               to
               urge
               against
               the
               Manners
               of
               his
               Hero
               ,
               I
               shall
               omit
               the
               rest
               as
               meer
               Cavils
               of
               Grammarians
               :
               at
               the
               worst
               but
               casual
               slips
               of
               a
               Great
               Man's
               Pen
               ,
               or
               inconsiderable
               faults
               of
               an
               admirable
               Poem
               ,
               which
               the
               Author
               had
               not
               leisure
               to
               review
               before
               his
               Death
               .
               Macrobius
               has
               answer'd
               what
               the
               Ancients
               cou'd
               urge
               against
               him
               :
               and
               some
               things
               I
               have
               lately
               read
               in
               
                 Tanneguy
                 le
                 Fevrè
                 ,
                 Valois
              
               ,
               and
               another
               whom
               I
               name
               not
               ,
               which
               are
               scarce
               worth
               answering
               .
               They
               begin
               with
               the
               Moral
               of
               his
               Poem
               ,
               which
               I
               have
               elsewhere
               confess'd
               ,
               and
               still
               must
               own
               not
               to
               be
               so
               Noble
               as
               that
               of
               Homer
               .
               But
               let
               both
               be
               fairly
               stated
               ,
               and
               without
               contradicting
               my
               first
               Opinion
               ,
               I
               can
               shew
               that
               
               Virgil's
               was
               as
               useful
               to
               the
               Romans
               of
               his
               Age
               ,
               as
               
               Homer's
               was
               to
               the
               Grecians
               of
               his
               ;
               in
               what
               time
               soever
               he
               may
               be
               suppos'd
               to
               have
               liv'd
               and
               flourish'd
               .
               
               Homer's
               Moral
               was
               to
               urge
               the
               necessity
               of
               Union
               ,
               and
               of
               a
               good
               understanding
               betwixt
               Confederate
               States
               and
               Princes
               engag'd
               in
               a
               War
               with
               a
               Mighty
               Monarch
               :
               as
               also
               of
               Discipline
               in
               an
               Army
               ,
               and
               obedience
               in
               the
               several
               Chiefs
               ,
               to
               the
               Supream
               Commander
               of
               the
               joynt
               Forces
               .
               To
               inculcate
               this
               ,
               he
               sets
               forth
               the
               ruinous
               Effects
               of
               Discord
               in
               the
               Camp
               of
               those
               Allies
               ,
               occasion'd
               by
               the
               quarrel
               betwixt
               the
               General
               ,
               and
               one
               of
               the
               next
               in
               Office
               under
               him
               .
               Agamemnon
               gives
               the
               provocation
               ,
               and
               Achilles
               resents
               the
               injury
               .
               Both
               Parties
               are
               faulty
               in
               the
               Quarrel
               ,
               and
               accordingly
               they
               are
               both
               punish'd
               :
               the
               Agressor
               is
               forc'd
               to
               sue
               for
               peace
               to
               his
               Inferiour
               ,
               on
               dishonourable
               Conditions
               ;
               the
               Deserter
               
               resuses
               the
               satisfaction
               offer'd
               ,
               and
               his
               Obstinacy
               costs
               him
               his
               best
               Friend
               .
               This
               works
               the
               Natural
               Effect
               of
               Choler
               ,
               and
               turns
               his
               Rage
               against
               him
               ,
               by
               whom
               he
               was
               last
               Affronted
               ,
               and
               most
               sensibly
               .
               The
               greater
               Anger
               expels
               the
               less
               ;
               but
               his
               Caracter
               is
               still
               preserv'd
               .
               In
               the
               mean
               time
               the
               Grecian
               Army
               receives
               Loss
               on
               Loss
               ,
               and
               is
               half
               destroy'd
               by
               a
               Pestilence
               into
               the
               Bargain
               .
            
             
               Quicquid
               delirant
               Reges
               plectuntur
               Achivi
               .
            
             
               As
               the
               Poet
               ,
               in
               the
               first
               part
               of
               the
               Example
               ,
               had
               shewn
               the
               bad
               effects
               of
               Discord
               ,
               so
               after
               the
               Reconcilement
               ,
               he
               gives
               the
               good
               effects
               of
               Unity
               .
               For
               Hector
               is
               slain
               ,
               and
               then
               Troy
               must
               fall
               .
               By
               this
               ,
               't
               is
               probable
               ,
               that
               Homer
               liv'd
               when
               the
               Persian
               Monarchy
               was
               grown
               formidable
               to
               the
               Grecians
               :
               and
               that
               the
               joint
               Endeavours
               of
               his
               Country-men
               ,
               were
               little
               enough
               to
               preserve
               their
               common
               Freedom
               ,
               from
               an
               encroaching
               Enemy
               .
               Such
               was
               his
               Moral
               ,
               which
               all
               Criticks
               have
               allow'd
               to
               be
               more
               Noble
               than
               that
               of
               Virgil
               :
               though
               not
               adapted
               to
               the
               times
               in
               which
               the
               Roman
               Poet
               liv'd
               .
               Had
               Virgil
               flourish'd
               in
               the
               Age
               of
               Ennius
               ,
               and
               address'd
               to
               Scipio
               ,
               he
               had
               probably
               taken
               the
               same
               Moral
               ,
               or
               some
               other
               not
               unlike
               it
               .
               For
               then
               the
               Romans
               were
               in
               as
               much
               danger
               from
               the
               Carthaginian
               Commonwealth
               ,
               as
               the
               Grecians
               were
               from
               the
               Persian
               Monarchy
               .
               But
               we
               are
               to
               consider
               him
               as
               writing
               his
               Poem
               in
               a
               time
               when
               the
               Old
               Form
               of
               Government
               was
               subverted
               ,
               and
               a
               new
               one
               just
               Established
               by
               
                 Octavius
                 Caesar
              
               :
               In
               effect
               by
               force
               of
               Arms
               ,
               but
               seemingly
               by
               the
               Consent
               of
               the
               Roman
               People
               .
               The
               Common-wealth
               had
               receiv'd
               a
               deadly
               Wound
               in
               the
               former
               Civil
               Wars
               betwixt
               Marius
               and
               Sylla
               .
               The
               Commons
               ,
               while
               the
               first
               prevail'd
               ,
               had
               almost
               shaken
               off
               the
               Yoke
               of
               the
               Nobility
               ;
               and
               Marius
               and
               Cinna
               ,
               like
               the
               Captains
               of
               the
               Mobb
               ,
               under
               the
               specious
               Pretence
               of
               the
               Publick
               Good
               ,
               and
               of
               doing
               Justice
               on
               the
               Oppressours
               of
               their
               Liberty
               ,
               reveng'd
               themselves
               ,
               without
               Form
               of
               Law
               ,
               on
               their
               private
               Enemies
               .
               Sylla
               ,
               in
               his
               turn
               ,
               proscrib'd
               the
               Heads
               of
               the
               adverse
               Party
               :
               He
               too
               had
               nothing
               but
               Liberty
               and
               Reformation
               in
               his
               Mouth
               ;
               (
               for
               the
               Cause
               of
               Religion
               is
               but
               a
               Modern
               Motive
               to
               Rebellion
               ,
               invented
               by
               the
               Christian
               Priesthood
               ,
               refining
               on
               the
               Heathen
               :
               )
               Sylla
               ,
               to
               be
               sure
               ,
               meant
               no
               more
               good
               to
               the
               Roman
               People
               than
               Marius
               before
               him
               ,
               whatever
               he
               declar'd
               ;
               but
               Sacrific'd
               the
               Lives
               ,
               and
               took
               the
               Estates
               of
               all
               his
               Enemies
               ,
               to
               gratifie
               those
               who
               brought
               him
               into
               Power
               :
               Such
               was
               the
               Reformation
               of
               the
               Government
               by
               both
               Parties
               .
               The
               Senate
               and
               the
               Commons
               were
               the
               two
               Bases
               on
               which
               it
               stood
               ;
               and
               the
               two
               Champions
               of
               either
               Faction
               ,
               each
               destroy'd
               the
               Foundations
               of
               the
               other
               side
               :
               So
               the
               Fabrique
               of
               consequence
               must
               fall
               betwxt
               them
               :
               And
               Tyranny
               must
               be
               built
               upon
               their
               Ruines
               .
               This
               comes
               of
               altering
               Fundamental
               Laws
               and
               Constitutions
               .
               Like
               him
               ,
               who
               being
               in
               good
               Health
               ,
               lodg'd
               himself
               in
               a
               Physician
               's
               House
               ,
               and
               was
               over-perswaded
               by
               his
               Landlord
               to
               take
               Physick
               ,
               of
               which
               he
               dyed
               ,
               for
               the
               benefit
               of
               his
               Doctor
               .
               
                 Stavo
                 ben
              
               (
               was
               written
               on
               his
               Monument
               )
               
                 ma
                 ,
                 perstar
                 meglio
                 ,
                 sto
                 qui.
                 
              
            
             
               After
               the
               Death
               of
               those
               two
               Usurpers
               ,
               the
               Commonwealth
               seem'd
               to
               recover
               ,
               and
               held
               up
               its
               Head
               for
               a
               little
               time
               :
               But
               it
               was
               all
               the
               while
               in
               a
               deep
               Consumption
               ,
               which
               is
               a
               flattering
               Disease
               .
               
                 Pompey
                 ,
                 Crassus
              
               ,
               and
               Caesar
               ,
               had
               found
               the
               Sweets
               of
               Arbitrary
               Power
               ;
               and
               each
               being
               a
               check
               to
               the
               others
               growth
               ,
               struck
               up
               a
               false
               Friendship
               amongst
               themselves
               ;
               and
               divided
               the
               Government
               betwixt
               them
               ,
               
               which
               none
               of
               them
               was
               able
               to
               assume
               alone
               .
               These
               were
               the
               publick
               Spirited
               Men
               of
               their
               Age
               ,
               that
               is
               ,
               Patriots
               for
               their
               own
               Interest
               .
               The
               Commonwealth
               look'd
               with
               a
               florid
               Countenance
               in
               their
               Management
               ,
               spread
               in
               Bulk
               ,
               and
               all
               the
               while
               was
               wasting
               in
               the
               Vitals
               .
               Not
               to
               trouble
               your
               Lordship
               with
               the
               Repetition
               of
               what
               you
               know
               :
               After
               the
               death
               of
               
                 Crassus
                 ,
                 Pompey
              
               found
               himself
               out-witted
               by
               Caesar
               ;
               broke
               with
               him
               ,
               over-power'd
               him
               in
               the
               Senate
               ,
               and
               caus'd
               many
               unjust
               Decrees
               to
               pass
               against
               him
               :
               Caesar
               thus
               injur'd
               ,
               and
               unable
               to
               resist
               the
               Faction
               of
               the
               Nobles
               ,
               which
               was
               now
               uppermost
               (
               for
               he
               was
               a
               Marian
               )
               had
               recourse
               to
               Arms
               ;
               and
               his
               Cause
               was
               just
               against
               Pompey
               ,
               but
               not
               against
               his
               Country
               ,
               whose
               Constitution
               ought
               to
               have
               been
               sacred
               to
               him
               ;
               and
               never
               to
               have
               been
               Violated
               on
               the
               account
               of
               any
               private
               Wrong
               .
               But
               he
               prevail'd
               ,
               and
               Heav'n
               declaring
               for
               him
               ,
               he
               became
               a
               Providential
               Monarch
               ,
               under
               the
               Title
               of
               
                 Perpetual
                 Dictator
              
               .
               He
               being
               Murther'd
               by
               his
               own
               Son
               ,
               whom
               I
               neither
               dare
               commend
               ,
               nor
               can
               justly
               blame
               (
               though
               Dante
               in
               his
               Inferno
               ,
               has
               put
               him
               and
               Cassius
               ,
               and
               
                 Judas
                 Iscariot
              
               betwixt
               them
               ,
               into
               the
               great
               Devil's
               Mouth
               )
               the
               Commonwealth
               popp'd
               up
               its
               Head
               for
               the
               third
               time
               ,
               under
               Brutus
               and
               Cassius
               ,
               and
               then
               sunk
               for
               ever
               .
            
             
               Thus
               the
               Roman
               People
               were
               grosly
               gull'd
               :
               twice
               or
               thrice
               over
               :
               and
               as
               often
               enslav'd
               in
               one
               Century
               ,
               and
               under
               the
               same
               pretence
               of
               Reformation
               .
               At
               last
               the
               two
               Battles
               of
               Philippi
               ,
               gave
               the
               decisive
               stroak
               against
               Liberty
               ;
               and
               not
               long
               after
               ,
               the
               Commonwealth
               was
               turn'd
               into
               a
               Monarchy
               ,
               by
               the
               Conduct
               and
               good
               Fortune
               of
               Augustus
               .
               'T
               is
               true
               ,
               that
               the
               despotick
               Power
               could
               not
               have
               fallen
               into
               better
               Hands
               ,
               than
               those
               of
               the
               first
               and
               second
               Caesar
               .
               Your
               Lordship
               well
               knows
               what
               Obligations
               Virgil
               had
               to
               the
               latter
               of
               them
               :
               He
               saw
               ,
               beside
               ,
               that
               the
               Commonwealth
               was
               lost
               without
               ressource
               :
               The
               Heads
               of
               it
               destroy'd
               ;
               the
               Senate
               new
               moulded
               ,
               grown
               degenerate
               ;
               and
               either
               bought
               off
               ,
               or
               thrusting
               their
               own
               Necks
               into
               the
               Yoke
               ,
               out
               of
               fear
               of
               being
               forc'd
               .
               Yet
               I
               may
               safely
               affirm
               for
               our
               great
               Author
               (
               as
               Men
               of
               good
               Sense
               are
               generally
               Honest
               )
               that
               he
               was
               still
               of
               Republick
               principles
               in
               Heart
               .
            
             
               Secretisque
               Piis
               ,
               his
               dantem
               jura
               Catonem
               .
            
             
               I
               think
               ,
               I
               need
               use
               no
               other
               Argument
               to
               justify
               my
               Opinion
               ,
               than
               that
               of
               this
               one
               Line
               ,
               taken
               from
               the
               Eighth
               Book
               of
               the
               Eneis
               .
               If
               he
               had
               not
               well
               studied
               his
               Patron
               's
               Temper
               ,
               it
               might
               have
               Ruin'd
               him
               with
               another
               Prince
               .
               But
               Augustus
               was
               not
               discontented
               ,
               at
               least
               that
               we
               can
               find
               ,
               that
               Cato
               was
               plac'd
               ,
               by
               his
               own
               Poet
               ,
               in
               Elisium
               ;
               and
               there
               giving
               Laws
               to
               the
               Holy
               Souls
               ,
               who
               deserv'd
               to
               be
               separated
               from
               the
               Vulgar
               sort
               of
               good
               Spirits
               .
               For
               his
               Conscience
               could
               not
               but
               whisper
               to
               the
               Arbitrary
               Monarch
               ,
               that
               the
               Kings
               of
               Rome
               were
               at
               first
               Elective
               ,
               and
               Govern'd
               not
               without
               a
               Senate
               :
               That
               Romulus
               was
               no
               Hereditary
               Prince
               ,
               and
               though
               ,
               after
               his
               Death
               ,
               he
               receiv'd
               Divine
               Honours
               ,
               for
               the
               good
               he
               did
               on
               Earth
               ,
               yet
               he
               was
               but
               a
               God
               of
               their
               own
               making
               :
               that
               the
               last
               Tarquin
               was
               Expell'd
               justly
               ,
               for
               Overt-Acts
               of
               Tyranny
               ,
               and
               Male-Administration
               ;
               for
               such
               are
               the
               Conditions
               of
               an
               Elective
               Kingdom
               :
               And
               I
               meddle
               not
               with
               others
               :
               being
               ,
               for
               my
               own
               Opinion
               ,
               of
               Montaigns
               Principles
               ,
               that
               an
               Honest
               Man
               ought
               to
               be
               contented
               with
               that
               Form
               of
               Government
               ,
               and
               with
               those
               Fundamental
               Constitutions
               of
               it
               ,
               which
               he
               receiv'd
               from
               his
               Ancestors
               ,
               and
               under
               which
               himself
               was
               
               Born
               :
               Though
               at
               the
               same
               time
               he
               confess'd
               freely
               ,
               that
               if
               he
               could
               have
               chosen
               his
               Place
               of
               Birth
               ,
               it
               shou'd
               have
               been
               at
               Venice
               :
               Which
               for
               many
               Reasons
               I
               dislike
               ,
               and
               am
               better
               pleas'd
               to
               have
               been
               born
               an
               English
               Man.
               
            
             
               But
               to
               return
               from
               my
               long
               rambling
               :
               I
               say
               that
               Virgil
               having
               maturely
               weigh'd
               the
               Condition
               of
               the
               Times
               in
               which
               he
               liv'd
               :
               that
               an
               entire
               Liberty
               was
               not
               to
               be
               retriev'd
               :
               that
               the
               present
               Settlement
               had
               the
               prospect
               of
               a
               long
               continuance
               in
               the
               same
               Family
               ,
               or
               those
               adopted
               into
               it
               :
               that
               he
               held
               his
               Paternal
               Estate
               from
               the
               Bounty
               of
               the
               Conqueror
               ,
               by
               whom
               he
               was
               likewise
               enrich'd
               ,
               esteem'd
               and
               cherish'd
               :
               that
               this
               Conquerour
               ,
               though
               of
               a
               bad
               kind
               ,
               was
               the
               very
               best
               of
               it
               :
               that
               the
               Arts
               of
               Peace
               flourish'd
               under
               him
               :
               that
               all
               Men
               might
               be
               happy
               if
               they
               would
               be
               quiet
               :
               that
               now
               he
               was
               in
               possession
               of
               the
               whole
               ,
               yet
               he
               shar'd
               a
               great
               part
               of
               his
               Authority
               with
               the
               Senate
               :
               That
               he
               would
               be
               chosen
               into
               the
               Ancient
               Offices
               of
               the
               Common-wealth
               ,
               and
               Rul'd
               by
               the
               Power
               which
               he
               deriv'd
               from
               them
               ;
               and
               Prorogu'd
               his
               Government
               from
               time
               to
               time
               :
               Still
               ,
               as
               it
               were
               ,
               threatning
               to
               dismiss
               himself
               from
               Publick
               Cares
               ,
               which
               he
               exercis'd
               more
               for
               the
               common
               Good
               ,
               than
               for
               any
               delight
               he
               took
               in
               greatness
               :
               These
               things
               ,
               I
               say
               ,
               being
               consider'd
               by
               the
               Poet
               ,
               he
               concluded
               it
               to
               be
               the
               Interest
               of
               his
               Country
               to
               be
               so
               Govern'd
               :
               To
               infuse
               an
               awful
               Respect
               into
               the
               People
               ,
               towards
               such
               a
               Prince
               :
               By
               that
               respect
               to
               confirm
               their
               Obedience
               to
               him
               ;
               and
               by
               that
               Obedience
               to
               make
               them
               Happy
               .
               This
               was
               the
               Moral
               of
               his
               Divine
               Poem
               :
               Honest
               in
               the
               Poet
               :
               Honourable
               to
               the
               Emperour
               ,
               whom
               he
               derives
               from
               a
               Divine
               Extraction
               ;
               and
               reflecting
               part
               of
               that
               Honour
               on
               the
               Roman
               People
               ,
               whom
               he
               derives
               also
               from
               the
               Trojans
               ;
               and
               not
               only
               profitable
               ,
               but
               necessary
               to
               the
               present
               Age
               ;
               and
               likely
               to
               be
               such
               to
               their
               Posterity
               .
               That
               it
               was
               the
               receiv'd
               Opinion
               ,
               that
               the
               Romans
               were
               descended
               from
               the
               Trojans
               ,
               and
               
                 Julius
                 Caesar
              
               from
               Julus
               the
               Son
               of
               Aeneas
               ,
               was
               enough
               for
               Virgil
               ;
               tho'
               perhaps
               he
               thought
               not
               so
               himself
               :
               Or
               that
               Aeneas
               ever
               was
               in
               Italy
               ,
               which
               Bochartus
               manifestly
               proves
               .
               And
               Homer
               ,
               where
               he
               says
               that
               Jupiter
               hated
               the
               House
               of
               Priam
               ,
               and
               was
               resolv'd
               to
               transfer
               the
               Kingdom
               to
               the
               Family
               of
               Aeneas
               ,
               yet
               mentions
               nothing
               of
               his
               leading
               a
               Colony
               into
               a
               Foreign
               Country
               ,
               and
               setling
               there
               :
               But
               that
               the
               Romans
               valued
               themselves
               on
               their
               Trojan
               Ancestry
               ,
               is
               so
               undoubted
               a
               Truth
               ,
               that
               I
               need
               not
               prove
               it
               .
               Even
               the
               Seals
               which
               we
               have
               remaining
               of
               
                 Julius
                 Caesar
              
               ,
               which
               we
               know
               to
               be
               Antique
               ,
               have
               the
               Star
               of
               Venus
               over
               them
               ,
               though
               they
               were
               all
               graven
               after
               his
               Death
               ,
               as
               a
               Note
               that
               he
               was
               Deifi'd
               .
               I
               doubt
               not
               but
               it
               was
               one
               Reason
               ,
               why
               Augustus
               should
               be
               so
               passionately
               concern'd
               for
               the
               preservation
               of
               the
               Aeneis
               ,
               which
               its
               Author
               had
               Condemn'd
               to
               be
               Burnt
               ,
               as
               an
               Imperfect
               Poem
               ,
               by
               his
               last
               Will
               and
               Testament
               ;
               was
               ,
               because
               it
               did
               him
               a
               real
               Service
               as
               well
               as
               an
               Honour
               ;
               that
               a
               Work
               should
               not
               be
               lost
               where
               his
               Divine
               Original
               was
               Celebrated
               in
               Verse
               ,
               which
               had
               the
               Character
               of
               Immortality
               stamp'd
               upon
               it
               .
            
             
               Neither
               were
               the
               great
               Roman
               Families
               which
               flourish'd
               in
               his
               time
               ,
               less
               oblig'd
               by
               him
               than
               the
               Emperour
               .
               Your
               Lordship
               knows
               with
               what
               Address
               he
               makes
               mention
               of
               them
               ,
               as
               Captains
               of
               Ships
               ,
               or
               Leaders
               in
               the
               War
               ;
               and
               even
               some
               of
               Italian
               Extraction
               are
               not
               forgotten
               .
               These
               are
               the
               single
               Stars
               which
               are
               sprinkled
               through
               the
               Aeneis
               :
               But
               there
               are
               whole
               Constellations
               of
               them
               in
               the
               Fifth
               Book
               .
               And
               I
               could
               not
               but
               take
               notice
               ,
               when
               I
               Translated
               it
               ,
               of
               some
               Favourite
               
               Families
               to
               which
               he
               gives
               the
               Victory
               ,
               and
               awards
               the
               Prizes
               ,
               in
               the
               Person
               of
               his
               Heroe
               ,
               at
               the
               Funeral
               Games
               which
               were
               Celebrated
               in
               Honour
               of
               Anchises
               .
               I
               ,
               Insist
               not
               on
               their
               Names
               :
               But
               am
               pleas'd
               to
               find
               the
               Memmii
               amongst
               them
               ,
               deriv'd
               from
               Mnestheus
               ,
               because
               Lucretius
               Dedicates
               to
               one
               of
               that
               Family
               ,
               a
               Branch
               of
               which
               destroy'd
               Corinth
               .
               I
               likewise
               either
               found
               or
               form'd
               an
               Image
               to
               my self
               of
               the
               contrary
               kind
               ;
               that
               those
               who
               lost
               the
               Prizes
               ,
               were
               such
               as
               had
               disoblig'd
               the
               Poet
               ,
               or
               were
               in
               disgrace
               with
               Augustus
               ,
               or
               Enemies
               to
               Mecenas
               :
               And
               this
               was
               the
               Poetical
               Revenge
               he
               took
               .
               For
               
                 genus
                 irritabile
                 Vatum
              
               ,
               as
               Horace
               says
               .
               When
               a
               Poet
               is
               throughly
               provok'd
               ,
               he
               will
               do
               himself
               Justice
               ,
               however
               dear
               it
               cost
               him
               ,
               
                 Animamque
                 ,
                 in
                 Vulnere
                 ponit
              
               .
               I
               think
               these
               are
               not
               bare
               Imaginations
               of
               my
               own
               ,
               though
               I
               find
               no
               trace
               of
               them
               in
               the
               Commentatours
               :
               But
               one
               Poet
               may
               judge
               of
               another
               by
               himself
               .
               The
               Vengeance
               we
               defer
               ,
               is
               not
               forgotten
               .
               I
               hinted
               before
               ,
               that
               the
               whole
               Roman
               People
               were
               oblig'd
               by
               Virgil
               ,
               in
               deriving
               them
               from
               Troy
               ;
               an
               Ancestry
               which
               they
               affected
               .
               We
               ,
               and
               the
               French
               are
               of
               the
               same
               Humour
               :
               They
               would
               be
               thought
               to
               descend
               from
               a
               Son
               ,
               I
               think
               ,
               of
               Hector
               :
               And
               we
               wou'd
               have
               our
               Britain
               ,
               both
               Nam'd
               and
               Planted
               by
               a
               descendant
               of
               
                 Aeneas
                 .
                 Spencer
              
               favours
               this
               Opinion
               what
               he
               can
               .
               His
               Prince
               Arthur
               ,
               or
               whoever
               he
               intends
               by
               him
               ,
               is
               a
               Trojan
               .
               Thus
               the
               Heroe
               of
               Homer
               was
               a
               Grecian
               ,
               of
               Virgil
               a
               Roman
               ,
               of
               Tasso
               an
               Italian
               .
            
             
               I
               have
               transgress'd
               my
               Bounds
               ,
               and
               gone
               farther
               than
               the
               Moral
               led
               me
               .
               But
               if
               your
               Lordship
               is
               not
               tir'd
               ,
               I
               am
               safe
               enough
               .
            
             
               Thus
               far
               ,
               I
               think
               ,
               my
               Author
               is
               defended
               .
               But
               as
               Augustus
               is
               still
               shadow'd
               in
               the
               Person
               of
               Aeneas
               ,
               of
               which
               I
               shall
               say
               more
               ,
               when
               I
               come
               to
               the
               Manners
               which
               the
               Poet
               gives
               his
               Hero
               :
               I
               must
               prepare
               that
               Subject
               by
               shewing
               how
               dext'rously
               he
               mannag'd
               both
               the
               Prince
               and
               People
               ,
               so
               as
               to
               displease
               neither
               ,
               and
               to
               do
               good
               to
               both
               ,
               which
               is
               the
               part
               of
               a
               Wise
               and
               an
               Honest
               Man
               :
               And
               proves
               that
               it
               is
               possible
               for
               a
               Courtier
               not
               to
               be
               a
               Knave
               :
               I
               shall
               continue
               still
               to
               speak
               my
               Thoughts
               like
               a
               free-born
               Subject
               as
               I
               am
               ;
               though
               such
               things
               ,
               perhaps
               ,
               as
               no
               Dutch
               Commentator
               cou'd
               ,
               and
               I
               am
               sure
               no
               
               French-man
               durst
               .
               I
               have
               already
               told
               your
               Lordship
               my
               Opinion
               of
               Virgil
               ;
               that
               he
               was
               no
               Arbitrary
               Man.
               Oblig'd
               he
               was
               to
               his
               Master
               for
               his
               Bounty
               ,
               and
               he
               repays
               him
               with
               good
               Counsel
               ,
               how
               to
               behave
               himself
               in
               his
               new
               Monarchy
               ,
               so
               as
               to
               gain
               the
               Affections
               of
               his
               Subjects
               ,
               and
               deserve
               to
               be
               call'd
               the
               Father
               of
               his
               Country
               .
               From
               this
               Consideration
               it
               is
               ,
               that
               he
               chose
               for
               the
               ground-work
               of
               his
               Poem
               ,
               one
               Empire
               destroy'd
               ,
               and
               another
               rais'd
               from
               the
               Ruins
               of
               it
               .
               This
               was
               just
               the
               Parallel
               .
               Aeneas
               cou'd
               not
               pretend
               to
               be
               
               Priam's
               Heir
               in
               a
               Lineal
               Succession
               :
               For
               Anchises
               the
               Heroe's
               Father
               ,
               was
               only
               of
               the
               second
               Branch
               of
               the
               Royal
               Family
               :
               And
               Helenus
               ,
               a
               Son
               of
               Priam
               ,
               was
               yet
               surviving
               ,
               and
               might
               lawfully
               claim
               before
               him
               .
               It
               may
               be
               Virgil
               mentions
               him
               on
               that
               Account
               .
               Neither
               has
               he
               forgotten
               Atis
               ,
               in
               the
               Fifth
               of
               his
               Aeneis
               ,
               the
               Son
               of
               Polites
               ,
               youngest
               Son
               to
               Priam
               ;
               who
               was
               slain
               by
               Pyrrhus
               ,
               in
               the
               Second
               Book
               .
               Atis
               ,
               then
               ,
               the
               Favourite
               Companion
               of
               Ascanius
               ,
               had
               a
               better
               Right
               than
               he
               ;
               tho'
               I
               know
               he
               was
               introduc'd
               by
               Virgil
               ,
               to
               do
               Honour
               to
               the
               Family
               ,
               from
               which
               
                 Julius
                 Caesar
              
               was
               descended
               by
               the
               Mothers
               side
               .
               Aeneas
               had
               only
               Married
               Creusa
               ,
               Priam's
               Daughter
               ,
               and
               by
               her
               could
               have
               no
               Title
               ,
               while
               any
               of
               the
               Male
               Issue
               were
               remaining
               .
               In
               this
               case
               ,
               the
               Poet
               gave
               him
               the
               next
               Title
               ,
               which
               is
               ,
               that
               of
               an
               Elective
               King.
               The
               remaining
               Trojans
               chose
               him
               to
               lead
               them
               forth
               ,
               
               and
               settle
               them
               in
               some
               Foreign
               Country
               .
               Ilioneus
               in
               his
               Speech
               to
               Dido
               ,
               calls
               him
               expresly
               by
               the
               Name
               of
               King.
               Our
               Poet
               ,
               who
               all
               this
               while
               had
               Augustus
               in
               his
               Eye
               ,
               had
               no
               desire
               he
               should
               seem
               to
               succeed
               by
               any
               right
               of
               Inheritance
               ,
               deriv'd
               from
               
                 Julius
                 Caesar
              
               ;
               such
               a
               Title
               being
               but
               one
               degree
               remov'd
               from
               Conquest
               .
               For
               what
               was
               introduc'd
               by
               force
               ,
               by
               force
               may
               be
               remov'd
               .
               'T
               was
               better
               for
               the
               People
               that
               they
               should
               give
               ,
               than
               he
               should
               take
               .
               Since
               that
               Gift
               was
               indeed
               no
               more
               at
               bottom
               than
               a
               Trust
               .
               Virgil
               gives
               us
               an
               Example
               of
               this
               ,
               in
               the
               Person
               of
               Mezentius
               .
               He
               Govern'd
               Arbitrarily
               ,
               he
               was
               expell'd
               :
               And
               came
               to
               the
               deserv'd
               End
               of
               all
               Tyrants
               .
               Our
               Author
               shews
               us
               another
               sort
               of
               Kingship
               in
               the
               Person
               of
               Latinus
               .
               He
               was
               descended
               from
               Saturn
               ,
               and
               as
               I
               remember
               ,
               in
               the
               Third
               Degree
               .
               He
               is
               describ'd
               a
               just
               and
               a
               gracious
               Prince
               ;
               solicitous
               for
               the
               Welfare
               of
               his
               People
               ;
               always
               Consulting
               with
               his
               Senate
               to
               promote
               the
               common
               Good.
               We
               find
               him
               at
               the
               head
               of
               them
               ,
               when
               he
               enters
               into
               the
               Council-Hall
               .
               Speaking
               first
               ,
               but
               still
               demanding
               their
               Advice
               ,
               and
               steering
               by
               it
               as
               far
               as
               the
               Iniquity
               of
               the
               Times
               wou'd
               suffer
               him
               .
               And
               this
               is
               the
               proper
               Character
               of
               a
               King
               by
               Inheritance
               ,
               who
               is
               born
               a
               Father
               of
               his
               Country
               .
               Aeneas
               ,
               tho'
               he
               Married
               the
               Heiress
               of
               the
               Crown
               ,
               yet
               claim'd
               no
               Title
               to
               it
               during
               the
               Life
               of
               his
               Father-in-Law
               .
               
                 Pater
                 arma
                 Latinus
                 habeto
              
               ,
               &c.
               are
               
               Virgil's
               Words
               .
               As
               for
               himself
               ,
               he
               was
               contented
               to
               take
               care
               of
               his
               Country
               Gods
               ,
               who
               were
               not
               those
               of
               Latium
               .
               Wherein
               our
               Divine
               Author
               seems
               to
               relate
               to
               the
               after
               practice
               of
               the
               Romans
               ,
               which
               was
               to
               adopt
               the
               Gods
               of
               those
               they
               Conquer'd
               ,
               or
               receiv'd
               as
               Members
               of
               their
               Commonwealth
               .
               Yet
               withal
               ,
               he
               plainly
               touches
               at
               the
               Office
               of
               the
               High
               Priesthood
               ,
               with
               which
               Augustus
               was
               invested
               :
               And
               which
               made
               his
               Person
               more
               Sacred
               and
               inviolable
               ,
               than
               even
               the
               Tribunitial
               Power
               .
               It
               was
               not
               therefore
               for
               nothing
               ,
               that
               the
               most
               Judicious
               of
               all
               Poets
               ,
               made
               that
               Office
               vacant
               ,
               by
               the
               Death
               of
               Panthus
               ,
               in
               the
               Second
               Book
               of
               the
               Aeneis
               ,
               for
               his
               Heroe
               ro
               succeed
               in
               it
               ;
               and
               consequently
               for
               Augustus
               to
               enjoy
               .
               I
               know
               not
               that
               any
               of
               the
               Commentatours
               have
               taken
               notice
               of
               that
               passage
               .
               If
               they
               have
               not
               ,
               I
               am
               sure
               they
               ought
               :
               And
               if
               they
               have
               ,
               I
               am
               not
               indebted
               to
               them
               for
               the
               Observation
               :
               The
               words
               of
               Virgil
               are
               very
               plain
               .
            
             
               Sacra
               ,
               suosque
               tibi
               ,
               commendat
               Troja
               Penates
               .
            
             
               As
               for
               Augustus
               ,
               or
               his
               Uncle
               Julius
               ,
               claiming
               by
               descent
               from
               Aeneas
               ;
               that
               Title
               is
               already
               out
               of
               doors
               .
               Aeneas
               succeeded
               not
               ,
               but
               was
               Elected
               .
               Troy
               was
               fore-doom'd
               to
               fall
               for
               ever
               .
            
             
               
                 
                   Postquam
                   res
                   Asiae
                   ,
                   Priamique
                   evertere
                   Regnum
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Immeritum
                   ,
                   visum
                   superis
                
                 .
                 Aeneis
                 the
                 3
                 d
                 ,
                 line
                 the
                 1st
                 .
              
            
             
               Augustus
               't
               is
               true
               ,
               had
               once
               resolv'd
               to
               re-build
               that
               City
               ,
               and
               there
               to
               make
               the
               Seat
               of
               Empire
               :
               But
               Horace
               writes
               an
               Ode
               on
               purpose
               to
               deter
               him
               from
               that
               Thought
               ;
               declaring
               the
               place
               to
               be
               accurs'd
               ,
               and
               that
               the
               Gods
               would
               as
               often
               destroy
               it
               as
               it
               shou'd
               be
               rais'd
               .
               Hereupon
               the
               Emperour
               laid
               aside
               a
               Project
               so
               ungrateful
               to
               the
               Roman
               People
               :
               But
               by
               this
               ,
               my
               Lord
               ,
               we
               may
               conclude
               that
               he
               had
               still
               his
               Pedigree
               in
               his
               Head
               ;
               and
               had
               an
               Itch
               of
               being
               thought
               a
               Divine
               King
               ,
               if
               his
               Poets
               had
               not
               given
               him
               better
               Counsel
               .
            
             
               I
               will
               pass
               by
               many
               less
               material
               Objections
               ,
               for
               want
               of
               room
               to
               Answer
               them
               :
               What
               follows
               next
               is
               of
               great
               Importance
               ,
               if
               the
               Criticks
               
               can
               make
               out
               their
               Charge
               ;
               for
               't
               is
               levell'd
               at
               the
               Manners
               which
               our
               Poet
               gives
               his
               Heroe
               ;
               and
               which
               are
               the
               same
               which
               were
               eminently
               seen
               in
               his
               Augustus
               .
               Those
               Manners
               were
               Piety
               to
               the
               Gods
               ,
               and
               a
               dutiful
               Affection
               to
               his
               Father
               ;
               Love
               to
               his
               Relations
               ;
               Care
               of
               his
               People
               ;
               Courage
               and
               Conduct
               in
               the
               Wars
               ;
               Gratitude
               to
               those
               who
               had
               oblig'd
               him
               ;
               and
               Justice
               in
               general
               to
               Mankind
               .
            
             
               Piety
               ,
               as
               your
               Lordship
               sees
               ,
               takes
               place
               of
               all
               ,
               as
               the
               chief
               part
               of
               his
               Character
               :
               And
               the
               word
               in
               Latin
               is
               more
               full
               than
               it
               can
               possibly
               be
               exprest
               in
               any
               Modern
               Language
               ;
               for
               there
               it
               comprehends
               not
               only
               Devotion
               to
               the
               Gods
               ,
               but
               Filial
               Love
               and
               tender
               Affection
               to
               Relations
               of
               all
               sorts
               .
               As
               instances
               of
               this
               ,
               the
               Deities
               of
               Troy
               and
               his
               own
               Penates
               are
               made
               the
               Companions
               of
               his
               Flight
               :
               They
               appear
               to
               him
               in
               his
               Voyage
               ,
               and
               advise
               him
               ;
               and
               at
               last
               he
               re-places
               them
               in
               Italy
               ,
               their
               Native
               Country
               .
               For
               his
               Father
               he
               takes
               him
               on
               his
               Back
               :
               He
               leads
               his
               little
               Son
               ,
               his
               Wife
               follows
               him
               ;
               but
               losing
               his
               Footsteps
               through
               Fear
               or
               Ignorance
               ,
               he
               goes
               back
               into
               the
               midst
               of
               his
               Enemies
               to
               find
               her
               ;
               and
               leaves
               not
               his
               pursute
               'till
               her
               Ghost
               appears
               ,
               to
               forbid
               his
               farther
               search
               .
               I
               will
               say
               nothing
               of
               his
               Duty
               to
               his
               Father
               while
               he
               liv'd
               ;
               his
               Sorrow
               for
               his
               Death
               ;
               of
               the
               Games
               instituted
               in
               Honour
               of
               his
               Memory
               ;
               or
               seeking
               him
               ,
               by
               his
               Command
               ,
               even
               after
               Death
               ,
               in
               the
               Elysian
               Fields
               .
               I
               will
               not
               mention
               his
               Tenderness
               for
               his
               Son
               ,
               which
               every
               where
               is
               visible
               ;
               Of
               his
               raising
               a
               Tomb
               for
               Polydorus
               ,
               the
               Obsequies
               for
               Misenus
               ,
               his
               pious
               remembrance
               of
               Deiphobus
               :
               The
               Funerals
               of
               his
               Nurse
               :
               His
               Grief
               for
               Pallas
               ,
               and
               his
               Revenge
               taken
               on
               his
               Murtherer
               ;
               whom
               ,
               otherwise
               by
               his
               Natural
               Compassion
               ,
               he
               had
               forgiven
               :
               And
               then
               the
               Poem
               had
               been
               left
               imperfect
               :
               For
               we
               could
               have
               had
               no
               certain
               prospect
               of
               his
               Happiness
               ,
               while
               the
               last
               Obstacle
               to
               it
               was
               unremov'd
               .
               Of
               the
               other
               parts
               which
               compose
               his
               Character
               ,
               as
               a
               King
               ,
               or
               as
               a
               General
               ,
               I
               need
               say
               nothing
               :
               The
               whole
               Aeneis
               is
               one
               continued
               Instance
               ,
               of
               some
               one
               or
               other
               of
               them
               :
               And
               where
               I
               find
               any
               thing
               of
               them
               tax'd
               ,
               it
               shall
               suffice
               me
               ,
               as
               briefly
               as
               I
               can
               ,
               to
               vindicate
               my
               Divine
               Master
               to
               your
               Lordship
               ,
               and
               by
               you
               to
               the
               Reader
               .
               But
               herein
               ,
               Segrais
               ,
               in
               his
               admirable
               Preface
               to
               his
               Translation
               of
               the
               Aeneis
               ,
               as
               the
               Author
               of
               the
               
               Dauphin's
               Virgil
               justly
               calls
               it
               ;
               has
               prevented
               me
               .
               Him
               I
               follow
               ;
               and
               what
               I
               borrow
               from
               him
               ,
               am
               ready
               to
               acknowledge
               to
               him
               .
               For
               ,
               impartially
               speaking
               ,
               the
               French
               are
               as
               much
               better
               Criticks
               than
               the
               English
               ,
               as
               they
               are
               worse
               Poets
               .
               Thus
               we
               generally
               allow
               that
               they
               better
               understand
               the
               management
               of
               a
               War
               ,
               than
               our
               Islanders
               ;
               but
               we
               know
               we
               are
               superiour
               to
               them
               ,
               in
               the
               day
               of
               Battel
               .
               They
               value
               themselves
               on
               their
               Generals
               ;
               we
               on
               our
               Souldiers
               .
               But
               this
               is
               not
               the
               proper
               place
               to
               decide
               that
               Question
               ,
               if
               they
               make
               it
               one
               .
               I
               shall
               sayperhaps
               as
               much
               of
               other
               Nations
               ,
               and
               their
               Poets
               ,
               excepting
               only
               Tasso
               :
               and
               hope
               to
               make
               my
               Assertion
               good
               ,
               which
               is
               but
               doing
               Justice
               to
               my
               Country
               .
               Part
               of
               which
               Honour
               will
               reflect
               on
               your
               Lordship
               ,
               whose
               Thoughts
               are
               always
               just
               ;
               your
               Numbers
               harmonious
               ;
               your
               Words
               chosen
               ;
               your
               Expressions
               strong
               and
               manly
               ;
               your
               Verse
               flowing
               ,
               and
               your
               turns
               as
               happy
               as
               they
               are
               easie
               .
               If
               you
               wou'd
               set
               us
               more
               Copies
               ,
               your
               Example
               would
               make
               all
               Precepts
               needless
               .
               In
               the
               mean
               time
               ,
               that
               little
               you
               have
               Written
               is
               own'd
               ,
               and
               that
               particularly
               by
               the
               Poets
               ,
               (
               who
               are
               a
               Nation
               not
               over-lavish
               of
               praise
               to
               their
               Contemporaries
               ,
               )
               as
               a
               principal
               Ornament
               of
               our
               Language
               :
               But
               the
               sweetest
               Essences
               are
               always
               confin'd
               in
               the
               smallest
               Glasses
               .
            
             
             
               When
               I
               speak
               of
               your
               Lordship
               ,
               't
               is
               never
               a
               digression
               ,
               and
               therefore
               I
               need
               beg
               no
               pardon
               for
               it
               ;
               but
               take
               up
               Segrais
               where
               I
               left
               him
               :
               And
               shall
               use
               him
               less
               often
               than
               I
               have
               occasion
               for
               him
               .
               For
               his
               Preface
               is
               a
               perfect
               piece
               of
               Criticism
               ,
               full
               and
               clear
               ,
               and
               digested
               into
               an
               exact
               Method
               ;
               mine
               is
               loose
               ,
               and
               ,
               as
               I
               intended
               it
               ,
               Epistolary
               .
               Yet
               I
               dwell
               on
               many
               things
               which
               he
               durst
               not
               touch
               :
               For
               't
               is
               dangerous
               to
               offend
               an
               Arbitrary
               Master
               :
               And
               every
               Patron
               who
               has
               the
               Power
               of
               Augustus
               ,
               has
               not
               his
               Clemency
               .
               In
               short
               ,
               my
               Lord
               ,
               I
               wou'd
               not
               Translate
               him
               ,
               because
               I
               wou'd
               bring
               you
               somewhat
               of
               my
               own
               .
               His
               Notes
               and
               Observations
               on
               every
               Book
               ,
               are
               of
               the
               same
               Excellency
               ;
               and
               for
               the
               same
               Reason
               I
               omit
               the
               greater
               part
               .
            
             
               He
               takes
               notice
               that
               Virgil
               is
               Arraign'd
               for
               placing
               Piety
               before
               Valour
               ;
               and
               making
               that
               Piety
               the
               chief
               Character
               of
               his
               Heroe
               .
               I
               have
               said
               already
               from
               Bossu
               ,
               that
               a
               Poet
               is
               not
               oblig'd
               to
               make
               his
               Heroe
               a
               Virtuous
               Man
               :
               Therefore
               neither
               Homer
               nor
               Tasso
               are
               to
               be
               blam'd
               ,
               for
               giving
               what
               predominant
               quality
               they
               pleas'd
               to
               their
               first
               Character
               .
               But
               Virgil
               ,
               who
               design'd
               to
               form
               a
               perfect
               Prince
               ,
               and
               would
               insinuate
               ,
               that
               Augustus
               ,
               whom
               he
               calls
               Aeneas
               in
               his
               Poem
               ,
               was
               truly
               such
               ,
               found
               himself
               oblig'd
               to
               make
               him
               without
               blemish
               ;
               thoroughly
               Virtuous
               ;
               and
               a
               thorough
               Virtue
               both
               begins
               and
               ends
               in
               Piety
               .
               Tasso
               ,
               without
               question
               ,
               observ'd
               this
               before
               me
               ;
               and
               therefore
               split
               his
               Heroe
               in
               two
               .
               He
               gave
               Godfrey
               Piety
               ,
               and
               Rinaldo
               Fortitude
               ;
               for
               their
               chief
               Qualities
               or
               Manners
               .
               Homer
               ,
               who
               had
               chosen
               another
               Moral
               ,
               makes
               both
               Agamemnon
               and
               Achilles
               vicious
               :
               For
               his
               design
               was
               to
               instruct
               in
               Virtue
               ,
               by
               shewing
               the
               deformity
               of
               Vice.
               I
               avoid
               repetitione
               of
               that
               I
               have
               said
               above
               .
               What
               follows
               is
               Translated
               literally
               from
               Segrais
               .
            
             
               Virgil
               had
               consider'd
               that
               the
               greatest
               Virtues
               of
               Augustus
               consisted
               in
               the
               perfect
               Art
               of
               Governing
               his
               People
               ;
               which
               caus'd
               him
               to
               Reign
               for
               more
               than
               Forty
               Years
               in
               great
               Felicity
               .
               He
               consider'd
               that
               his
               Emperour
               was
               Valiant
               ,
               Civil
               ,
               Popular
               ,
               Eloquent
               ,
               Politick
               ,
               and
               Religious
               .
               He
               has
               given
               all
               these
               Qualities
               to
               Aeneas
               .
               But
               knowing
               that
               Piety
               alone
               comprehends
               the
               whole
               Duty
               of
               Man
               towards
               the
               Gods
               ;
               towards
               his
               County
               ,
               and
               towards
               his
               Relations
               ,
               he
               judg'd
               ,
               that
               this
               ought
               to
               be
               his
               first
               Character
               ,
               whom
               he
               would
               set
               for
               a
               Pattern
               of
               Perfection
               .
               In
               reality
               ,
               they
               who
               believe
               that
               the
               Praises
               which
               arise
               from
               Valour
               ,
               are
               superiour
               to
               those
               ,
               which
               proceed
               from
               any
               other
               Virtues
               ,
               have
               not
               consider'd
               (
               as
               they
               ought
               )
               ,
               that
               Valour
               ,
               destitute
               of
               other
               Virtues
               ,
               cannot
               render
               a
               Man
               worthy
               of
               any
               true
               esteem
               .
               That
               Quality
               which
               signifies
               no
               more
               than
               an
               intrepid
               Courage
               ,
               may
               be
               separated
               from
               many
               others
               which
               are
               good
               ,
               and
               accompany'd
               with
               many
               which
               are
               ill
               .
               A
               Man
               may
               be
               very
               Valiant
               ,
               and
               yet
               Impious
               and
               Vicious
               .
               But
               the
               same
               cannot
               be
               said
               of
               Piety
               ;
               which
               excludes
               all
               ill
               Qualities
               ,
               and
               comprehends
               even
               Valour
               it self
               ,
               with
               all
               other
               Qualities
               which
               are
               good
               .
               Can
               we
               ,
               for
               Example
               ,
               give
               the
               praise
               of
               Valour
               to
               a
               Man
               who
               shou'd
               see
               his
               Gods
               prophan'd
               ,
               and
               shou'd
               want
               the
               Courage
               to
               defend
               them
               ?
               To
               a
               Man
               who
               shou'd
               abandon
               his
               Father
               ,
               or
               desert
               his
               King
               in
               his
               last
               Necessity
               ?
            
             
               Thus
               far
               Segrais
               ,
               in
               giving
               the
               preference
               to
               Piety
               before
               Valour
               .
               I
               will
               now
               follow
               him
               ,
               where
               he
               considers
               this
               Valour
               ,
               or
               intrepid
               Courage
               ,
               singly
               in
               it self
               ;
               and
               this
               also
               Virgil
               gives
               to
               his
               Aeneas
               ,
               and
               that
               in
               a
               Heroical
               Degree
               .
            
             
               Having
               first
               concluded
               ,
               that
               our
               Poet
               did
               for
               the
               best
               in
               taking
               the
               first
               Character
               of
               his
               Heroe
               ,
               from
               that
               Essential
               Vertue
               on
               which
               the
               
               rest
               depend
               ,
               he
               proceeds
               to
               tell
               us
               ,
               that
               in
               the
               Ten
               Years
               war
               of
               Troy
               ,
               he
               was
               consider'd
               as
               the
               second
               Champion
               of
               his
               Country
               ;
               allowing
               Hector
               the
               first
               place
               ;
               and
               this
               ,
               even
               by
               the
               Confession
               of
               Homer
               ,
               who
               took
               all
               occasions
               of
               setting
               up
               his
               own
               Countrymen
               the
               Grecians
               ,
               and
               of
               undervaluing
               the
               Trojan
               Chiefs
               .
               But
               Virgil
               ,
               (
               whom
               Segrais
               forgot
               to
               cite
               ,
               )
               makes
               Diomede
               give
               him
               a
               higher
               Character
               for
               Strength
               and
               Courage
               .
               His
               Testimony
               is
               this
               in
               the
               Eleventh
               Book
               .
            
             
               
                 —
                 stetimus
                 tela
                 aspera
                 contra
                 ,
              
               
                 Contulimusque
                 manus
                 :
                 Experto
                 ,
                 credite
                 ,
                 quantus
              
               
                 In
                 clypeum
                 afsurgat
                 ,
                 quo
                 turbine
                 torqueat
                 hastam
                 .
              
               
                 Si
                 duo
                 preterea
                 tales
                 Idaea
                 tulisset
              
               
                 Terra
                 viros
                 ;
                 ultro
                 Inachias
                 venisset
                 ad
                 Vrbes
              
               
                 Dardanus
                 ,
                 &
                 versis
                 lugeret
                 Graecia
                 fatis
                 .
              
               
                 Quicquid
                 apud
                 durae
                 cessatum
                 est
                 moenia
                 Trojae
                 ,
              
               
                 Hectoris
                 ,
                 Aeeneaeque
                 manu
                 victoria
                 Grajûm
              
               
                 Haesit
                 ;
                 &
                 in
                 decumum
                 vestigia
                 rettulit
                 annum
                 .
              
               
                 Ambo
                 animis
                 ,
                 ambo
                 insignes
                 praestantibus
                 armis
                 :
              
               
                 Hic
                 pietate
                 prior
                 .
              
            
             
               I
               give
               not
               here
               my
               Translation
               of
               these
               Verses
               ;
               though
               I
               think
               I
               have
               not
               ill
               succeeded
               in
               them
               ;
               because
               your
               Lordship
               is
               so
               great
               a
               Master
               of
               the
               Original
               ,
               that
               I
               have
               no
               reason
               to
               desire
               you
               shou'd
               see
               Virgil
               and
               me
               so
               near
               together
               :
               But
               you
               may
               please
               ,
               my
               Lord
               ,
               to
               take
               notice
               ,
               that
               the
               Latin
               Author
               refines
               upon
               the
               Greek
               ;
               and
               insinuates
               ,
               That
               Homer
               had
               done
               his
               Heroe
               Wrong
               ,
               in
               giving
               the
               advantage
               of
               the
               Duel
               to
               his
               own
               Country-man
               :
               Though
               Diomedes
               was
               manifestly
               the
               second
               Champion
               of
               the
               Grecians
               :
               And
               Vlysses
               preferr'd
               him
               before
               Ajax
               ,
               when
               he
               chose
               him
               for
               the
               Companion
               of
               his
               Nightly
               Expedition
               :
               For
               he
               had
               a
               Head-piece
               of
               his
               own
               ;
               and
               wanted
               only
               the
               fortitude
               of
               another
               ,
               to
               bring
               him
               off
               with
               safety
               ;
               and
               that
               he
               might
               compass
               his
               Design
               with
               Honour
               .
            
             
               The
               French
               Translator
               thus
               proceeds
               :
               They
               who
               accuse
               Aeneas
               for
               want
               of
               Courage
               ,
               either
               understand
               not
               Virgil
               ,
               or
               have
               read
               him
               slightly
               ;
               otherwise
               they
               would
               not
               raise
               an
               Objection
               so
               easie
               to
               be
               Answer'd
               :
               Hereupon
               he
               gives
               so
               many
               instances
               of
               the
               Heroe's
               Valour
               ,
               that
               to
               repeat
               them
               after
               him
               would
               tire
               your
               Lordship
               ,
               and
               put
               me
               to
               the
               unnecessary
               trouble
               of
               Transcribing
               the
               greatest
               part
               of
               the
               three
               last
               Aeneids
               .
               In
               short
               ,
               more
               could
               not
               be
               expected
               from
               an
               Amadis
               ,
               a
               Sir
               Lancelot
               ,
               or
               the
               whole
               round
               Table
               ,
               than
               he
               performs
               .
               
                 Proxima
                 quaeque
                 metit
                 gladio
              
               ,
               is
               the
               perfect
               Account
               of
               a
               Knight
               Errant
               .
               If
               it
               be
               reply'd
               ,
               
                 continues
                 Segrais
              
               ,
               that
               it
               was
               not
               difficult
               for
               him
               to
               undertake
               and
               atchieve
               such
               hardy
               Enterprizes
               ,
               because
               he
               wore
               Enchanted
               Arms.
               That
               Accusation
               ,
               in
               the
               first
               place
               ,
               must
               fall
               on
               Homer
               e're
               it
               can
               reach
               
                 Virgil
                 .
                 Achilles
              
               was
               as
               well
               provided
               with
               them
               as
               Aeneas
               ,
               though
               he
               was
               invulnerable
               without
               them
               :
               And
               ,
               Ariosto
               ,
               the
               two
               
               Tasso's
               ,
               Bernardo
               and
               Torquato
               ,
               even
               our
               own
               Spencer
               ;
               in
               a
               word
               ,
               all
               Modern
               Poets
               have
               Copied
               Homer
               as
               well
               as
               Virgil
               :
               He
               is
               neither
               the
               first
               nor
               last
               ;
               but
               in
               the
               midst
               of
               them
               ;
               and
               therefore
               is
               safe
               if
               they
               are
               so
               .
               Who
               knows
               ,
               says
               Segrais
               ,
               but
               that
               his
               fated
               Armour
               was
               only
               an
               Allegorical
               Defence
               ,
               and
               signifi'd
               no
               more
               than
               that
               he
               was
               under
               the
               peculiar
               protection
               of
               the
               Gods
               ;
               born
               ,
               as
               the
               Astrologers
               will
               tell
               us
               out
               of
               Virgil
               (
               who
               was
               well
               vers'd
               in
               the
               Chaldaean
               Mysteries
               )
               under
               the
               favourable
               influence
               of
               
                 Jupiter
                 ,
                 Venus
              
               ,
               and
               the
               Sun
               :
               But
               I
               insist
               not
               on
               this
               ,
               because
               I
               know
               you
               believe
               not
               
               there
               is
               such
               an
               Art
               :
               though
               not
               only
               Horace
               and
               Persius
               ,
               but
               Augustus
               himself
               ,
               thought
               otherwise
               .
               But
               in
               defence
               of
               Virgil
               ,
               I
               dare
               positively
               say
               ,
               that
               he
               has
               been
               more
               cautious
               in
               this
               particular
               than
               either
               his
               Predecessour
               ,
               or
               his
               Descendants
               .
               For
               Aeneas
               was
               actually
               wounded
               ,
               in
               the
               Twelfth
               of
               the
               Aeneis
               ;
               though
               he
               had
               the
               same
               God-Smith
               to
               Forge
               his
               Arms
               ,
               as
               had
               Achilles
               .
               It
               seems
               he
               was
               no
               War-luck
               ,
               as
               the
               Scots
               commonly
               call
               such
               Men
               ,
               who
               they
               say
               ,
               are
               Iron-free
               ,
               or
               Lead-free
               .
               Yet
               after
               this
               Experiment
               ,
               that
               his
               Arms
               were
               not
               impenetrable
               ,
               when
               he
               was
               Cur'd
               indeed
               by
               his
               Mother's
               help
               ,
               because
               he
               was
               that
               day
               to
               conclude
               the
               War
               by
               the
               death
               of
               Turnus
               ,
               the
               Poet
               durst
               not
               carry
               the
               Miracle
               too
               far
               ,
               and
               restore
               him
               wholy
               to
               his
               former
               Vigour
               :
               He
               was
               still
               too
               weak
               to
               overtake
               his
               Enemy
               ;
               yet
               we
               see
               with
               what
               Courage
               he
               attacks
               Turnus
               ,
               when
               he
               faces
               and
               renews
               the
               Combate
               .
               I
               need
               say
               no
               more
               ,
               for
               Virgil
               defends
               himself
               ,
               without
               needing
               my
               assistance
               ;
               and
               proves
               his
               Heroe
               truly
               to
               deserve
               that
               Name
               .
               He
               was
               not
               then
               a
               Second-rate
               Champion
               ,
               as
               they
               would
               have
               him
               ,
               who
               think
               Fortitude
               the
               first
               Vertue
               in
               a
               Heroe
               .
               But
               being
               beaten
               from
               this
               hold
               ,
               they
               will
               not
               yet
               allow
               him
               to
               be
               Valiant
               ;
               because
               he
               wept
               more
               often
               ,
               as
               they
               think
               ,
               than
               well
               becomes
               a
               Man
               of
               Courage
               .
            
             
               In
               the
               first
               place
               ,
               if
               Tears
               are
               Arguments
               of
               Cowardise
               ,
               What
               shall
               I
               say
               of
               
               Homer's
               Heroe
               ?
               shall
               Achilles
               pass
               for
               timorous
               because
               he
               wept
               ?
               and
               wept
               on
               less
               occasions
               than
               Aeneas
               ?
               Herein
               Virgil
               must
               be
               granted
               to
               have
               excell'd
               his
               Master
               .
               For
               once
               both
               Heroes
               are
               describ'd
               lamenting
               their
               lost
               Loves
               :
               Briseis
               was
               taken
               away
               by
               force
               from
               the
               
                 Grecian
                 :
                 Cerusa
              
               was
               lost
               for
               ever
               to
               her
               Husband
               .
               But
               Achilles
               went
               roaring
               along
               the
               salt
               Sea-shore
               ,
               and
               like
               a
               Booby
               ,
               was
               complaining
               to
               his
               Mother
               ,
               when
               he
               shou'd
               have
               reveng'd
               his
               Injury
               by
               Arms.
               Aeneas
               took
               a
               Nobler
               Course
               ;
               for
               having
               secur'd
               his
               Father
               and
               his
               Son
               ,
               he
               repeated
               all
               his
               former
               Dangers
               to
               have
               found
               his
               Wife
               ,
               if
               she
               had
               been
               above
               ground
               .
               And
               here
               your
               Lordship
               may
               observe
               the
               Address
               of
               Virgil
               ;
               it
               was
               not
               for
               nothing
               ,
               that
               this
               Passage
               was
               related
               with
               all
               these
               tender
               Circumstances
               .
               Aeneas
               told
               it
               ;
               Dido
               hear'd
               it
               :
               That
               he
               had
               been
               so
               affectionate
               a
               Husband
               ,
               was
               no
               ill
               Argument
               to
               the
               coming
               Dowager
               ,
               that
               he
               might
               prove
               as
               kind
               to
               her
               .
               Virgil
               has
               a
               thousand
               secret
               Beauties
               ,
               tho'
               I
               have
               not
               leisure
               to
               remark
               them
               .
            
             
               Segrais
               on
               this
               Subject
               of
               a
               Heroe's
               shedding
               Tears
               ,
               observes
               that
               Historians
               commend
               Alexander
               for
               weeping
               ,
               when
               he
               read
               the
               mighty
               Actions
               of
               Achilles
               .
               And
               
                 Julius
                 Caesar
              
               is
               likewise
               prais'd
               ,
               when
               out
               of
               the
               same
               Noble
               Envy
               ,
               he
               wept
               at
               the
               Victories
               of
               Alexander
               .
               But
               if
               we
               observe
               more
               closely
               ,
               we
               shall
               find
               ,
               that
               the
               tears
               of
               Aeneas
               were
               always
               on
               a
               laudable
               Occasion
               .
               Thus
               he
               weeps
               out
               of
               Compassion
               ,
               and
               tenderness
               of
               Nature
               ,
               when
               in
               the
               Temple
               of
               Carthage
               he
               beholds
               the
               Pictures
               of
               his
               Friends
               ,
               who
               Sacrific'd
               their
               Lives
               in
               Defence
               of
               their
               Country
               .
               He
               deplores
               the
               lamentable
               End
               of
               his
               Pilot
               Palinurus
               ;
               the
               untimely
               death
               of
               young
               Pallas
               his
               Confederate
               ;
               and
               the
               rest
               ,
               which
               I
               omit
               .
               Yet
               even
               for
               these
               Tears
               his
               wretched
               Criticks
               dare
               condemn
               him
               .
               They
               make
               Aeneas
               little
               better
               than
               a
               kind
               of
               a
               St.
               Swithen
               Heroe
               ,
               always
               raining
               .
               One
               of
               these
               Censors
               is
               bold
               enough
               to
               argue
               him
               of
               Cowardise
               ;
               when
               in
               the
               beginning
               of
               the
               First
               Book
               ,
               he
               not
               only
               weeps
               ,
               but
               trembles
               at
               an
               approaching
               Storm
               .
            
             
               
               
                 
                   Extemplò
                   Aeneae
                   solvuntur
                   frigore
                   Membra
                
                 :
              
               
                 
                   Ingemit
                   &
                   duplices
                   tendens
                   ad
                   syderas
                   palmas
                   ,
                
                 &c.
                 
              
            
             
               But
               to
               this
               I
               have
               answer'd
               formerly
               ;
               that
               his
               fear
               was
               not
               for
               himself
               ,
               but
               for
               his
               People
               .
               And
               who
               can
               give
               a
               Soveraign
               a
               better
               Commendation
               ,
               or
               recommend
               a
               Heroe
               more
               to
               the
               affection
               of
               the
               Reader
               ?
               They
               were
               threatned
               with
               a
               Tempest
               ,
               and
               he
               wept
               ;
               he
               was
               promis'd
               Italy
               ,
               and
               therefore
               he
               pray'd
               for
               the
               accomplishment
               of
               that
               Promise
               .
               All
               this
               in
               the
               beginning
               of
               a
               Storm
               ,
               therefore
               he
               shew'd
               the
               more
               early
               Piety
               ,
               and
               the
               quicker
               sense
               of
               Compassion
               .
               Thus
               much
               I
               have
               urg'd
               elsewhere
               in
               the
               defence
               of
               Virgil
               ;
               and
               since
               I
               have
               been
               inform'd
               ,
               by
               Mr.
               Moyl
               ,
               a
               young
               Gentleman
               ,
               whom
               I
               can
               never
               sufficiently
               commend
               ,
               that
               the
               Ancients
               accounted
               drowning
               an
               accursed
               Death
               .
               So
               that
               if
               we
               grant
               him
               to
               have
               been
               afraid
               ,
               he
               had
               just
               occasion
               for
               that
               fear
               ,
               both
               in
               relation
               to
               himself
               ,
               and
               to
               his
               Subjects
               .
               I
               think
               our
               Adversaries
               can
               carry
               this
               Argument
               no
               farther
               ,
               unless
               they
               tell
               us
               that
               he
               ought
               to
               have
               had
               more
               confidence
               in
               the
               promise
               of
               the
               Gods
               :
               But
               how
               was
               he
               assur'd
               that
               he
               had
               understood
               their
               Oracles
               aright
               ?
               Helenus
               might
               be
               mistaken
               ,
               Phoebus
               might
               speak
               doubtfully
               ,
               even
               his
               Mother
               might
               flatter
               him
               ,
               that
               he
               might
               prosecute
               his
               Voyage
               ,
               which
               if
               it
               succeeded
               happily
               ,
               he
               shou'd
               be
               the
               Founder
               of
               an
               Empire
               .
               For
               that
               she
               her self
               was
               doubtful
               of
               his
               Fortune
               ,
               is
               apparent
               by
               the
               Address
               she
               made
               to
               Jupiter
               on
               his
               behalf
               .
               To
               which
               the
               God
               makes
               answer
               in
               these
               words
               :
               
                 
                   
                     Parce
                     metu
                     ,
                     Citherea
                     ,
                     manent
                     immota
                     tuorum
                     ,
                  
                
                 
                   
                     Fata
                     tibi
                  
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
            
             
               Notwithstanding
               which
               ,
               the
               Goddess
               ,
               though
               comforted
               ,
               was
               not
               assur'd
               :
               For
               even
               after
               this
               ,
               through
               the
               course
               of
               the
               whole
               Aeneis
               ,
               she
               still
               apprehends
               the
               interest
               which
               Juno
               might
               make
               with
               Jupiter
               against
               her
               Son.
               For
               it
               was
               a
               moot
               Point
               in
               Heaven
               ,
               whether
               he
               cou'd
               alter
               Fate
               or
               not
               .
               And
               indeed
               ,
               some
               passages
               in
               Virgil
               wou'd
               make
               us
               suspect
               ,
               that
               he
               was
               of
               Opinion
               ,
               Jupiter
               might
               deferr
               Fate
               ,
               though
               he
               cou'd
               not
               alter
               it
               .
               For
               in
               the
               latter
               end
               of
               the
               Tenth
               Book
               ,
               he
               introduces
               Juno
               begging
               for
               the
               Life
               of
               Turnus
               ,
               and
               flattering
               her
               Husband
               with
               the
               power
               of
               changing
               Destiny
               .
               
                 Tua
                 qui
                 potes
                 ,
                 orsa
                 reflectas
                 .
              
               To
               which
               he
               graciously
               answers
               :
               
                 
                   Si
                   mora
                   praesentis
                   lethi
                   tempusque
                   caduco
                
                 
                   Oratur
                   Juveni
                   ,
                   meque
                   hoc
                   ita
                   ponere
                   sentis
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tolle
                   fugâ
                   Turnum
                   ,
                   atque
                   instantibus
                   Eripe
                   fatis
                   .
                
                 
                   Hactenus
                   indulsisse
                   vacat
                   .
                   Sin
                   altior
                   istis
                
                 
                   Sub
                   precibus
                   venia
                   ulla
                   latet
                   ,
                   totumque
                   moveri
                   ,
                
                 
                   Mutarive
                   putas
                   bellum
                   ,
                   spes
                   pascis
                   inaneis
                   .
                
              
            
             
               But
               that
               he
               cou'd
               not
               alter
               those
               Decrees
               ,
               the
               King
               of
               Gods
               himself
               confesses
               ,
               in
               the
               Book
               above
               cited
               :
               when
               he
               comforts
               Hercules
               ,
               for
               the
               death
               of
               Pallas
               ,
               who
               had
               invok'd
               his
               aid
               ,
               before
               he
               threw
               his
               Lance
               at
               Turnus
               .
            
             
               
               
                 —
                 Trojae
                 sub
                 moenibus
                 altis
                 ,
              
               
                 Tot
                 Nati
                 Cecidere
                 Deûm
                 ;
                 quin
                 occidit
                 unâ
              
               
                 Sarpedon
                 mea
                 progenies
                 :
                 etiam
                 sua
                 Turnum
              
               
                 Fata
                 manent
                 :
                 metasque
                 dati
                 pervenit
                 ad
                 aevi
                 .
              
            
             
               Where
               he
               plainly
               acknowledges
               ,
               that
               he
               cou'd
               not
               save
               his
               own
               Son
               ,
               or
               prevent
               the
               death
               which
               he
               foresaw
               .
               Of
               his
               power
               to
               deferr
               the
               blow
               ,
               I
               once
               occasionally
               discours'd
               with
               that
               Excellent
               Person
               Sir
               
                 Robert
                 Howard
              
               :
               who
               is
               better
               conversant
               than
               any
               Man
               I
               know
               ,
               in
               the
               Doctrine
               of
               the
               Stoicks
               ,
               and
               he
               set
               me
               right
               ;
               from
               the
               concurrent
               testimony
               of
               Philosophers
               and
               Poets
               ,
               that
               Jupiter
               cou'd
               not
               retard
               the
               effects
               of
               Fate
               ,
               even
               for
               a
               moment
               .
               For
               when
               I
               cited
               Virgil
               as
               favouring
               the
               contrary
               opinion
               in
               that
               Verse
               ,
               
                 Tolle
                 fugâ
                 Turnum
                 ,
                 atque
                 instantibus
                 eripe
                 fatis
                 .
              
            
             
               He
               reply'd
               ,
               and
               I
               think
               with
               an
               exact
               Judgment
               ,
               that
               when
               Jupiter
               gave
               Juno
               leave
               to
               withdraw
               Turnus
               from
               the
               present
               danger
               ,
               it
               was
               because
               he
               certainly
               fore-knew
               that
               his
               Fatal
               hour
               was
               not
               come
               :
               that
               it
               was
               in
               Destiny
               for
               Juno
               at
               that
               time
               to
               save
               him
               ;
               and
               that
               he
               himself
               obey'd
               Destiny
               ,
               in
               giving
               her
               that
               leave
               .
            
             
               I
               need
               say
               no
               more
               in
               justification
               of
               our
               Heroe's
               Courage
               ,
               and
               am
               much
               deceiv'd
               ,
               if
               he
               ever
               be
               attack'd
               on
               this
               side
               of
               his
               Character
               again
               .
               But
               he
               is
               Arraign'd
               with
               more
               shew
               of
               Reason
               by
               the
               Ladies
               ;
               who
               will
               make
               a
               numerous
               Party
               against
               him
               ,
               for
               being
               false
               to
               Love
               ,
               in
               forsaking
               Dido
               .
               And
               I
               cannot
               much
               blame
               them
               ;
               for
               to
               say
               the
               truth
               ,
               't
               is
               an
               ill
               Precedent
               for
               their
               Gallants
               to
               follow
               .
               Yet
               if
               I
               can
               bring
               him
               off
               ,
               with
               Flying
               Colours
               ,
               they
               may
               learn
               experience
               at
               her
               cost
               ;
               and
               for
               her
               sake
               ,
               avoid
               a
               Cave
               ,
               as
               the
               worst
               shelter
               they
               can
               chuse
               from
               a
               shower
               of
               Rain
               ,
               especially
               when
               they
               have
               a
               Lover
               in
               their
               Company
               .
            
             
               In
               the
               first
               place
               ,
               Segrais
               observes
               with
               much
               accuteness
               ,
               that
               they
               who
               blame
               Aeneas
               for
               his
               insensibility
               of
               Love
               ,
               when
               he
               left
               Carthage
               ,
               contradict
               their
               former
               accusation
               of
               him
               ,
               for
               being
               always
               Crying
               ,
               Compassionate
               ,
               and
               Effeminately
               sensible
               of
               those
               Misfortunes
               which
               befell
               others
               .
               They
               give
               him
               two
               contrary
               Characters
               ,
               but
               Virgil
               makes
               him
               of
               a
               piece
               ,
               always
               grateful
               ,
               always
               tender-hearted
               .
               But
               they
               are
               impudent
               enough
               to
               discharge
               themselves
               of
               this
               blunder
               ,
               by
               laying
               the
               Contradiction
               at
               
               Virgil's
               door
               .
               He
               ,
               they
               say
               ,
               has
               shewn
               his
               Heroe
               with
               these
               inconsistent
               Characters
               :
               Acknowledging
               ,
               and
               Ungrateful
               ,
               Compassionate
               ,
               and
               Hard-harted
               ;
               but
               at
               the
               bottom
               ,
               Fickle
               ,
               and
               Self-interested
               .
               For
               Dido
               had
               not
               only
               receiv'd
               his
               weather-beaten
               Troops
               before
               she
               saw
               him
               ,
               and
               given
               them
               her
               protection
               ,
               but
               had
               also
               offer'd
               them
               an
               equal
               share
               in
               her
               Dominion
               .
            
             
               
                 Vultis
                 &
                 his
                 mecum
                 pariter
                 considere
                 Regnis
                 ?
              
               
                 Vrbem
                 quam
                 statuo
                 ,
                 vestra
                 est
                 .
              
            
             
               This
               was
               an
               obligement
               never
               to
               be
               forgotten
               :
               and
               the
               more
               to
               be
               consider'd
               ,
               because
               antecedent
               to
               her
               Love.
               That
               passion
               ,
               't
               is
               true
               ,
               produc'd
               the
               usual
               effects
               of
               Generosity
               ,
               Gallantry
               ,
               and
               care
               to
               please
               ,
               and
               thither
               we
               referr
               them
               .
               But
               when
               she
               had
               made
               all
               these
               advances
               ,
               it
               was
               still
               in
               his
               power
               to
               have
               refus'd
               them
               :
               After
               the
               Intrigue
               
               of
               the
               Cave
               ,
               call
               it
               Marriage
               ,
               or
               Enjoment
               only
               ,
               he
               was
               no
               longer
               free
               to
               take
               or
               leave
               ;
               he
               had
               accepted
               the
               favour
               ,
               and
               was
               oblig'd
               to
               be
               Constant
               ,
               if
               he
               wou'd
               be
               grateful
               .
            
             
               My
               Lord
               ,
               I
               have
               set
               this
               Argument
               in
               the
               best
               light
               I
               can
               ,
               that
               the
               Ladies
               may
               not
               think
               I
               write
               booty
               :
               and
               perhaps
               it
               may
               happen
               to
               me
               ,
               as
               it
               did
               to
               Doctor
               Cudworth
               ,
               who
               has
               rais'd
               such
               strong
               Objections
               against
               the
               being
               of
               a
               God
               ,
               and
               Providence
               ,
               that
               many
               think
               he
               has
               not
               answer'd
               them
               .
               You
               may
               please
               at
               least
               to
               hear
               the
               adverse
               Party
               .
               Segrais
               pleads
               for
               Virgil
               ,
               that
               no
               less
               than
               an
               Absolute
               Command
               from
               Jupiter
               ,
               cou'd
               excuse
               this
               insensibility
               of
               the
               Heroe
               ,
               and
               this
               abrupt
               departure
               ,
               which
               looks
               so
               like
               extream
               ingratitude
               .
               But
               at
               the
               same
               time
               ,
               he
               does
               wisely
               to
               remember
               you
               ,
               that
               Virgil
               had
               made
               Piety
               the
               first
               Character
               of
               Aeneas
               :
               And
               this
               being
               allow'd
               ,
               as
               I
               am
               afraid
               it
               must
               ,
               he
               was
               oblig'd
               ,
               antecedent
               to
               all
               other
               Considerations
               ,
               to
               search
               an
               Asylum
               for
               his
               Gods
               in
               Italy
               .
               For
               those
               very
               Gods
               ,
               I
               say
               ,
               who
               had
               promis'd
               to
               his
               Race
               the
               Universal
               Empire
               .
               Cou'd
               a
               Pious
               Man
               dispence
               with
               the
               Commands
               of
               Jupiter
               to
               satisfie
               his
               passion
               ;
               or
               take
               it
               in
               the
               strongest
               sense
               ,
               to
               comply
               with
               the
               obligations
               of
               his
               gratitude
               ?
               Religion
               ,
               't
               is
               true
               ,
               must
               have
               Moral
               Honesty
               for
               its
               ground-work
               ,
               or
               we
               shall
               be
               apt
               to
               suspect
               its
               truth
               ;
               but
               an
               immediate
               Revelation
               dispenses
               with
               all
               Duties
               of
               Morality
               .
               All
               Casuists
               agree
               ,
               that
               Theft
               is
               a
               breach
               of
               the
               Moral
               Law
               :
               yet
               if
               I
               might
               presume
               to
               mingle
               Things
               Sacred
               with
               Prophane
               ,
               the
               Israelites
               only
               spoil'd
               the
               Egyptians
               ,
               not
               rob'd
               them
               ,
               because
               the
               propriety
               was
               transferr'd
               ;
               by
               a
               Revelation
               to
               their
               Law-giver
               .
               I
               confess
               Dido
               was
               a
               very
               Infidel
               in
               this
               Point
               :
               for
               she
               wou'd
               not
               believe
               ,
               as
               Virgil
               makes
               her
               say
               ,
               that
               ever
               Jupiter
               wou'd
               send
               Mercury
               on
               such
               an
               Immoral
               Errand
               .
               But
               this
               needs
               no
               Answer
               ;
               at
               least
               no
               more
               than
               Virgil
               gives
               it
               :
               
                 Fata
                 obstant
                 ,
                 placidasque
                 viri
                 Deus
                 obstruit
                 aures
                 .
              
            
             
               This
               notwithstanding
               ,
               as
               Segrais
               confesses
               ,
               he
               might
               have
               shewn
               a
               little
               more
               sensibility
               when
               he
               left
               her
               ;
               for
               that
               had
               been
               according
               to
               his
               Character
               .
            
             
               But
               let
               Virgil
               answer
               for
               himself
               ;
               he
               still
               lov'd
               her
               ;
               and
               struggled
               with
               his
               inclinations
               ,
               to
               obey
               the
               Gods.
               
            
             
               
                 Curam
                 sub
                 Corde
                 premebat
                 ,
              
               
                 Multa
                 gemens
                 ;
                 magnoque
                 animum
                 labefactus
                 Amore.
                 
              
            
             
               Upon
               the
               whole
               Matter
               ,
               and
               humanely
               speaking
               ,
               I
               doubt
               there
               was
               a
               fault
               somewhere
               ;
               and
               Jupiter
               is
               better
               able
               to
               bear
               the
               blame
               ,
               than
               either
               Virgil
               or
               Aeneas
               .
               The
               Poet
               it
               seems
               had
               found
               it
               out
               ,
               and
               therefore
               brings
               the
               deserting
               Heroe
               and
               the
               forsaken
               Lady
               to
               meet
               together
               in
               the
               lower
               Regions
               ;
               where
               he
               excuses
               himself
               when
               't
               is
               too
               late
               ,
               and
               accordingly
               she
               will
               take
               no
               satisfaction
               ,
               nor
               so
               much
               as
               hear
               him
               .
               Now
               Segrais
               is
               forc'd
               to
               abandon
               his
               defence
               ,
               and
               excuses
               his
               Author
               ,
               by
               saying
               that
               the
               Aeneis
               is
               an
               imperfect
               Work
               ,
               and
               that
               Death
               prevented
               the
               Divine
               Poet
               from
               reviewing
               it
               ;
               and
               for
               that
               Reason
               he
               had
               condemn'd
               it
               to
               the
               fire
               ;
               though
               at
               the
               same
               time
               ,
               his
               two
               Translators
               must
               acknowledge
               ,
               that
               the
               Sixth
               Book
               is
               the
               most
               Correct
               of
               the
               whole
               Aeneis
               .
               Oh
               ,
               how
               convenient
               is
               a
               Machine
               sometimes
               in
               a
               Heroick
               Poem
               !
               This
               of
               Mercury
               is
               plainly
               one
               ,
               and
               Virgil
               was
               constrain'd
               to
               use
               it
               here
               ,
               or
               the
               honesty
               of
               his
               Heroe
               
               wou'd
               be
               ill-defended
               .
               And
               the
               Fair
               Sex
               however
               ,
               if
               they
               had
               the
               Desertour
               in
               their
               power
               ,
               wou'd
               certainly
               have
               shewn
               him
               no
               more
               mercy
               ,
               than
               the
               Bacchanals
               did
               Orpheus
               .
               For
               if
               too
               much
               Constancy
               may
               be
               a
               fault
               sometimes
               ,
               then
               want
               of
               Constancy
               ,
               and
               Ingratitude
               after
               the
               last
               Favour
               ,
               is
               a
               Crime
               that
               never
               will
               be
               forgiven
               .
               But
               of
               Machines
               ,
               more
               in
               their
               proper
               place
               :
               where
               I
               shall
               shew
               ,
               with
               how
               much
               judgment
               they
               have
               been
               us'd
               by
               Virgil
               ;
               and
               in
               the
               mean
               time
               pass
               to
               another
               Article
               of
               his
               defence
               on
               the
               present
               Subject
               :
               where
               if
               I
               cannot
               clear
               the
               Heroe
               ,
               I
               hope
               at
               least
               to
               bring
               off
               the
               Poet
               ;
               for
               here
               I
               must
               divide
               their
               Causes
               .
               Let
               Aeneas
               trust
               to
               his
               Machine
               ,
               which
               will
               only
               help
               to
               break
               his
               Fall
               ,
               but
               the
               Address
               is
               incomparable
               .
               Plato
               ,
               who
               borrow'd
               so
               much
               from
               Homer
               ,
               and
               yet
               concluded
               for
               the
               Banishment
               of
               all
               Poets
               ,
               wou'd
               at
               least
               have
               Rewarded
               Virgil
               ,
               before
               he
               sent
               him
               into
               Exile
               .
               But
               I
               go
               farther
               ,
               and
               say
               ,
               that
               he
               ought
               to
               be
               acquitted
               ,
               and
               deserv'd
               beside
               ,
               the
               Bounty
               of
               Augustus
               ,
               and
               the
               gratitude
               of
               the
               Roman
               People
               .
               If
               after
               this
               ,
               the
               Ladies
               will
               stand
               out
               ,
               let
               them
               remember
               ,
               that
               the
               Jury
               is
               not
               all
               agreed
               ;
               for
               Octavia
               was
               of
               his
               Party
               ,
               and
               was
               also
               of
               the
               first
               Quality
               in
               Rome
               ;
               she
               was
               present
               at
               the
               reading
               of
               the
               Sixth
               Aeneid
               ,
               and
               we
               know
               not
               that
               she
               condemn'd
               Aeneas
               ;
               but
               we
               are
               sure
               she
               presented
               the
               Poet
               ,
               for
               his
               admirable
               Elegy
               on
               her
               Son
               Marcellus
               .
            
             
               But
               let
               us
               consider
               the
               secret
               Reasons
               which
               Virgil
               had
               ,
               for
               thus
               framing
               this
               Noble
               Episode
               ,
               wherein
               the
               whole
               passion
               of
               Love
               is
               more
               exactly
               describ'd
               than
               in
               any
               other
               Poet.
               Love
               was
               the
               Theme
               of
               his
               Fourth
               Book
               ;
               and
               though
               it
               is
               the
               shortest
               of
               the
               whole
               Aeneis
               ,
               yet
               there
               he
               has
               given
               its
               beginning
               ,
               its
               progress
               ,
               its
               traverses
               ,
               and
               its
               conclusion
               .
               And
               had
               exhausted
               so
               entirely
               this
               Subject
               ,
               that
               he
               cou'd
               resume
               it
               but
               very
               slightly
               in
               the
               Eight
               ensuing
               Books
               .
            
             
               She
               was
               warm'd
               with
               the
               graceful
               appearance
               of
               the
               Heroe
               ,
               she
               smother'd
               those
               Sparkles
               out
               of
               decency
               ,
               but
               Conversation
               blew
               them
               up
               into
               a
               Flame
               .
               Then
               she
               was
               forc'd
               to
               make
               a
               Confident
               of
               her
               whom
               she
               best
               might
               trust
               ,
               her
               own
               Sister
               ,
               who
               approves
               the
               passion
               ,
               and
               thereby
               augments
               it
               ,
               then
               succeeds
               her
               publick
               owning
               it
               ;
               and
               after
               that
               ,
               the
               consummation
               .
               Of
               Venus
               and
               
                 Juno
                 ,
                 Jupiter
              
               and
               Mercury
               I
               say
               nothing
               ,
               for
               they
               were
               all
               Machining
               work
               ;
               but
               possession
               having
               cool'd
               his
               Love
               ,
               as
               it
               increas'd
               hers
               ,
               she
               soon
               perceiv'd
               the
               change
               ,
               or
               at
               least
               grew
               suspicious
               of
               a
               change
               ;
               this
               suspicion
               soon
               turn'd
               to
               Jealousie
               ,
               and
               Jealousie
               to
               Rage
               ;
               then
               she
               disdains
               and
               threatens
               ,
               and
               again
               is
               humble
               ,
               and
               intreats
               ;
               and
               nothing
               availing
               ,
               despairs
               ,
               curses
               ,
               and
               at
               last
               becomes
               her
               own
               Executioner
               .
               See
               here
               the
               whole
               process
               of
               that
               passion
               ,
               to
               which
               nothing
               can
               be
               added
               .
               I
               dare
               go
               no
               farther
               ,
               lest
               I
               shou'd
               lose
               the
               connection
               of
               my
               Discourse
               .
            
             
               To
               love
               our
               Native
               Country
               ,
               and
               to
               study
               its
               Benefit
               and
               its
               Glory
               ,
               to
               be
               interessed
               in
               its
               Concerns
               ,
               is
               Natural
               to
               all
               Men
               ,
               and
               is
               indeed
               our
               common
               Duty
               .
               A
               Poet
               makes
               a
               farther
               step
               ;
               for
               endeavouring
               to
               do
               honour
               to
               it
               ,
               't
               is
               allowable
               in
               him
               even
               to
               be
               partial
               in
               its
               Cause
               ;
               for
               he
               is
               not
               ty'd
               to
               truth
               ,
               or
               fetter'd
               by
               the
               Laws
               of
               History
               .
               Homer
               and
               Tasso
               are
               justly
               prais'd
               for
               chusing
               their
               Heroes
               out
               of
               Greece
               and
               
                 Italy
                 ;
                 Virgil
              
               indeed
               made
               his
               a
               Trojan
               ,
               but
               it
               was
               to
               derive
               the
               Romans
               ,
               and
               his
               own
               Augustus
               from
               him
               ;
               but
               all
               the
               three
               Poets
               are
               manifestly
               partial
               to
               their
               Heroes
               ,
               in
               favour
               of
               their
               Country
               .
               For
               
                 Dares
                 Phrygius
              
               reports
               of
               Hector
               ,
               that
               he
               was
               slain
               Cowardly
               ;
               Aeneas
               according
               to
               the
               best
               account
               ,
               slew
               not
               Mezentius
               ,
               but
               was
               slain
               by
               him
               :
               and
               the
               Chronicles
               of
               Italy
               tell
               us
               little
               of
               that
               
                 Rinaldo
                 d'Estè
              
               
               who
               Conquers
               Jerusalem
               in
               Tasso
               .
               He
               might
               be
               a
               Champion
               of
               the
               Church
               ;
               but
               we
               know
               not
               that
               he
               was
               so
               much
               as
               present
               at
               the
               Siege
               .
               To
               apply
               this
               to
               Virgil
               ,
               he
               thought
               himself
               engag'd
               in
               Honour
               to
               espouse
               the
               Cause
               and
               Quarrel
               of
               his
               Country
               against
               Carthage
               .
               He
               knew
               he
               cou'd
               not
               please
               the
               Romans
               better
               ,
               or
               oblige
               them
               more
               to
               Patronize
               his
               Poem
               ,
               than
               by
               disgracing
               the
               Foundress
               of
               that
               City
               .
               He
               shews
               her
               ungrateful
               to
               the
               Memory
               of
               her
               first
               Husband
               ,
               doting
               on
               a
               Stranger
               ;
               enjoy'd
               ,
               and
               afterwards
               forsaken
               by
               him
               .
               This
               was
               the
               Original
               ,
               says
               he
               ,
               of
               the
               immortal
               hatred
               betwixt
               the
               two
               Rival
               Nations
               .
               'T
               is
               true
               ,
               he
               colours
               the
               falsehood
               of
               Aeneas
               by
               an
               express
               Command
               from
               Jupiter
               ,
               to
               forsake
               the
               Queen
               ,
               who
               had
               oblig'd
               him
               :
               but
               he
               knew
               the
               Romans
               were
               to
               be
               his
               Readers
               ,
               and
               them
               he
               brib'd
               ,
               perhaps
               at
               the
               expence
               of
               his
               Heroe's
               honesty
               ,
               but
               he
               gain'd
               his
               Cause
               however
               ;
               as
               Pleading
               before
               Corrupt
               Judges
               .
               They
               were
               content
               to
               see
               their
               Founder
               false
               to
               Love
               ,
               for
               still
               he
               had
               the
               advantage
               of
               the
               Amour
               :
               It
               was
               their
               Enemy
               whom
               he
               forsook
               ,
               and
               she
               might
               have
               forsaken
               him
               ,
               if
               he
               had
               not
               got
               the
               start
               of
               her
               :
               she
               had
               already
               forgotten
               her
               Vows
               to
               her
               Sichaeus
               ;
               and
               
                 varium
                 &
                 mutabile
                 semper
                 femina
              
               ,
               is
               the
               sharpest
               Satire
               in
               the
               fewest
               words
               that
               was
               ever
               made
               on
               Womankind
               ;
               for
               both
               the
               Adjectives
               are
               Neuter
               ,
               and
               Animal
               must
               be
               understood
               ,
               to
               make
               them
               Grammar
               .
               Virgil
               does
               well
               to
               put
               those
               words
               into
               the
               mouth
               of
               
                 Mercury
                 .
                 If
                 a
                 God
                 had
                 not
                 spoken
                 them
                 ,
                 neither
                 durst
                 he
                 have
                 written
                 them
                 ,
                 nor
                 I
                 translated
                 them
                 .
              
               Yet
               the
               Deity
               was
               forc'd
               to
               come
               twice
               on
               the
               same
               Errand
               :
               and
               the
               second
               time
               ,
               as
               much
               a
               Heroe
               as
               Aeneas
               was
               ,
               he
               frighted
               him
               .
               It
               seems
               he
               fear'd
               not
               Jupiter
               so
               much
               as
               Dido
               .
               For
               your
               Lordship
               may
               observe
               ,
               that
               as
               much
               intent
               as
               he
               was
               upon
               his
               Voyage
               ,
               yet
               he
               still
               delay'd
               it
               ,
               'till
               the
               Messenger
               was
               oblig'd
               to
               tell
               him
               plainly
               ,
               that
               if
               he
               weigh'd
               not
               Anchor
               in
               the
               Night
               ,
               the
               Queen
               wou'd
               be
               with
               him
               in
               the
               Morning
               .
               
                 Notumque
                 furens
                 quid
                 femina
                 possit
              
               ;
               she
               was
               Injur'd
               ,
               she
               was
               Revengeful
               ,
               she
               was
               Powerful
               .
               The
               Poet
               had
               likewise
               before
               hinted
               ,
               that
               her
               People
               were
               naturally
               perfidious
               :
               For
               he
               gives
               their
               Character
               in
               their
               Queen
               ,
               and
               makes
               a
               Proverb
               of
               
                 Punica
                 fides
              
               ,
               many
               Ages
               before
               it
               was
               invented
               .
            
             
               Thus
               I
               hope
               ,
               my
               Lord
               ,
               that
               I
               have
               made
               good
               my
               Promise
               ,
               and
               justify'd
               the
               Poet
               ,
               whatever
               becomes
               of
               the
               false
               Knight
               .
               And
               sure
               a
               Poet
               is
               as
               much
               priviledg'd
               to
               lye
               ,
               as
               an
               Ambassador
               ,
               for
               the
               Honour
               and
               Interest
               of
               his
               Country
               ;
               at
               least
               as
               Sir
               
                 Henry
                 Wootton
              
               has
               defin'd
               .
            
             
               This
               naturally
               leads
               me
               to
               the
               defence
               of
               the
               Famous
               Anachronism
               ,
               in
               making
               Aeneas
               and
               Dido
               Contemporaries
               .
               For
               't
               is
               certain
               that
               the
               Heroe
               liv'd
               almost
               two
               hundred
               years
               before
               the
               Building
               of
               Carthage
               .
               One
               who
               imitates
               Bocaline
               ,
               says
               that
               Virgil
               was
               accus'd
               before
               Apollo
               for
               this
               Error
               .
               The
               God
               soon
               found
               that
               he
               was
               not
               able
               to
               defend
               his
               Favourite
               by
               Reason
               ,
               for
               the
               Case
               was
               clear
               :
               he
               therefore
               gave
               this
               middle
               Sentence
               ;
               That
               any
               thing
               might
               be
               allow'd
               to
               his
               Son
               Virgil
               on
               the
               account
               of
               his
               other
               Merits
               ;
               That
               being
               a
               Monarch
               he
               had
               a
               dispensing
               Power
               ,
               and
               pardon'd
               him
               .
               But
               that
               this
               special
               Act
               of
               Grace
               might
               never
               be
               drawn
               into
               Example
               ,
               or
               pleaded
               by
               his
               puny
               Successors
               ,
               in
               justification
               of
               their
               ignorance
               ;
               he
               decreed
               for
               the
               future
               ,
               No
               Poet
               shou'd
               presume
               to
               make
               a
               Lady
               die
               for
               Love
               two
               hundred
               years
               before
               her
               Birth
               .
               To
               Moralize
               this
               Story
               ,
               Virgil
               is
               the
               Apollo
               ,
               who
               has
               this
               Dispensing
               Power
               .
               His
               great
               Judgment
               made
               the
               Laws
               of
               Poetry
               ,
               but
               he
               never
               made
               himself
               a
               Slave
               to
               them
               :
               
               Chronology
               at
               best
               is
               but
               a
               Cobweb-Law
               ,
               and
               he
               broke
               through
               it
               with
               his
               weight
               .
               They
               who
               will
               imitate
               him
               wisely
               ,
               must
               chuse
               as
               he
               did
               ,
               an
               obscure
               and
               a
               remote
               Aera
               ,
               where
               they
               may
               invent
               at
               pleasure
               ,
               and
               not
               be
               easily
               contradicted
               .
               Neither
               he
               ,
               nor
               the
               Romans
               had
               ever
               read
               the
               Bible
               ,
               by
               which
               only
               his
               false
               computation
               of
               times
               can
               be
               made
               out
               against
               him
               :
               this
               Segrais
               says
               in
               his
               defence
               ,
               and
               proves
               it
               from
               his
               Learned
               Friend
               Bochartus
               ,
               whose
               Letter
               on
               this
               Subject
               ,
               he
               has
               Printed
               at
               the
               end
               of
               the
               Fourth
               Aeneid
               ,
               to
               which
               I
               referr
               your
               Lordship
               ,
               and
               the
               Reader
               .
               Yet
               the
               Credit
               of
               Virgil
               was
               so
               great
               ,
               that
               he
               made
               this
               Fable
               of
               his
               own
               Invention
               pass
               for
               an
               Authentick
               History
               ,
               or
               at
               least
               as
               credible
               as
               any
               thing
               in
               
                 Homer
                 .
                 Ovid
              
               takes
               it
               up
               after
               him
               ,
               even
               in
               the
               same
               Age
               ,
               and
               makes
               an
               ancient
               Heroine
               of
               
               Virgil's
               new-created
               Dido
               ;
               Dictates
               a
               Letter
               for
               her
               just
               before
               her
               death
               ,
               to
               the
               ingrateful
               Fugitive
               ;
               and
               very
               unluckily
               for
               himself
               ,
               is
               for
               measuring
               a
               Sword
               with
               a
               Man
               so
               much
               superiour
               in
               force
               to
               him
               on
               the
               same
               subject
               .
               I
               think
               I
               may
               be
               Judge
               of
               this
               ,
               because
               I
               have
               Translated
               both
               .
               The
               Famous
               Author
               of
               the
               Art
               of
               Love
               has
               nothing
               of
               his
               own
               ,
               he
               borrows
               all
               from
               a
               greater
               Master
               in
               his
               own
               profession
               ;
               and
               which
               is
               worse
               ,
               improves
               nothing
               which
               he
               finds
               .
               Nature
               fails
               him
               ,
               and
               being
               forc'd
               to
               his
               old
               shift
               ,
               he
               has
               recourse
               to
               Witticism
               .
               This
               passes
               indeed
               with
               his
               Soft
               Admirers
               ,
               and
               gives
               him
               the
               preference
               to
               Virgil
               in
               their
               esteem
               .
               But
               let
               them
               like
               for
               themselves
               ,
               and
               not
               prescribe
               to
               others
               ,
               for
               our
               Author
               needs
               not
               their
               Admiration
               .
            
             
               The
               Motives
               that
               induc'd
               Virgil
               to
               Coyn
               this
               Fable
               ,
               I
               have
               shew'd
               already
               ;
               and
               have
               also
               begun
               to
               shew
               that
               he
               might
               make
               this
               Anacronism
               ,
               by
               superseding
               the
               mechanick
               Rules
               of
               Poetry
               ,
               for
               the
               same
               Reason
               ,
               that
               a
               Monarch
               may
               dispense
               with
               ,
               or
               suspend
               his
               own
               Laws
               ,
               when
               he
               finds
               it
               necessary
               so
               to
               do
               ;
               especially
               if
               those
               Laws
               are
               not
               altogether
               fundamental
               .
               Nothing
               is
               to
               be
               call'd
               a
               fault
               in
               Poetry
               ,
               says
               Aristotle
               ,
               but
               what
               is
               against
               the
               Art
               ;
               therefore
               a
               Man
               may
               be
               an
               admirable
               Poet
               ,
               without
               being
               an
               exact
               Chronologer
               .
               Shall
               we
               dare
               ,
               continues
               Segrais
               ,
               to
               condemn
               Virgil
               ,
               for
               having
               made
               a
               Fiction
               against
               the
               order
               of
               time
               ,
               when
               we
               commend
               Ovid
               and
               other
               Poets
               who
               have
               made
               many
               of
               their
               Fictions
               against
               the
               Order
               of
               Nature
               ?
               For
               what
               are
               else
               the
               splendid
               Miracles
               of
               the
               Metamorphoses
               ?
               Yet
               these
               are
               Beautiful
               as
               they
               are
               related
               ;
               and
               have
               also
               deep
               Learning
               and
               instructive
               Mythologies
               couch'd
               under
               them
               :
               But
               to
               give
               ,
               as
               Virgil
               does
               in
               this
               Episode
               ,
               the
               Original
               Cause
               of
               the
               long
               Wars
               betwixt
               Rome
               and
               Carthage
               ,
               to
               draw
               Truth
               out
               of
               Fiction
               ,
               after
               so
               probable
               a
               manner
               ,
               with
               so
               much
               Beauty
               ,
               and
               so
               much
               for
               the
               Honour
               of
               his
               Country
               ,
               was
               proper
               only
               to
               the
               Divine
               Wit
               of
               Maro
               ;
               and
               Tasso
               in
               one
               of
               his
               Discourses
               ,
               admires
               him
               for
               this
               particularly
               .
               'T
               is
               not
               lawful
               indeed
               ,
               to
               contradict
               a
               Point
               of
               History
               ,
               which
               is
               known
               to
               all
               the
               World
               ;
               as
               for
               Example
               ,
               to
               make
               Hannibal
               and
               Scipio
               Contemporaries
               with
               Alexander
               ;
               but
               in
               the
               dark
               Recesses
               of
               Antiquity
               ,
               a
               great
               Poet
               may
               and
               ought
               to
               feign
               such
               things
               as
               he
               finds
               not
               there
               ,
               if
               they
               can
               be
               brought
               to
               embelish
               that
               Subject
               which
               he
               treats
               .
               On
               the
               other
               side
               ,
               the
               pains
               and
               diligence
               of
               ill
               Poets
               is
               but
               thrown
               away
               ,
               when
               they
               want
               the
               Genius
               to
               invent
               and
               feign
               agreeably
               .
               But
               if
               the
               Fictions
               be
               delightful
               ,
               which
               they
               always
               are
               ,
               if
               they
               be
               natural
               ,
               if
               they
               be
               of
               a
               piece
               ;
               if
               the
               beginning
               ,
               the
               middle
               ,
               and
               the
               end
               be
               in
               their
               due
               places
               ,
               and
               artfully
               united
               to
               each
               other
               ,
               such
               Works
               can
               never
               fail
               of
               their
               deserv'd
               Success
               .
               And
               such
               is
               
               Virgil's
               Episode
               of
               
               Dido
               and
               Aeneas
               ;
               where
               the
               sourest
               Critick
               must
               acknowledge
               '
               that
               if
               he
               had
               depriv'd
               his
               Aeneis
               of
               so
               great
               an
               Ornament
               ,
               because
               he
               found
               no
               traces
               of
               it
               in
               Antiquity
               ,
               he
               had
               avoided
               their
               unjust
               Censure
               ,
               but
               had
               wanted
               one
               of
               the
               greatest
               Beauties
               of
               his
               Poem
               .
               I
               shall
               say
               more
               of
               this
               ,
               in
               the
               next
               Article
               of
               their
               Charge
               against
               him
               ,
               which
               is
               want
               of
               Invention
               .
               In
               the
               mean
               time
               I
               may
               affirm
               in
               honour
               of
               this
               Episode
               ,
               that
               it
               is
               not
               only
               now
               esteem'd
               the
               most
               pleasing
               entertainment
               of
               the
               Aeneis
               ,
               but
               was
               so
               accounted
               in
               his
               own
               Age
               ;
               and
               before
               it
               was
               mellow'd
               into
               that
               reputation
               ,
               which
               time
               has
               given
               it
               ;
               for
               which
               I
               need
               produce
               no
               other
               testimony
               ,
               than
               that
               of
               Ovid
               ,
               his
               Contemporary
               .
            
             
               
                 Nec
                 pars
                 ulla
                 magis
                 legitur
                 de
                 Corpore
                 toto
              
               
                 Quam
                 non
                 legitimo
                 faedere
                 ,
                 junctus
                 Amor.
                 
              
            
             
               Where
               by
               the
               way
               ,
               you
               may
               observe
               ,
               my
               Lord
               ,
               that
               Ovid
               in
               those
               words
               ,
               
                 Non
                 legitimo
                 faedere
                 junctus
                 Amor
              
               ,
               will
               by
               no
               means
               allow
               it
               to
               be
               a
               lawful
               Marriage
               betwixt
               Dido
               and
               Aeneas
               .
               He
               was
               in
               Banishment
               when
               he
               wrote
               those
               Verses
               ,
               which
               I
               cite
               from
               his
               Letter
               to
               Augustus
               .
               You
               ,
               Sir
               ,
               says
               he
               ,
               have
               sent
               me
               into
               Exile
               for
               writing
               my
               Art
               of
               Love
               ,
               and
               my
               wanton
               Elegies
               ;
               yet
               your
               own
               Poet
               was
               happy
               in
               your
               good
               graces
               ,
               though
               he
               brought
               Dido
               and
               Aeneas
               into
               a
               Cave
               ,
               and
               left
               them
               there
               not
               over-honestly
               together
               .
               May
               I
               be
               so
               bold
               to
               ask
               your
               Majesty
               ,
               is
               it
               a
               greater
               fault
               to
               teach
               the
               Art
               of
               unlawful
               Love
               ,
               than
               to
               shew
               it
               in
               the
               Action
               ?
               But
               was
               Ovid
               the
               Court-Poet
               so
               bad
               a
               Courtier
               ,
               as
               to
               find
               no
               other
               Plea
               to
               excuse
               himself
               ,
               than
               by
               a
               plain
               accusation
               of
               his
               Master
               ?
               Virgil
               confess'd
               it
               was
               a
               Lawful
               Marriage
               betwixt
               the
               Lovers
               ;
               that
               Juno
               the
               Goddess
               of
               Matrimony
               had
               ratify'd
               it
               by
               her
               presence
               ,
               for
               it
               was
               her
               business
               to
               bring
               Matters
               to
               that
               issue
               .
               That
               the
               Ceremonies
               were
               short
               we
               may
               believe
               ,
               for
               Dido
               was
               not
               only
               amorous
               ,
               but
               a
               Widow
               .
               Mercury
               himself
               ,
               though
               employ'd
               on
               a
               quite
               contrary
               Errand
               ,
               yet
               owns
               it
               a
               Marriage
               by
               an
               
                 innuendo
                 :
                 PalchramqueVxorius
                 Vrbem
                 Extruis
              
               —
               He
               calls
               Aeneas
               not
               only
               a
               Husband
               ,
               but
               upbraids
               him
               with
               being
               a
               fond
               Husband
               ,
               as
               the
               word
               Vxorius
               implies
               .
               Now
               mark
               a
               little
               ,
               if
               your
               Lordship
               pleases
               ,
               why
               Virgil
               is
               so
               much
               concern'd
               to
               make
               this
               Marriage
               (
               for
               he
               seems
               to
               be
               the
               Father
               of
               the
               Bride
               himself
               ,
               and
               to
               give
               her
               to
               the
               Bridegroom
               )
               it
               was
               to
               make
               way
               for
               the
               Divorce
               which
               he
               intended
               afterwards
               ;
               for
               he
               was
               a
               finer
               Flatterer
               than
               Ovid
               :
               and
               I
               more
               than
               conjecture
               that
               he
               had
               in
               his
               eye
               the
               Divorce
               which
               not
               long
               before
               had
               pass'd
               betwixt
               the
               Emperour
               and
               Scribonia
               .
               He
               drew
               this
               dimple
               in
               the
               Cheek
               of
               Aeneas
               ,
               to
               prove
               Augustus
               of
               the
               same
               Family
               ,
               by
               so
               remarkable
               a
               Feature
               in
               the
               same
               place
               .
               Thus
               ,
               as
               we
               say
               in
               our
               home-spun
               English
               Proverb
               ,
               
                 He
                 kill'd
                 two
                 Birds
                 with
                 one
                 stone
              
               ;
               pleas'd
               the
               Emperour
               by
               giving
               him
               the
               resemblance
               of
               his
               Ancestor
               ;
               and
               gave
               him
               such
               a
               resemblance
               as
               was
               not
               scandalous
               in
               that
               Age.
               For
               to
               leave
               one
               Wife
               and
               take
               another
               ,
               was
               but
               a
               matter
               of
               Gallantry
               at
               that
               time
               of
               day
               among
               the
               
                 Romans
                 .
                 Neque
                 haec
                 in
                 faedera
                 veni
                 ,
              
               is
               the
               very
               Excuse
               which
               Aeneas
               makes
               ,
               when
               he
               leaves
               his
               Lady
               .
               I
               made
               no
               such
               Bargain
               with
               you
               at
               our
               Marriage
               ,
               to
               live
               always
               drudging
               on
               at
               Carthage
               ;
               my
               business
               was
               Italy
               ,
               and
               I
               never
               made
               a
               secret
               of
               it
               .
               If
               I
               took
               my
               pleasure
               ,
               had
               not
               you
               your
               share
               of
               it
               ?
               I
               leave
               you
               free
               at
               my
               departure
               ,
               to
               comfort
               your self
               with
               the
               next
               Stranger
               who
               happens
               to
               be
               Shipwreck'd
               on
               your
               Coast
               .
               Be
               as
               kind
               an
               Hostess
               as
               
               you
               have
               been
               to
               me
               ,
               and
               you
               can
               never
               fail
               of
               another
               Husband
               .
               In
               the
               mean
               time
               ,
               I
               call
               the
               Gods
               to
               witness
               ,
               that
               I
               leave
               your
               Shore
               unwillingly
               ;
               for
               though
               Juno
               made
               the
               Marriage
               ,
               yet
               Jupiter
               Commands
               me
               to
               forsake
               you
               .
               This
               is
               the
               effect
               of
               what
               he
               says
               ,
               when
               it
               is
               dishonour'd
               out
               of
               Latin
               Verse
               ,
               into
               English
               Prose
               .
               If
               the
               Poet
               argued
               not
               aright
               ,
               we
               must
               pardon
               him
               for
               a
               poor
               blind
               Heathen
               ,
               who
               knew
               no
               better
               Morals
               .
            
             
               I
               have
               detain'd
               your
               Lordship
               longer
               than
               I
               intended
               on
               this
               Objection
               :
               Which
               wou'd
               indeed
               weigh
               something
               in
               a
               Spiritual
               Court
               ;
               but
               I
               am
               not
               to
               defend
               our
               Poet
               there
               .
               The
               next
               I
               think
               is
               but
               a
               Cavil
               ,
               though
               the
               Cry
               is
               great
               against
               him
               ,
               and
               has
               continu'd
               from
               the
               time
               of
               Macrobius
               to
               this
               present
               Age.
               I
               hinted
               it
               before
               .
               They
               lay
               no
               less
               than
               want
               of
               Invention
               to
               his
               Charge
               .
               A
               capital
               Crime
               I
               must
               acknowledge
               .
               For
               a
               Poet
               is
               a
               Maker
               ,
               as
               the
               word
               signifies
               :
               And
               who
               cannot
               make
               ,
               that
               is
               ,
               invent
               ,
               has
               his
               Name
               for
               nothing
               .
               That
               which
               makes
               this
               Accusation
               look
               so
               strange
               at
               the
               first
               sight
               ,
               is
               ,
               That
               he
               has
               borrow'd
               so
               many
               things
               from
               
                 Homer
                 ,
                 Appollonius
                 Rhodius
              
               ,
               and
               others
               who
               preceded
               him
               .
               But
               in
               the
               first
               place
               ,
               if
               Invention
               is
               to
               be
               taken
               in
               so
               strict
               a
               sense
               ,
               that
               the
               Matter
               of
               a
               Poem
               must
               be
               wholly
               new
               ,
               and
               that
               in
               all
               its
               Parts
               ;
               then
               Scaliger
               has
               made
               out
               ,
               says
               Segrais
               ,
               that
               the
               History
               of
               Troy
               was
               no
               more
               the
               Invention
               of
               Homer
               ,
               than
               of
               Virgil.
               There
               was
               not
               an
               Old
               Woman
               ,
               or
               almost
               a
               Child
               ,
               but
               had
               it
               in
               their
               Mouths
               ,
               before
               the
               Greek
               Poet
               or
               his
               Friends
               digested
               it
               into
               this
               admirable
               order
               in
               which
               we
               read
               it
               .
               At
               this
               rate
               ,
               as
               Solomon
               has
               told
               us
               ,
               there
               is
               nothing
               new
               beneath
               the
               Sun
               :
               Who
               then
               can
               pass
               for
               an
               Inventor
               ,
               if
               Homer
               ,
               as
               well
               as
               Virgil
               must
               be
               depriv'd
               of
               that
               Glory
               ?
               Is
               Versailles
               the
               less
               a
               New
               Building
               ,
               because
               the
               Architect
               of
               that
               Palace
               has
               imitated
               others
               which
               were
               built
               before
               it
               ?
               Walls
               ,
               Doors
               and
               Windows
               ,
               Apartments
               ,
               Offices
               ,
               Rooms
               of
               convenience
               and
               Magnificence
               ,
               are
               in
               all
               great
               Houses
               .
               So
               Descriptions
               Figures
               ,
               Fables
               ,
               and
               the
               rest
               ,
               must
               be
               in
               all
               Heroick
               Poems
               .
               They
               are
               the
               Common
               Materials
               of
               Poetry
               ,
               furnish'd
               from
               the
               Magazine
               of
               Nature
               :
               Every
               Poet
               has
               as
               much
               right
               to
               them
               ,
               as
               every
               Man
               has
               to
               Air
               or
               Water
               .
               
                 Quid
                 prohibetis
                 Aquas
                 ?
                 Vsus
                 communis
                 aquarum
                 est
                 .
              
               But
               the
               Argument
               of
               the
               Work
               ,
               that
               is
               to
               say
               ,
               its
               principal
               Action
               ,
               the
               Oeconomy
               and
               Disposition
               of
               it
               ;
               these
               are
               the
               things
               which
               distinguish
               Copies
               from
               Originals
               .
               The
               Poet
               ,
               who
               borrows
               nothing
               from
               others
               ,
               is
               yet
               to
               be
               Born.
               He
               and
               the
               Jews
               Messias
               will
               come
               together
               .
               There
               are
               parts
               of
               the
               Aeneis
               ,
               which
               resemble
               some
               parts
               both
               of
               the
               Ilias
               and
               of
               the
               Odysses
               ;
               as
               for
               Example
               ,
               Aeneas
               descended
               into
               Hell
               ,
               and
               Vlysses
               had
               been
               there
               before
               him
               :
               Aeneas
               lov'd
               Dido
               ,
               and
               Vlysses
               lov'd
               Calypso
               :
               In
               few
               words
               ,
               Virgil
               has
               imitated
               
               Homer's
               Odysses
               in
               his
               first
               six
               Books
               ,
               and
               in
               his
               six
               last
               the
               Ilias
               .
               But
               from
               hence
               can
               we
               infer
               ,
               that
               the
               two
               Poets
               write
               the
               same
               History
               ?
               Is
               there
               no
               invention
               in
               some
               other
               parts
               of
               
               Virgil's
               Aeneis
               ?
               The
               disposition
               of
               so
               many
               various
               matters
               ,
               is
               not
               that
               his
               own
               ?
               From
               what
               Book
               of
               Homer
               had
               Virgil
               his
               Episode
               of
               Nysus
               and
               Euryalus
               ,
               of
               Mezentius
               and
               Lausus
               ?
               From
               whence
               did
               he
               borrow
               his
               Design
               of
               bringing
               Aeneas
               into
               Italy
               ,
               of
               Establishing
               the
               Roman
               Empire
               on
               the
               Foundations
               of
               a
               Trojan
               Colony
               ;
               to
               say
               nothing
               of
               the
               honour
               he
               did
               his
               Patron
               ,
               not
               only
               in
               his
               descent
               from
               Venus
               ,
               but
               in
               making
               him
               so
               like
               him
               in
               his
               best
               Features
               ,
               that
               the
               Goddess
               might
               have
               mistaken
               Augustus
               for
               her
               Son.
               He
               had
               indeed
               the
               Story
               from
               common
               Fame
               ,
               as
               Homer
               had
               his
               from
               the
               Egyptian
               Priestess
               .
               
                 Aeneadum
                 Genetrix
              
               was
               no
               more
               unknown
               to
               Lucretius
               than
               to
               him
               .
               But
               Lucretius
               taught
               him
               
               not
               to
               form
               his
               Heroe
               ;
               to
               give
               him
               Piety
               or
               Valour
               for
               his
               Manners
               ;
               and
               both
               in
               so
               eminent
               a
               degree
               ,
               that
               having
               done
               what
               was
               possible
               for
               Man
               ,
               to
               save
               his
               King
               and
               Country
               ;
               his
               Mother
               was
               forc'd
               to
               appear
               to
               him
               and
               restrain
               his
               Fury
               ,
               which
               hurry'd
               him
               to
               death
               in
               their
               Revenge
               .
               But
               the
               Poet
               made
               his
               Piety
               more
               successful
               ;
               he
               brought
               off
               his
               Father
               and
               his
               Son
               ;
               and
               his
               Gods
               witness'd
               to
               his
               Devotion
               ,
               by
               putting
               themselves
               under
               his
               Protection
               ;
               to
               be
               re-plac'd
               by
               him
               in
               their
               promis'd
               Italy
               .
               Neither
               the
               Invention
               ,
               nor
               the
               Conduct
               of
               this
               great
               Action
               ,
               were
               owing
               to
               Homer
               or
               any
               other
               Poet.
               'T
               is
               one
               thing
               to
               Copy
               ,
               and
               another
               thing
               to
               imitate
               from
               Nature
               .
               The
               Copyer
               is
               that
               servile
               Imitator
               ,
               to
               whom
               Horace
               gives
               no
               better
               a
               Name
               than
               that
               of
               Animal
               :
               He
               will
               not
               so
               much
               as
               allow
               him
               to
               be
               a
               Man.
               Raphael
               imitated
               Nature
               :
               They
               who
               Copy
               one
               of
               
               Raphael's
               Pieces
               ,
               imitate
               but
               him
               ,
               for
               his
               Work
               is
               their
               Original
               .
               They
               Translate
               him
               as
               I
               do
               Virgil
               ;
               and
               fall
               as
               short
               of
               him
               as
               I
               of
               Virgil.
               There
               is
               a
               kind
               of
               Invention
               in
               the
               imitation
               of
               Raphael
               ;
               for
               though
               the
               thing
               was
               in
               Nature
               ,
               yet
               the
               Idea
               of
               it
               was
               his
               own
               .
               Vlysses
               Travell'd
               ,
               so
               did
               Aeneas
               ;
               but
               neither
               of
               them
               were
               the
               first
               Travellers
               ;
               for
               Cain
               went
               into
               the
               Land
               of
               Nod
               ,
               before
               they
               were
               born
               :
               And
               neither
               of
               the
               Poets
               ever
               heard
               of
               such
               a
               Man.
               If
               Vlysses
               had
               been
               kill'd
               at
               Troy
               ,
               yet
               Aeneas
               must
               have
               gone
               to
               Sea
               ,
               or
               he
               could
               never
               have
               arriv'd
               in
               Italy
               .
               But
               the
               designs
               of
               the
               two
               Poets
               were
               as
               different
               as
               the
               Courses
               of
               their
               Heroes
               ;
               one
               went
               Home
               ,
               and
               the
               other
               sought
               a
               Home
               .
               To
               return
               to
               my
               first
               similitude
               :
               Suppose
               Apelles
               and
               Raphael
               had
               each
               of
               them
               Painted
               a
               burning
               Troy
               ;
               might
               not
               the
               Modern
               Painter
               have
               succeeded
               as
               well
               as
               the
               Ancient
               ,
               tho'
               neither
               of
               them
               had
               seen
               the
               Town
               on
               Fire
               ?
               For
               the
               draughts
               of
               both
               were
               taken
               from
               the
               Idea's
               which
               they
               had
               of
               Nature
               .
               Cities
               had
               been
               burnt
               before
               either
               of
               them
               were
               in
               Being
               .
               But
               to
               Close
               the
               Simile
               as
               I
               begun
               it
               ;
               they
               wou'd
               not
               have
               design'd
               after
               the
               same
               manner
               .
               Apelles
               wou'd
               have
               distinguish'd
               Pyrrhus
               from
               the
               rest
               of
               all
               the
               Grecians
               ,
               and
               shew'd
               him
               forcing
               his
               entrance
               into
               
               Priam's
               Palace
               ;
               there
               he
               had
               set
               him
               in
               the
               fairest
               Light
               ,
               and
               given
               him
               the
               chief
               place
               of
               all
               his
               Figures
               ,
               because
               he
               was
               a
               Grecian
               ,
               and
               he
               wou'd
               do
               Honour
               to
               his
               Country
               .
               Raphael
               ,
               who
               was
               an
               Italian
               ,
               and
               descended
               from
               the
               Trojans
               ,
               wou'd
               have
               made
               Aeneas
               the
               Heroe
               of
               his
               piece
               :
               And
               perhaps
               not
               with
               his
               Father
               on
               his
               Back
               ;
               his
               Son
               in
               one
               hand
               ,
               his
               Bundle
               of
               Gods
               in
               the
               other
               ,
               and
               his
               Wife
               following
               ;
               (
               for
               an
               Act
               of
               Piety
               ,
               is
               not
               half
               so
               graceful
               in
               a
               Picture
               as
               an
               Act
               of
               Courage
               :
               )
               He
               would
               rather
               have
               drawn
               him
               killing
               Androgeos
               ,
               or
               some
               other
               ,
               Hand
               to
               Hand
               ;
               and
               the
               blaze
               of
               the
               Fires
               shou'd
               have
               darted
               full
               upon
               his
               Face
               ,
               to
               make
               him
               conspicuous
               amongst
               his
               Trojans
               .
               This
               I
               think
               is
               a
               just
               Comparison
               betwixt
               the
               two
               Poets
               in
               the
               Conduct
               of
               their
               several
               designs
               .
               Virgil
               cannot
               be
               said
               to
               copy
               Homer
               :
               The
               Grecian
               had
               only
               the
               advantage
               of
               writing
               first
               .
               If
               it
               be
               urg'd
               that
               I
               have
               granted
               a
               resemblance
               in
               some
               parts
               ;
               yet
               therein
               Virgil
               has
               excell'd
               him
               :
               For
               what
               are
               the
               Tears
               of
               Calypso
               for
               being
               left
               ,
               to
               the
               Fury
               and
               Death
               of
               Dido
               ?
               Where
               is
               there
               the
               whole
               process
               of
               her
               Passion
               ,
               and
               all
               its
               violent
               Effects
               to
               be
               found
               ,
               in
               the
               languishing
               Episode
               of
               the
               Odysses
               ?
               If
               this
               be
               to
               Copy
               ,
               let
               the
               Criticks
               shew
               us
               the
               same
               Disposition
               ,
               Features
               ,
               or
               Colouring
               in
               their
               Original
               .
               The
               like
               may
               be
               said
               of
               the
               Descent
               to
               Hell
               ;
               which
               was
               not
               of
               
               Homer's
               Invention
               neither
               :
               He
               had
               it
               from
               the
               Story
               of
               Orpheus
               and
               Eurydice
               .
               But
               to
               what
               end
               did
               Vlysses
               make
               that
               Journey
               ?
               Aeneas
               undertook
               it
               by
               the
               express
               Commandment
               of
               his
               Father's
               Ghost
               :
               There
               he
               was
               to
               
               shew
               him
               all
               the
               succeeding
               Heroes
               of
               his
               Race
               ;
               and
               next
               to
               Romulus
               ,
               (
               mark
               ,
               if
               you
               please
               ,
               the
               Address
               of
               Virgil
               )
               his
               own
               Patron
               
                 Augustus
                 Caesar
                 .
                 Anchises
              
               was
               likewise
               to
               instruct
               him
               ,
               how
               to
               manage
               the
               Italian
               War
               ;
               and
               how
               to
               conclude
               it
               with
               his
               Honour
               .
               That
               is
               ,
               in
               other
               words
               ,
               to
               lay
               the
               Foundations
               of
               that
               Empire
               which
               Augustus
               was
               to
               Govern.
               This
               is
               the
               Noble
               Invention
               of
               our
               Author
               :
               But
               it
               has
               been
               Copyed
               by
               so
               many
               Sign-post
               Daubers
               ;
               that
               now
               't
               is
               grown
               fulsom
               ,
               rather
               by
               their
               want
               of
               Skill
               ,
               than
               by
               the
               Commonness
               .
            
             
               In
               the
               last
               place
               I
               may
               safely
               grant
               ,
               that
               by
               reading
               
                 Homer
                 ,
                 Virgil
              
               was
               taught
               to
               imitate
               his
               Invention
               :
               That
               is
               ,
               to
               imitate
               like
               him
               ;
               which
               is
               no
               more
               ,
               than
               if
               a
               Painter
               studied
               Raphael
               ,
               that
               he
               might
               learn
               to
               design
               after
               his
               manner
               .
               And
               thus
               I
               might
               imitate
               Virgil
               ,
               if
               I
               were
               capable
               of
               writing
               an
               Heroick
               Poem
               ,
               and
               yet
               the
               Invention
               be
               my
               own
               :
               But
               I
               shou'd
               endeavour
               to
               avoid
               a
               servile
               Copying
               .
               I
               would
               not
               give
               the
               same
               Story
               under
               other
               Names
               :
               With
               the
               same
               Characters
               ,
               in
               the
               same
               Order
               ,
               and
               with
               the
               same
               Sequel
               :
               For
               every
               common
               Reader
               to
               find
               me
               out
               at
               the
               first
               sight
               for
               a
               Plagiary
               :
               And
               cry
               ,
               this
               I
               read
               before
               in
               Virgil
               ,
               in
               a
               better
               Language
               ,
               and
               in
               better
               Verse
               :
               This
               is
               like
               merry
               Andrew
               on
               the
               low
               Rope
               ,
               copying
               lubberly
               the
               same
               Tricks
               ,
               which
               his
               Master
               is
               dextrously
               performing
               on
               the
               high
               .
            
             
               I
               will
               trouble
               your
               Lordship
               but
               with
               one
               Objection
               more
               ;
               which
               I
               know
               not
               whether
               I
               found
               in
               
                 Le
                 Fevre
              
               or
               Valois
               ,
               but
               I
               am
               sure
               I
               have
               read
               it
               in
               another
               French
               Critick
               ,
               whom
               I
               will
               not
               name
               ,
               because
               I
               think
               it
               is
               not
               much
               for
               his
               Reputation
               .
               Virgil
               ,
               in
               the
               heat
               of
               Action
               ,
               suppose
               for
               Example
               ,
               in
               describing
               the
               fury
               of
               his
               Heroe
               in
               a
               Battel
               ,
               when
               he
               is
               endeavouring
               to
               raise
               our
               concernments
               to
               the
               highest
               pitch
               ,
               turns
               short
               on
               the
               sudden
               into
               some
               similitude
               ,
               which
               diverts
               ,
               say
               they
               ,
               your
               attention
               from
               the
               main
               Subject
               ,
               and
               mispends
               it
               on
               some
               trivial
               Image
               .
               He
               pours
               cold
               Water
               into
               the
               Caldron
               when
               his
               business
               is
               to
               make
               it
               boil
               .
            
             
               This
               Accusation
               is
               general
               against
               all
               who
               wou'd
               be
               thought
               Heroick
               Poets
               ;
               but
               I
               think
               it
               touches
               Virgil
               less
               than
               any
               .
               He
               is
               too
               great
               a
               Master
               of
               his
               Art
               ,
               to
               make
               a
               Blott
               which
               may
               so
               easily
               be
               hit
               .
               Similitudes
               ,
               as
               I
               have
               said
               ,
               are
               not
               for
               Tragedy
               ,
               which
               is
               all
               violent
               ,
               and
               where
               the
               Passions
               are
               in
               a
               perpetual
               ferment
               ;
               for
               there
               they
               deaden
               where
               they
               should
               animate
               ;
               they
               are
               not
               of
               the
               nature
               of
               Dialogue
               ,
               unless
               in
               Comedy
               :
               A
               Metaphor
               is
               almost
               all
               the
               Stage
               can
               suffer
               ,
               which
               is
               a
               kind
               of
               Similitude
               comprehended
               in
               a
               word
               .
               But
               this
               Figure
               has
               a
               contrary
               effect
               in
               Heroick
               Poetry
               :
               There
               't
               is
               employ'd
               to
               raise
               the
               Admiration
               ,
               which
               is
               its
               proper
               business
               .
               And
               Admiration
               is
               not
               of
               so
               violent
               a
               nature
               as
               Fear
               or
               Hope
               ,
               Compassion
               or
               Horrour
               ,
               or
               any
               Concernment
               we
               can
               have
               for
               such
               or
               such
               a
               Person
               on
               the
               Stage
               .
               Not
               but
               I
               confess
               ,
               that
               Similitudes
               and
               Descriptions
               ,
               when
               drawn
               into
               an
               unreasonable
               length
               ,
               must
               needs
               nauseate
               the
               Reader
               .
               Once
               I
               remember
               ,
               and
               but
               once
               ;
               Virgil
               makes
               a
               Similitude
               of
               fourteen
               Lines
               ;
               and
               his
               description
               of
               Fame
               is
               about
               the
               same
               number
               .
               He
               is
               blam'd
               for
               both
               ;
               and
               I
               doubt
               not
               but
               he
               would
               have
               contracted
               them
               ,
               had
               he
               liv'd
               to
               have
               review'd
               his
               Work
               :
               But
               Faults
               are
               no
               Precedents
               .
               This
               I
               have
               observ'd
               of
               his
               Similitudes
               in
               general
               ,
               that
               they
               are
               not
               plac'd
               ,
               as
               our
               unobserving
               Criticks
               tell
               us
               ,
               in
               the
               heat
               of
               any
               Action
               :
               But
               commonly
               in
               its
               declining
               :
               When
               he
               has
               warm'd
               us
               in
               his
               Description
               ,
               as
               much
               as
               possibly
               he
               can
               ;
               then
               ,
               lest
               that
               warmth
               should
               languish
               ,
               he
               renews
               it
               by
               some
               apt
               Similitude
               ,
               which
               illustrates
               his
               Subject
               ,
               and
               yet
               palls
               not
               his
               Audience
               .
               I
               need
               give
               your
               Lordship
               
               but
               one
               Example
               of
               this
               kind
               ,
               and
               leave
               the
               rest
               to
               your
               Observation
               ,
               when
               next
               you
               review
               the
               whole
               Aeneis
               in
               the
               Original
               unblemish'd
               by
               my
               rude
               Translation
               .
               'T
               is
               in
               the
               first
               Book
               ,
               where
               the
               Poet
               describes
               Neptune
               composing
               the
               Ocean
               ,
               on
               which
               Eolus
               had
               rais'd
               a
               Tempest
               ,
               without
               his
               permission
               .
               He
               had
               already
               chidden
               the
               Rebellious
               Winds
               for
               obeying
               the
               Commands
               of
               their
               Usurping
               Master
               :
               He
               had
               warn'd
               them
               from
               the
               Seas
               ,
               He
               had
               beaten
               down
               the
               Billows
               with
               his
               Mace
               ;
               dispell'd
               the
               Clouds
               ,
               restor'd
               the
               Sun-shine
               ,
               while
               Triton
               and
               Cymothoe
               were
               heaving
               the
               Ships
               from
               off
               the
               Quick-Sands
               ;
               before
               the
               Poet
               wou'd
               offer
               at
               a
               Similitude
               for
               illustration
               .
            
             
               
                 Ac
                 ,
                 veluti
                 magno
                 in
                 populo
                 cùm
                 saepe
                 coorta
                 est
              
               
                 Seditio
                 ,
                 saevitque
                 animis
                 ignobile
                 vulgus
                 ,
              
               
                 Jamque
                 faces
                 ,
                 &
                 saxa
                 volant
                 ,
                 furor
                 arma
                 ministrat
                 ;
              
               
                 Tum
                 ,
                 pietate
                 gravem
                 ,
                 ac
                 meritis
                 si
                 forte
                 virum
                 quem
              
               
                 Conspexere
                 ,
                 silent
                 ,
                 arrectisque
                 auribus
                 adstant
                 :
              
               
                 Ille
                 regit
                 dictis
                 animos
                 ,
                 &
                 pectora
                 mulcet
                 :
              
               
                 Sic
                 cunctus
                 pelagi
                 cecidit
                 fragor
                 ,
                 aequora
                 postquam
              
               
                 Prospiciens
                 genitor
                 ,
                 caeloque
                 invectus
                 aperto
              
               
                 Flectit
                 equos
                 ,
                 currúque
                 volans
                 dat
                 lora
                 secundo
                 .
              
            
             
               This
               is
               the
               first
               Similitude
               which
               Virgil
               makes
               in
               this
               Poem
               :
               And
               one
               of
               the
               longest
               in
               the
               whole
               ;
               for
               which
               Reason
               I
               the
               rather
               cite
               it
               .
               While
               the
               Storm
               was
               in
               its
               fury
               ,
               any
               Allusion
               had
               been
               improper
               :
               For
               the
               Poet
               cou'd
               have
               compar'd
               it
               to
               nothing
               more
               impetuous
               than
               it self
               ;
               consequently
               he
               could
               have
               made
               no
               Illustration
               .
               If
               he
               cou'd
               have
               illustrated
               ,
               it
               had
               been
               an
               ambitious
               Ornament
               out
               of
               season
               ,
               and
               would
               have
               diverted
               our
               Concernment
               :
               
                 Nunc
                 ,
                 non
                 erat
                 hisce
                 locus
              
               ;
               and
               therefore
               he
               deferr'd
               it
               to
               its
               proper
               place
               .
            
             
               These
               are
               the
               Criticisms
               of
               most
               moment
               which
               have
               been
               made
               against
               the
               Aeneis
               ,
               by
               the
               Ancients
               or
               Moderns
               .
               As
               for
               the
               particular
               Exceptions
               against
               this
               or
               that
               passage
               ,
               Macrobius
               and
               Pontanus
               have
               answer'd
               them
               already
               .
               If
               I
               desir'd
               to
               appear
               more
               Learned
               than
               I
               am
               ,
               it
               had
               been
               as
               easie
               for
               me
               to
               have
               taken
               their
               Objections
               and
               Solutions
               ,
               as
               it
               is
               for
               a
               Country
               Parson
               to
               take
               the
               Expositions
               of
               the
               Fathers
               out
               of
               Junius
               and
               Tremellius
               :
               Or
               not
               to
               have
               nam'd
               the
               Authors
               from
               whence
               I
               had
               them
               :
               For
               so
               Ruaeus
               ,
               otherwise
               a
               most
               judicious
               Commentator
               on
               
               Virgil's
               Works
               ,
               has
               us'd
               Pontanus
               ,
               his
               greatest
               Benefactor
               ,
               of
               whom
               ,
               he
               is
               very
               silent
               ,
               and
               I
               do
               not
               remember
               that
               he
               once
               cites
               him
               .
            
             
               What
               follows
               next
               ,
               is
               no
               Objection
               ;
               for
               that
               implies
               a
               Fault
               :
               And
               it
               had
               been
               none
               in
               Virgil
               ,
               if
               he
               had
               extended
               the
               time
               of
               his
               Action
               beyond
               a
               Year
               .
               At
               least
               Aristotle
               has
               set
               no
               precise
               limits
               to
               it
               .
               
               Homer's
               ,
               we
               know
               ,
               was
               within
               two
               Months
               :
               Tasso
               I
               am
               sure
               exceeds
               not
               a
               Summer
               :
               And
               if
               I
               examin'd
               him
               ,
               perhaps
               he
               might
               be
               reduc'd
               into
               a
               much
               less
               compass
               .
               Bossu
               leaves
               it
               doubtful
               whether
               
               Virgil's
               Action
               were
               within
               the
               Year
               ,
               or
               took
               up
               some
               Months
               beyond
               it
               .
               Indeed
               the
               whole
               Dispute
               is
               of
               no
               more
               concernment
               to
               the
               common
               Reader
               ,
               than
               it
               is
               to
               a
               Plough-man
               ,
               whether
               February
               this
               Year
               had
               28
               or
               29
               Days
               in
               it
               .
               But
               for
               the
               satisfaction
               of
               the
               more
               Curious
               ,
               of
               which
               number
               ,
               I
               am
               sure
               your
               Lordship
               is
               one
               ;
               I
               will
               Translate
               what
               I
               think
               convenient
               out
               of
               Segrais
               ,
               whom
               perhaps
               you
               have
               not
               read
               :
               For
               he
               has
               made
               it
               highly
               probable
               ,
               that
               the
               Action
               of
               the
               Aeneis
               began
               in
               the
               Spring
               ,
               and
               was
               not
               extended
               beyond
               the
               Autumn
               .
               
               And
               we
               have
               known
               Campaigns
               that
               have
               begun
               sooner
               ,
               and
               have
               ended
               later
               .
            
             
               Ronsard
               and
               the
               rest
               whom
               Segrais
               names
               ,
               who
               are
               of
               Opinion
               that
               the
               Action
               of
               this
               Poem
               takes
               up
               almost
               a
               Year
               and
               half
               ;
               ground
               their
               Calculation
               thus
               .
               Anchises
               dyed
               in
               Sicily
               at
               the
               end
               of
               Winter
               ,
               or
               beginning
               of
               the
               Spring
               .
               Aeneas
               ,
               immediately
               after
               the
               Interment
               of
               his
               Father
               ,
               puts
               to
               Sea
               for
               Italy
               :
               He
               is
               surpriz'd
               by
               the
               Tempest
               describ'd
               in
               the
               beginning
               of
               the
               first
               Book
               ;
               and
               there
               it
               is
               that
               the
               Scene
               of
               the
               Poem
               opens
               ;
               and
               where
               the
               Action
               must
               Commence
               .
               He
               is
               driven
               by
               this
               Storm
               on
               the
               Coasts
               of
               Affrick
               :
               He
               stays
               at
               Carthage
               all
               that
               Summer
               ,
               and
               almost
               all
               the
               Winter
               following
               :
               Sets
               Sail
               again
               for
               Italy
               just
               before
               the
               beginning
               of
               the
               Spring
               ;
               meets
               with
               contrary
               Winds
               ,
               and
               makes
               Sicily
               the
               second
               time
               :
               This
               part
               of
               the
               Action
               compleats
               the
               Year
               .
               Then
               he
               celebrates
               the
               Aniversary
               of
               his
               Father's
               Funerals
               ,
               and
               shortly
               after
               arrives
               at
               Cumes
               ,
               and
               from
               thence
               his
               time
               is
               taken
               up
               in
               his
               first
               Treaty
               with
               Latinus
               ;
               the
               Overture
               of
               the
               War
               ;
               the
               Siege
               of
               his
               Camp
               by
               Turnus
               ;
               his
               going
               for
               Succours
               to
               relieve
               it
               :
               His
               return
               :
               The
               raising
               of
               the
               Siege
               by
               the
               first
               Battel
               :
               The
               twelve
               days
               Truce
               :
               The
               second
               Battel
               :
               The
               Assault
               of
               Laurentum
               ,
               and
               the
               single
               Fight
               with
               Turnus
               ;
               all
               which
               ,
               they
               say
               ,
               cannot
               take
               up
               less
               than
               four
               or
               five
               Months
               more
               ;
               by
               which
               Account
               we
               cannot
               suppose
               the
               entire
               Action
               to
               be
               contain'd
               in
               a
               much
               less
               compass
               than
               a
               Year
               and
               half
               .
            
             
               Segrais
               reckons
               another
               way
               ;
               and
               his
               computation
               is
               not
               condemn'd
               by
               the
               learned
               Ruaeus
               ,
               who
               compil'd
               and
               Publish'd
               the
               Commentaries
               on
               our
               Poet
               ,
               which
               we
               call
               the
               
               Dauphin's
               Virgil.
               
            
             
               He
               allows
               the
               time
               of
               Year
               when
               Anchises
               dyed
               ;
               to
               be
               in
               the
               latter
               end
               of
               Winter
               ,
               or
               the
               beginning
               of
               the
               Spring
               ;
               he
               acknowledges
               that
               when
               Aeneas
               is
               first
               seen
               at
               Sea
               afterwards
               ,
               and
               is
               driven
               by
               the
               Tempest
               on
               the
               Coast
               of
               Affrick
               ,
               is
               the
               time
               when
               the
               Action
               is
               naturally
               to
               begin
               :
               He
               confesses
               farther
               ,
               that
               Aeneas
               left
               Carthage
               in
               the
               latter
               end
               of
               Winter
               ;
               for
               Dido
               tells
               him
               in
               express
               terms
               ,
               as
               an
               Argument
               for
               his
               longer
               stay
               ,
               
                 Quinetiam
                 Hyberno
                 moliris
                 sydere
                 Classem
                 .
              
            
             
               But
               whereas
               
               Ronsard's
               Followers
               suppose
               that
               when
               Aeneas
               had
               buried
               his
               Father
               ,
               he
               set
               Sail
               immediately
               for
               Italy
               ,
               (
               tho'
               the
               Tempest
               drove
               him
               on
               the
               Coast
               of
               
                 Carthage
                 .
                 )
                 Segrais
              
               will
               by
               no
               means
               allow
               that
               Supposition
               ;
               but
               thinks
               it
               much
               more
               probable
               that
               he
               remain'd
               in
               Sicily
               'till
               the
               midst
               of
               July
               or
               the
               beginning
               of
               August
               ;
               at
               which
               time
               he
               places
               the
               first
               appearance
               of
               his
               Heroe
               on
               the
               Sea
               ;
               and
               there
               opens
               the
               Action
               of
               the
               Poem
               .
               From
               which
               beginning
               ,
               to
               the
               Death
               of
               Turnus
               ,
               which
               concludes
               the
               Action
               ,
               there
               need
               not
               be
               suppos'd
               above
               ten
               Months
               of
               intermediate
               time
               :
               For
               arriving
               at
               Carthage
               in
               the
               latter
               end
               of
               Summer
               ,
               staying
               there
               the
               Winter
               following
               ;
               departing
               thence
               in
               the
               very
               beginning
               of
               the
               Spring
               ;
               making
               a
               short
               abode
               in
               Sicily
               the
               second
               time
               ,
               landing
               in
               Italy
               ,
               and
               making
               the
               War
               ,
               may
               be
               reasonably
               judg'd
               the
               business
               but
               of
               three
               Months
               .
               To
               this
               the
               Ronsardians
               reply
               ,
               that
               having
               been
               for
               Seven
               Years
               before
               in
               quest
               of
               Italy
               ,
               and
               having
               no
               more
               to
               do
               in
               Sicily
               ,
               than
               to
               interr
               his
               Father
               ;
               after
               that
               Office
               was
               perform'd
               ,
               what
               remain'd
               for
               him
               ,
               but
               ,
               without
               delay
               ,
               to
               pursue
               his
               first
               Adventure
               ?
               To
               which
               Segrais
               answers
               ,
               that
               the
               Obsequies
               of
               his
               Father
               ,
               according
               to
               the
               Rites
               of
               the
               Greeks
               and
               
               Romans
               ,
               would
               detain
               him
               for
               many
               days
               :
               That
               a
               longer
               time
               must
               be
               taken
               up
               in
               the
               refitting
               of
               his
               Ships
               ,
               after
               so
               tedious
               a
               Voyage
               ;
               and
               in
               refreshing
               his
               Weather-beaten
               Souldiers
               on
               a
               friendly
               Coast
               .
               These
               indeed
               are
               but
               Suppositions
               on
               both
               sides
               ,
               yet
               those
               of
               Segrais
               seem
               better
               grounded
               .
               For
               the
               Feast
               of
               Dido
               ,
               when
               she
               entertain'd
               Aeneas
               first
               ,
               has
               the
               appearance
               of
               a
               Summer's
               Night
               ,
               which
               seems
               already
               almost
               ended
               ,
               when
               he
               begins
               his
               Story
               :
               Therefore
               the
               Love
               was
               made
               in
               Autumn
               ;
               the
               Hunting
               follow'd
               properly
               when
               the
               Heats
               of
               that
               scorching
               Country
               were
               declining
               :
               The
               Winter
               was
               pass'd
               in
               jollity
               ,
               as
               the
               Season
               and
               their
               Love
               requir'd
               ;
               and
               he
               left
               her
               in
               the
               latter
               end
               of
               Winter
               ,
               as
               is
               already
               prov'd
               .
               This
               Opinion
               is
               fortify'd
               by
               the
               Arrival
               of
               Aeneas
               at
               the
               Mouth
               of
               Tyber
               ;
               which
               marks
               the
               Season
               of
               the
               Spring
               ,
               that
               Season
               being
               perfectly
               describ'd
               by
               the
               singing
               of
               the
               Birds
               ,
               saluting
               the
               dawn
               ;
               and
               by
               the
               Beauty
               of
               the
               place
               ,
               which
               the
               Poet
               seems
               to
               have
               painted
               expresly
               in
               the
               Seventh
               Aeneid
               .
            
             
               
                 Aurora
                 in
                 roseis
                 fulgebat
                 lutea
                 bigis
                 :
              
               
                 Cùm
                 venti
                 posuere
                 ;
                 variae
                 circumque
                 ,
                 supraque
              
               
                 Assuetae
                 ripis
                 volucres
                 ,
                 &
                 fluminis
                 alveo
                 ,
              
               
                 Aethera
                 mulcebant
                 cantu
                 .
              
            
             
               The
               remainder
               of
               the
               Action
               requir'd
               but
               three
               Months
               more
               ;
               for
               when
               Aeneas
               went
               for
               Succour
               to
               the
               Tuscans
               ,
               he
               found
               their
               Army
               in
               a
               readiness
               to
               march
               ;
               and
               wanting
               only
               a
               Commander
               :
               So
               that
               according
               to
               this
               Calculation
               ,
               the
               Aeneis
               takes
               not
               up
               above
               a
               Year
               compleat
               ,
               and
               may
               be
               comprehended
               in
               less
               compass
               .
            
             
               This
               ,
               amongst
               other
               Circumstances
               ,
               treated
               more
               at
               large
               by
               Segrais
               ,
               agrees
               with
               the
               rising
               of
               Orion
               ,
               which
               caus'd
               the
               Tempest
               ,
               describ'd
               in
               the
               beginning
               of
               the
               first
               Book
               .
               By
               some
               passages
               in
               the
               Pastorals
               ,
               but
               more
               particularly
               in
               the
               Georgicks
               ,
               our
               Poet
               is
               found
               to
               be
               an
               exact
               Astronomer
               ,
               according
               to
               the
               Knowledge
               of
               that
               Age.
               Now
               Ilioneus
               (
               whom
               Virgil
               twice
               employs
               in
               Embassies
               ,
               as
               the
               best
               Speaker
               of
               the
               Trojans
               )
               attributes
               that
               Tempest
               to
               Orion
               in
               his
               Speech
               to
               Dido
               .
            
             
               Cum
               subito
               ,
               assurgens
               fluctu
               nimbosus
               Orion
               .
            
             
               He
               must
               mean
               either
               the
               Heliacal
               or
               Achronical
               rising
               of
               that
               Sign
               .
               The
               Heliacal
               rising
               of
               a
               Constellation
               ,
               is
               when
               it
               comes
               from
               under
               the
               Rays
               of
               the
               Sun
               ,
               and
               begins
               to
               appear
               before
               Day-light
               .
               The
               Achronical
               rising
               ,
               on
               the
               contrary
               ,
               is
               when
               it
               appears
               at
               the
               close
               of
               Day
               ,
               and
               in
               opposition
               of
               the
               Sun
               's
               diurnal
               Course
               .
            
             
               The
               Heliacal
               rising
               of
               Orion
               ,
               is
               at
               present
               computed
               to
               be
               about
               the
               sixth
               of
               July
               ;
               and
               about
               that
               time
               it
               is
               ,
               that
               he
               either
               causes
               ,
               or
               presages
               Tempests
               on
               the
               Seas
               .
            
             
               Segrais
               has
               observ'd
               farther
               ,
               that
               when
               Anna
               Counsels
               Dido
               to
               stay
               Aeneas
               during
               the
               Winter
               ;
               she
               speaks
               also
               of
               Orion
               ;
               
                 Dum
                 pelago
                 desaevit
                 hyems
                 ,
                 &
                 aquosus
                 Orion
                 .
              
            
             
               If
               therefore
               Ilioneus
               ,
               according
               to
               our
               Supposition
               ,
               understand
               the
               Heliacal
               rising
               of
               
                 Orion
                 :
                 Anna
              
               must
               mean
               the
               Achronical
               ,
               which
               the
               different
               Epithetes
               given
               to
               that
               Constellation
               ,
               seem
               to
               manifest
               .
               Ilioneus
               calls
               him
               
                 nimbosus
                 ,
                 Anna
                 aquosus
              
               .
               He
               is
               tempestuous
               in
               the
               Summer
               
               when
               he
               rises
               Heliacally
               ,
               and
               Rainy
               in
               the
               Winter
               when
               he
               rises
               Achronically
               .
               Your
               Lordship
               will
               pardon
               me
               for
               the
               frequent
               repetition
               of
               these
               cant
               words
               ;
               which
               I
               cou'd
               not
               avoid
               in
               this
               abbreviation
               of
               Segrais
               ;
               who
               I
               think
               deserves
               no
               little
               commendation
               in
               this
               new
               Criticism
               .
               I
               have
               yet
               a
               word
               or
               two
               to
               say
               of
               
               Virgil's
               Machines
               ,
               from
               my
               own
               observation
               of
               them
               .
               He
               has
               imitated
               those
               of
               Homer
               ,
               but
               not
               Copied
               them
               .
               It
               was
               establish'd
               long
               before
               this
               time
               ,
               in
               the
               Roman
               Religion
               as
               well
               as
               in
               the
               Greek
               ;
               that
               there
               were
               Gods
               ;
               and
               both
               Nations
               ,
               for
               the
               most
               part
               ,
               worshipp'd
               the
               same
               Deities
               ;
               as
               did
               also
               the
               Trojans
               :
               From
               whom
               the
               Romans
               ,
               I
               suppose
               ,
               wou'd
               rather
               be
               thought
               to
               derive
               the
               Rites
               of
               their
               Religion
               ,
               than
               from
               the
               Grecians
               ;
               because
               they
               thought
               themselves
               descended
               from
               them
               .
               Each
               of
               those
               Gods
               had
               his
               proper
               Office
               ,
               and
               the
               chief
               of
               them
               their
               particular
               Attendants
               .
               Thus
               Jupiter
               had
               in
               propriety
               ,
               Ganimede
               and
               Mercury
               ;
               and
               Juno
               had
               Iris.
               It
               was
               not
               then
               for
               Virgil
               to
               create
               new
               Ministers
               ;
               he
               must
               take
               what
               he
               found
               in
               his
               Religion
               .
               It
               cannot
               therefore
               be
               said
               that
               he
               borrow'd
               them
               from
               Homer
               ,
               any
               more
               than
               
                 Apollo
                 ,
                 Diana
              
               ,
               and
               the
               rest
               ,
               whom
               he
               uses
               as
               he
               finds
               occasion
               for
               them
               ,
               as
               the
               Grecian
               Poet
               did
               :
               But
               he
               invents
               the
               occasions
               for
               which
               he
               uses
               them
               .
               Venus
               ,
               after
               the
               destruction
               of
               Troy
               ,
               had
               gain'd
               Neptune
               entirely
               to
               her
               Party
               ;
               therefore
               we
               find
               him
               busie
               in
               the
               beginning
               of
               the
               Aeneis
               ,
               to
               calm
               the
               Tempest
               rais'd
               by
               Aeolus
               ,
               and
               afterwards
               conducting
               the
               Trojan
               Fleet
               to
               Cumes
               in
               safety
               ,
               with
               the
               loss
               only
               of
               their
               Pilot
               ;
               for
               whom
               he
               Bargains
               .
               I
               name
               those
               two
               Examples
               amongst
               a
               hundred
               which
               I
               omit
               ;
               to
               prove
               that
               Virgil
               ,
               generally
               speaking
               ,
               employ'd
               his
               Machines
               in
               performing
               those
               things
               ,
               which
               might
               possibly
               have
               been
               done
               without
               them
               .
               What
               more
               frequent
               then
               a
               Storm
               at
               Sea
               ,
               upon
               the
               rising
               of
               Orion
               ?
               What
               wonder
               ,
               if
               amongst
               so
               many
               Ships
               there
               shou'd
               one
               be
               overset
               ,
               which
               was
               commanded
               by
               Orontes
               ;
               though
               half
               the
               Winds
               had
               not
               been
               there
               ,
               which
               Aeolus
               employ'd
               ?
               Might
               not
               Palinurus
               ,
               without
               a
               Miracle
               ,
               fall
               asleep
               ,
               and
               drop
               into
               the
               Sea
               ,
               having
               been
               over-wearied
               with
               watching
               ,
               and
               secure
               of
               a
               quiet
               passage
               ,
               by
               his
               observation
               of
               the
               Skies
               ?
               At
               least
               Aeneas
               ,
               who
               knew
               nothing
               of
               the
               Machine
               of
               Somnus
               ,
               takes
               it
               plainly
               in
               this
               Sense
               .
            
             
               
                 O
                 nimium
                 Coelo
                 &
                 Pelago
                 confise
                 sereno
                 ,
              
               
                 Nudus
                 in
                 ignotâ
                 Palinure
                 jacebis
                 arenâ
                 .
              
            
             
               But
               Machines
               sometimes
               are
               specious
               things
               to
               amuse
               the
               Reader
               ,
               and
               give
               a
               colour
               of
               probability
               to
               things
               otherwise
               incredible
               .
               And
               besides
               ,
               it
               sooth'd
               the
               vanity
               of
               the
               Romans
               ,
               to
               find
               the
               Gods
               so
               visibly
               concern'd
               in
               all
               the
               Actions
               of
               their
               Predecessors
               .
               We
               who
               are
               better
               taught
               by
               our
               Religion
               ,
               yet
               own
               every
               wonderful
               Accident
               which
               befalls
               us
               for
               the
               best
               ,
               to
               be
               brought
               to
               pass
               by
               some
               special
               Providence
               of
               Almighty
               God
               ;
               and
               by
               the
               care
               of
               guardian
               Angels
               :
               And
               from
               hence
               I
               might
               infer
               ,
               that
               no
               Heroick
               Poem
               can
               be
               writ
               on
               the
               Epicuraean
               Principles
               .
               Which
               I
               cou'd
               easily
               demonstrate
               ,
               if
               there
               were
               need
               to
               prove
               it
               ,
               or
               I
               had
               leisure
               .
            
             
               When
               Venus
               opens
               the
               Eyes
               of
               her
               Son
               Aeneas
               ,
               to
               behold
               the
               Gods
               who
               Combated
               against
               Troy
               ,
               in
               that
               fatal
               Night
               when
               it
               was
               surpriz'd
               ;
               we
               share
               the
               pleasure
               of
               that
               glorious
               Vision
               ,
               (
               which
               Tasso
               has
               not
               ill
               Copied
               in
               the
               sacking
               of
               
                 Jerusalem
                 .
              
               )
               But
               the
               Greeks
               had
               done
               their
               business
               ;
               though
               neither
               
                 Neptune
                 ,
                 Juno
              
               ,
               or
               Pallas
               ,
               had
               given
               them
               their
               Divine
               assistance
               .
               The
               most
               crude
               Machine
               which
               Virgil
               uses
               ,
               is
               in
               
               the
               Episode
               of
               Camilla
               ,
               where
               Opis
               by
               the
               command
               of
               her
               Mistress
               ,
               kills
               Aruns.
               The
               next
               is
               in
               the
               Twelfth
               Aeneid
               ,
               where
               Venus
               cures
               her
               Son
               Aeneas
               .
               But
               in
               the
               last
               of
               these
               ,
               the
               Poet
               was
               driven
               to
               a
               necessity
               ;
               for
               Turnus
               was
               to
               be
               slain
               that
               very
               day
               :
               And
               Aeneas
               ,
               wounded
               as
               he
               was
               ,
               cou'd
               not
               have
               Engag'd
               him
               in
               single
               Combat
               ,
               unless
               his
               Hurt
               had
               been
               miraculously
               heal'd
               .
               And
               the
               Poet
               had
               consider'd
               that
               the
               Dittany
               which
               she
               brought
               from
               Crete
               ,
               cou'd
               not
               have
               wrought
               so
               speedy
               an
               effect
               ,
               without
               the
               Juice
               of
               Ambrosia
               ,
               which
               she
               mingled
               with
               it
               .
               After
               all
               ,
               that
               his
               Machine
               might
               not
               seem
               too
               violent
               ,
               we
               see
               the
               Heroe
               limping
               after
               Turnus
               .
               The
               Wound
               was
               skin'd
               ;
               but
               the
               strength
               of
               his
               Thigh
               was
               not
               restor'd
               .
               But
               what
               Reason
               had
               our
               Author
               to
               wound
               Aeneas
               at
               so
               critical
               a
               time
               ?
               And
               how
               came
               the
               Cuisses
               to
               be
               worse
               temper'd
               than
               the
               rest
               of
               his
               Armour
               ,
               which
               was
               all
               wrought
               by
               Vulcan
               and
               his
               Journey-men
               ?
               These
               difficulties
               are
               not
               easily
               to
               be
               solv'd
               ,
               without
               confessing
               that
               Virgil
               had
               not
               life
               enough
               to
               correct
               his
               Work
               :
               Tho'
               he
               had
               review'd
               it
               ,
               and
               found
               those
               Errours
               which
               he
               resolv'd
               to
               mend
               :
               But
               being
               prevented
               by
               Death
               ,
               and
               not
               willing
               to
               leave
               an
               imperfect
               work
               behind
               him
               ,
               he
               ordain'd
               ,
               by
               his
               last
               Testament
               ,
               that
               his
               Aeneis
               should
               be
               burn'd
               .
               As
               for
               the
               death
               of
               Aruns
               ,
               who
               was
               shot
               by
               a
               Goddess
               ,
               the
               Machine
               was
               not
               altogether
               so
               outragious
               ,
               as
               the
               wounding
               Mars
               and
               Venus
               by
               the
               Sword
               of
               Diomede
               .
               Two
               Divinities
               ,
               one
               wou'd
               have
               thought
               ,
               might
               have
               pleaded
               their
               Prerogative
               of
               Impassibility
               ,
               or
               ,
               at
               least
               not
               to
               have
               been
               wounded
               by
               any
               mortal
               Hand
               .
               Beside
               that
               the
               
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
              
               which
               they
               shed
               ,
               was
               so
               very
               like
               our
               common
               Blood
               ,
               that
               it
               was
               not
               to
               be
               distinguish'd
               from
               it
               ,
               but
               only
               by
               the
               Name
               and
               Colour
               .
               As
               for
               what
               Horate
               says
               in
               his
               Art
               of
               Poetry
               ;
               that
               no
               Machines
               are
               to
               be
               us'd
               ,
               unless
               on
               some
               extraordinary
               occasion
               ,
               
                 Nec
                 Deus
                 intersit
                 ,
                 nisi
                 dignus
                 vindice
                 nodus
                 .
              
               That
               Rule
               is
               to
               be
               apply'd
               to
               the
               Theatre
               ,
               of
               which
               he
               is
               then
               speaking
               ,
               and
               means
               no
               more
               than
               this
               ,
               that
               when
               the
               Knot
               of
               the
               Play
               is
               to
               be
               unty'd
               ,
               and
               no
               other
               way
               is
               left
               ,
               for
               making
               the
               discovery
               ;
               then
               and
               not
               otherwise
               ,
               let
               a
               God
               descend
               upon
               a
               Rope
               ,
               and
               clear
               the
               Business
               to
               the
               Audience
               :
               But
               this
               has
               no
               relation
               to
               the
               Machines
               which
               are
               us'd
               in
               an
               Epick
               Poem
               .
            
             
               In
               the
               last
               place
               ,
               for
               the
               Dira
               ,
               or
               Flying-Pest
               ,
               which
               flapping
               on
               the
               Shield
               of
               Turnus
               ,
               and
               fluttering
               about
               his
               Head
               ,
               dishearten'd
               him
               in
               the
               Duel
               ,
               and
               presag'd
               to
               him
               his
               approaching
               Death
               ,
               I
               might
               have
               plac'd
               it
               more
               properly
               amongst
               the
               Objections
               .
               For
               the
               Criticks
               ,
               who
               lay
               want
               of
               Courage
               to
               the
               Charge
               of
               
               Virgil's
               Heroe
               ;
               quote
               this
               Passage
               as
               a
               main
               proof
               of
               their
               Assertion
               .
               They
               say
               our
               Author
               had
               not
               only
               secur'd
               him
               before
               the
               Duel
               ,
               but
               also
               in
               the
               beginning
               of
               it
               ,
               had
               given
               him
               the
               advantage
               in
               impenetrable
               Arms
               ,
               and
               in
               his
               Sword
               :
               (
               for
               that
               of
               Turnus
               was
               not
               his
               own
               ,
               which
               was
               forg'd
               by
               Vulcan
               for
               his
               Father
               )
               but
               a
               Weapon
               which
               he
               had
               snatch'd
               in
               haste
               ,
               and
               by
               mistake
               ,
               belonging
               to
               his
               Charioteer
               Metiscus
               .
               That
               after
               all
               this
               ,
               Jupiter
               ,
               who
               was
               partial
               to
               the
               Trojan
               ,
               and
               distrustful
               of
               the
               Event
               ,
               though
               he
               had
               hung
               the
               Ballance
               ,
               and
               given
               it
               a
               jog
               of
               his
               hand
               to
               weigh
               down
               Turnus
               ,
               thought
               convenient
               to
               give
               the
               Fates
               a
               collatteral
               Security
               ,
               by
               sending
               the
               Screech-Owl
               to
               discourage
               him
               .
               For
               which
               they
               quote
               these
               words
               of
               Virgil.
               
            
             
               
               
                 Non
                 me
                 tua
                 turbida
                 virtus
                 ,
              
               
                 Terret
                 ait
                 ;
                 Dii
                 me
                 terrent
                 ,
                 &
                 Jupiter
                 Hostis
                 .
              
            
             
               In
               answer
               to
               which
               ,
               I
               say
               ,
               that
               this
               Machine
               is
               one
               of
               those
               which
               the
               Poet
               uses
               only
               for
               Ornament
               ,
               and
               not
               out
               of
               Necessity
               .
               Nothing
               can
               be
               more
               Beautiful
               ,
               or
               more
               Poetical
               than
               his
               description
               of
               the
               three
               Dirae
               ,
               or
               the
               setting
               of
               the
               Balance
               ,
               which
               our
               Milton
               has
               borrow'd
               from
               him
               ,
               but
               employ'd
               to
               a
               different
               end
               :
               For
               first
               he
               makes
               God
               Almighty
               set
               the
               Scales
               for
               St.
               Michael
               and
               Sathan
               ,
               when
               he
               knew
               no
               Combat
               was
               to
               follow
               ;
               then
               he
               makes
               the
               good
               Angel's
               Scale
               descend
               ,
               and
               the
               Devils
               mount
               ;
               quite
               contrary
               to
               Virgil
               ,
               if
               I
               have
               Translated
               the
               three
               Verses
               ,
               according
               to
               my
               Author's
               Sense
               .
               
                 
                   Jupiter
                   ipse
                   duas
                   ,
                   aequato
                   Examine
                   lances
                
                 
                   Sustinet
                   ;
                   &
                   fata
                   imponit
                   diversa
                   duorum
                   :
                
                 
                   Quem
                   damnet
                   labor
                   ,
                   &
                   quo
                   vergat
                   pondere
                   lethum
                   .
                
              
            
             
               For
               I
               have
               taken
               these
               words
               
                 Quem
                 damnet
                 labor
              
               ,
               in
               the
               Sense
               which
               Virgil
               gives
               them
               in
               another
               place
               ;
               
                 Damnabis
                 tu
                 quoque
                 votis
              
               ;
               to
               signifie
               a
               prosperous
               Event
               .
               Yet
               I
               dare
               not
               condemn
               so
               great
               a
               Genius
               as
               Milton
               :
               For
               I
               am
               much
               mistaken
               if
               he
               alludes
               not
               to
               the
               Text
               in
               Daniel
               ,
               where
               Belshazzar
               was
               put
               into
               the
               Balance
               ,
               and
               found
               too
               light
               :
               This
               is
               digression
               ,
               and
               I
               return
               to
               my
               Subject
               .
               I
               said
               above
               ,
               that
               these
               two
               Machines
               of
               the
               Balance
               ,
               and
               the
               Dira
               ,
               were
               only
               Ornamental
               ,
               and
               that
               the
               success
               of
               the
               Duel
               had
               been
               the
               same
               without
               them
               .
               For
               when
               Aeneas
               and
               Turnus
               stood
               fronting
               each
               other
               before
               the
               Altar
               ,
               Turnus
               look'd
               dejected
               ,
               and
               his
               Colour
               faded
               in
               his
               Face
               ,
               as
               if
               he
               desponded
               of
               the
               Victory
               before
               the
               Fight
               ;
               and
               not
               only
               he
               ,
               but
               all
               his
               Party
               ,
               when
               the
               strength
               of
               the
               two
               Champions
               was
               judg'd
               by
               the
               proportion
               of
               their
               Limbs
               ,
               concluded
               it
               was
               
                 impar
                 pugna
              
               ,
               and
               that
               their
               Chief
               was
               over-match'd
               :
               Whereupon
               Juturna
               (
               who
               was
               of
               the
               same
               Opinion
               )
               took
               his
               opportunity
               to
               break
               the
               Treaty
               and
               renew
               the
               War.
               Juno
               her self
               had
               plainly
               told
               the
               Nymph
               beforehand
               ,
               that
               her
               Brother
               was
               to
               Fight
               
                 Imparibus
                 fatis
                 ;
                 nec
                 Diis
                 ,
                 nec
                 viribus
                 aequis
                 ;
              
               So
               that
               there
               was
               no
               need
               of
               an
               Apparition
               to
               fright
               Turnus
               .
               He
               had
               the
               presage
               within
               himself
               of
               his
               impending
               Destiny
               .
               The
               Dirae
               only
               serv'd
               to
               confirm
               him
               in
               his
               first
               Opinion
               ,
               that
               it
               was
               his
               Destiny
               to
               die
               in
               the
               ensuing
               Combat
               .
               And
               in
               this
               sense
               are
               those
               words
               of
               Virgil
               to
               be
               taken
               .
               
                 
                   Non
                   me
                   tua
                   turbida
                   virtus
                
                 
                   Terret
                   ait
                   ;
                   Dii
                   me
                   terrent
                   ,
                   &
                   Jupiter
                   Hostis
                   .
                
              
            
             
               I
               doubt
               not
               but
               the
               Adverb
               
                 (
                 solùm
              
               )
               is
               to
               be
               understood
               ;
               't
               is
               not
               your
               Valour
               only
               that
               gives
               me
               this
               concernment
               ;
               but
               I
               find
               also
               ,
               by
               this
               portent
               ,
               that
               Jupiter
               is
               my
               Enemy
               .
               For
               Turnus
               fled
               before
               ,
               when
               his
               first
               Sword
               was
               broken
               ,
               'till
               his
               Sister
               supply'd
               him
               with
               a
               better
               ;
               which
               indeed
               he
               cou'd
               not
               use
               ;
               because
               Aeneas
               kept
               him
               at
               a
               distance
               with
               his
               Spear
               .
               I
               wonder
               Ruaeus
               saw
               not
               this
               ,
               where
               he
               charges
               his
               Author
               so
               unjustly
               ,
               for
               giving
               Turnus
               a
               second
               Sword
               ,
               to
               
               no
               purpose
               .
               How
               cou'd
               he
               fasten
               a
               blow
               ,
               or
               make
               a
               thrust
               ,
               when
               he
               was
               not
               suffer'd
               to
               approach
               ?
               Besides
               ,
               the
               chief
               Errand
               of
               the
               Dira
               ,
               was
               to
               warn
               Juturna
               from
               the
               Field
               ,
               for
               she
               cou'd
               have
               brought
               the
               Chariot
               again
               ,
               when
               she
               saw
               her
               Brother
               worsted
               in
               the
               Duel
               .
               I
               might
               farther
               add
               ,
               that
               Aeneas
               was
               so
               eager
               of
               the
               Fight
               ,
               that
               he
               left
               the
               City
               ,
               now
               almost
               in
               his
               Possession
               ,
               to
               decide
               his
               quarrel
               with
               Turnus
               by
               the
               Sword
               :
               Whereas
               Turnus
               had
               manifestly
               declin'd
               the
               Combate
               ,
               and
               suffer'd
               his
               Sister
               to
               convey
               him
               as
               far
               from
               the
               reach
               of
               his
               Enemy
               as
               she
               cou'd
               .
               I
               say
               not
               only
               suffer'd
               her
               ,
               but
               consented
               to
               it
               ;
               for
               't
               is
               plain
               ,
               he
               knew
               her
               by
               these
               words
               ;
               
                 
                   O
                   soror
                   ,
                   &
                   dudum
                   agnovi
                   ,
                   cùm
                   prima
                   per
                   artem
                   ,
                
                 
                   Faedera
                   turbasti
                   ,
                   teque
                   haec
                   in
                   bella
                   dedisti
                   ;
                
                 
                   Et
                   nunc
                   nequicquam
                   fallis
                   Dea.
                   —
                
              
            
             
               I
               have
               dwelt
               so
               long
               on
               this
               Subject
               ,
               that
               I
               must
               contract
               what
               I
               have
               to
               say
               ,
               in
               reference
               to
               my
               Translation
               :
               Unless
               I
               wou'd
               swell
               my
               Preface
               into
               a
               Volume
               ,
               and
               make
               it
               formidable
               to
               your
               Lordship
               ,
               when
               you
               see
               so
               many
               Pages
               yet
               behind
               .
               And
               indeed
               what
               I
               have
               already
               written
               either
               in
               justification
               or
               praise
               of
               Virgil
               ,
               is
               against
               my self
               ;
               for
               presuming
               to
               Copy
               ,
               in
               my
               course
               English
               ,
               the
               Thoughts
               and
               Beautiful
               Expressions
               of
               this
               inimitable
               Poet
               :
               Who
               flourish'd
               in
               an
               Age
               when
               his
               Language
               was
               brought
               to
               its
               last
               perfection
               ,
               for
               which
               it
               was
               particularly
               owing
               to
               him
               and
               Horace
               .
               I
               will
               give
               your
               Lordship
               my
               Opinion
               ,
               that
               those
               two
               Friends
               had
               consulted
               each
               others
               Judgment
               ,
               wherein
               they
               should
               endeavour
               to
               excel
               ;
               and
               they
               seem
               to
               have
               pitch'd
               on
               Propriety
               of
               Thought
               ,
               Elegance
               of
               Words
               ,
               and
               Harmony
               of
               Numbers
               .
               According
               to
               this
               Model
               ,
               Horace
               writ
               his
               Odes
               and
               Epods
               :
               For
               his
               Satires
               and
               Epistles
               ,
               being
               intended
               wholly
               for
               instruction
               ,
               requir'd
               another
               Style
               :
               
                 Ornari
                 res
                 ipsa
                 negat
                 ,
                 contenta
                 doceri
                 :
              
            
             
               And
               therefore
               as
               he
               himself
               professes
               ,
               are
               
                 Sermoni
                 propiora
              
               ,
               nearer
               Prose
               than
               Verse
               .
               But
               Virgil
               ,
               who
               never
               attempted
               the
               Lyrick
               Verse
               ,
               is
               every
               where
               Elegant
               ,
               sweet
               and
               flowing
               in
               his
               Hexameters
               .
               His
               words
               are
               not
               only
               chosen
               ,
               but
               the
               places
               in
               which
               he
               ranks
               them
               for
               the
               sound
               ;
               he
               who
               removes
               them
               from
               the
               Station
               wherein
               their
               Master
               sets
               them
               ,
               spoils
               the
               Harmony
               .
               What
               he
               says
               of
               the
               
               Sybill's
               Prophecies
               ,
               may
               be
               as
               properly
               apply'd
               to
               every
               word
               of
               his
               :
               They
               must
               be
               read
               ,
               in
               order
               as
               they
               lie
               ;
               the
               least
               breath
               discomposes
               them
               ,
               and
               somewhat
               of
               their
               Divinity
               is
               lost
               .
               I
               cannot
               boast
               that
               I
               have
               been
               thus
               exact
               in
               my
               Verses
               ,
               but
               I
               have
               endeavour'd
               to
               follow
               the
               Example
               of
               my
               Master
               :
               And
               am
               the
               first
               Englishman
               ,
               perhaps
               ,
               who
               made
               it
               his
               design
               to
               copy
               him
               in
               his
               Numbers
               ,
               his
               choice
               of
               Words
               ,
               and
               his
               placing
               them
               for
               the
               sweetness
               of
               the
               sound
               .
               On
               this
               last
               Consideration
               ,
               I
               have
               shun'd
               the
               Caesura
               as
               much
               as
               possibly
               I
               cou'd
               .
               For
               wherever
               that
               is
               us'd
               ,
               it
               gives
               a
               roughness
               to
               the
               Verse
               ,
               of
               which
               we
               can
               have
               little
               need
               ,
               in
               a
               Language
               which
               is
               over-stock'd
               with
               Consonants
               .
               Such
               is
               not
               the
               Latine
               ,
               where
               the
               Vowels
               and
               Consonants
               are
               mix'd
               in
               proportion
               to
               each
               other
               :
               yet
               Virgil
               judg'd
               the
               Vowels
               to
               have
               somewhat
               of
               an
               over-balance
               ,
               and
               therefore
               tempers
               their
               sweetness
               with
               Caesuras
               .
               Such
               difference
               there
               is
               in
               Tongues
               ,
               that
               the
               same
               Figure
               which
               roughens
               one
               ,
               gives
               Majesty
               to
               another
               :
               and
               that
               
               was
               it
               which
               Virgil
               studied
               in
               his
               Verses
               .
               Ovid
               uses
               it
               but
               rarely
               ;
               and
               hence
               it
               is
               that
               his
               Versification
               cannot
               so
               properly
               be
               call'd
               sweet
               ,
               as
               luscious
               .
               The
               Italians
               are
               forc'd
               upon
               it
               ,
               once
               or
               twice
               in
               every
               line
               ,
               because
               they
               have
               a
               redundancy
               of
               Vowels
               in
               their
               Language
               .
               Their
               Metal
               is
               so
               soft
               ,
               that
               it
               will
               not
               Coyn
               without
               Alloy
               to
               harden
               it
               .
               On
               the
               other
               side
               ,
               for
               the
               Reason
               already
               nam'd
               ,
               't
               is
               all
               we
               can
               do
               to
               give
               sufficient
               sweetness
               to
               our
               Language
               :
               We
               must
               not
               only
               chuse
               our
               words
               for
               Elegance
               ,
               but
               for
               sound
               .
               To
               perform
               which
               ,
               a
               Mastery
               in
               the
               Language
               is
               requir'd
               ;
               the
               Poet
               must
               have
               a
               Magazine
               of
               Words
               ,
               and
               have
               the
               Art
               to
               mannage
               his
               few
               Vowels
               to
               the
               best
               advantage
               ,
               that
               they
               may
               go
               the
               farther
               .
               He
               must
               also
               know
               the
               nature
               of
               the
               Vowels
               ,
               which
               are
               more
               sonorous
               ,
               and
               which
               more
               soft
               and
               sweet
               ;
               and
               so
               dispose
               them
               as
               his
               present
               occasions
               require
               :
               All
               which
               ,
               and
               a
               thousand
               secrets
               of
               Versification
               beside
               ,
               he
               may
               learn
               from
               Virgil
               ,
               if
               he
               will
               take
               him
               for
               his
               Guide
               .
               If
               he
               be
               above
               Virgil
               ,
               and
               is
               resolv'd
               to
               follow
               his
               own
               Verve
               (
               as
               the
               French
               call
               it
               ,
               )
               the
               Proverb
               will
               fall
               heavily
               upon
               him
               ;
               
                 Who
                 teaches
                 himself
                 ,
                 has
                 a
                 Fool
                 for
                 his
                 Master
                 .
              
            
             
               Virgil
               employ'd
               Eleven
               Years
               upon
               his
               Aeneis
               ,
               yet
               he
               left
               it
               as
               he
               thought
               himself
               imperfect
               .
               Which
               when
               I
               seriously
               consider
               ,
               I
               wish
               ,
               that
               instead
               of
               three
               years
               which
               I
               have
               spent
               in
               the
               Translation
               of
               his
               Works
               ,
               I
               had
               four
               years
               more
               allow'd
               me
               to
               correct
               my
               Errours
               ,
               that
               I
               might
               make
               my
               Version
               somewhat
               more
               tolerable
               than
               it
               is
               .
               For
               a
               Poet
               cannot
               have
               too
               great
               a
               reverence
               for
               his
               Readers
               ,
               if
               he
               expects
               his
               Labours
               shou'd
               survive
               him
               .
               Yet
               I
               will
               neither
               plead
               my
               Age
               nor
               Sickness
               in
               excuse
               of
               the
               faults
               which
               I
               have
               made
               :
               That
               I
               wanted
               time
               is
               all
               I
               have
               to
               say
               .
               For
               some
               of
               my
               Subscribers
               grew
               so
               clamorous
               ,
               that
               I
               cou'd
               no
               longer
               deferr
               the
               Publication
               .
               I
               hope
               from
               the
               Candour
               of
               your
               Lordship
               ,
               and
               your
               often
               experienc'd
               goodness
               to
               me
               ,
               that
               if
               the
               faults
               are
               not
               too
               many
               ,
               you
               will
               make
               allowances
               with
               Horace
               .
            
             
               
                 Si
                 plura
                 nitent
                 in
                 Carmine
                 ,
                 non
                 ego
                 paucis
              
               
                 Offendar
                 macalis
                 ,
                 quas
                 aut
                 incuria
                 fudit
                 ,
              
               
                 Aut
                 humana
                 parùm
                 cavit
                 Natura
                 .
              
            
             
               You
               may
               please
               also
               to
               observe
               ,
               that
               there
               is
               not
               ,
               to
               the
               best
               of
               my
               remembrance
               ,
               one
               Vowel
               gaping
               on
               another
               for
               want
               of
               a
               Caesura
               ,
               in
               this
               whole
               Poem
               .
               But
               where
               a
               Vowel
               ends
               a
               word
               ,
               the
               next
               begins
               either
               with
               a
               Consonant
               ,
               or
               what
               is
               its
               equivalent
               ;
               for
               our
               W
               and
               H
               aspirate
               ,
               and
               our
               Dipthongues
               are
               plainly
               such
               :
               The
               greatest
               latitude
               I
               take
               ,
               is
               in
               the
               Letter
               Y
               ,
               when
               it
               concludes
               a
               word
               ,
               and
               the
               first
               Syllable
               of
               the
               next
               begins
               with
               a
               Vowel
               .
               Neither
               need
               I
               have
               call'd
               this
               a
               latitude
               ,
               which
               is
               only
               an
               explanation
               of
               this
               general
               Rule
               .
               That
               no
               Vowel
               can
               be
               cut
               off
               before
               another
               ,
               when
               we
               cannot
               sink
               the
               Pronunciation
               of
               it
               :
               As
               
                 He
                 ,
                 She
                 ,
                 Me
                 ,
                 I
                 ,
              
               &c.
               
               Virgil
               thinks
               it
               sometimes
               a
               Beauty
               ,
               to
               imitate
               the
               License
               of
               the
               Greeks
               ,
               and
               leave
               two
               Vowels
               opening
               on
               each
               other
               ,
               as
               in
               that
               Verse
               of
               the
               Third
               Pastoral
               ,
               
                 Et
                 succus
                 pecori
                 &
                 lac
                 subducitur
                 Agnis
                 .
              
            
             
               But
               
                 nobis
                 non
                 licet
                 ,
                 esse
                 tam
                 disertis
                 .
              
               At
               least
               if
               we
               study
               to
               refine
               our
               Numbers
               .
               I
               have
               long
               had
               by
               me
               the
               Materials
               of
               an
               English
               Prosodia
               ,
               containing
               all
               the
               Mechanical
               Rules
               of
               Versification
               ,
               wherein
               
               I
               have
               treated
               with
               some
               exactness
               of
               the
               Feet
               ,
               the
               Quantities
               ,
               and
               the
               Pauses
               .
               The
               French
               and
               Italians
               know
               nothing
               of
               the
               two
               first
               ;
               at
               least
               their
               best
               Poets
               have
               not
               practis'd
               them
               .
               As
               for
               the
               Pauses
               ,
               Malherb
               first
               brought
               them
               into
               France
               ,
               within
               this
               last
               Century
               :
               And
               we
               see
               how
               they
               adorn
               their
               Alexandrins
               .
               But
               as
               Virgil
               propounds
               a
               Riddle
               which
               he
               leaves
               unsolv'd
               :
               
                 
                   Dic
                   quibus
                   in
                   terris
                   ,
                   inscripti
                   nomina
                   Regum
                
                 
                   Nascantur
                   flores
                   ,
                   &
                   Phyllida
                   solus
                   habeto
                   .
                
              
               So
               I
               will
               give
               your
               Lordship
               another
               ,
               and
               leave
               the
               Exposition
               of
               it
               to
               your
               acute
               Judgment
               .
               I
               am
               sure
               there
               are
               few
               who
               make
               Verses
               ,
               have
               observ'd
               the
               sweetness
               of
               these
               two
               Lines
               in
               
                 Coopers
                 Hill.
              
               
               
                 
                   Tho'
                   deep
                   ,
                   yet
                   clear
                   ;
                   though
                   gentle
                   ,
                   yet
                   not
                   dull
                   ;
                
                 
                   Strong
                   without
                   rage
                   ,
                   without
                   o'reflowing
                   ,
                   full
                   .
                
              
               And
               there
               are
               yet
               fewer
               who
               can
               find
               the
               Reason
               of
               that
               sweetness
               .
               I
               have
               given
               it
               to
               some
               of
               my
               Friends
               in
               Conversation
               ,
               and
               they
               have
               allow'd
               the
               Criticism
               to
               be
               just
               .
               But
               since
               the
               evil
               of
               false
               quantities
               is
               difficult
               to
               be
               cur'd
               in
               any
               Modern
               Language
               ;
               since
               the
               French
               and
               the
               Italians
               as
               well
               as
               we
               ,
               are
               yet
               ignorant
               what
               feet
               are
               to
               be
               us'd
               in
               Heroick
               Poetry
               ;
               since
               I
               have
               not
               strictly
               observ'd
               those
               Rules
               my self
               ,
               which
               I
               can
               teach
               others
               ;
               since
               I
               pretend
               to
               no
               Dictatorship
               among
               my
               Fellow-Poets
               ;
               since
               if
               I
               shou'd
               instruct
               some
               of
               them
               to
               make
               well-running
               Verses
               ,
               they
               want
               Genius
               to
               give
               them
               strength
               as
               well
               as
               sweetness
               ;
               and
               above
               all
               ,
               since
               your
               Lordship
               has
               advis'd
               me
               not
               to
               publish
               that
               little
               which
               I
               know
               ,
               I
               look
               on
               your
               Counsel
               as
               your
               Command
               ,
               which
               I
               shall
               observe
               inviolably
               ,
               'till
               you
               shall
               please
               to
               revoke
               it
               ,
               and
               leave
               me
               at
               liberty
               to
               make
               my
               thoughts
               publick
               .
               In
               the
               mean
               time
               ,
               that
               I
               may
               arrogate
               nothing
               to
               my self
               ,
               I
               must
               acknowledge
               that
               Virgil
               in
               Latine
               ,
               and
               Spencer
               in
               English
               ,
               have
               been
               my
               Masters
               .
               Spencer
               has
               also
               given
               me
               the
               boldness
               to
               make
               use
               sometimes
               of
               his
               Alexandrin
               Line
               ,
               which
               we
               call
               ,
               though
               improperly
               ,
               the
               Pindarick
               ;
               because
               Mr.
               Cowley
               has
               often
               employ'd
               it
               in
               his
               Odes
               .
               It
               adds
               a
               certain
               Majesty
               to
               the
               Verse
               ,
               when
               't
               is
               us'd
               with
               Judgment
               ,
               and
               stops
               the
               sense
               from
               overflowing
               into
               another
               Line
               .
               Formerly
               the
               French
               ,
               like
               us
               ,
               and
               the
               Italians
               ,
               had
               but
               five
               Feet
               ,
               or
               ten
               Syllables
               in
               their
               Heroick
               Verse
               :
               but
               since
               
               Ronsard's
               time
               ,
               as
               I
               suppose
               ,
               they
               found
               their
               Tongue
               too
               weak
               to
               support
               their
               Epick
               Poetry
               ,
               without
               the
               addition
               of
               another
               Foot.
               That
               indeed
               has
               given
               it
               somewhat
               of
               the
               run
               ,
               and
               measure
               of
               a
               Trimeter
               ;
               but
               it
               runs
               with
               more
               activity
               than
               strength
               :
               Their
               Language
               is
               not
               strung
               with
               Sinews
               like
               our
               English
               .
               It
               has
               the
               nimbleness
               of
               a
               Greyhound
               ,
               but
               not
               the
               bulk
               and
               body
               of
               a
               Mastiff
               .
               Our
               Men
               and
               our
               Verses
               over-bear
               them
               by
               their
               weight
               ;
               and
               
                 Pondere
                 non
                 Numero
              
               ,
               is
               the
               British
               Motto
               .
               The
               French
               have
               set
               up
               Purity
               for
               the
               Standard
               of
               their
               Language
               ;
               and
               a
               Masculine
               Vigour
               is
               that
               of
               ours
               .
               Like
               their
               Tongue
               is
               the
               Genius
               of
               their
               Poets
               ,
               light
               and
               trifling
               in
               comparison
               of
               the
               English
               ;
               more
               proper
               for
               Sonnets
               ,
               Madrigals
               ,
               and
               Elegies
               ,
               than
               Heroick
               Poetry
               .
               The
               turn
               on
               Thoughts
               and
               Words
               is
               their
               chief
               Talent
               ,
               but
               the
               Epick
               Poem
               is
               too
               stately
               to
               receive
               those
               little
               Ornaments
               .
               The
               Painters
               draw
               their
               Nymphs
               in
               thin
               and
               airy
               Habits
               ,
               but
               the
               weight
               of
               Gold
               and
               of
               Embroideries
               is
               reserv'd
               for
               Queens
               
               and
               Goddesses
               .
               Virgil
               is
               never
               frequent
               in
               those
               Turns
               ,
               like
               Ovid
               ,
               but
               much
               more
               sparing
               of
               them
               in
               his
               Aeneis
               ,
               than
               in
               his
               Pastorals
               and
               Georgicks
               .
            
             
               Ignoscenda
               quidem
               ,
               scirent
               si
               ignoscere
               Manes
               .
            
             
               That
               turn
               is
               Beautiful
               indeed
               ;
               but
               he
               employs
               it
               in
               the
               Story
               of
               Orpheus
               and
               Eurydice
               ,
               not
               in
               his
               great
               Poem
               .
               I
               have
               us'd
               that
               License
               in
               his
               Aeneis
               sometimes
               :
               but
               I
               own
               it
               as
               my
               fault
               .
               'T
               was
               given
               to
               those
               who
               understand
               no
               better
               .
               'T
               is
               like
               
               Ovid's
               
                 Semivirumque
                 bovem
                 ,
                 semibovemque
                 virum
                 .
              
               The
               Poet
               found
               it
               before
               his
               Criticks
               ,
               but
               it
               was
               a
               darling
               Sin
               which
               he
               wou'd
               not
               be
               perswaded
               to
               reform
               .
               The
               want
               of
               Genius
               ,
               of
               which
               I
               have
               accus'd
               the
               French
               ,
               is
               laid
               to
               their
               Charge
               by
               one
               of
               their
               own
               great
               Authors
               ,
               though
               I
               have
               forgotten
               his
               Name
               ,
               and
               where
               I
               read
               it
               .
               If
               Rewards
               cou'd
               make
               good
               Poets
               ,
               their
               great
               Master
               has
               not
               been
               wanting
               on
               his
               part
               in
               his
               bountiful
               Encouragements
               :
               For
               he
               is
               wise
               enough
               to
               imitate
               Augustus
               ,
               if
               he
               had
               a
               Maro
               .
               The
               Triumvir
               and
               Proscriber
               had
               descended
               to
               us
               in
               a
               more
               hideous
               form
               than
               they
               now
               appear
               ,
               if
               the
               Emperour
               had
               not
               taken
               care
               to
               make
               Friends
               of
               him
               and
               Horace
               .
               I
               confess
               the
               Banishment
               of
               Ovid
               was
               a
               Blot
               in
               his
               Escutcheon
               ,
               yet
               he
               was
               only
               Banish'd
               ,
               and
               who
               knows
               but
               his
               Crime
               was
               Capital
               ,
               and
               then
               his
               Exile
               was
               a
               Favour
               ?
               Ariosto
               ,
               who
               with
               all
               his
               faults
               ,
               must
               be
               acknowledg'd
               a
               great
               Poet
               ,
               has
               put
               these
               words
               into
               the
               mouth
               of
               an
               Evangelist
               ,
               but
               whether
               they
               will
               pass
               for
               Gospel
               now
               ,
               I
               cannot
               tell
               .
            
             
               
                 Non
                 fu
                 si
                 santo
                 ni
                 benigno
                 Augusto
                 ,
              
               
                 Come
                 la
                 tuba
                 di
                 Virgilio
                 suona
                 ;
              
               
                 L'haver
                 havuto
                 ,
                 in
                 poesia
                 buon
                 gusto
              
               
                 La
                 proscrittione
                 ,
                 iniqua
                 gli
                 perdona
                 .
              
            
             
               But
               Heroick
               Poetry
               is
               not
               of
               the
               growth
               of
               France
               ,
               as
               it
               might
               be
               of
               England
               ,
               if
               it
               were
               Cultivated
               .
               Spencer
               wanted
               only
               to
               have
               read
               the
               Rules
               of
               Bossu
               :
               for
               no
               Man
               was
               ever
               Born
               with
               a
               greater
               Genius
               ,
               or
               had
               more
               Knowledge
               to
               support
               it
               .
               But
               the
               performance
               of
               the
               French
               is
               not
               equal
               to
               their
               Skill
               ;
               and
               hitherto
               we
               have
               wanted
               Skill
               to
               perform
               better
               .
               Segrais
               ,
               whose
               Preface
               is
               so
               wonderfully
               good
               ,
               yet
               is
               wholly
               destitute
               of
               Elevation
               ;
               though
               his
               Version
               is
               much
               better
               than
               that
               of
               the
               two
               Brothers
               ,
               or
               any
               of
               the
               rest
               who
               have
               attempted
               
                 Virgil.
                 Hannibal
                 Caro
              
               is
               a
               great
               Name
               amongst
               the
               Italians
               ,
               yet
               his
               Translation
               of
               the
               Aeneis
               is
               most
               scandalously
               mean
               ,
               though
               he
               has
               taken
               the
               advantage
               of
               writing
               in
               Blank
               Verse
               ,
               and
               freed
               himself
               from
               the
               shackles
               of
               modern
               Rhime
               :
               (
               if
               it
               be
               modern
               ,
               for
               
                 Le
                 Clerc
              
               has
               told
               us
               lately
               ,
               and
               I
               believe
               has
               made
               it
               out
               ,
               that
               
               David's
               Psalms
               were
               written
               in
               as
               errant
               Rhime
               as
               they
               are
               Translated
               .
               )
               Now
               if
               a
               Muse
               cannot
               run
               when
               she
               is
               unfetter'd
               ,
               't
               is
               a
               sign
               she
               has
               but
               little
               speed
               .
               I
               will
               not
               make
               a
               digression
               here
               ,
               though
               I
               am
               strangely
               tempted
               to
               it
               ;
               but
               will
               only
               say
               ,
               that
               he
               who
               can
               write
               well
               in
               Rhime
               ,
               may
               write
               better
               in
               Blank
               Verse
               .
               Rhime
               is
               certainly
               a
               constraint
               even
               to
               the
               best
               Poets
               ,
               and
               those
               who
               make
               it
               with
               most
               ease
               ;
               though
               perhaps
               I
               have
               as
               little
               reason
               to
               complain
               of
               that
               hardship
               as
               any
               Man
               ,
               excepting
               
               Quarles
               ,
               and
               Withers
               .
               What
               it
               adds
               to
               sweetness
               ,
               it
               takes
               away
               from
               sense
               ;
               and
               he
               who
               loses
               the
               least
               by
               it
               ,
               may
               be
               call'd
               a
               gainer
               :
               it
               often
               makes
               us
               swerve
               from
               an
               Author's
               meaning
               .
               As
               if
               a
               Mark
               be
               set
               up
               for
               an
               Archer
               at
               a
               great
               distance
               ,
               let
               him
               aim
               as
               exactly
               as
               he
               can
               ,
               the
               least
               wind
               will
               take
               his
               Arrow
               ,
               and
               divert
               it
               from
               the
               White
               .
               I
               return
               to
               our
               Italian
               Translatour
               of
               the
               Aeneis
               :
               He
               is
               a
               Foot-Poet
               ,
               he
               Lacquies
               by
               the
               side
               of
               Virgil
               at
               the
               best
               ,
               but
               never
               mounts
               behind
               him
               .
               Doctor
               Morelli
               ,
               who
               is
               no
               mean
               Critick
               in
               our
               Poetry
               ,
               and
               therefore
               may
               be
               presum'd
               to
               be
               a
               better
               in
               his
               own
               Language
               ,
               has
               confirm'd
               me
               in
               this
               Opinion
               by
               his
               Judgment
               ,
               and
               thinks
               withall
               ,
               that
               he
               has
               often
               mistaken
               his
               Master's
               Sense
               .
               I
               wou'd
               say
               so
               ,
               if
               I
               durst
               ,
               but
               I
               am
               afraid
               I
               have
               committed
               the
               same
               fault
               more
               often
               ,
               and
               more
               grosly
               :
               For
               I
               have
               forsaken
               Ruaeus
               ,
               (
               whom
               generally
               I
               follow
               )
               in
               many
               places
               ,
               and
               made
               Expositions
               of
               my
               own
               in
               some
               ,
               quite
               contrary
               to
               him
               .
               Of
               which
               I
               will
               give
               but
               two
               Examples
               ,
               because
               they
               are
               so
               near
               each
               other
               in
               the
               Tenth
               Aeneid
               .
               
                 
                   —
                   Sorti
                   Pater
                   aequus
                   utrique
                
                 .
              
               Pallas
               says
               it
               to
               Turnus
               just
               before
               they
               Fight
               .
               Ruaeus
               thinks
               that
               the
               word
               Pater
               is
               to
               be
               referr'd
               to
               Evander
               the
               Father
               of
               Pallas
               .
               But
               how
               cou'd
               he
               imagine
               that
               it
               was
               the
               same
               thing
               to
               Evander
               ,
               if
               his
               Son
               were
               slain
               ,
               or
               if
               he
               overcame
               .
               The
               Poet
               certainly
               intended
               Jupiter
               the
               common
               Father
               of
               Mankind
               ;
               who
               ,
               as
               Pallas
               hop'd
               ,
               wou'd
               stand
               an
               impartial
               Spectatour
               of
               the
               Combat
               ,
               and
               not
               be
               more
               favourable
               to
               Turnus
               ,
               than
               to
               him
               .
               The
               Second
               is
               not
               long
               after
               it
               ,
               and
               both
               before
               the
               Duel
               is
               begun
               .
               They
               are
               the
               words
               of
               Jupiter
               ,
               who
               comforts
               Hercules
               for
               the
               death
               of
               Pallas
               ,
               which
               was
               immediately
               to
               ensue
               ,
               and
               which
               Hercules
               cou'd
               not
               hinder
               (
               though
               the
               young
               Heroe
               had
               address'd
               his
               Prayers
               to
               him
               for
               his
               assistance
               :
               )
               Because
               the
               Gods
               cannot
               controul
               Destiny
               —
               the
               Verse
               follows
               .
               
                 Sic
                 ait
                 ;
                 atque
                 oculos
                 Rutulorum
                 rejicit
                 arvis
                 .
              
               Which
               the
               same
               Ruaeus
               thus
               construes
               .
               Jupiter
               after
               he
               had
               said
               this
               ;
               immediately
               turns
               his
               eyes
               to
               the
               Rutulian
               Fields
               ,
               and
               beholds
               the
               Duel
               .
               I
               have
               given
               this
               place
               another
               Exposition
               ,
               that
               he
               turn'd
               his
               Eyes
               from
               the
               Field
               of
               Combat
               ,
               that
               he
               might
               not
               behold
               a
               sight
               so
               unpleasing
               to
               him
               .
               The
               word
               Rejicit
               I
               know
               will
               admit
               of
               both
               senses
               ;
               but
               Jupiter
               having
               confess'd
               that
               he
               could
               not
               alter
               Fate
               ,
               and
               being
               griev'd
               he
               cou'd
               not
               ,
               in
               consideration
               of
               Hercules
               ,
               it
               seems
               to
               me
               that
               he
               shou'd
               avert
               his
               Eyes
               ,
               rather
               than
               take
               pleasure
               in
               the
               Spectacle
               .
               But
               of
               this
               I
               am
               not
               so
               consident
               as
               the
               other
               ,
               though
               I
               think
               I
               have
               follow'd
               
               Virgil's
               sense
               .
            
             
               What
               I
               have
               said
               ,
               though
               it
               has
               the
               face
               of
               arrogance
               ,
               yet
               is
               intended
               for
               the
               honour
               of
               my
               Country
               ;
               and
               therefore
               I
               will
               boldly
               own
               ,
               that
               this
               English
               Translation
               has
               more
               of
               
               Virgil's
               Spirit
               in
               it
               ,
               than
               either
               the
               French
               ,
               or
               the
               Italian
               .
               Some
               of
               our
               Country-men
               have
               translated
               Episodes
               ,
               and
               other
               parts
               of
               Virgil
               ,
               with
               great
               Success
               .
               As
               particularly
               your
               Lordship
               ,
               whose
               Version
               of
               Orpheus
               and
               Eurydice
               ,
               is
               eminently
               good
               .
               Amongst
               the
               dead
               Authors
               ,
               the
               Silenus
               of
               my
               Lord
               Roscommon
               cannot
               be
               too
               much
               commended
               .
               I
               say
               nothing
               of
               Sir
               
                 John
                 Denham
              
               ,
               Mr.
               Waller
               ,
               and
               Mr.
               Cowley
               ;
               't
               is
               the
               utmost
               of
               my
               Ambition
               to
               be
               thought
               their
               Equal
               ,
               or
               not
               to
               be
               much
               
               inferiour
               to
               them
               ,
               and
               some
               others
               of
               the
               Living
               .
               But
               't
               is
               one
               thing
               to
               take
               pains
               on
               a
               Fragment
               ,
               and
               Translate
               it
               perfectly
               ;
               and
               another
               thing
               to
               have
               the
               weight
               of
               a
               whole
               Author
               on
               my
               shoulders
               .
               They
               who
               believe
               the
               burthen
               light
               ,
               let
               them
               attempt
               the
               Fourth
               ,
               Sixth
               or
               Eighth
               Pastoral
               ,
               the
               First
               or
               Fourth
               Georgick
               ;
               and
               amongst
               the
               Aeneids
               ,
               the
               Fourth
               ,
               the
               Fifth
               ,
               the
               Seventh
               ,
               the
               Ninth
               ,
               the
               Tenth
               ,
               the
               Eleventh
               ,
               or
               the
               Twelfth
               ;
               for
               in
               these
               I
               think
               I
               have
               succeeded
               best
               .
            
             
               Long
               before
               I
               undertook
               this
               Work
               ,
               I
               was
               no
               stranger
               to
               the
               Original
               .
               I
               had
               also
               studied
               
               Virgil's
               Design
               ,
               his
               disposition
               of
               it
               ,
               his
               Manners
               ,
               his
               judicious
               management
               of
               the
               Figures
               ,
               the
               sober
               retrenchments
               of
               his
               Sense
               ,
               which
               always
               leaves
               somewhat
               to
               gratifie
               our
               imagination
               ,
               on
               which
               it
               may
               enlarge
               at
               pleasure
               ;
               but
               above
               all
               ,
               the
               Elegance
               of
               his
               Expressions
               ,
               and
               the
               harmony
               of
               his
               Numbers
               .
               For
               ,
               as
               I
               have
               said
               in
               a
               former
               Dissertation
               ,
               the
               words
               are
               in
               Poetry
               ,
               what
               the
               Colours
               are
               in
               Painting
               .
               If
               the
               Design
               be
               good
               ,
               and
               the
               Draught
               be
               true
               ,
               the
               Colouring
               is
               the
               first
               Beauty
               that
               strikes
               the
               Eye
               .
               Spencer
               and
               Milton
               are
               the
               nearest
               in
               English
               to
               Virgil
               and
               Horace
               in
               the
               Latine
               ;
               and
               have
               endeavour'd
               to
               form
               my
               Stile
               by
               imitating
               their
               Masters
               .
               I
               will
               farther
               own
               to
               you
               ,
               my
               Lord
               ,
               that
               my
               chief
               Ambition
               is
               to
               please
               those
               Readers
               ,
               who
               have
               discernment
               enough
               to
               prefer
               Virgil
               before
               any
               other
               Poet
               in
               the
               Latine
               Tongue
               .
               Such
               Spirits
               as
               he
               desir'd
               to
               please
               ,
               such
               wou'd
               I
               chuse
               for
               my
               Judges
               ,
               and
               wou'd
               stand
               or
               fall
               by
               them
               alone
               .
               Segrais
               has
               distinguish'd
               the
               Readers
               of
               Poetry
               ,
               according
               to
               their
               capacity
               of
               judging
               ,
               into
               three
               Classes
               :
               (
               He
               might
               have
               said
               the
               same
               of
               Writers
               too
               if
               he
               had
               pleas'd
               .
               )
               In
               the
               lowest
               Form
               he
               places
               those
               whom
               he
               calls
               
                 Les
                 Petits
                 Esprits
              
               :
               such
               things
               as
               are
               our
               Upper-Gallery
               Audience
               in
               a
               Play-House
               ;
               who
               like
               nothing
               but
               the
               Husk
               and
               Rhind
               of
               Wit
               ;
               preferr
               a
               Quibble
               ,
               a
               Conceit
               ,
               an
               Epigram
               ,
               before
               solid
               Sense
               ,
               and
               Elegant
               Expression
               :
               These
               are
               Mobb-Readers
               :
               If
               Virgil
               and
               Martial
               stood
               for
               Parliament-Men
               ,
               we
               know
               already
               who
               wou'd
               carry
               it
               .
               But
               though
               they
               make
               the
               greatest
               appearance
               in
               the
               Field
               ,
               and
               cry
               the
               loudest
               ,
               the
               best
               on
               't
               is
               ,
               they
               are
               but
               a
               sort
               of
               
                 French
                 Hugonots
              
               ,
               or
               
                 Dutch
                 Boors
              
               ,
               brought
               over
               in
               Herds
               ,
               but
               not
               Naturaliz'd
               :
               who
               have
               not
               Land
               of
               two
               Pounds
               
                 per
                 Annum
              
               in
               Parnassus
               ,
               and
               therefore
               are
               not
               priviledg'd
               to
               Poll.
               Their
               Authors
               are
               of
               the
               same
               level
               ;
               fit
               to
               represent
               them
               on
               a
               Mountebank's-Stage
               ,
               or
               to
               be
               Masters
               of
               the
               Ceremonies
               in
               a
               Bear-Garden
               .
               Yet
               these
               are
               they
               who
               have
               the
               most
               Admirers
               .
               But
               it
               often
               happens
               ,
               to
               their
               mortification
               ,
               that
               as
               their
               Readers
               improve
               their
               Stock
               of
               Sense
               ,
               (
               as
               they
               may
               by
               reading
               better
               Books
               ,
               and
               by
               Conversation
               with
               Men
               of
               Judgment
               ,
               )
               they
               soon
               forsake
               them
               :
               And
               when
               the
               Torrent
               from
               the
               Mountains
               falls
               no
               more
               ,
               the
               swelling
               Writer
               is
               reduc'd
               into
               his
               shallow
               Bed
               ,
               like
               the
               Mançanares
               at
               Madrid
               ,
               with
               scarce
               water
               to
               moisten
               his
               own
               Pebbles
               .
               There
               are
               a
               middle
               sort
               of
               Readers
               (
               as
               we
               hold
               there
               is
               a
               middle
               state
               of
               Souls
               )
               such
               as
               have
               a
               farther
               insight
               than
               the
               former
               ;
               yet
               have
               not
               the
               capacity
               of
               judging
               right
               ;
               (
               for
               I
               speak
               not
               of
               those
               who
               are
               brib'd
               by
               a
               Party
               ,
               and
               know
               better
               if
               they
               were
               not
               corrupted
               ;
               )
               but
               I
               mean
               a
               Company
               of
               warm
               young
               Men
               ,
               who
               are
               not
               yet
               arriv'd
               so
               far
               as
               to
               discern
               the
               difference
               betwixt
               Fustian
               ,
               or
               ostentatious
               Sentences
               ,
               and
               the
               true
               sublime
               .
               These
               are
               above
               liking
               Martial
               ,
               or
               
               Owen's
               Epigrams
               ,
               but
               they
               wou'd
               certainly
               set
               Virgil
               below
               Statius
               ,
               or
               Lucan
               .
               I
               need
               not
               say
               their
               Poets
               are
               of
               the
               same
               Paste
               with
               their
               Admirers
               .
               They
               affect
               greatness
               in
               all
               they
               write
               ,
               but
               't
               is
               a
               bladder'd
               greatness
               ,
               like
               that
               of
               the
               vain
               Man
               whom
               Seneca
               describes
               :
               An
               ill
               habit
               of
               Body
               ,
               full
               of
               
               Humours
               ,
               and
               swell'd
               with
               Dropsie
               .
               Even
               these
               too
               desert
               their
               Authors
               ,
               as
               their
               Judgment
               ripens
               .
               The
               young
               Gentlemen
               themselves
               are
               commonly
               miss-led
               by
               their
               Pedagogue
               at
               School
               ,
               their
               Tutor
               at
               the
               University
               ,
               or
               their
               Governour
               in
               their
               Travels
               .
               And
               many
               of
               those
               three
               sorts
               are
               the
               most
               positive
               Blockheads
               in
               the
               World.
               How
               many
               of
               those
               flatulent
               Writers
               have
               I
               known
               ,
               who
               have
               sunk
               in
               their
               Reputation
               ,
               after
               Seven
               or
               Eight
               Editions
               of
               their
               Works
               ?
               for
               indeed
               they
               are
               Poets
               only
               for
               young
               Men.
               They
               had
               great
               success
               at
               their
               first
               appearance
               ;
               but
               not
               being
               of
               God
               ,
               as
               a
               Wit
               said
               formerly
               ,
               they
               cou'd
               not
               stand
               .
            
             
               I
               have
               already
               nam'd
               two
               sorts
               of
               Judges
               ,
               but
               Virgil
               wrote
               for
               neither
               of
               them
               :
               and
               by
               his
               Example
               ,
               I
               am
               not
               ambitious
               of
               pleasing
               the
               lowest
               ,
               or
               the
               middle
               form
               of
               Readers
               .
            
             
               He
               chose
               to
               please
               the
               most
               Judicious
               :
               Souls
               of
               the
               highest
               Rank
               ,
               and
               truest
               Understanding
               .
               These
               are
               few
               in
               number
               ;
               but
               whoever
               is
               so
               happy
               as
               to
               gain
               their
               approbation
               ,
               can
               nover
               lose
               it
               ,
               because
               they
               never
               give
               it
               blindly
               .
               Then
               they
               have
               a
               certain
               Magnetism
               in
               their
               Judgment
               ,
               which
               attracts
               others
               to
               their
               Sense
               .
               Every
               day
               they
               gain
               some
               new
               Proselyte
               ,
               and
               in
               time
               become
               the
               Church
               .
               For
               this
               Reason
               ,
               a
               well-weigh'd
               Judicious
               Poem
               ,
               which
               at
               its
               first
               appearance
               gains
               no
               more
               upon
               the
               World
               than
               to
               be
               just
               receiv'd
               ,
               and
               rather
               not
               blam'd
               ,
               than
               much
               applauded
               ,
               insinuates
               it self
               by
               insensible
               degrees
               into
               the
               liking
               of
               the
               Reader
               :
               The
               more
               he
               studies
               it
               ,
               the
               more
               it
               grows
               upon
               him
               ;
               every
               time
               he
               takes
               it
               up
               ,
               he
               discovers
               some
               new
               Graces
               in
               it
               .
               And
               whereas
               Poems
               which
               are
               produc'd
               by
               the
               vigour
               of
               Imagination
               only
               ,
               have
               a
               gloss
               upon
               them
               at
               the
               first
               ,
               which
               Time
               wears
               off
               ;
               the
               Works
               of
               Judgment
               ,
               are
               like
               the
               Diamond
               ,
               the
               more
               they
               are
               polish'd
               ,
               the
               more
               lustre
               they
               receive
               .
               Such
               is
               the
               difference
               betwixt
               
               Virgil's
               Aeneis
               ,
               and
               
               Marini's
               Adone
               .
               And
               if
               I
               may
               be
               allow'd
               to
               change
               the
               Metaphor
               ,
               I
               wou'd
               say
               ,
               that
               Virgil
               is
               like
               the
               Fame
               which
               he
               describes
               ;
               
                 Mobilitate
                 viget
                 ,
                 viresque
                 acquirit
                 eundo
                 .
              
            
             
               Such
               a
               sort
               of
               Reputation
               is
               my
               aim
               ,
               though
               in
               a
               far
               inferiour
               degree
               ,
               according
               to
               my
               Motto
               in
               the
               Title
               Page
               :
               
                 Sequiturque
                 Patrem
                 ,
                 non
                 passibus
                 aequis
              
               ;
               and
               therefore
               I
               appeal
               to
               the
               Highest
               Court
               of
               Judicature
               ,
               like
               that
               of
               the
               Peers
               ,
               of
               which
               your
               Lordship
               is
               so
               great
               an
               Ornament
               .
            
             
               Without
               this
               Ambition
               which
               I
               own
               ,
               of
               desiring
               to
               please
               the
               
                 Judices
                 Natos
              
               ,
               I
               cou'd
               never
               have
               been
               able
               to
               have
               done
               any
               thing
               at
               this
               Age
               ,
               when
               the
               fire
               of
               Poetry
               is
               commonly
               extinguish'd
               in
               other
               Men.
               Yet
               Virgil
               has
               given
               me
               the
               Example
               of
               Entellus
               for
               my
               Encouragement
               :
               When
               he
               was
               well
               heated
               ,
               the
               younger
               Champion
               cou'd
               not
               stand
               before
               him
               .
               And
               we
               find
               the
               Elder
               contended
               not
               for
               the
               Gift
               ,
               but
               for
               the
               Honour
               ;
               
                 Nec
                 dona
                 moror
              
               .
               For
               Dampier
               has
               inform'd
               us
               ,
               in
               his
               Voyages
               ,
               that
               the
               Air
               of
               the
               Country
               which
               produces
               Gold
               ,
               is
               never
               wholsom
               .
            
             
               I
               had
               long
               since
               consider'd
               ,
               that
               the
               way
               to
               please
               the
               best
               Judges
               ,
               is
               not
               to
               Translate
               a
               Poet
               literally
               ;
               and
               Virgil
               least
               of
               any
               other
               .
               For
               his
               peculiar
               Beauty
               lying
               in
               his
               choice
               of
               Words
               ,
               I
               am
               excluded
               from
               it
               by
               the
               narrow
               compass
               of
               our
               Heroick
               Verse
               ,
               unless
               I
               wou'd
               make
               use
               of
               Monosyllables
               only
               ,
               and
               those
               clog'd
               with
               Consonants
               ,
               which
               
               are
               the
               dead
               weight
               of
               our
               Mother-Tongue
               .
               'T
               is
               possible
               ,
               I
               confess
               ,
               though
               it
               rarely
               happens
               ,
               that
               a
               Verse
               of
               Monosyllables
               may
               sound
               harmoniously
               ;
               and
               some
               Examples
               of
               it
               I
               have
               seen
               .
               My
               first
               Line
               of
               the
               Aeneis
               is
               not
               harsh
               :
               
                 
                   Arms
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Man
                   I
                   Sing
                   ,
                   who
                   forc'd
                   by
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 &c.
                 
              
            
             
               But
               a
               much
               better
               instance
               may
               be
               given
               from
               the
               last
               Line
               of
               Manilius
               ,
               made
               English
               by
               our
               Learned
               and
               Judicious
               Mr.
               Creech
               .
            
             
               Nor
               could
               the
               World
               have
               born
               so
               fierce
               a
               Flame
               .
            
             
               Where
               the
               many
               Liquid
               Consonants
               are
               plac'd
               so
               Artfully
               ,
               that
               they
               give
               a
               pleasing
               sound
               to
               the
               Words
               ,
               though
               they
               are
               all
               of
               one
               Syllable
               .
            
             
               'T
               is
               true
               ,
               I
               have
               been
               sometimes
               forc'd
               upon
               it
               in
               other
               places
               of
               this
               Work
               ,
               but
               I
               never
               did
               it
               out
               of
               choice
               :
               I
               was
               either
               in
               haste
               ,
               or
               Virgil
               gave
               me
               no
               occasion
               for
               the
               Ornament
               of
               Words
               ;
               for
               it
               seldom
               happens
               but
               a
               Monosyllable
               Line
               turns
               Verse
               to
               Prose
               ,
               and
               even
               that
               Prose
               is
               rugged
               ,
               and
               unharmonious
               .
               Philarchus
               ,
               I
               remember
               ,
               taxes
               Balzac
               for
               placing
               Twenty
               Monosyllables
               in
               file
               ,
               without
               one
               dissyllable
               betwixt
               them
               .
               The
               way
               I
               have
               taken
               ,
               is
               not
               so
               streight
               as
               Metaphrase
               ,
               nor
               so
               loose
               as
               Paraphrase
               :
               Some
               things
               too
               I
               have
               omitted
               ,
               and
               sometimes
               have
               added
               of
               my
               own
               .
               Yet
               the
               omissions
               I
               hope
               ,
               are
               but
               of
               Circumstances
               ,
               and
               such
               as
               wou'd
               have
               no
               grace
               in
               English
               ;
               and
               the
               Additions
               ,
               I
               also
               hope
               ,
               are
               easily
               deduc'd
               from
               
               Virgil's
               Sense
               .
               They
               will
               seem
               (
               at
               least
               I
               have
               the
               Vanity
               to
               think
               so
               )
               ,
               not
               stuck
               into
               him
               ,
               but
               growing
               out
               of
               him
               .
               He
               studies
               brevity
               more
               than
               any
               other
               Poet
               ,
               but
               he
               had
               the
               advantage
               of
               a
               Language
               wherein
               much
               may
               be
               comprehended
               in
               a
               little
               space
               .
               We
               ,
               and
               all
               the
               Modern
               Tongues
               ,
               have
               more
               Articles
               and
               Pronouns
               ,
               besides
               signs
               of
               Tenses
               and
               Cases
               ,
               and
               other
               Barbarities
               on
               which
               our
               Speech
               is
               built
               by
               the
               faults
               of
               our
               Forefathers
               .
               The
               Romans
               founded
               theirs
               upon
               the
               Greek
               :
               And
               the
               Greeks
               ,
               we
               know
               ,
               were
               labouring
               many
               hundred
               years
               upon
               their
               Language
               ,
               before
               they
               brought
               it
               to
               perfection
               .
               They
               rejected
               all
               those
               Signs
               ,
               and
               cut
               off
               as
               many
               Articles
               as
               they
               cou'd
               spare
               ;
               comprehending
               in
               one
               word
               ,
               what
               we
               are
               constrain'd
               to
               express
               in
               two
               ;
               which
               is
               one
               Reason
               why
               we
               cannot
               write
               so
               concisely
               as
               they
               have
               done
               .
               The
               word
               Pater
               ,
               for
               Example
               ,
               signifies
               not
               only
               a
               Father
               ,
               but
               your
               Father
               ,
               my
               Father
               ,
               his
               or
               her
               Father
               ,
               all
               included
               in
               a
               word
               .
            
             
               This
               inconvenience
               is
               common
               to
               all
               Modern
               Tongues
               ,
               and
               this
               alone
               constrains
               us
               to
               employ
               more
               words
               than
               the
               Ancients
               needed
               .
               But
               having
               before
               observ'd
               ,
               that
               Virgil
               endeavours
               to
               be
               short
               ,
               and
               at
               the
               same
               time
               Elegant
               ,
               I
               pursue
               the
               Excellence
               ,
               and
               forsake
               the
               Brevity
               .
               For
               there
               he
               is
               like
               Ambergreace
               ,
               a
               Rich
               Perfume
               ,
               but
               of
               so
               close
               and
               glutinous
               a
               Body
               ,
               that
               it
               must
               be
               open'd
               with
               inferiour
               scents
               of
               Musk
               or
               Civet
               ,
               or
               the
               sweetness
               will
               not
               be
               drawn
               out
               into
               another
               Language
               .
            
             
               On
               the
               whole
               Matter
               ,
               I
               thought
               fit
               to
               steer
               betwixt
               the
               two
               Extreams
               ,
               of
               Paraphrase
               ,
               and
               literal
               Translation
               :
               To
               keep
               as
               near
               my
               Author
               as
               I
               cou'd
               ,
               without
               losing
               all
               his
               Graces
               ,
               the
               most
               Eminent
               of
               which
               ,
               are
               in
               the
               Beauty
               of
               his
               words
               :
               And
               those
               words
               ,
               I
               must
               add
               ,
               are
               always
               Figurative
               .
               Such
               of
               these
               as
               wou'd
               retain
               their
               Elegance
               in
               our
               Tongue
               ,
               I
               have
               endeavour'd
               to
               graff
               on
               it
               ;
               but
               most
               
               of
               them
               are
               of
               necessity
               to
               be
               lost
               ,
               because
               they
               will
               not
               shine
               in
               any
               but
               their
               own
               .
               Virgil
               has
               sometimes
               two
               of
               them
               in
               a
               Line
               ;
               but
               the
               scantiness
               of
               our
               Heroick
               Verse
               ,
               is
               not
               capable
               of
               receiving
               more
               than
               one
               :
               And
               that
               too
               must
               expiate
               for
               many
               others
               which
               have
               none
               .
               Such
               is
               the
               difference
               of
               the
               Languages
               ,
               or
               such
               my
               want
               of
               skill
               in
               chusing
               words
               .
               Yet
               I
               may
               presume
               to
               say
               ,
               and
               I
               hope
               with
               as
               much
               reason
               as
               the
               French
               Translator
               ,
               that
               taking
               all
               the
               Materials
               of
               this
               divine
               Author
               ,
               I
               have
               endeavour'd
               to
               make
               Virgil
               speak
               such
               English
               ,
               as
               he
               wou'd
               himself
               have
               spoken
               ,
               if
               he
               had
               been
               born
               in
               England
               ,
               and
               in
               this
               present
               Age.
               I
               acknowledge
               ,
               with
               Segrais
               ,
               that
               I
               have
               not
               succeeded
               in
               this
               attempt
               ,
               according
               to
               my
               desire
               :
               yet
               I
               shall
               not
               be
               wholly
               without
               praise
               ,
               if
               in
               some
               sort
               I
               may
               be
               allow'd
               to
               have
               copied
               the
               Clearness
               ,
               the
               Purity
               ,
               the
               Easiness
               and
               the
               Magnificence
               of
               his
               Stile
               .
               But
               I
               shall
               have
               occasion
               to
               speak
               farther
               on
               this
               Subject
               ,
               before
               I
               end
               the
               Preface
               .
            
             
               When
               I
               mention'd
               the
               Pindarick
               Line
               ,
               I
               should
               have
               added
               ,
               that
               I
               take
               another
               License
               in
               my
               Verses
               :
               For
               I
               frequently
               make
               use
               of
               Triplet
               Rhymes
               ,
               and
               for
               the
               same
               Reason
               :
               Because
               they
               bound
               the
               Sense
               .
               And
               therefore
               I
               generally
               join
               these
               two
               Licenses
               together
               :
               And
               make
               the
               last
               Verse
               of
               the
               Triplet
               a
               Pindarique
               :
               For
               besides
               ,
               the
               Majesty
               which
               it
               gives
               ,
               it
               confines
               the
               sense
               within
               the
               barriers
               of
               three
               Lines
               ,
               which
               wou'd
               languish
               if
               it
               were
               lengthen'd
               into
               four
               .
               Spencer
               is
               my
               Example
               for
               both
               these
               priviledges
               of
               English
               Verses
               .
               And
               Chapman
               has
               follow'd
               him
               in
               his
               Translation
               of
               Homer
               .
               Mr.
               Cowley
               has
               given
               in
               to
               them
               after
               both
               :
               And
               all
               succeeding
               Writers
               after
               him
               .
               I
               regard
               them
               now
               as
               the
               
                 Magna
                 Charta
              
               of
               Heroick
               Poetry
               ;
               and
               am
               too
               much
               an
               
               English-man
               to
               lose
               what
               my
               Ancestors
               have
               gain'd
               for
               me
               .
               Let
               the
               French
               and
               Italians
               value
               themselves
               on
               their
               Regularity
               :
               Strength
               and
               Elevation
               are
               our
               Standard
               .
               I
               said
               before
               ,
               and
               I
               repeat
               it
               ,
               that
               the
               affected
               purity
               of
               the
               French
               ,
               has
               unsinew'd
               their
               Heroick
               Verse
               .
               The
               Language
               of
               an
               Epick
               Poem
               is
               almost
               wholly
               figurative
               :
               Yet
               they
               are
               so
               fearful
               of
               a
               Metaphor
               ,
               that
               no
               Example
               of
               Virgil
               can
               encourage
               them
               to
               be
               bold
               with
               safety
               .
               Sure
               they
               might
               warm
               themselves
               by
               that
               sprightly
               Blaze
               ,
               without
               approaching
               it
               so
               close
               as
               to
               singe
               their
               Wings
               ;
               they
               may
               come
               as
               near
               it
               as
               their
               Master
               .
               Not
               that
               I
               wou'd
               discourage
               that
               purity
               of
               diction
               ,
               in
               which
               he
               excels
               all
               other
               Poets
               .
               But
               he
               knows
               how
               far
               to
               extend
               his
               Franchises
               :
               And
               advances
               to
               the
               verge
               ,
               without
               venturing
               a
               Foot
               beyond
               it
               .
               On
               the
               other
               side
               ,
               without
               being
               injurious
               to
               the
               Memory
               of
               our
               
                 English
                 Pindar
              
               ,
               I
               will
               presume
               to
               say
               ,
               that
               his
               Metaphors
               are
               sometimes
               too
               violent
               ,
               and
               his
               Language
               is
               not
               always
               pure
               .
               But
               at
               the
               same
               time
               ,
               I
               must
               excuse
               him
               .
               For
               through
               the
               Iniquity
               of
               the
               times
               ,
               he
               was
               forc'd
               to
               Travel
               ,
               at
               an
               Age
               ,
               when
               ,
               instead
               of
               Learning
               Foreign
               Languages
               ,
               he
               shou'd
               have
               studied
               the
               Beauties
               of
               his
               Mother
               Tongue
               :
               Which
               like
               all
               other
               Speeches
               ,
               is
               to
               be
               cultivated
               early
               ,
               or
               we
               shall
               never
               Write
               it
               with
               any
               kind
               of
               Elegance
               .
               Thus
               by
               gaining
               abroad
               he
               lost
               at
               home
               :
               Like
               the
               Painter
               in
               the
               Arcadia
               ,
               who
               going
               to
               see
               a
               Skirmish
               ,
               had
               his
               Arms
               lop'd
               off
               :
               and
               return'd
               ,
               says
               Sir
               
                 Philip
                 Sydney
              
               ,
               well
               instructed
               how
               to
               draw
               a
               Battel
               ,
               but
               without
               a
               Hand
               to
               perform
               his
               Work.
               
            
             
               There
               is
               another
               thing
               in
               which
               I
               have
               presum'd
               to
               deviate
               from
               him
               and
               Spencer
               .
               They
               both
               make
               Hemysticks
               (
               or
               half
               Verses
               )
               breaking
               off
               in
               the
               middle
               of
               a
               Line
               .
               I
               confess
               there
               are
               not
               many
               such
               in
               the
               
                 Fairy
                 Queen
              
               :
               And
               even
               those
               few
               might
               be
               occasion'd
               by
               his
               unhappy
               choice
               
               of
               so
               long
               a
               Stanza
               .
               Mr.
               Cowley
               had
               found
               out
               ,
               that
               no
               kind
               of
               Staff
               is
               proper
               for
               an
               Heroick
               Poem
               ;
               as
               being
               all
               too
               lirical
               :
               Yet
               though
               he
               wrote
               in
               Couplets
               ,
               where
               Rhyme
               is
               freer
               from
               constraint
               ,
               he
               frequently
               affects
               half
               Verses
               :
               of
               which
               we
               find
               not
               one
               in
               Homer
               ,
               and
               I
               think
               not
               in
               any
               of
               the
               Grcek
               Poets
               ,
               or
               the
               Latin
               ,
               excepting
               only
               Virgil
               ;
               and
               there
               is
               no
               question
               but
               he
               thought
               ,
               he
               had
               
               Virgil's
               Authority
               for
               that
               License
               .
               But
               I
               am
               confident
               ,
               our
               Poet
               never
               meant
               to
               leave
               him
               or
               any
               other
               such
               a
               Precedent
               .
               And
               I
               ground
               my
               Opinion
               on
               these
               two
               Reasons
               .
               First
               ,
               we
               find
               no
               Example
               of
               a
               Hemystick
               in
               any
               of
               his
               Pastorals
               or
               Georgicks
               .
               For
               he
               had
               given
               the
               last
               finishing
               Strokes
               to
               both
               these
               Poems
               :
               But
               his
               Aeneis
               he
               left
               so
               uncorrect
               ,
               at
               least
               so
               short
               of
               that
               perfection
               at
               which
               he
               aim'd
               ,
               that
               we
               know
               how
               hard
               a
               Sentence
               He
               pass'd
               upon
               it
               :
               And
               in
               the
               second
               place
               ,
               I
               reasonably
               presume
               ,
               that
               he
               intended
               to
               have
               fill'd
               up
               all
               those
               Hemysticks
               ,
               because
               in
               one
               of
               them
               we
               find
               the
               sense
               imperfect
               :
               
                 
                   Quem
                   tibi
                   jam
                   Trojâ
                
                 —
              
               Which
               some
               foolish
               Gramarian
               ,
               has
               ended
               for
               him
               ,
               with
               a
               half
               Line
               of
               Nonsense
               .
               
                 Peperit
                 fumante
                 Crëusa
                 .
              
               For
               Ascanius
               must
               have
               been
               born
               some
               Years
               before
               the
               burning
               of
               that
               City
               ;
               which
               I
               need
               not
               prove
               .
               On
               the
               other
               side
               we
               find
               also
               ,
               that
               he
               himself
               fill'd
               up
               one
               Line
               in
               the
               sixth
               Aeneid
               ,
               the
               Enthusiasm
               seizing
               him
               ,
               while
               he
               was
               reading
               to
               Augustus
               .
            
             
               
                 Misenum
                 Aeolidem
                 ,
                 quo
                 non
                 praestantior
                 alter
              
               
                 Aere
                 ,
                 ciere
                 viros
                 .
                 —
              
            
             
               To
               which
               he
               added
               in
               that
               transport
               .
               
                 Martemque
                 accendere
                 Cantu
              
               .
               And
               never
               was
               any
               Line
               more
               nobly
               finish'd
               ;
               for
               the
               reasons
               which
               I
               have
               given
               in
               the
               Book
               of
               Painting
               .
               On
               these
               Considerations
               I
               have
               shun'd
               Hemysticks
               :
               Not
               being
               willing
               to
               imitate
               Virgil
               to
               a
               Fault
               ;
               like
               
               Alexander's
               Courtiers
               ,
               who
               affected
               to
               hold
               their
               Necks
               awry
               ,
               because
               he
               cou'd
               not
               help
               it
               :
               I
               am
               confident
               your
               Lordship
               is
               by
               this
               time
               of
               my
               Opinion
               ;
               and
               that
               you
               will
               look
               on
               those
               half
               lines
               hereafter
               ,
               as
               the
               imperfect
               products
               of
               a
               hasty
               Muse
               :
               Like
               the
               Frogs
               and
               Serpents
               in
               the
               Nile
               ;
               part
               of
               them
               kindled
               into
               Life
               ;
               and
               part
               a
               lump
               of
               unform'd
               unanimated
               Mudd
               .
            
             
               I
               am
               sensible
               that
               many
               of
               my
               whole
               Verses
               ,
               are
               as
               imperfect
               as
               those
               halves
               ;
               for
               want
               of
               time
               to
               digest
               them
               better
               :
               But
               give
               me
               leave
               to
               make
               the
               Excuse
               of
               Boccace
               :
               Who
               when
               he
               was
               upbraided
               ,
               that
               some
               of
               his
               Novels
               had
               not
               the
               Spirit
               of
               the
               rest
               ,
               return'd
               this
               Answer
               ,
               that
               Charlemain
               who
               made
               the
               Paladins
               ;
               was
               never
               able
               to
               raise
               an
               Army
               of
               them
               .
               The
               Leaders
               may
               be
               Heroes
               ,
               but
               the
               multitude
               must
               consist
               of
               Common
               Men.
               
            
             
               I
               am
               also
               bound
               to
               tell
               your
               Lordship
               ,
               in
               my
               own
               defence
               :
               That
               from
               the
               beginning
               of
               the
               first
               Georgick
               to
               the
               end
               of
               the
               last
               Aeneid
               ;
               I
               found
               the
               difficulty
               of
               Translation
               growing
               on
               me
               in
               every
               succeeding
               Book
               .
               For
               Virgil
               ,
               above
               all
               Poets
               ,
               had
               a
               stock
               ,
               which
               I
               may
               call
               almost
               inexhaustible
               of
               figurative
               ,
               Elegant
               ,
               and
               sounding
               Words
               .
               I
               who
               inherit
               but
               a
               small
               portion
               of
               his
               Genius
               ,
               and
               write
               in
               a
               Language
               so
               
               much
               inferiour
               to
               the
               Latin
               ,
               have
               found
               it
               very
               painful
               to
               vary
               Phrases
               ,
               when
               the
               same
               sense
               returns
               upon
               me
               .
               Even
               he
               himself
               ,
               whether
               out
               of
               necessity
               or
               choice
               ,
               has
               often
               express'd
               the
               same
               thing
               in
               the
               same
               words
               ;
               and
               often
               repeated
               two
               or
               three
               whole
               Verses
               ,
               which
               he
               had
               us'd
               before
               .
               Words
               are
               not
               so
               easily
               Coyn'd
               as
               Money
               :
               And
               yet
               we
               see
               that
               the
               Credit
               not
               only
               of
               Banks
               ,
               but
               of
               Exchequers
               cracks
               ,
               when
               little
               comes
               in
               ,
               and
               much
               goes
               out
               .
               Virgil
               call'd
               upon
               me
               in
               every
               line
               for
               some
               new
               word
               :
               And
               I
               paid
               so
               long
               ,
               that
               I
               was
               almost
               Banckrupt
               .
               So
               that
               the
               latter
               end
               must
               needs
               be
               more
               burdensom
               than
               the
               beginning
               or
               the
               middle
               .
               And
               consequently
               the
               Twelfth
               Aeneid
               cost
               me
               double
               the
               time
               of
               the
               first
               and
               second
               .
               What
               had
               become
               of
               me
               ,
               if
               Virgil
               had
               tax'd
               me
               with
               another
               Book
               ?
               I
               had
               certainly
               been
               reduc'd
               to
               pay
               the
               Publick
               in
               hammer'd
               Money
               for
               want
               of
               Mill'd
               ;
               that
               is
               in
               the
               same
               old
               Words
               which
               I
               had
               us'd
               before
               :
               And
               the
               Receivers
               must
               have
               been
               forc'd
               to
               have
               taken
               any
               thing
               ,
               where
               there
               was
               so
               little
               to
               be
               had
               .
            
             
               Besides
               this
               difficulty
               (
               with
               which
               I
               have
               strugled
               ,
               and
               made
               a
               shift
               to
               pass
               it
               over
               )
               there
               is
               one
               remaining
               ,
               which
               is
               insuperable
               to
               all
               Translators
               .
               We
               are
               bound
               to
               our
               Author's
               Sense
               ,
               though
               with
               the
               latitudes
               already
               mention'd
               (
               for
               I
               think
               it
               not
               so
               sacred
               ,
               as
               that
               one
               Iota
               must
               not
               be
               added
               or
               diminish'd
               on
               pain
               of
               an
               
                 Anathema
                 .
              
               )
               But
               Slaves
               we
               are
               ;
               and
               labour
               on
               another
               Man's
               Plantation
               ;
               we
               dress
               the
               Vine-yard
               ,
               but
               the
               Wine
               is
               the
               Owners
               :
               If
               the
               Soil
               be
               sometimes
               Barren
               ,
               then
               we
               are
               sure
               of
               being
               scourg'd
               :
               If
               it
               be
               fruitful
               ,
               and
               our
               Care
               succeeds
               ,
               we
               are
               not
               thank'd
               ;
               for
               the
               proud
               Reader
               will
               only
               say
               ,
               the
               poor
               drudge
               has
               done
               his
               duty
               .
               But
               this
               is
               nothing
               to
               what
               follows
               ;
               for
               being
               oblig'd
               to
               make
               his
               Sense
               intelligible
               ,
               we
               are
               forc'd
               to
               untune
               our
               own
               Verses
               ,
               that
               we
               may
               give
               his
               meaning
               to
               the
               Reader
               .
               He
               who
               Invents
               is
               Master
               of
               his
               Thoughts
               and
               Words
               :
               He
               can
               turn
               and
               vary
               them
               as
               he
               pleases
               ,
               'till
               he
               renders
               them
               harmonious
               .
               But
               the
               wretched
               Translator
               has
               no
               such
               priviledge
               :
               For
               being
               ty'd
               to
               the
               Thoughts
               ,
               he
               must
               make
               what
               Musick
               he
               can
               in
               the
               Expression
               .
               And
               for
               this
               reason
               it
               cannot
               always
               be
               so
               sweet
               as
               that
               of
               the
               Original
               .
               There
               is
               a
               beauty
               of
               Sound
               ,
               as
               Segrais
               has
               observ'd
               ,
               in
               some
               Latin
               Words
               ,
               which
               is
               wholly
               lost
               in
               any
               Modern
               Language
               .
               He
               instances
               in
               that
               
                 Mollis
                 Amaracus
              
               ,
               on
               which
               Venus
               lays
               Cupid
               in
               the
               First
               Aeneid
               .
               If
               I
               should
               Translate
               it
               Sweet
               Marjoram
               ,
               as
               the
               word
               signifies
               ;
               the
               Reader
               would
               think
               I
               had
               mistaken
               Virgil
               :
               For
               those
               Village-words
               ,
               as
               I
               may
               call
               them
               ,
               gives
               us
               a
               mean
               Idea
               of
               the
               thing
               ;
               but
               the
               Sound
               of
               the
               Latin
               is
               so
               much
               more
               pleasing
               ,
               by
               the
               just
               mixture
               of
               the
               Vowels
               with
               the
               Consonants
               ,
               that
               it
               raises
               our
               Fancies
               ,
               to
               conceive
               somewhat
               more
               Noble
               than
               a
               common
               Herb
               ;
               and
               to
               spread
               Roses
               under
               him
               ,
               and
               strew
               Lillies
               over
               him
               ;
               a
               Bed
               not
               unworthy
               the
               Grandson
               of
               the
               Goddess
               .
            
             
               If
               I
               cannot
               Copy
               his
               Harmonious
               Numbers
               ,
               how
               shall
               I
               imitate
               his
               noble
               Flights
               ;
               where
               his
               Thoughts
               and
               Words
               are
               equally
               sublime
               ?
            
             
               
                 Quem
                 quisquis
                 studet
                 aemulari
                 ,
              
               
                 —
                 Caeratis
                 ope
                 Dedalaeâ
              
               
                 Nititur
                 pennis
                 ,
                 vitreo
                 daturus
              
               
                 Nomina
                 Ponto
                 .
              
            
             
             
               What
               Modern
               Language
               ,
               or
               what
               Poet
               can
               express
               the
               Majestick
               Beauty
               of
               this
               one
               Verse
               amongst
               a
               thousand
               others
               !
               
                 
                   Aude
                   Hospes
                   contemnere
                   opes
                   ,
                   &
                   te
                   quoque
                   dignum
                
                 
                   Finge
                   Deo.
                   
                
              
               For
               my
               part
               I
               am
               lost
               in
               the
               admiration
               of
               it
               :
               I
               contemn
               the
               World
               ,
               when
               I
               think
               on
               it
               ,
               and
               my self
               when
               I
               Translate
               it
               .
            
             
               Lay
               by
               Virgil
               ,
               I
               beseech
               your
               Lordship
               ,
               and
               all
               my
               better
               sort
               of
               Judges
               ,
               when
               you
               take
               up
               my
               Version
               ,
               and
               it
               will
               appear
               a
               passable
               Beauty
               ,
               when
               the
               Original
               Muse
               is
               absent
               :
               But
               like
               
               Spencer's
               false
               Florimel
               made
               of
               Snow
               ,
               it
               melts
               and
               vanishes
               ,
               when
               the
               true
               one
               comes
               in
               sight
               .
               I
               will
               not
               excuse
               but
               justifie
               my self
               for
               one
               pretended
               Crime
               ,
               with
               which
               I
               am
               liable
               to
               be
               charg'd
               by
               false
               Criticks
               ,
               not
               only
               in
               this
               Translation
               ,
               but
               in
               many
               of
               my
               Original
               Poems
               ;
               that
               I
               latinize
               too
               much
               .
               'T
               is
               true
               ,
               that
               when
               I
               find
               an
               English
               word
               ,
               significant
               and
               sounding
               ,
               I
               neither
               borrow
               from
               the
               Latin
               or
               any
               other
               Language
               :
               But
               when
               I
               want
               at
               home
               ,
               I
               must
               seek
               abroad
               .
            
             
               If
               sounding
               Words
               are
               not
               of
               our
               growth
               and
               Manufacture
               ,
               who
               shall
               hinder
               me
               to
               Import
               them
               from
               a
               Foreign
               Country
               ?
               I
               carry
               not
               out
               the
               Treasure
               of
               the
               Nation
               ,
               which
               is
               never
               to
               return
               :
               but
               what
               I
               bring
               from
               Italy
               ,
               I
               spend
               in
               England
               :
               Here
               it
               remains
               ,
               and
               here
               it
               circulates
               ;
               for
               if
               the
               Coyn
               be
               good
               ,
               it
               will
               pass
               from
               one
               hand
               to
               another
               .
               I
               Trade
               both
               with
               the
               Living
               and
               the
               Dead
               ,
               for
               the
               enrichment
               of
               our
               Native
               Language
               .
               We
               have
               enough
               in
               England
               to
               supply
               our
               necessity
               ;
               but
               if
               we
               will
               have
               things
               of
               Magnificence
               and
               Splendour
               ,
               we
               must
               get
               them
               by
               Commerce
               .
               Poetry
               requires
               Ornament
               ,
               and
               that
               is
               not
               to
               be
               had
               from
               our
               Old
               Teuton
               Monosyllables
               ;
               therefore
               if
               I
               find
               any
               Elegant
               Word
               in
               a
               Classick
               Author
               ,
               I
               propose
               it
               to
               be
               Naturaliz'd
               ,
               by
               using
               it
               my self
               :
               and
               if
               the
               Publick
               approves
               of
               it
               ,
               the
               Bill
               passes
               .
               But
               every
               Man
               cannot
               distinguish
               betwixt
               Pedantry
               and
               Poetry
               :
               Every
               Man
               therefore
               is
               not
               fit
               to
               innovate
               .
               Upon
               the
               whole
               matter
               ,
               a
               Poet
               must
               first
               be
               certain
               that
               the
               Word
               he
               wou'd
               Introduce
               is
               Beautiful
               in
               the
               Latin
               ;
               and
               is
               to
               consider
               ,
               in
               the
               next
               place
               ,
               whether
               it
               will
               agree
               with
               the
               English
               Idiom
               :
               After
               this
               ,
               he
               ought
               to
               take
               the
               Opinion
               of
               judicious
               Friends
               ,
               such
               as
               are
               Learned
               in
               both
               Languages
               :
               And
               lastly
               ,
               since
               no
               Man
               is
               infallible
               ,
               let
               him
               use
               this
               License
               very
               sparingly
               ;
               for
               if
               too
               many
               Foreign
               Words
               are
               pour'd
               in
               upon
               us
               ,
               it
               looks
               as
               if
               they
               were
               design'd
               not
               to
               assist
               the
               Natives
               ,
               but
               to
               Conquer
               them
               .
            
             
               I
               am
               now
               drawing
               towards
               a
               Conclusion
               ,
               and
               suspect
               your
               Lordship
               is
               very
               glad
               of
               it
               .
               But
               permit
               me
               first
               ,
               to
               own
               what
               Helps
               I
               have
               had
               in
               this
               Undertaking
               .
               The
               late
               Earl
               of
               Lauderdail
               ,
               sent
               me
               over
               his
               new
               Translation
               of
               the
               Aeneis
               ;
               which
               he
               had
               ended
               before
               I
               ingag'd
               in
               the
               same
               Design
               .
               Neither
               did
               I
               then
               intend
               it
               :
               But
               some
               Proposals
               being
               afterwards
               made
               me
               by
               my
               Bookseller
               ,
               I
               desir'd
               his
               Lordship's
               leave
               ,
               that
               I
               might
               accept
               them
               ,
               which
               he
               freely
               granted
               ;
               and
               I
               have
               his
               Letter
               yet
               to
               shew
               ,
               for
               that
               permission
               .
               He
               resolv'd
               to
               have
               Printed
               his
               Work
               ;
               which
               he
               might
               have
               done
               two
               Years
               before
               I
               cou'd
               Publish
               mine
               :
               and
               had
               perform'd
               it
               ,
               if
               Death
               had
               not
               prevented
               him
               .
               But
               having
               his
               Manuscript
               in
               my
               hands
               ,
               I
               consulted
               it
               as
               often
               as
               I
               doubted
               of
               my
               Author's
               sense
               .
               For
               no
               Man
               understood
               Virgil
               better
               than
               that
               Learned
               Noble
               Man.
               His
               Friends
               ,
               I
               hear
               ,
               have
               yet
               another
               ,
               and
               more
               Correct
               Copy
               of
               that
               Translation
               
               by
               them
               :
               which
               had
               they
               pleas'd
               to
               have
               given
               the
               Publick
               ,
               the
               Judges
               must
               have
               been
               convinc'd
               ,
               that
               I
               have
               not
               flatter'd
               him
               .
               Besides
               this
               help
               ,
               which
               was
               not
               inconsiderable
               ,
               Mr.
               Congreve
               has
               done
               me
               the
               Favour
               to
               review
               the
               Aeneis
               ;
               and
               compare
               my
               Version
               with
               the
               Original
               .
               I
               shall
               never
               be
               asham'd
               to
               own
               ,
               that
               this
               Excellent
               Young
               Man
               ,
               has
               shew'd
               me
               many
               Faults
               ,
               which
               I
               have
               endeavour'd
               to
               Correct
               .
               'T
               is
               true
               ,
               he
               might
               have
               easily
               found
               more
               ,
               and
               then
               my
               Translation
               had
               been
               more
               Perfect
               .
            
             
               Two
               other
               Worthy
               Friends
               of
               mine
               ,
               who
               desire
               to
               have
               their
               Names
               conceal'd
               ,
               seeing
               me
               straitned
               in
               my
               time
               ,
               took
               Pity
               on
               me
               ,
               and
               gave
               me
               the
               Life
               of
               Virgil
               ,
               the
               two
               Prefaces
               to
               the
               Pastorals
               ,
               and
               the
               Georgics
               ,
               and
               all
               the
               Arguments
               in
               Profe
               to
               the
               whole
               Translation
               .
               Which
               perhaps
               ,
               has
               occasion'd
               a
               Report
               that
               the
               two
               First
               Poems
               are
               not
               mine
               .
               If
               it
               had
               been
               true
               ,
               that
               I
               had
               taken
               their
               Verses
               for
               my
               own
               ,
               I
               might
               have
               glory'd
               in
               their
               Aid
               ;
               and
               like
               Terence
               ,
               have
               farther'd
               the
               Opinion
               ,
               that
               Scipio
               and
               Laelius
               join'd
               with
               me
               .
               But
               the
               same
               Style
               being
               continu'd
               thro'
               the
               whole
               ,
               and
               the
               same
               Laws
               of
               Versification
               observ'd
               ,
               are
               proofs
               sufficient
               ,
               that
               this
               is
               one
               Man's
               Work
               :
               And
               your
               Lordship
               is
               too
               well
               acquainted
               with
               my
               manner
               ,
               to
               doubt
               that
               any
               part
               of
               it
               is
               anothers
               .
            
             
               That
               your
               Lordship
               may
               see
               I
               was
               in
               earnest
               ,
               when
               I
               promis'd
               to
               hasten
               to
               an
               end
               ,
               I
               will
               not
               give
               the
               Reasons
               ,
               why
               I
               Writ
               not
               always
               in
               the
               proper
               terms
               of
               Navigation
               ,
               Land-Service
               ,
               or
               in
               the
               Cant
               of
               any
               Profession
               .
               I
               will
               only
               say
               ,
               that
               Virgil
               has
               avoided
               those
               proprieties
               ,
               because
               he
               Writ
               not
               to
               Mariners
               ,
               Souldiers
               ,
               Astronomers
               ,
               Gardners
               ,
               Peasants
               ,
               &c.
               but
               to
               all
               in
               general
               ,
               and
               in
               particular
               to
               Men
               and
               Ladies
               of
               the
               first
               Quality
               :
               who
               have
               been
               better
               Bred
               than
               to
               be
               too
               nicely
               knowing
               in
               the
               Terms
               .
               In
               such
               cases
               ,
               't
               is
               enough
               for
               a
               Poet
               to
               write
               so
               plainly
               ,
               that
               he
               may
               be
               understood
               by
               his
               Readers
               :
               To
               avoid
               impropriety
               ,
               and
               not
               affect
               to
               be
               thought
               Learn'd
               in
               all
               things
               .
            
             
               I
               have
               omitted
               the
               Four
               Preliminary
               Lines
               of
               the
               First
               Aeneid
               :
               Because
               I
               think
               them
               inferiour
               to
               any
               Four
               others
               ,
               in
               the
               whole
               Poem
               :
               and
               consequently
               ,
               believe
               they
               are
               not
               
               Virgil's
               .
               There
               is
               too
               great
               a
               gap
               betwixt
               the
               Adjective
               vicina
               in
               the
               Second
               Line
               ,
               and
               the
               Substantive
               Arva
               in
               the
               latter
               end
               of
               the
               Third
               ,
               which
               keeps
               his
               meaning
               in
               obscurity
               too
               long
               :
               And
               is
               contrary
               to
               the
               clearness
               of
               his
               Style
               .
               
                 Vt
                 quamvis
                 avidis
              
               Is
               too
               ambitious
               an
               Ornament
               to
               be
               his
               ,
               and
               
                 Gratum
                 opus
                 Agricolis
                 ,
              
               Are
               all
               words
               unnecessary
               ,
               and
               Independent
               of
               what
               he
               had
               said
               before
               .
               
                 Horrentia
                 Martis
                 Arma
                 ,
              
               Is
               worse
               than
               any
               of
               the
               rest
               .
               Horrentia
               is
               such
               a
               flat
               Epithete
               ,
               as
               Tully
               wou'd
               have
               given
               us
               in
               his
               Verses
               .
               'T
               is
               a
               meer
               filler
               ;
               to
               stop
               a
               vacancy
               in
               the
               Hexameter
               ,
               and
               connect
               the
               Preface
               to
               the
               Work
               of
               Virgil.
               Our
               Author
               seems
               to
               sound
               a
               Charge
               ,
               and
               begins
               like
               the
               clangour
               of
               a
               Trumpet
               ;
               
                 
                 Arma
                 ,
                 virumque
                 cano
                 ;
                 Trojae
                 qui
                 primus
                 ab
                 oris
                 .
              
            
             
               Scarce
               a
               word
               without
               an
               R.
               and
               the
               Vowels
               for
               the
               greater
               part
               sonorous
               .
               The
               Prefacer
               began
               with
               
                 Ille
                 ego
              
               ,
               which
               He
               was
               constrain'd
               to
               patch
               up
               in
               the
               Fourth
               line
               with
               
                 At
                 nunc
              
               ,
               to
               make
               the
               Sense
               cohere
               .
               And
               if
               both
               those
               words
               are
               not
               notorious
               botches
               ,
               I
               am
               much
               deceiv'd
               ,
               though
               the
               French
               Translator
               thinks
               otherwise
               .
               For
               my
               own
               part
               ,
               I
               am
               rather
               of
               Opinion
               ,
               that
               they
               were
               added
               by
               Tucca
               and
               Varius
               ,
               than
               Retrench'd
               .
            
             
               I
               know
               it
               may
               be
               answer'd
               by
               such
               as
               think
               Virgil
               the
               Author
               of
               the
               four
               Lines
               ;
               that
               he
               asserts
               his
               Title
               to
               the
               Aeneis
               ,
               in
               the
               beginning
               of
               this
               Work
               ,
               as
               he
               did
               to
               the
               two
               former
               ,
               in
               the
               last
               lines
               of
               the
               fourth
               Georgic
               .
               I
               will
               not
               reply
               otherwise
               to
               this
               ,
               than
               by
               desiring
               them
               to
               compare
               these
               four
               Lines
               with
               the
               four
               others
               ;
               which
               we
               know
               are
               his
               ,
               because
               no
               Poet
               but
               he
               alone
               could
               write
               them
               .
               If
               they
               cannot
               distinguish
               Creeping
               from
               Flying
               ,
               let
               them
               lay
               down
               Virgil
               ,
               and
               take
               up
               
                 Ovid
                 de
                 Ponto
              
               in
               his
               stead
               .
               My
               Master
               needed
               not
               the
               assistance
               of
               that
               Preliminary
               Poet
               to
               prove
               his
               Claim
               .
               His
               own
               Majestick
               Meen
               discovers
               him
               to
               be
               the
               King
               ,
               amidst
               a
               Thousand
               Courtiers
               .
               It
               was
               a
               superfluous
               Office
               ,
               and
               therefore
               I
               wou'd
               not
               set
               those
               Verses
               in
               the
               Front
               of
               Virgil.
               But
               have
               rejected
               them
               to
               my
               own
               Preface
               .
            
             
               
                 
                   I
                   ,
                   who
                   before
                   ,
                   with
                   Shepherds
                   in
                   the
                   Groves
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Sung
                   to
                   my
                   Oaten
                   Pipe
                   ,
                   their
                   Rural
                   Loves
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   issuing
                   thence
                   ,
                   compell'd
                   the
                   Neighb'ring
                   Field
                
              
               
                 
                   A
                   plenteous
                   Crop
                   of
                   rising
                   Corn
                   to
                   yield
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Manur'd
                   the
                   Glebe
                   ,
                   and
                   stock'd
                   the
                   fruitful
                   Plain
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   (
                   A
                   Poem
                   grateful
                   to
                   the
                   greedy
                   Swain
                   .
                   )
                
                 &c.
                 
              
            
             
               If
               there
               be
               not
               a
               tolerable
               Line
               in
               all
               these
               six
               ,
               the
               Prefacer
               ,
               gave
               me
               no
               occasion
               to
               write
               better
               .
               This
               is
               a
               just
               Apology
               in
               this
               place
               .
               But
               I
               have
               done
               great
               Wrong
               to
               Virgil
               in
               the
               whole
               Translation
               :
               Want
               of
               Time
               ,
               the
               Inferiority
               of
               our
               Language
               ;
               the
               inconvenience
               of
               Rhyme
               ,
               and
               all
               the
               other
               Excuses
               I
               have
               made
               ,
               may
               alleviate
               my
               Fault
               ,
               but
               cannot
               justisie
               the
               boldness
               of
               my
               Undertaking
               .
               What
               avails
               it
               me
               to
               acknowledge
               freely
               ,
               that
               I
               have
               not
               been
               able
               to
               do
               him
               right
               in
               any
               line
               ?
               For
               even
               my
               own
               Confession
               makes
               against
               me
               ;
               and
               it
               will
               always
               be
               return'd
               upon
               me
               ,
               Why
               then
               did
               you
               attempt
               it
               ?
               To
               which
               ,
               no
               other
               Answer
               can
               be
               made
               ,
               than
               that
               I
               have
               done
               him
               less
               Injury
               than
               any
               of
               his
               former
               Libellers
               .
            
             
               What
               they
               call'd
               his
               Picture
               ,
               had
               been
               drawn
               at
               length
               ,
               so
               many
               times
               ,
               by
               the
               Daubers
               of
               almost
               all
               Nations
               ,
               and
               still
               so
               unlike
               him
               ,
               that
               I
               snatch'd
               up
               the
               Pencil
               with
               disdain
               :
               being
               satisfi'd
               before
               hand
               ,
               that
               I
               cou'd
               make
               some
               small
               resemblance
               of
               him
               ,
               though
               I
               must
               be
               content
               with
               a
               worse
               likeness
               .
               A
               Sixth
               Pastoral
               ,
               a
               Pharmaceutria
               ,
               a
               single
               Orpheus
               ,
               and
               some
               other
               Features
               ,
               have
               been
               exactly
               taken
               :
               But
               those
               Holiday
               Authors
               writ
               for
               Pleasure
               ;
               and
               only
               shew'd
               us
               what
               they
               cou'd
               have
               done
               ,
               if
               they
               wou'd
               have
               taken
               pains
               ,
               to
               perform
               the
               whole
               .
            
             
               Be
               pleas'd
               ,
               My
               Lord
               ,
               to
               accept
               ,
               with
               your
               wonted
               goodness
               ,
               this
               unworthy
               Present
               ,
               which
               I
               make
               you
               .
               I
               have
               taken
               off
               one
               trouble
               from
               you
               ,
               of
               defending
               it
               ,
               by
               acknowledging
               its
               Imperfections
               :
               And
               though
               some
               part
               of
               them
               are
               cover'd
               in
               the
               Verse
               ;
               (
               as
               Ericthonius
               
               rode
               always
               in
               a
               Chariot
               ,
               to
               hide
               his
               lameness
               .
               )
               Such
               of
               them
               as
               cannot
               be
               conceal'd
               ,
               you
               will
               please
               to
               connive
               at
               ,
               though
               in
               the
               strictness
               of
               your
               Judgment
               ,
               you
               cannot
               Pardon
               .
               If
               Homer
               was
               allow'd
               to
               nod
               sometimes
               ,
               in
               so
               long
               a
               Work
               ,
               it
               will
               be
               no
               wonder
               if
               I
               often
               fall
               asleep
               .
               You
               took
               my
               Aureng-zeb
               into
               your
               Protection
               ,
               with
               all
               his
               faults
               :
               And
               I
               hope
               here
               cannot
               be
               so
               many
               ,
               because
               I
               Translate
               an
               Author
               ,
               who
               gives
               me
               such
               Examples
               of
               Correctness
               .
               What
               my
               Jury
               may
               be
               ,
               I
               know
               not
               ;
               but
               't
               is
               good
               for
               a
               Criminal
               to
               plead
               before
               a
               favourable
               Judge
               :
               If
               I
               had
               said
               Partial
               ,
               wou'd
               your
               Lordship
               have
               forgiven
               me
               ?
               Or
               will
               you
               give
               me
               leave
               to
               acquaint
               the
               World
               ,
               that
               I
               have
               many
               times
               been
               oblig'd
               to
               your
               Bounty
               since
               the
               Revolution
               .
               Though
               I
               never
               was
               reduc'd
               to
               beg
               a
               Charity
               ,
               nor
               ever
               had
               the
               Impudence
               to
               ask
               one
               ,
               either
               of
               your
               Lordship
               ,
               or
               your
               Noble
               Kinsman
               the
               Earl
               of
               Dorset
               ,
               much
               less
               of
               any
               other
               ,
               yet
               when
               I
               least
               expected
               it
               ,
               you
               have
               both
               remember'd
               me
               .
               So
               inherent
               it
               is
               in
               your
               Family
               not
               to
               forget
               an
               Old
               Servant
               .
               It
               looks
               rather
               like
               Ingratitude
               on
               my
               part
               ,
               that
               where
               I
               have
               been
               so
               often
               oblig'd
               ,
               I
               have
               appear'd
               so
               seldom
               to
               return
               my
               thanks
               :
               and
               where
               I
               was
               also
               so
               sure
               of
               being
               well
               receiv'd
               .
               Somewhat
               of
               Laziness
               was
               in
               the
               case
               ;
               and
               somewhat
               too
               of
               Modesty
               :
               But
               nothing
               of
               Disrespect
               ,
               or
               of
               Unthankfulness
               .
               I
               will
               not
               say
               that
               your
               Lordship
               has
               encourag'd
               me
               to
               this
               Presumption
               ,
               lest
               if
               my
               Labours
               meet
               with
               no
               success
               in
               Publick
               ,
               I
               may
               expose
               your
               Judgment
               to
               be
               Censur'd
               .
               As
               for
               my
               own
               Enemies
               I
               shall
               never
               think
               them
               worth
               an
               Answer
               ;
               and
               if
               your
               Lordship
               has
               any
               ,
               they
               will
               not
               dare
               to
               Arraign
               you
               for
               your
               want
               of
               Knowledge
               in
               this
               Art
               ,
               till
               they
               can
               produce
               somewhat
               betterof
               their
               own
               ,
               than
               your
               Essay
               on
               Poetry
               .
               'T
               was
               on
               this
               Consideration
               ,
               that
               I
               have
               drawn
               out
               my
               Preface
               to
               so
               great
               a
               length
               .
               Had
               I
               not
               address'd
               to
               a
               Poet
               ,
               and
               a
               Critick
               of
               the
               first
               Magnitude
               ,
               I
               had
               my self
               been
               tax'd
               for
               want
               of
               Judgment
               ,
               and
               sham'd
               my
               Patron
               for
               want
               of
               Understanding
               .
               But
               neither
               will
               you
               ,
               My
               Lord
               ,
               so
               soon
               be
               tir'd
               as
               any
               other
               ,
               because
               the
               Discourse
               is
               on
               your
               Art
               ;
               Neither
               will
               the
               Learned
               Reader
               think
               it
               tedious
               ,
               because
               it
               is
               
                 ad
                 Clerum
              
               .
               At
               least
               ,
               when
               he
               begins
               to
               be
               weary
               ,
               the
               Church
               Doors
               are
               open
               .
               That
               I
               may
               pursue
               the
               Allegory
               with
               a
               short
               Prayer
               ,
               after
               a
               long
               Sermon
               :
            
             
               May
               you
               Live
               happily
               and
               long
               ,
               for
               the
               Service
               of
               your
               Country
               ,
               the
               Encouragement
               of
               good
               Letters
               and
               the
               Ornament
               of
               Poetry
               ;
               which
               cannot
               be
               wish'd
               more
               earnestly
               by
               any
               Man
               ,
               than
               by
            
             
               
                 Your
                 Lordships
                 ,
                 most
                 Humble
                 ,
                 Most
                 Obliged
                 ,
                 and
                 most
                 Obedient
                 Servant
                 .
                 John
                 Dryden
                 .
              
            
          
        
         
           
             
             
               
                 
                   To
                   his
                   Royall
                   Highness
                   PRINCE
                   GEORGE
                   of
                   DENMARK
                   .
                   &
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 Virgil's
                 Aeneis
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 First
                 Book
                 of
                 the
                 Aeneis
                 .
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Argument
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Trojans
                   ,
                   
                     after
                     a
                     seven
                     Years
                     Voyage
                     ,
                     set
                     sail
                     for
                  
                   Italy
                   ,
                   
                     but
                     are
                     overtaken
                     by
                     a
                     dreadful
                     Storm
                     ,
                     which
                  
                   Aeolus
                   
                     raises
                     at
                  
                   Juno
                   
                     's
                     Request
                     .
                     The
                     Tempest
                     sinks
                     one
                     ,
                     and
                     scatters
                     the
                     rest
                     :
                  
                   Neptune
                   
                     drives
                     off
                     the
                     Winds
                     and
                     calms
                     the
                     Sea.
                  
                   Aeneas
                   
                     with
                     his
                     own
                     Ship
                     ,
                     and
                     six
                     more
                     ,
                     arrives
                     safe
                     at
                     an
                  
                   Affrican
                   Port.
                   Venus
                   
                     complains
                     to
                  
                   Jupiter
                   
                     of
                     her
                     Son's
                     Misfortunes
                  
                   .
                   Jupiter
                   
                     comforts
                     her
                     ,
                     and
                     sends
                  
                   Mercury
                   
                     to
                     procure
                     him
                     a
                     kind
                     Reception
                     among
                     the
                  
                   Carthaginians
                   .
                   Aeneas
                   
                     going
                     out
                     to
                     discover
                     the
                     Country
                     ,
                     meets
                     his
                     Mother
                     in
                     the
                     Shape
                     of
                     an
                     Huntress
                     ,
                     who
                     conveys
                     him
                     in
                     a
                     Cloud
                     to
                  
                   Carthage
                   ;
                   
                     where
                     he
                     sees
                     his
                     Friends
                     whom
                     he
                     thought
                     lost
                     ,
                     and
                     receives
                     a
                     kind
                     Entertainment
                     from
                     the
                     Queen
                     .
                  
                   Dido
                   
                     by
                     a
                     device
                     of
                  
                   Venus
                   
                     begins
                     to
                     have
                     a
                     Passion
                     for
                     him
                     ,
                     and
                     after
                     some
                     Discourse
                     with
                     him
                     ,
                     desires
                     the
                     History
                     of
                     his
                     Adventures
                     since
                     the
                     Siege
                     of
                  
                   Troy
                   ,
                   
                     which
                     is
                     the
                     Subject
                     of
                     the
                     two
                     following
                     Books
                     .
                  
                
              
               
                 
                   ARms
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Man
                   I
                   sing
                   ,
                   who
                   ,
                   forc'd
                   by
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   haughty
                   
                   Juno's
                   unrelenting
                   Hate
                   ;
                
                 
                   Expell'd
                   and
                   exil'd
                   ,
                   left
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Shoar
                   :
                
                 
                   Long
                   Labours
                   ,
                   both
                   by
                   Sea
                   and
                   Land
                   he
                   bore
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   the
                   doubtful
                   War
                   ,
                   before
                   he
                   won
                
                 
                   The
                   Latian
                   Realm
                   ,
                   and
                   built
                   the
                   destin'd
                   Town
                   :
                
                 
                   His
                   banish'd
                   Gods
                   restor'd
                   to
                   Rites
                   Divine
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   setl'd
                   sure
                   Succession
                   in
                   his
                   Line
                   :
                
                 
                   From
                   whence
                   the
                   Race
                   of
                   Alban
                   Fathers
                   come
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   long
                   Glories
                   of
                   Majestick
                   Rome
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   O
                   Muse
                   !
                   the
                   Causes
                   and
                   the
                   Crimes
                   relate
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   Goddess
                   was
                   provok'd
                   ,
                   and
                   whence
                   her
                   hate
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   For
                   what
                   Offence
                   the
                   Queen
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   began
                
                 
                   To
                   persecute
                   so
                   brave
                   ,
                   so
                   just
                   a
                   Man
                   !
                
                 
                   Involv'd
                   his
                   anxious
                   Life
                   in
                   endless
                   Cares
                   ,
                
                 
                   Expos'd
                   to
                   Wants
                   ,
                   and
                   hurry'd
                   into
                   Wars
                   !
                
                 
                   Can
                   Heav'nly
                   Minds
                   such
                   high
                   resentment
                   show
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   exercise
                   their
                   Spight
                   in
                   Human
                   Woe
                   ?
                
              
               
                 
                   Against
                   the
                   
                   Tiber's
                   Mouth
                   ,
                   but
                   far
                   away
                   ,
                
                 
                   An
                   ancient
                   Town
                   was
                   seated
                   on
                   the
                   Sea
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   Tyrian
                   Colony
                   ;
                   the
                   People
                   made
                
                 
                   Stout
                   for
                   the
                   War
                   ,
                   and
                   studious
                   of
                   their
                   Trade
                   .
                
                 
                   Carthage
                   the
                   Name
                   ,
                   belov'd
                   by
                   Juno
                   more
                
                 
                   Than
                   her
                   own
                   Argos
                   ,
                   or
                   the
                   Samian
                   Shoar
                   .
                
                 
                   Here
                   stood
                   her
                   Chariot
                   ,
                   here
                   ,
                   if
                   Heav'n
                   were
                   kind
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Seat
                   of
                   awful
                   Empire
                   she
                   design'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Yet
                   she
                   had
                   heard
                   an
                   ancient
                   Rumour
                   fly
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   Long
                   cited
                   by
                   the
                   People
                   of
                   the
                   Sky
                   ;
                   )
                
                 
                   That
                   times
                   to
                   come
                   shou'd
                   see
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Race
                
                 
                   Her
                   Carthage
                   ruin
                   ,
                   and
                   her
                   Tow'rs
                   deface
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   thus
                   confin'd
                   ,
                   the
                   Yoke
                   of
                   Sov'raign
                   Sway
                   ,
                
                 
                   Should
                   on
                   the
                   Necks
                   of
                   all
                   the
                   Nations
                   lay
                   .
                
                 
                   She
                   ponder'd
                   this
                   ,
                   and
                   fear'd
                   it
                   was
                   in
                   Fate
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   cou'd
                   forget
                   the
                   War
                   she
                   wag'd
                   of
                   late
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   conq'ring
                   Greece
                   against
                   the
                   Trojan
                   State.
                
                 
                   Besides
                   long
                   Causes
                   working
                   in
                   her
                   Mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   secret
                   Seeds
                   of
                   Envy
                   lay
                   behind
                   .
                
                 
                   Deep
                   graven
                   in
                   her
                   Heart
                   ,
                   the
                   Doom
                   remain'd
                
                 
                   Of
                   partial
                   Paris
                   ,
                   and
                   her
                   Form
                   disdain'd
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Grace
                   bestow'd
                   on
                   ravish'd
                   Ganimed
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                   Electra's
                   Glories
                   ,
                   and
                   her
                   injur'd
                   Bed.
                
                 
                   Each
                   was
                   a
                   Cause
                   alone
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   combin'd
                
                 
                   To
                   kindle
                   Vengeance
                   in
                   her
                   haughty
                   Mind
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   this
                   ,
                   far
                   distant
                   from
                   the
                   Latian
                   Coast
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   drove
                   the
                   Remnants
                   of
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Hoast
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   sev'n
                   long
                   Years
                   th'
                   unhappy
                   wand'ring
                   Train
                   ,
                
                 
                   Were
                   toss'd
                   by
                   Storms
                   ,
                   and
                   scatter'd
                   through
                   the
                   Main
                   .
                
                 
                   Such
                   Time
                   ,
                   such
                   Toil
                   requir'd
                   the
                   Roman
                   Name
                   ,
                
                 
                   Such
                   length
                   of
                   Labour
                   for
                   so
                   vast
                   a
                   Frame
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Now
                   scarce
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Fleet
                   with
                   Sails
                   and
                   Oars
                   ,
                
                 
                   Had
                   left
                   behind
                   the
                   Fair
                   Sicilian
                   Shoars
                   :
                
                 
                   Ent'ring
                   with
                   chearful
                   Shouts
                   the
                   wat'ry
                   Reign
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ploughing
                   frothy
                   Furrows
                   in
                   the
                   Main
                   :
                
                 
                   When
                   lab'ring
                   still
                   ,
                   with
                   endless
                   discontent
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Queen
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   did
                   thus
                   her
                   Fury
                   vent
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   am
                   I
                   vanquish'd
                   ,
                   must
                   I
                   yield
                   ,
                   said
                   she
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   must
                   the
                   Trojans
                   reign
                   in
                   Italy
                   ?
                
                 
                   So
                   Fate
                   will
                   have
                   it
                   ,
                   and
                   Jove
                   adds
                   his
                   Force
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   can
                   my
                   Pow'r
                   divert
                   their
                   happy
                   Course
                   .
                
                 
                   Cou'd
                   angry
                   Pallas
                   ,
                   with
                   revengeful
                   Spleen
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Grecian
                   Navy
                   burn
                   ,
                   and
                   drown
                   the
                   Men
                   ?
                
                 
                   She
                   for
                   the
                   Fault
                   of
                   one
                   offending
                   Foe
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Bolts
                   of
                   Jove
                   himself
                   presum'd
                   to
                   throw
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   Whirlwinds
                   from
                   beneath
                   she
                   toss'd
                   the
                   Ship
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   bare
                   expos'd
                   the
                   Bosom
                   of
                   the
                   deep
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   as
                   an
                   Eagle
                   gripes
                   the
                   trembling
                   Game
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Wretch
                   yet
                   hissing
                   with
                   her
                   Father's
                   Flame
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   strongly
                   seiz'd
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   a
                   burning
                   Wound
                   ,
                
                 
                   Transfix'd
                   and
                   naked
                   ,
                   on
                   a
                   Rock
                   she
                   bound
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   I
                   ,
                   who
                   walk
                   in
                   awful
                   State
                   above
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Majesty
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   the
                   Sister-wife
                   of
                   Jove
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   length
                   of
                   Years
                   ,
                   my
                   fruitless
                   Force
                   employ
                
                 
                   Against
                   the
                   thin
                   remains
                   of
                   ruin'd
                   Troy.
                
                 
                   What
                   Nations
                   now
                   to
                   
                   Juno's
                   Pow'r
                   will
                   pray
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   Off'rings
                   on
                   my
                   slighted
                   Altars
                   lay
                   ?
                
              
               
                 
                   Thus
                   rag'd
                   the
                   Goddess
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   Fury
                   fraught
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   restless
                   Regions
                   of
                   the
                   Storms
                   she
                   sought
                   .
                
                 
                   Where
                   in
                   a
                   spacious
                   Cave
                   of
                   living
                   Stone
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Tyrant
                   E'lus
                   from
                   his
                   Airy
                   Throne
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   With
                   Pow'r
                   Imperial
                   curbs
                   the
                   strugling
                   Winds
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   sounding
                   Tempests
                   in
                   dark
                   Prisons
                   binds
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   Way
                   ,
                   and
                   that
                   ,
                   th'
                   impatient
                   Captives
                   tend
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   pressing
                   for
                   Release
                   ,
                   the
                   Mountains
                   rend
                   ;
                
                 
                   High
                   in
                   his
                   Hall
                   ,
                   th'
                   undaunted
                   Monarch
                   stands
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   shakes
                   his
                   Scepter
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   Rage
                   commands
                   :
                
                 
                   Which
                   did
                   he
                   not
                   ,
                   their
                   unresisted
                   Sway
                
                 
                   Wou'd
                   sweep
                   the
                   World
                   before
                   them
                   ,
                   in
                   their
                   Way
                   :
                
                 
                   Earth
                   ,
                   Air
                   ,
                   and
                   Seas
                   through
                   empty
                   Space
                   wou'd
                   rowl
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Heav'n
                   would
                   fly
                   before
                   the
                   driving
                   Soul.
                
                 
                   In
                   fear
                   of
                   this
                   ,
                   the
                   Father
                   of
                   the
                   Gods
                
                 
                   Confin'd
                   their
                   Fury
                   to
                   those
                   dark
                   Abodes
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   lock'd'em
                   safe
                   within
                   ,
                   oppress'd
                   with
                   Mountain
                   loads
                   :
                
                 
                   Impos'd
                   a
                   King
                   ,
                   with
                   arbritrary
                   Sway
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   loose
                   their
                   Fetters
                   ,
                   or
                   their
                   Force
                   allay
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   whom
                   the
                   suppliant
                   Queen
                   her
                   Pray'rs
                   addrest
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   thus
                   the
                   tenour
                   of
                   her
                   Suit
                   express'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   O
                   E'lus
                   !
                   for
                   to
                   thee
                   the
                   King
                   of
                   Heav'n
                
                 
                   The
                   Pow'r
                   of
                   Tempests
                   ,
                   and
                   of
                   Winds
                   has
                   giv'n
                   :
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Force
                   alone
                   their
                   Fury
                   can
                   restrain
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   smooth
                   the
                   Waves
                   ,
                   or
                   swell
                   the
                   troubl'd
                   Main
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   race
                   of
                   wand'ring
                   Slaves
                   ,
                   abhorr'd
                   by
                   me
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   prosp'rous
                   Passage
                   cut
                   the
                   Thuscan
                   Sea
                   :
                
                 
                   To
                   fruitful
                   Italy
                   their
                   Course
                   they
                   steer
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   for
                   their
                   vanquish'd
                   Gods
                   design
                   new
                   Temples
                   there
                   .
                
                 
                   Raise
                   all
                   thy
                   Winds
                   ,
                   with
                   Night
                   involve
                   the
                   Skies
                   ;
                
                 
                   Sink
                   ,
                   or
                   disperse
                   my
                   fatal
                   Enemies
                   .
                
                 
                   Twice
                   sev'n
                   ,
                   the
                   charming
                   Daughters
                   of
                   the
                   Main
                   ,
                
                 
                   Around
                   my
                   Person
                   wait
                   ,
                   and
                   bear
                   my
                   Train
                   :
                
                 
                   Succeed
                   my
                   Wish
                   ,
                   and
                   second
                   my
                   Design
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   fairest
                   ,
                   Deiopeia
                   ,
                   shall
                   be
                   thine
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   make
                   thee
                   Father
                   of
                   a
                   happy
                   Line
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   To
                   this
                   the
                   God
                   —
                   'T
                   is
                   yours
                   ,
                   O
                   Queen
                   !
                   to
                   will
                
                 
                   The
                   Work
                   ,
                   which
                   Duty
                   binds
                   me
                   to
                   fulfil
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   These
                   airy
                   Kingdoms
                   ,
                   and
                   this
                   wide
                   Command
                   ,
                
                 
                   Are
                   all
                   the
                   Presents
                   of
                   your
                   bounteous
                   Hand
                   :
                
                 
                   Yours
                   is
                   my
                   Sov'raign's
                   Grace
                   ,
                   and
                   ,
                   as
                   your
                   Guest
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   sit
                   with
                   Gods
                   at
                   their
                   Coelestial
                   Feast
                   .
                
                 
                   Raise
                   Tempests
                   at
                   your
                   Pleasure
                   ,
                   or
                   subdue
                   ;
                
                 
                   Dispose
                   of
                   Empire
                   ,
                   which
                   I
                   hold
                   from
                   you
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   said
                   ,
                   and
                   hurld
                   against
                   the
                   Mountain
                   side
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   quiv'ring
                   Spear
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   ,
                   the
                   God
                   apply'd
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   raging
                   Winds
                   rush
                   through
                   the
                   hollow
                   Wound
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   dance
                   aloft
                   in
                   Air
                   ,
                   and
                   skim
                   along
                   the
                   Ground
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   setling
                   on
                   the
                   Sea
                   ,
                   the
                   Surges
                   sweep
                   ;
                
                 
                   Raise
                   liquid
                   Mountains
                   ,
                   and
                   disclose
                   the
                   deep
                   .
                
                 
                   South
                   ,
                   East
                   ,
                   and
                   West
                   ,
                   with
                   mix'd
                   Confusion
                   roar
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   rowl
                   the
                   foaming
                   Billows
                   to
                   the
                   Shoar
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Cables
                   crack
                   ,
                   the
                   Sailors
                   fearful
                   Cries
                
                 
                   Ascend
                   ;
                   and
                   sable
                   Night
                   involves
                   the
                   Skies
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Heav'n
                   it self
                   is
                   ravish'd
                   from
                   their
                   Eyes
                   .
                
                 
                   Loud
                   Peals
                   of
                   Thunder
                   from
                   the
                   Poles
                   ensue
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   flashing
                   Fires
                   the
                   transient
                   Light
                   renew
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Face
                   of
                   things
                   a
                   frightful
                   Image
                   bears
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   present
                   Death
                   in
                   various
                   Forms
                   appears
                   .
                
                 
                   Struck
                   with
                   unusual
                   Fright
                   ,
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Chief
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   lifted
                   Hands
                   and
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   invokes
                   Relief
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   thrice
                   ,
                   and
                   four
                   times
                   happy
                   those
                   ,
                   he
                   cry'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   under
                   Ilian
                   Walls
                   before
                   their
                   Parents
                   dy'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Tydides
                   ,
                   bravest
                   of
                   the
                   Grecian
                   Train
                   ,
                
                 
                   Why
                   cou'd
                   not
                   I
                   by
                   that
                   strong
                   Arm
                   be
                   slain
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   lye
                   by
                   noble
                   Hector
                   on
                   the
                   Plain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   great
                   Sarpedon
                   ,
                   in
                   those
                   bloody
                   Fields
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   Simois
                   rouls
                   the
                   Bodies
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Shields
                
                 
                   Of
                   Heroes
                   ,
                   whose
                   dismember'd
                   Hands
                   yet
                   bear
                
                 
                   The
                   Dart
                   aloft
                   ,
                   and
                   clench
                   the
                   pointed
                   Spear
                   ?
                
                 
                   Thus
                   while
                   the
                   Pious
                   Prince
                   his
                   Fate
                   bewails
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fierce
                   Boreas
                   drove
                   against
                   his
                   flying
                   Sails
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                 
                 
                 
                 
                   And
                   rent
                   the
                   Sheets
                   :
                   The
                   raging
                   Billows
                   rise
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   mount
                   the
                   tossing
                   Vessel
                   to
                   the
                   Skies
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   can
                   the
                   shiv'ring
                   Oars
                   sustain
                   the
                   Blow
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Galley
                   gives
                   her
                   side
                   ,
                   and
                   turns
                   her
                   Prow
                   :
                
                 
                   While
                   those
                   astern
                   descending
                   down
                   the
                   Steep
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thro'
                   gaping
                   Waves
                   behold
                   the
                   boiling
                   deep
                   .
                
                 
                   Three
                   Ships
                   were
                   hurry'd
                   by
                   the
                   Southern
                   Blast
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   on
                   the
                   secret
                   Shelves
                   with
                   Fury
                   cast
                   .
                
                 
                   Those
                   hidden
                   Rocks
                   ,
                   th'
                   Ausonian
                   Sailors
                   knew
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   call'd
                   them
                   Altars
                   ,
                   when
                   they
                   rose
                   in
                   view
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   show'd
                   their
                   spacious
                   Backs
                   above
                   the
                   Flood
                   .
                
                 
                   Three
                   more
                   ,
                   fierce
                   Eurus
                   in
                   his
                   angry
                   Mood
                   ,
                
                 
                   Dash'd
                   on
                   the
                   Shallows
                   of
                   the
                   moving
                   Sand
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   mid
                   Ocean
                   left
                   them
                   moor'd
                   a-land
                   .
                
                 
                   Orontes
                   Barque
                   that
                   bore
                   the
                   Lycian
                   Crew
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   A
                   horrid
                   Sight
                   )
                   ev'n
                   in
                   the
                   Hero's
                   view
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   Stem
                   to
                   Stern
                   ,
                   by
                   Waves
                   was
                   overborn
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   trembling
                   Pilot
                   ,
                   from
                   his
                   Rudder
                   torn
                   ,
                
                 
                   Was
                   headlong
                   hurl'd
                   ;
                   thrice
                   round
                   ,
                   the
                   Ship
                   was
                   tost
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   bulg'd
                   at
                   once
                   ,
                   and
                   in
                   the
                   deep
                   was
                   lost
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   here
                   and
                   there
                   above
                   the
                   Waves
                   were
                   seen
                
                 
                   Arms
                   ,
                   Pictures
                   ,
                   precious
                   Goods
                   ,
                   and
                   floating
                   Men.
                
                 
                   The
                   stoutest
                   Vessel
                   to
                   the
                   Storm
                   gave
                   way
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   suck'd
                   through
                   loosen'd
                   Planks
                   the
                   rushing
                   Sea.
                
                 
                   Ilioneus
                   was
                   her
                   Chief
                   :
                   Alethes
                   old
                   ,
                
                 
                   Achates
                   faithful
                   ,
                   Abas
                   young
                   and
                   bold
                
                 
                   Endur'd
                   not
                   less
                   :
                   their
                   Ships
                   ,
                   with
                   gaping
                   Seams
                   ,
                
                 
                   Admit
                   the
                   Deluge
                   of
                   the
                   briny
                   Streams
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Mean
                   time
                   Imperial
                   Neptune
                   heard
                   the
                   Sound
                
                 
                   Of
                   raging
                   Billows
                   breaking
                   on
                   the
                   Ground
                   :
                
                 
                   Displeas'd
                   ,
                   and
                   fearing
                   for
                   his
                   Wat'ry
                   Reign
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   reard
                   his
                   awful
                   Head
                   above
                   the
                   Main
                   :
                
                 
                   Serene
                   in
                   Majesty
                   ,
                   then
                   rowl'd
                   his
                   Eyes
                
                 
                   Around
                   the
                   Space
                   of
                   Earth
                   ,
                   and
                   Seas
                   ,
                   and
                   Skies
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   He
                   saw
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Fleet
                   dispers'd
                   ,
                   distress'd
                
                 
                   By
                   stormy
                   Winds
                   and
                   wintry
                   Heav'n
                   oppress'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Full
                   well
                   the
                   God
                   his
                   Sister's
                   envy
                   knew
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   what
                   her
                   Aims
                   ,
                   and
                   what
                   her
                   Arts
                   pursue
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   summon'd
                   Eurus
                   and
                   the
                   western
                   Blast
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   first
                   an
                   angry
                   glance
                   on
                   both
                   he
                   cast
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   thus
                   rebuk'd
                   ;
                   Audacious
                   Winds
                   !
                   from
                   whence
                
                 
                   This
                   bold
                   Attempt
                   ,
                   this
                   Rebel
                   Insolence
                   ?
                
                 
                   Is
                   it
                   for
                   you
                   to
                   ravage
                   Seas
                   and
                   Land
                   ,
                
                 
                   Unauthoriz'd
                   by
                   my
                   supream
                   Command
                   ?
                
                 
                   To
                   raise
                   such
                   Mountains
                   on
                   the
                   troubl'd
                   Main
                   ?
                
                 
                   Whom
                   I
                   —
                   But
                   first
                   't
                   is
                   fit
                   ,
                   the
                   Billows
                   to
                   restrain
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   then
                   you
                   shall
                   be
                   taught
                   obedience
                   to
                   my
                   Reign
                   .
                
                 
                   Hence
                   ,
                   to
                   your
                   Lord
                   my
                   Royal
                   Mandate
                   bear
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Realms
                   of
                   Ocean
                   and
                   the
                   Fields
                   of
                   Air
                
                 
                   Are
                   mine
                   ,
                   not
                   his
                   ;
                   by
                   fatal
                   Lot
                   to
                   me
                
                 
                   The
                   liquid
                   Empire
                   fell
                   ,
                   and
                   Trident
                   of
                   the
                   Sea.
                
                 
                   His
                   Pow'r
                   to
                   hollow
                   Caverns
                   is
                   confin'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   There
                   let
                   him
                   reign
                   ,
                   the
                   Jailor
                   of
                   the
                   Wind
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   hoarse
                   Commands
                   his
                   breathing
                   Subjects
                   call
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   boast
                   and
                   bluster
                   in
                   his
                   empty
                   Hall.
                
                 
                   He
                   spoke
                   :
                   And
                   while
                   he
                   spoke
                   ,
                   he
                   smooth'd
                   the
                   Sea
                   ,
                
                 
                   Dispell'd
                   the
                   Darkness
                   ,
                   and
                   restor'd
                   the
                   Day
                   :
                
                 
                   
                     Cymothoe
                     ,
                     Triton
                  
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Sea-green
                   Train
                
                 
                   Of
                   beauteous
                   Nymphs
                   ,
                   the
                   Daughters
                   of
                   the
                   Main
                   ,
                
                 
                   Clear
                   from
                   the
                   Rocks
                   the
                   Vessels
                   with
                   their
                   hands
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   God
                   himself
                   with
                   ready
                   Trident
                   stands
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   opes
                   the
                   Deep
                   ,
                   and
                   spreads
                   the
                   moving
                   sands
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   heaves
                   them
                   off
                   the
                   sholes
                   :
                   where
                   e're
                   he
                   guides
                
                 
                   His
                   finny
                   Coursers
                   ,
                   and
                   in
                   Triumph
                   rides
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Waves
                   unruffle
                   and
                   the
                   Sea
                   subsides
                   .
                
                 
                   As
                   when
                   in
                   Tumults
                   rise
                   th'
                   ignoble
                   Crow'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Mad
                   are
                   their
                   Motions
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   Tongues
                   are
                   loud
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   Stones
                   and
                   Brands
                   in
                   ratling
                   Vollies
                   fly
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   the
                   Rustick
                   Arms
                   that
                   Fury
                   can
                   supply
                   :
                
                 
                   If
                   then
                   some
                   grave
                   and
                   Pious
                   Man
                   appear
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   hush
                   their
                   Noise
                   ,
                   and
                   lend
                   a
                   list'ning
                   Ear
                   ;
                
                 
                   He
                   sooths
                   with
                   sober
                   Words
                   their
                   angry
                   Mood
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   quenches
                   their
                   innate
                   Desire
                   of
                   Blood.
                
                 
                   So
                   when
                   the
                   Father
                   of
                   the
                   Flood
                   appears
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   o're
                   the
                   Seas
                   his
                   Sov'raign
                   Trident
                   rears
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   Fury
                   falls
                   :
                   He
                   skims
                   the
                   liquid
                   Plains
                   ,
                
                 
                   High
                   on
                   his
                   Chariot
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   loosen'd
                   Reins
                   ,
                
                 
                   Majestick
                   moves
                   along
                   ,
                   and
                   awful
                   Peace
                   maintains
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   weary
                   Trojans
                   ply
                   their
                   shatter'd
                   Oars
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   nearest
                   Land
                   ,
                   and
                   make
                   the
                   Lybian
                   Shoars
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Within
                   a
                   long
                   Recess
                   there
                   lies
                   a
                   Bay
                   ,
                
                 
                   An
                   Island
                   shades
                   it
                   from
                   the
                   rowling
                   Sea
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   forms
                   a
                   Port
                   secure
                   for
                   Ships
                   to
                   ride
                   ,
                
                 
                   Broke
                   by
                   the
                   jutting
                   Land
                   on
                   either
                   side
                   :
                
                 
                   In
                   double
                   Streams
                   the
                   briny
                   Waters
                   glide
                   .
                
                 
                   Betwixt
                   two
                   rows
                   of
                   Rocks
                   ,
                   a
                   Sylvan
                   Scene
                
                 
                   Appears
                   above
                   ,
                   and
                   Groves
                   for
                   ever
                   green
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   Grott
                   is
                   form'd
                   beneath
                   ,
                   with
                   Mossy
                   Seats
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   rest
                   the
                   Nereids
                   ,
                   and
                   exclude
                   the
                   Heats
                   .
                
                 
                   Down
                   thro'
                   the
                   Cranies
                   of
                   the
                   living
                   Walls
                
                 
                   The
                   Crystal
                   Streams
                   descend
                   in
                   murm'ring
                   Falls
                   .
                
                 
                   No
                   Haulsers
                   need
                   to
                   bind
                   the
                   Vessels
                   here
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   bearded
                   Anchors
                   ,
                   for
                   no
                   Storms
                   they
                   fear
                   .
                
                 
                   Sev'n
                   Ships
                   within
                   this
                   happy
                   Harbour
                   meet
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   thin
                   Remainders
                   of
                   the
                   scatter'd
                   Fleet.
                
                 
                   The
                   Trojans
                   ,
                   worn
                   with
                   Toils
                   ,
                   and
                   spent
                   with
                   Woes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Leap
                   on
                   the
                   welcome
                   Land
                   ,
                   and
                   seek
                   their
                   wish'd
                   Repose
                   .
                
                 
                   First
                   ,
                   good
                   Achates
                   ,
                   with
                   repeated
                   stroaks
                
                 
                   Of
                   clashing
                   Flints
                   ,
                   their
                   hidden
                   Fire
                   provokes
                   ;
                
                 
                   Short
                   Flame
                   succeeds
                   ,
                   a
                   Bed
                   of
                   wither'd
                   Leaves
                
                 
                   The
                   dying
                   Sparkles
                   in
                   their
                   Fall
                   receives
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Caught
                   into
                   Life
                   ,
                   in
                   smoaking
                   Fumes
                   they
                   rise
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   fed
                   with
                   stronger
                   Food
                   ,
                   invade
                   the
                   Skies
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Trojans
                   ,
                   dropping
                   wet
                   ,
                   or
                   stand
                   around
                
                 
                   The
                   chearful
                   blaze
                   ,
                   or
                   lye
                   along
                   the
                   Ground
                   :
                
                 
                   Some
                   dry
                   their
                   Corn
                   infected
                   with
                   the
                   Brine
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   grind
                   with
                   Marbles
                   ,
                   and
                   prepare
                   to
                   dine
                   .
                
                 
                   Aeneas
                   climbs
                   the
                   Mountain's
                   airy
                   Brow
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   takes
                   a
                   Prospect
                   of
                   the
                   Seas
                   below
                   :
                
                 
                   If
                   Capys
                   thence
                   ,
                   or
                   Antheus
                   he
                   cou'd
                   spy
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   see
                   the
                   Streamers
                   of
                   Caicus
                   fly
                   .
                
                 
                   No
                   Vessels
                   were
                   in
                   view
                   :
                   But
                   ,
                   on
                   the
                   Plain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Three
                   beamy
                   Stags
                   command
                   a
                   Lordly
                   Train
                
                 
                   Of
                   branching
                   Heads
                   ;
                   the
                   more
                   ignoble
                   Throng
                
                 
                   Attend
                   their
                   stately
                   Steps
                   ,
                   and
                   slowly
                   graze
                   along
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   stood
                   ;
                   and
                   while
                   secure
                   they
                   fed
                   below
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   took
                   the
                   Quiver
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   trusty
                   Bow
                
                 
                   Achates
                   us'd
                   to
                   bear
                   ;
                   the
                   Leaders
                   first
                
                 
                   He
                   laid
                   along
                   ,
                   and
                   then
                   the
                   Vulgar
                   pierc'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   ceas'd
                   his
                   Arrows
                   ,
                   'till
                   the
                   shady
                   Plain
                
                 
                   Sev'n
                   mighty
                   Bodies
                   ,
                   with
                   their
                   Blood
                   distain
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   the
                   sev'n
                   Ships
                   he
                   made
                   an
                   equal
                   Share
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   to
                   the
                   Port
                   return'd
                   ,
                   Triumphant
                   from
                   the
                   War.
                
                 
                   The
                   Jarrs
                   of
                   gen'rous
                   Wine
                   ,
                   
                     (
                     Acestes
                  
                   Gist
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   his
                   Trinacrian
                   Shoars
                   the
                   Navy
                   left
                   )
                
                 
                   He
                   set
                   abroach
                   ,
                   and
                   for
                   the
                   Feast
                   prepar'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   In
                   equal
                   Portions
                   ,
                   with
                   the
                   Ven'son
                   shar'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   while
                   he
                   dealt
                   it
                   round
                   ,
                   the
                   pious
                   Chief
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   chearful
                   Words
                   ,
                   allay'd
                   the
                   common
                   Grief
                   .
                
                 
                   Endure
                   ,
                   and
                   conquer
                   ;
                   Jove
                   will
                   soon
                   dispose
                
                 
                   To
                   future
                   Good
                   ,
                   our
                   past
                   and
                   present
                   Woes
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   me
                   ,
                   the
                   Rocks
                   of
                   Scylla
                   you
                   have
                   try'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Th'
                   inhuman
                   Cyclops
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Den
                   defy'd
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   greater
                   Ills
                   hereafter
                   can
                   you
                   bear
                   ?
                
                 
                   Resume
                   your
                   Courage
                   ,
                   and
                   dismiss
                   your
                   Care.
                
                 
                 
                   An
                   Hour
                   will
                   come
                   ,
                   with
                   Pleasure
                   to
                   relate
                
                 
                   Your
                   Sorrows
                   past
                   ,
                   as
                   Benefits
                   of
                   Fate
                   .
                
                 
                   Through
                   various
                   Hazards
                   ,
                   and
                   Events
                   we
                   move
                
                 
                   To
                   Latium
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Realms
                   foredoom'd
                   by
                   Jove
                   .
                
                 
                   Call'd
                   to
                   the
                   Seat
                   ,
                   (
                   the
                   Promise
                   of
                   the
                   Skies
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                   Where
                   Trojan
                   Kingdoms
                   once
                   again
                   may
                   rise
                   .
                
                 
                   Endure
                   the
                   Hardships
                   of
                   your
                   present
                   State
                   ,
                
                 
                   Live
                   ,
                   and
                   reserve
                   your selves
                   for
                   better
                   Fate
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   These
                   Words
                   he
                   spoke
                   ;
                   but
                   spoke
                   not
                   from
                   his
                   Heart
                   ;
                
                 
                   His
                   outward
                   Smiles
                   conceal'd
                   his
                   inward
                   Smart
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   jolly
                   Crew
                   ,
                   unmindful
                   of
                   the
                   past
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Quarry
                   share
                   ,
                   their
                   plenteous
                   Dinner
                   haste
                   :
                
                 
                   Some
                   strip
                   the
                   Skin
                   ,
                   some
                   portion
                   out
                   the
                   Spoil
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Limbs
                   yet
                   trembling
                   ,
                   in
                   the
                   Cauldrons
                   boyl
                   :
                
                 
                   Some
                   on
                   the
                   Fire
                   the
                   reeking
                   Entrails
                   broil
                   .
                
                 
                   Stretch'd
                   on
                   the
                   grassy
                   Turf
                   ,
                   at
                   ease
                   they
                   dine
                   ;
                
                 
                   Restore
                   their
                   Strength
                   with
                   Meat
                   ,
                   and
                   chear
                   their
                   Souls
                   with
                   Wine
                   .
                
                 
                   Their
                   Hunger
                   thus
                   appeas'd
                   ,
                   their
                   Care
                   attends
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   doubtful
                   Fortune
                   of
                   their
                   absent
                   Friends
                   :
                
                 
                   Alternate
                   Hopes
                   and
                   Fears
                   ,
                   their
                   Minds
                   possess
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whether
                   to
                   deem
                   'em
                   dead
                   ,
                   or
                   in
                   Distress
                   .
                
                 
                   Above
                   the
                   rest
                   ,
                   Aeneas
                   mourns
                   the
                   Fate
                
                 
                   Of
                   brave
                   Orontes
                   ,
                   and
                   th'
                   uncertain
                   State
                
                 
                   Of
                   
                     Gyas
                     ,
                     Lycus
                  
                   ,
                   and
                   of
                   Amycus
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Day
                   ,
                   but
                   not
                   their
                   Sorrows
                   ,
                   ended
                   thus
                   .
                
                 
                   When
                   ,
                   from
                   aloft
                   ,
                   Almighty
                   Jove
                   surveys
                
                 
                   Earth
                   ,
                   Air
                   ,
                   and
                   Shoars
                   ,
                   and
                   navigable
                   Seas
                   ,
                
                 
                   At
                   length
                   on
                   Lybian
                   Realms
                   he
                   fix'd
                   his
                   Eyes
                   :
                
                 
                   Whom
                   ,
                   pond'ring
                   thus
                   on
                   Human
                   Miseries
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   Venus
                   saw
                   ,
                   she
                   with
                   a
                   lowly
                   Look
                   ,
                
                 
                   Not
                   free
                   from
                   Tears
                   ,
                   her
                   Heav'nly
                   Sire
                   bespoke
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   O
                   King
                   of
                   Gods
                   and
                   Men
                   ,
                   whose
                   awful
                   Hand
                   ,
                
                 
                   Disperses
                   Thunder
                   on
                   the
                   Seas
                   and
                   Land
                   ;
                
                 
                   Disposing
                   all
                   with
                   absolute
                   Command
                   :
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     her
                     Royall
                     Highness
                     the
                     Princess
                     Anne
                     of
                     Denmark
                  
                   
                     AE
                     1.
                     l.
                     295
                  
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     her
                     Grace
                     Mary
                     Dutchess
                     of
                     Ormond
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   How
                   cou'd
                   my
                   Pious
                   Son
                   thy
                   Pow'r
                   incense
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   what
                   ,
                   alas
                   !
                   is
                   vanish'd
                   
                   Troy's
                   Offence
                   ?
                
                 
                   Our
                   hope
                   of
                   Italy
                   not
                   only
                   lost
                   ,
                
                 
                   On
                   various
                   Seas
                   ,
                   by
                   various
                   Tempests
                   tost
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   shut
                   from
                   ev'ry
                   Shoar
                   ,
                   and
                   barr'd
                   from
                   ev'ry
                   Coast
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   You
                   promis'd
                   once
                   ,
                   a
                   Progeny
                   Divine
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   Romans
                   ,
                   rising
                   from
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Line
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   after-times
                   shou'd
                   hold
                   the
                   World
                   in
                   awe
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   to
                   the
                   Land
                   and
                   Ocean
                   give
                   the
                   Law.
                
                 
                   How
                   is
                   your
                   Doom
                   revers'd
                   ,
                   which
                   eas'd
                   my
                   Care
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   Troy
                   was
                   ruin'd
                   in
                   that
                   cruel
                   War
                   ?
                
                 
                   Then
                   Fates
                   to
                   Fates
                   I
                   cou'd
                   oppose
                   ;
                   but
                   now
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   Fortune
                   still
                   pursues
                   her
                   former
                   Blow
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   can
                   I
                   hope
                   ?
                   what
                   worse
                   can
                   still
                   succeed
                   ?
                
                 
                   What
                   end
                   of
                   Labours
                   has
                   your
                   Will
                   decreed
                   ?
                
                 
                   Antenor
                   ,
                   from
                   the
                   midst
                   of
                   Grecian
                   Hosts
                   ,
                
                 
                   Could
                   pass
                   secure
                   ,
                   and
                   pierce
                   th'
                   Illyrian
                   Coasts
                   :
                
                 
                   Where
                   rowling
                   down
                   the
                   Steep
                   ,
                   Timavus
                   raves
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   through
                   nine
                   Channels
                   disembogues
                   his
                   Waves
                   .
                
                 
                   At
                   length
                   he
                   founded
                   
                   Padua's
                   happy
                   Seat
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   gave
                   his
                   Trojans
                   a
                   secure
                   Retreat
                   :
                
                 
                   There
                   fix'd
                   their
                   Arms
                   ,
                   and
                   there
                   renew'd
                   their
                   Name
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   there
                   in
                   Quiet
                   rules
                   ,
                   and
                   crown'd
                   with
                   Fame
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   we
                   ,
                   descended
                   from
                   your
                   sacred
                   Line
                   ,
                
                 
                   Entitled
                   to
                   your
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   and
                   Rites
                   Divine
                   ,
                
                 
                   Are
                   banish'd
                   Earth
                   ,
                   and
                   ,
                   for
                   the
                   Wrath
                   of
                   one
                   ,
                
                 
                   Remov'd
                   from
                   Latium
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   promis'd
                   Throne
                   .
                
                 
                   Are
                   these
                   our
                   Scepters
                   ?
                   These
                   our
                   due
                   Rewards
                   ?
                
                 
                   And
                   is
                   it
                   thus
                   that
                   Jove
                   his
                   plighted
                   Faith
                   regards
                   ?
                
              
               
                 
                   To
                   whom
                   ,
                   the
                   Father
                   of
                   th'
                   immortal
                   Race
                   ,
                
                 
                   Smiling
                   with
                   that
                   serene
                   indulgent
                   Face
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   which
                   he
                   drives
                   the
                   Clouds
                   ,
                   and
                   clears
                   the
                   Skies
                   :
                
                 
                   First
                   gave
                   a
                   holy
                   Kiss
                   ,
                   then
                   thus
                   replies
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Daughter
                   ,
                   dismiss
                   thy
                   Fears
                   :
                   To
                   thy
                   desire
                
                 
                   The
                   Fates
                   of
                   thine
                   are
                   fix'd
                   ,
                   and
                   stand
                   entire
                   .
                
                 
                   Thou
                   shalt
                   behold
                   thy
                   wish'd
                   Lavinian
                   Walls
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   ripe
                   for
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   when
                   Fate
                   Aeneas
                   calls
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   shalt
                   thou
                   bear
                   him
                   up
                   ,
                   sublime
                   ,
                   to
                   me
                   ;
                
                 
                   No
                   Councils
                   have
                   revers'd
                   my
                   firm
                   Decree
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   lest
                   new
                   Fears
                   disturb
                   thy
                   happy
                   State
                   ,
                
                 
                   Know
                   ,
                   I
                   have
                   search'd
                   the
                   Mystick
                   Rolls
                   of
                   Fate
                   :
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Son
                   (
                   nor
                   is
                   th'
                   appointed
                   Season
                   far
                   )
                
                 
                   In
                   Italy
                   shall
                   wage
                   succesful
                   War
                   :
                
                 
                   Shall
                   tame
                   fierce
                   Nations
                   in
                   the
                   bloody
                   Field
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Sov'raign
                   Laws
                   impose
                   ,
                   and
                   Cities
                   build
                   .
                
                 
                   'Till
                   ,
                   after
                   ev'ry
                   Foe
                   sub
                   du'd
                   ,
                   the
                   Sun
                
                 
                   Thrice
                   through
                   the
                   Signs
                   his
                   Annual
                   Race
                   shall
                   run
                   :
                
                 
                   This
                   is
                   his
                   time
                   prefix'd
                   .
                   Ascanius
                   then
                   ,
                
                 
                   Now
                   called
                   Julus
                   ,
                   shall
                   begin
                   his
                   Reign
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   thirty
                   rowling
                   Years
                   the
                   Crown
                   shall
                   wear
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   from
                   Lavinium
                   shall
                   the
                   Seat
                   transfer
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   with
                   hard
                   Labour
                   ,
                   Alba-longa
                   build
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Throne
                   with
                   his
                   Succession
                   shall
                   be
                   fill'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Three
                   hundred
                   Circuits
                   more
                   :
                   then
                   shall
                   be
                   seen
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ilia
                   the
                   fair
                   ,
                   a
                   Priestess
                   and
                   a
                   Queen
                   .
                
                 
                   Who
                   full
                   of
                   Mars
                   ,
                   in
                   time
                   ,
                   with
                   kindly
                   Throws
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shall
                   at
                   a
                   Birth
                   two
                   goodly
                   Boys
                   disclose
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Royal
                   Babes
                   a
                   tawny
                   Wolf
                   shall
                   drain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   Romulus
                   his
                   Grandsire's
                   Throne
                   shall
                   gain
                   .
                
                 
                   Of
                   Martial
                   Tow'rs
                   the
                   Founder
                   shall
                   become
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   People
                   Romans
                   call
                   ,
                   the
                   City
                   Rome
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   them
                   ,
                   no
                   Bounds
                   of
                   Empire
                   I
                   assign
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   term
                   of
                   Years
                   to
                   their
                   immortal
                   Line
                   .
                
                 
                   Ev'●
                   haughty
                   Juno
                   ,
                   who
                   ,
                   with
                   endless
                   Broils
                   ,
                
                 
                   Earth
                   ,
                   Seas
                   ,
                   and
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   and
                   Jove
                   himself
                   turmoils
                   ;
                
                 
                   At
                   length
                   atton'd
                   ,
                   her
                   friendly
                   Pow'r
                   shall
                   joyn
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   cherish
                   and
                   advance
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Line
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   subject
                   World
                   shall
                   
                   Rome's
                   Dominion
                   own
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   prostrate
                   ,
                   shall
                   adore
                   the
                   Nation
                   of
                   the
                   Gown
                   .
                
                 
                   An
                   Age
                   is
                   ripening
                   in
                   revolving
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   Troy
                   shall
                   overturn
                   the
                   Grecian
                   State
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   sweet
                   Revenge
                   her
                   conqu'ring
                   Sons
                   shall
                   call
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   crush
                   the
                   People
                   that
                   conspir'd
                   her
                   Fall.
                
                 
                   Then
                   Caesar
                   from
                   the
                   Julian
                   Stock
                   shall
                   rise
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whose
                   Empire
                   Ocean
                   ,
                   and
                   whose
                   Fame
                   the
                   Skies
                
                 
                   Alone
                   shall
                   bound
                   .
                   Whom
                   ,
                   fraught
                   with
                   Eastern
                   Spoils
                   ,
                
                 
                   Our
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   the
                   just
                   Reward
                   of
                   Human
                   Toyls
                   ,
                
                 
                   Securely
                   shall
                   reward
                   with
                   Rites
                   Divine
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Incense
                   shall
                   ascend
                   before
                   his
                   sacred
                   Shrine
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   dire
                   Debate
                   ,
                   and
                   impious
                   War
                   shall
                   cease
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   stern
                   Age
                   be
                   softned
                   into
                   Peace
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   banish'd
                   Faith
                   shall
                   once
                   again
                   return
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Vestal
                   Fires
                   in
                   hallow'd
                   Temples
                   burn
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Remus
                   with
                   Quirinus
                   shall
                   sustain
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   righteous
                   Laws
                   ,
                   and
                   Fraud
                   and
                   Force
                   restrain
                   .
                
                 
                   Janus
                   himself
                   before
                   his
                   Fane
                   shall
                   wait
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   keep
                   the
                   dreadful
                   issues
                   of
                   his
                   Gate
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Bolts
                   and
                   Iron
                   Bars
                   :
                   within
                   remains
                
                 
                   Imprison'd
                   Fury
                   ,
                   bound
                   in
                   brazen
                   Chains
                   :
                
                 
                   High
                   on
                   a
                   Trophie
                   rais'd
                   ,
                   of
                   useless
                   Arms
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   sits
                   ,
                   and
                   threats
                   the
                   World
                   with
                   vain
                   Alarms
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   He
                   said
                   ,
                   and
                   sent
                   Cyllenius
                   with
                   Command
                
                 
                   To
                   free
                   the
                   Ports
                   ,
                   and
                   ope
                   the
                   Punique
                   Land
                
                 
                   To
                   Trojan
                   Guests
                   ;
                   lest
                   ignorant
                   of
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Queen
                   might
                   force
                   them
                   from
                   her
                   Town
                   and
                   State.
                
                 
                   Down
                   from
                   the
                   Steep
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   Cyllenius
                   flies
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   cleaves
                   with
                   all
                   his
                   Wings
                   the
                   yielding
                   Skies
                   .
                
                 
                   Soon
                   on
                   the
                   Lybian
                   Shoar
                   descends
                   the
                   God
                   ;
                
                 
                   Performs
                   his
                   Message
                   ,
                   and
                   displays
                   his
                   Rod
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   surly
                   Murmurs
                   of
                   the
                   People
                   cease
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   as
                   the
                   Fates
                   requir'd
                   ,
                   they
                   give
                   the
                   Peace
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Queen
                   her self
                   suspends
                   the
                   rigid
                   Laws
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Trojans
                   pities
                   ,
                   and
                   protects
                   their
                   Cause
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Mean
                   time
                   ,
                   in
                   Shades
                   of
                   Night
                   Aeneas
                   lies
                   ;
                
                 
                   Care
                   seiz'd
                   his
                   Soul
                   ,
                   and
                   Sleep
                   forsook
                   his
                   Eyes
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   when
                   the
                   Sun
                   restor'd
                   the
                   chearful
                   Day
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   rose
                   ,
                   the
                   Coast
                   and
                   Country
                   to
                   survey
                   ,
                
                 
                   Anxious
                   and
                   eager
                   to
                   discover
                   more
                   :
                
                 
                   It
                   look'd
                   a
                   wild
                   uncultivated
                   Shoar
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   whether
                   Human
                   Kind
                   ,
                   or
                   Beasts
                   alone
                
                 
                   Possess'd
                   the
                   new-found
                   Region
                   ,
                   was
                   unknown
                   .
                
                 
                   Beneath
                   a
                   hollow
                   Rock
                   his
                   Fleet
                   he
                   hides
                   ;
                
                 
                   Tall
                   Trees
                   surround
                   the
                   Mountains
                   shady
                   sides
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   bending
                   Brow
                   above
                   ,
                   a
                   safe
                   Retreat
                   provides
                   .
                
                 
                   Arm'd
                   with
                   two
                   pointed
                   Darts
                   ,
                   he
                   leaves
                   his
                   Friends
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   true
                   Achates
                   on
                   his
                   steps
                   attends
                   .
                
                 
                   Loe
                   ,
                   in
                   the
                   deep
                   Recesses
                   of
                   the
                   Wood
                   ,
                
                 
                   Before
                   his
                   Eyes
                   his
                   Goddess
                   Mother
                   stood
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   Huntress
                   in
                   her
                   Habit
                   and
                   her
                   Meen
                   ;
                
                 
                   Her
                   dress
                   a
                   Maid
                   ,
                   her
                   Air
                   confess'd
                   a
                   Queen
                   .
                
                 
                   Bare
                   were
                   her
                   Knees
                   ,
                   and
                   knots
                   her
                   Garments
                   bind
                   ;
                
                 
                   Loose
                   was
                   her
                   Hair
                   ,
                   and
                   wanton'd
                   in
                   the
                   Wind
                   ;
                
                 
                   Her
                   Hand
                   sustain'd
                   a
                   Bow
                   ,
                   her
                   Quiver
                   hung
                   behind
                   .
                
                 
                   She
                   seem'd
                   a
                   Virgin
                   of
                   the
                   Spartan
                   Blood
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   such
                   Array
                   Harpalice
                   bestrode
                
                 
                   Her
                   Thracian
                   Courser
                   ,
                   and
                   outstrip'd
                   the
                   rapid
                   Flood
                   .
                
                 
                   Ho!
                   Strangers
                   !
                   have
                   you
                   lately
                   seen
                   ,
                   she
                   said
                   ,
                
                 
                   One
                   of
                   my
                   Sisters
                   ,
                   like
                   my self
                   array'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Who
                   crost
                   the
                   Lawn
                   ,
                   or
                   in
                   the
                   Forest
                   stray'd
                   ?
                
                 
                   A
                   Painted
                   Quiver
                   at
                   her
                   Back
                   she
                   bore
                   ;
                
                 
                   Vary'd
                   with
                   Spots
                   ,
                   a
                   Linx's
                   Hide
                   she
                   wore
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   at
                   full
                   Cry
                   pursu'd
                   the
                   tusky
                   Boar
                   ?
                
                 
                   Thus
                   Venus
                   :
                   Thus
                   her
                   Son
                   reply'd
                   agen
                   ;
                
                 
                   None
                   of
                   your
                   Sisters
                   have
                   we
                   heard
                   or
                   seen
                   ,
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     y
                     e
                     Right
                     Hon
                     ble
                     :
                     Anne
                     Countess
                     of
                     Exeter
                     Wife
                     to
                     y
                     e
                     Right
                     Hon
                     ble
                     :
                     John
                     Earle
                     of
                     Exeter
                     Baron
                     Coecill
                     of
                     Burleigh
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     1.
                     l.
                     435
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                 
                   O
                   virgin
                   !
                   or
                   what
                   other
                   Name
                   you
                   bear
                
                 
                   A
                   bove
                   that
                   stile
                   ;
                   O
                   more
                   than
                   mortal
                   fair
                   !
                
                 
                   Your
                   Voice
                   and
                   Meen
                   Coelestial
                   birth
                   betray
                   !
                
                 
                   If
                   ,
                   as
                   you
                   seem
                   ,
                   the
                   Sister
                   of
                   the
                   Day
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   one
                   at
                   least
                   of
                   Chast
                   
                   Diana's
                   Train
                   ,
                
                 
                   Let
                   not
                   an
                   humble
                   Suppliant
                   sue
                   in
                   vain
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   tell
                   a
                   Stranger
                   ,
                   long
                   in
                   Tempests
                   tost
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   Earth
                   we
                   tread
                   ,
                   and
                   who
                   commands
                   the
                   Coast
                   ?
                
                 
                   Then
                   on
                   your
                   Name
                   shall
                   wretched
                   Mortals
                   call
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   offer'd
                   Victims
                   at
                   your
                   Altars
                   fall
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   dare
                   not
                   ,
                   she
                   reply'd
                   ,
                   assume
                   the
                   Name
                
                 
                   Of
                   Goddess
                   ,
                   or
                   Coelestial
                   Honours
                   claim
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   Tyrian
                   Virgins
                   Bows
                   and
                   Quivers
                   bear
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Purple
                   Buskins
                   o're
                   their
                   Ankles
                   wear
                   .
                
                 
                   Know
                   ,
                   gentle
                   Youth
                   ,
                   in
                   Lybian
                   Lands
                   you
                   are
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   People
                   rude
                   in
                   Peace
                   ,
                   and
                   rough
                   in
                   War.
                
                 
                   The
                   rising
                   City
                   ,
                   which
                   from
                   far
                   you
                   see
                   ,
                
                 
                   Is
                   Carthage
                   ;
                   and
                   a
                   Tyrian
                   Colony
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     Phenician
                     Dido
                  
                   rules
                   the
                   growing
                   State
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   fled
                   from
                   Tyre
                   ,
                   to
                   shun
                   her
                   Brother's
                   hate
                   :
                
                 
                   Great
                   were
                   her
                   wrongs
                   ,
                   her
                   Story
                   full
                   of
                   Fate
                   ;
                
                 
                   Which
                   I
                   will
                   sum
                   in
                   short
                   .
                   Sicheus
                   known
                
                 
                   For
                   wealth
                   ,
                   and
                   Brother
                   to
                   the
                   Punic
                   Throne
                   ,
                
                 
                   Possess'd
                   fair
                   Dido's
                   Bed
                   :
                   And
                   either
                   heart
                
                 
                   At
                   once
                   was
                   wounded
                   with
                   an
                   equal
                   Dart.
                
                 
                   Her
                   Father
                   gave
                   her
                   ,
                   yet
                   a
                   spotless
                   Maid
                   ;
                
                 
                   Pigmalion
                   then
                   the
                   Tyrian
                   Scepter
                   sway'd
                   :
                
                 
                   One
                   who
                   contemn'd
                   Divine
                   and
                   Humane
                   Laws
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   Strife
                   ensu'd
                   ,
                   and
                   cursed
                   Gold
                   the
                   Cause
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Monarch
                   ,
                   blinded
                   with
                   desire
                   of
                   Wealth
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   Steel
                   invades
                   his
                   Brother's
                   life
                   by
                   stealth
                   ;
                
                 
                   Before
                   the
                   sacred
                   Altar
                   made
                   him
                   bleed
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   long
                   from
                   her
                   conceal'd
                   the
                   cruel
                   deed
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Some
                   Tale
                   ,
                   some
                   new
                   Pretence
                   ,
                   he
                   daily
                   coin'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   sooth
                   his
                   Sister
                   ,
                   and
                   delude
                   her
                   Mind
                   .
                
                 
                   At
                   length
                   ,
                   in
                   dead
                   of
                   Night
                   ,
                   the
                   Ghost
                   appears
                
                 
                   Of
                   her
                   unhappy
                   Lord
                   :
                   the
                   Spectre
                   stares
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   erected
                   Eyes
                   his
                   bloody
                   Bosom
                   bares
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   cruel
                   Altars
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Fate
                   he
                   tells
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   dire
                   Secret
                   of
                   his
                   House
                   reveals
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   warns
                   the
                   Widdow
                   ,
                   with
                   her
                   household
                   Gods
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   seek
                   a
                   Refuge
                   in
                   remote
                   abodes
                   .
                
                 
                   Last
                   ,
                   to
                   support
                   her
                   ,
                   in
                   so
                   long
                   a
                   way
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   shows
                   her
                   where
                   his
                   hidden
                   Treasure
                   lay
                   .
                
                 
                   Admonish'd
                   thus
                   ,
                   and
                   seiz'd
                   with
                   mortal
                   fright
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Queen
                   provides
                   Companions
                   of
                   her
                   flight
                   :
                
                 
                   They
                   meet
                   ;
                   and
                   all
                   combine
                   to
                   leave
                   the
                   State
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   hate
                   the
                   Tyrant
                   ,
                   or
                   who
                   fear
                   his
                   hate
                   .
                
                 
                   They
                   seize
                   a
                   Fleet
                   ,
                   which
                   ready
                   rigg'd
                   they
                   find
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   is
                   Pigmalion's
                   Treasure
                   left
                   behind
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Vessels
                   ,
                   heavy
                   laden
                   ,
                   put
                   to
                   Sea
                
                 
                   With
                   prosprous
                   winds
                   ;
                   a
                   Woman
                   leads
                   the
                   way
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   know
                   not
                   ,
                   if
                   by
                   stress
                   of
                   Weather
                   driv'n
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   was
                   their
                   fatal
                   Course
                   dispos'd
                   by
                   Heav'n
                   ;
                
                 
                   At
                   last
                   they
                   landed
                   ,
                   where
                   from
                   far
                   your
                   Eyes
                
                 
                   May
                   view
                   the
                   Turrets
                   of
                   new
                   Carthage
                   rise
                   :
                
                 
                   There
                   bought
                   a
                   space
                   of
                   Ground
                   ,
                   which
                   Byrsa
                   call'd
                
                 
                   From
                   the
                   Bulls
                   hide
                   ,
                   they
                   first
                   inclos'd
                   ,
                   and
                   wall'd
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   whence
                   are
                   you
                   ,
                   what
                   Country
                   claims
                   your
                   Birth
                   ?
                
                 
                   What
                   seek
                   you
                   ,
                   Strangers
                   ,
                   on
                   our
                   Lybian
                   Earth
                   ?
                
              
               
                 
                   To
                   whom
                   ,
                   with
                   sorrow
                   streaming
                   from
                   his
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   deeply
                   sighing
                   ,
                   thus
                   her
                   Son
                   replyes
                   :
                
                 
                   Cou'd
                   you
                   with
                   Patience
                   hear
                   ,
                   or
                   I
                   relate
                   ,
                
                 
                   O
                   Nymph
                   !
                   the
                   tedious
                   Annals
                   of
                   our
                   Fate
                   !
                
                 
                   Thro'
                   such
                   a
                   train
                   of
                   Woes
                   if
                   I
                   shou'd
                   run
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   day
                   wou'd
                   sooner
                   than
                   the
                   Tale
                   be
                   done
                   !
                
                 
                 
                   From
                   ancient
                   Troy
                   ,
                   by
                   Force
                   expell'd
                   ,
                   we
                   came
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   you
                   by
                   chance
                   have
                   heard
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Name
                   :
                
                 
                   On
                   various
                   Seas
                   by
                   various
                   Tempests
                   tost
                   ,
                
                 
                   At
                   length
                   we
                   landed
                   on
                   your
                   Lybian
                   Coast
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Good
                   Aeneas
                   am
                   I
                   call'd
                   ,
                   a
                   Name
                   ,
                
                 
                   While
                   Fortune
                   favour'd
                   ,
                   not
                   unknown
                   to
                   Fame
                   :
                
                 
                   My
                   houshold
                   Gods
                   ,
                   Companions
                   of
                   my
                   Woes
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   pious
                   Care
                   I
                   rescu'd
                   from
                   our
                   Foes
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   fruitful
                   Italy
                   my
                   Course
                   was
                   bent
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   from
                   the
                   King
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   is
                   my
                   Descent
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   twice
                   ten
                   Sail
                   I
                   crost
                   the
                   Phrygian
                   Sea
                   ;
                
                 
                   Fate
                   ,
                   and
                   my
                   Mother
                   Goddess
                   ,
                   led
                   my
                   Way
                   .
                
                 
                   Scarce
                   sev'n
                   ,
                   the
                   thin
                   Remainders
                   of
                   my
                   Fleet
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   Storms
                   preserv'd
                   ,
                   within
                   your
                   Harbour
                   meet
                   :
                
                 
                   My self
                   distress'd
                   ,
                   an
                   Exile
                   ,
                   and
                   unknown
                   ,
                
                 
                   Debarr'd
                   from
                   Europe
                   ,
                   and
                   from
                   Asia
                   thrown
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   Lybian
                   Desarts
                   wander
                   thus
                   alone
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   His
                   tender
                   Parent
                   could
                   no
                   longer
                   bear
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   ,
                   interposing
                   ,
                   sought
                   to
                   sooth
                   his
                   Care.
                
                 
                   Who
                   e're
                   you
                   are
                   ,
                   not
                   unbelov'd
                   by
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                
                 
                   Since
                   on
                   our
                   friendly
                   Shoar
                   your
                   Ships
                   are
                   driv'n
                   :
                
                 
                   Have
                   Courage
                   :
                   To
                   the
                   Gods
                   permit
                   the
                   rest
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   to
                   the
                   Queen
                   expose
                   your
                   just
                   Request
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   take
                   this
                   earnest
                   of
                   Success
                   ,
                   for
                   more
                   ▪
                
                 
                   Your
                   scatter'd
                   Fleet
                   is
                   join'd
                   upon
                   the
                   Shoar
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Winds
                   are
                   chang'd
                   ,
                   your
                   Friends
                   from
                   danger
                   free
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   I
                   renounce
                   my
                   Skill
                   in
                   Augury
                   .
                
                 
                   Twelve
                   Swans
                   behold
                   ,
                   in
                   beauteous
                   order
                   move
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   stoop
                   with
                   closing
                   Pinions
                   from
                   above
                   :
                
                 
                   Whom
                   late
                   the
                   Bird
                   of
                   Jove
                   had
                   driv'n
                   along
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   through
                   the
                   Clouds
                   pursu'd
                   the
                   scatt'ring
                   Throng
                   :
                
                 
                   Now
                   all
                   united
                   in
                   a
                   goodly
                   Team
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   skim
                   the
                   Ground
                   ,
                   and
                   seek
                   the
                   quiet
                   Stream
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   As
                   they
                   ,
                   with
                   Joy
                   returning
                   ,
                   clap
                   their
                   Wings
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ride
                   the
                   Circuit
                   of
                   the
                   Skies
                   in
                   Rings
                   :
                
                 
                   Not
                   otherwise
                   your
                   Ships
                   ,
                   and
                   ev'ry
                   Friend
                   ,
                
                 
                   Already
                   hold
                   the
                   Port
                   ,
                   or
                   with
                   swift
                   Sails
                   descend
                   .
                
                 
                   No
                   more
                   Advice
                   is
                   needful
                   ,
                   but
                   pursue
                
                 
                   The
                   Path
                   before
                   you
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Town
                   in
                   view
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   having
                   said
                   ,
                   she
                   turn'd
                   ,
                   and
                   made
                   appear
                
                 
                   Her
                   Neck
                   refulgent
                   ,
                   and
                   dishevel'd
                   Hair
                   ;
                
                 
                   Which
                   flowing
                   from
                   her
                   Shoulders
                   ,
                   reach'd
                   the
                   Ground
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   widely
                   spread
                   Ambrosial
                   Scents
                   around
                   :
                
                 
                   In
                   length
                   of
                   Train
                   descends
                   her
                   sweeping
                   Gown
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   by
                   her
                   graceful
                   Walk
                   ,
                   the
                   Queen
                   of
                   Love
                   is
                   known
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Prince
                   pursu'd
                   the
                   parting
                   Deity
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Words
                   like
                   these
                   :
                   Ah!
                   whither
                   do
                   you
                   fly
                   ?
                
                 
                   Unkind
                   and
                   cruel
                   ,
                   to
                   deceive
                   your
                   Son
                
                 
                   In
                   borrow'd
                   Shapes
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Embrace
                   to
                   shun
                   :
                
                 
                   Never
                   to
                   bless
                   my
                   Sight
                   ,
                   but
                   thus
                   unknown
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   still
                   to
                   speak
                   in
                   Accents
                   not
                   your
                   own
                   .
                
                 
                   Against
                   the
                   Goddess
                   these
                   Complaints
                   he
                   made
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   took
                   the
                   Path
                   ,
                   and
                   her
                   Commands
                   obey'd
                   .
                
                 
                   They
                   march
                   obscure
                   ,
                   for
                   Venus
                   kindly
                   shrowds
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Mists
                   ,
                   their
                   Persons
                   ,
                   and
                   involves
                   in
                   Clouds
                   :
                
                 
                   That
                   ,
                   thus
                   unseen
                   ,
                   their
                   Passage
                   none
                   might
                   stay
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   force
                   to
                   tell
                   the
                   Causes
                   of
                   their
                   Way
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   part
                   perform'd
                   ,
                   the
                   Goddess
                   flies
                   sublime
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   visit
                   Paphos
                   ;
                   and
                   her
                   native
                   Clime
                   :
                
                 
                   Where
                   Garlands
                   ever
                   green
                   ,
                   and
                   ever
                   fair
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Vows
                   are
                   offer'd
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   solemn
                   Pray'r
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   hundred
                   Altars
                   in
                   her
                   Temple
                   Smoke
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   thousand
                   bleeding
                   Hearts
                   her
                   Pow'r
                   invoke
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   They
                   climb
                   the
                   next
                   Ascent
                   ,
                   and
                   ,
                   looking
                   down
                   ,
                
                 
                   Now
                   at
                   a
                   nearer
                   Distance
                   view
                   the
                   Town
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Prince
                   ,
                   with
                   Wonder
                   ,
                   sees
                   the
                   stately
                   Tow'rs
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   late
                   were
                   Huts
                   ,
                   and
                   Shepherd's
                   homely
                   Bow'rs
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Gates
                   and
                   Streets
                   ;
                   and
                   hears
                   ,
                   from
                   ev'ry
                   part
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Noise
                   ,
                   and
                   buisy
                   Concourse
                   of
                   the
                   Mart.
                
                 
                   The
                   toiling
                   Tyrians
                   on
                   each
                   other
                   call
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   ply
                   their
                   Labour
                   :
                   Some
                   extend
                   the
                   Wall
                   ,
                
                 
                   Some
                   build
                   the
                   Citadel
                   ;
                   the
                   brawny
                   Throng
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   dig
                   ,
                   or
                   push
                   unweildy
                   Stones
                   along
                   .
                
                 
                   Some
                   for
                   their
                   Dwellings
                   chuse
                   a
                   Spot
                   of
                   Ground
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   ,
                   first
                   design'd
                   ,
                   with
                   Ditches
                   they
                   surround
                   .
                
                 
                   Some
                   Laws
                   ordain
                   ,
                   and
                   some
                   attend
                   the
                   Choice
                
                 
                   Of
                   holy
                   Senates
                   ,
                   and
                   elect
                   by
                   Voice
                   .
                
                 
                   Here
                   some
                   design
                   a
                   Mole
                   ,
                   while
                   others
                   there
                
                 
                   Lay
                   deep
                   Foundations
                   for
                   a
                   Theatre
                   :
                
                 
                   From
                   Marble
                   Quarries
                   mighty
                   Columns
                   hew
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   Ornaments
                   of
                   Scenes
                   ,
                   and
                   future
                   view
                   .
                
                 
                   Such
                   is
                   their
                   Toyl
                   ,
                   and
                   such
                   their
                   buisy
                   Pains
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   exercise
                   the
                   Bees
                   in
                   flow'ry
                   Plains
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   Winter
                   past
                   ,
                   and
                   Summer
                   scarce
                   begun
                   ,
                
                 
                   Invites
                   them
                   forth
                   to
                   labour
                   in
                   the
                   Sun
                   :
                
                 
                   Some
                   lead
                   their
                   Youth
                   abroad
                   ,
                   while
                   some
                   condense
                
                 
                   Their
                   liquid
                   Store
                   ,
                   and
                   some
                   in
                   Cells
                   dispence
                   .
                
                 
                   Some
                   at
                   the
                   Gate
                   stand
                   ready
                   to
                   receive
                
                 
                   The
                   Golden
                   Burthen
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   Friends
                   relieve
                   .
                
                 
                   All
                   ,
                   with
                   united
                   Force
                   ,
                   combine
                   to
                   drive
                
                 
                   The
                   lazy
                   Drones
                   from
                   the
                   laborious
                   Hive
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   Envy
                   stung
                   ▪
                   they
                   view
                   each
                   others
                   Deeds
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   fragrant
                   Work
                   with
                   Diligence
                   proceeds
                   .
                
                 
                   Thrice
                   happy
                   you
                   ,
                   whose
                   Walls
                   already
                   rise
                   ;
                
                 
                   Aeneas
                   said
                   ;
                   and
                   view'd
                   ,
                   with
                   lifted
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   lofty
                   Tow'rs
                   ;
                   then
                   ent'ring
                   at
                   the
                   Gate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Conceal'd
                   in
                   Clouds
                   ,
                   (
                   prodigious
                   to
                   relate
                   )
                
                 
                   He
                   mix'd
                   ,
                   unmark'd
                   ,
                   among
                   the
                   buisy
                   Throng
                   ,
                
                 
                   Born
                   by
                   the
                   Tide
                   ,
                   and
                   pass'd
                   unseen
                   along
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Full
                   in
                   the
                   Centre
                   of
                   the
                   Town
                   there
                   stood
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thick
                   set
                   with
                   Trees
                   ,
                   a
                   venerable
                   Wood
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Tyrians
                   landing
                   near
                   this
                   holy
                   Ground
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   digging
                   here
                   ,
                   a
                   prosp'rous
                   Omen
                   found
                   :
                
                 
                   From
                   under
                   Earth
                   a
                   Courser's
                   Head
                   they
                   drew
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   Growth
                   and
                   future
                   Fortune
                   to
                   foreshew
                   :
                
                 
                   This
                   fatal
                   Sign
                   their
                   Foundress
                   Juno
                   gave
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   a
                   Soil
                   fruitful
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   People
                   brave
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     Sidonian
                     Dido
                  
                   here
                   with
                   solemn
                   State
                
                 
                   Did
                   
                   Juno's
                   Temple
                   build
                   ,
                   and
                   consecrate
                   :
                
                 
                   Enrich'd
                   with
                   Gifts
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   a
                   Golden
                   Shrine
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   more
                   the
                   Goddess
                   made
                   the
                   Place
                   Divine
                   .
                
                 
                   On
                   Brazen
                   Steps
                   the
                   Marble
                   Threshold
                   rose
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   brazen
                   Plates
                   the
                   Cedar
                   Beams
                   inclose
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Rafters
                   are
                   with
                   brazen
                   Cov'rings
                   crown'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   lofty
                   Doors
                   on
                   brazen
                   Hinges
                   sound
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   first
                   Aeneas
                   in
                   this
                   place
                   beheld
                   ,
                
                 
                   Reviv'd
                   his
                   Courage
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Fear
                   expel'd
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   while
                   ,
                   expecting
                   there
                   the
                   Queen
                   ,
                   he
                   rais'd
                
                 
                   His
                   wond'ring
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   and
                   round
                   the
                   Temple
                   gaz'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Admir'd
                   the
                   Fortune
                   of
                   the
                   rising
                   Town
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   striving
                   Artists
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   Arts
                   renown
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   saw
                   in
                   order
                   painted
                   on
                   the
                   Wall
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whatever
                   did
                   unhappy
                   Troy
                   befall
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Wars
                   that
                   Fate
                   around
                   the
                   World
                   had
                   blown
                   ,
                
                 
                   All
                   to
                   the
                   Life
                   ,
                   and
                   ev'ry
                   Leader
                   known
                   .
                
                 
                   There
                   
                     Agamemnon
                     ,
                     Priam
                  
                   here
                   he
                   spies
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   fierce
                   Achilles
                   who
                   both
                   Kings
                   defies
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   stop'd
                   ,
                   and
                   weeping
                   said
                   ,
                   O
                   Friend
                   !
                   ev'n
                   here
                
                 
                   The
                   Monuments
                   of
                   Trojan
                   Woes
                   appear
                   !
                
                 
                   Our
                   known
                   Disasters
                   fill
                   ev'n
                   foreign
                   Lands
                   :
                
                 
                   See
                   there
                   ,
                   where
                   old
                   unhappy
                   Priam
                   stands
                   !
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   the
                   Mute
                   Walls
                   relate
                   the
                   Warrior's
                   Fame
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Trojan
                   Griefs
                   the
                   Tyrians
                   Pity
                   claim
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   said
                   ,
                   his
                   Tears
                   a
                   ready
                   Passage
                   find
                   ,
                
                 
                   Devouring
                   what
                   he
                   saw
                   so
                   well
                   design'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   an
                   empty
                   Picture
                   fed
                   his
                   Mind
                   ▪
                
                 
                 
                   For
                   there
                   he
                   saw
                   the
                   fainting
                   Grecians
                   yield
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   here
                   the
                   trembling
                   Trojans
                   quit
                   the
                   Field
                   ,
                
                 
                   Pursu'd
                   by
                   fierce
                   Achilles
                   through
                   the
                   Plain
                   ,
                
                 
                   On
                   his
                   high
                   Chariot
                   driving
                   o're
                   the
                   Slain
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Tents
                   of
                   Rhesus
                   next
                   ,
                   his
                   Grief
                   renew
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   their
                   white
                   Sails
                   betray'd
                   to
                   nightly
                   view
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   wakesul
                   Diomede
                   ,
                   whose
                   cruel
                   Sword
                
                 
                   The
                   Centries
                   slew
                   ;
                   nor
                   spar'd
                   their
                   slumb'ring
                   Lord.
                
                 
                   Then
                   took
                   the
                   fiery
                   Steeds
                   ,
                   e're
                   yet
                   the
                   Food
                
                 
                   Of
                   Troy
                   they
                   taste
                   ,
                   or
                   drink
                   the
                   Xanthian
                   Flood
                   .
                
                 
                   Elsewhere
                   he
                   saw
                   where
                   Troilus
                   defy'd
                
                 
                   Achilles
                   ,
                   and
                   unequal
                   Combat
                   try'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   where
                   the
                   Boy
                   disarm'd
                   with
                   loosen'd
                   Reins
                   ,
                
                 
                   Was
                   by
                   his
                   Horses
                   hurry'd
                   o're
                   the
                   Plains
                   :
                
                 
                   Hung
                   by
                   the
                   Neck
                   and
                   Hair
                   ,
                   and
                   drag'd
                   around
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   hostile
                   Spear
                   yet
                   sticking
                   in
                   his
                   Wound
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   tracks
                   of
                   Blood
                   inscrib'd
                   the
                   dusty
                   Ground
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Mean
                   time
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Dames
                   oppress'd
                   with
                   Woe
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   Pallas
                   Fane
                   in
                   long
                   Precession
                   goe
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   hopes
                   to
                   reconcile
                   their
                   Heav'nly
                   Foe
                   :
                
                 
                   They
                   weep
                   ,
                   they
                   beat
                   their
                   Breasts
                   ,
                   they
                   rend
                   their
                   Hair
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   rich
                   embroider'd
                   Vests
                   for
                   Presents
                   bear
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   the
                   stern
                   Goddess
                   stands
                   unmov'd
                   with
                   Pray'r
                   .
                
                 
                   Thrice
                   round
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Walls
                   Achilles
                   drew
                
                 
                   The
                   Corps
                   of
                   Hector
                   ,
                   whom
                   in
                   Fight
                   he
                   slew
                   .
                
                 
                   Here
                   Priam
                   sues
                   ,
                   and
                   there
                   ,
                   for
                   Sums
                   of
                   Gold
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   lifeless
                   Body
                   of
                   his
                   Son
                   is
                   sold
                   .
                
                 
                   So
                   sad
                   an
                   Object
                   ,
                   and
                   so
                   well
                   express'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Drew
                   Sighs
                   and
                   Groans
                   from
                   the
                   griev'd
                   Heroes
                   Breast
                   :
                
                 
                   To
                   see
                   the
                   Figure
                   of
                   his
                   lifeless
                   Friend
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   his
                   old
                   Sire
                   his
                   helpless
                   Hand
                   extend
                   .
                
                 
                   Himself
                   he
                   saw
                   amidst
                   the
                   Grecian
                   Train
                   ,
                
                 
                   Mix'd
                   in
                   the
                   bloody
                   Battel
                   on
                   the
                   Plain
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   swarthy
                   Memnon
                   in
                   his
                   Arms
                   he
                   knew
                
                 
                   His
                   pompous
                   Ensigns
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Indian
                   Crew
                   .
                
                 
                   Penthisilea
                   there
                   ,
                   with
                   haughty
                   Grace
                   ,
                
                 
                   Leads
                   to
                   the
                   Wars
                   an
                   Amazonian
                   Race
                   :
                
                 
                   In
                   their
                   right
                   Hands
                   a
                   pointed
                   Dart
                   they
                   wield
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   left
                   ,
                   for
                   Ward
                   ,
                   sustains
                   the
                   Lunar
                   Shield
                   .
                
                 
                   Athwart
                   her
                   Breast
                   a
                   Golden
                   Belt
                   she
                   throws
                   ,
                
                 
                   Amidst
                   the
                   Press
                   alone
                   provokes
                   a
                   thousand
                   Foes
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   dares
                   her
                   Maiden
                   Arms
                   to
                   Manly
                   Force
                   oppose
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   ,
                   while
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Prince
                   employs
                   his
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fix'd
                   on
                   the
                   Walls
                   with
                   wonder
                   and
                   surprise
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Beauteous
                   Dido
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   num'rous
                   Train
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   pomp
                   of
                   Guards
                   ,
                   ascends
                   the
                   sacred
                   Fane
                   .
                
                 
                   Such
                   on
                   
                   Eurota's
                   Banks
                   ,
                   or
                   
                   Cynthus's
                   hight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Diana
                   seems
                   ;
                   and
                   so
                   she
                   charms
                   the
                   sight
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   in
                   the
                   Dance
                   the
                   graceful
                   Goddess
                   leads
                
                 
                   The
                   Quire
                   of
                   Nymphs
                   ,
                   and
                   overtops
                   their
                   Heads
                   .
                
                 
                   Known
                   by
                   her
                   Quiver
                   ,
                   and
                   her
                   lofty
                   Meen
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   walks
                   Majestick
                   ,
                   and
                   she
                   looks
                   their
                   Queen
                   :
                
                 
                   Latona
                   sees
                   her
                   shine
                   above
                   the
                   rest
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   feeds
                   with
                   secret
                   Joy
                   her
                   silent
                   Breast
                   .
                
                 
                   Such
                   Dido
                   was
                   ;
                   with
                   such
                   becoming
                   State
                   ,
                
                 
                   Amidst
                   the
                   Crowd
                   ,
                   she
                   walks
                   serenely
                   great
                   .
                
                 
                   Their
                   Labour
                   to
                   her
                   future
                   Sway
                   she
                   speeds
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   passing
                   with
                   a
                   gracious
                   Glance
                   proceeds
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   mounts
                   the
                   Throne
                   ,
                   high
                   plac'd
                   before
                   the
                   Shrine
                   ;
                
                 
                   In
                   Crowds
                   around
                   the
                   swarming
                   People
                   joyn
                   .
                
                 
                   She
                   takes
                   Petitions
                   ,
                   and
                   dispenses
                   Laws
                   ,
                
                 
                   Hears
                   ,
                   and
                   determines
                   ev'ry
                   Private
                   Cause
                   .
                
                 
                   Their
                   Tasks
                   in
                   equal
                   Portions
                   she
                   divides
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   where
                   unequal
                   ,
                   there
                   by
                   Lots
                   decides
                   .
                
                 
                   Another
                   Way
                   by
                   chance
                   Aeneas
                   bends
                
                 
                   His
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   and
                   unexpected
                   sees
                   his
                   Friends
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   
                     Antheus
                     ,
                     Sergestus
                  
                   grave
                   ,
                   Cloanthus
                   strong
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   at
                   their
                   Backs
                   a
                   mighty
                   Trojan
                   Throng
                   :
                
                 
                   Whom
                   late
                   the
                   Tempest
                   on
                   the
                   Billows
                   tost
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   widely
                   scatter'd
                   on
                   another
                   Coast
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Prince
                   ,
                   unseen
                   ,
                   surpriz'd
                   with
                   Wonder
                   stands
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   longs
                   ,
                   with
                   joyful
                   haste
                   to
                   join
                   their
                   Hands
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   doubtful
                   of
                   the
                   wish'd
                   Event
                   ,
                   he
                   stays
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   from
                   the
                   hollow
                   Cloud
                   his
                   Friends
                   surveys
                   :
                
                 
                   Impatient
                   'till
                   they
                   told
                   their
                   present
                   State
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   where
                   they
                   left
                   their
                   Ships
                   ,
                   and
                   what
                   their
                   Fate
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   why
                   they
                   came
                   ,
                   and
                   what
                   was
                   their
                   Request
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   these
                   were
                   sent
                   commission'd
                   by
                   the
                   rest
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   sue
                   for
                   leave
                   to
                   land
                   their
                   sickly
                   Men
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   gain
                   Admission
                   to
                   the
                   Gracious
                   Queen
                   .
                
                 
                   Ent'ring
                   ,
                   with
                   Cries
                   they
                   fill'd
                   the
                   holy
                   Fane
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   thus
                   ,
                   with
                   humble
                   Voice
                   ,
                   Ilioneus
                   began
                   .
                
                 
                   O
                   Queen
                   !
                   indulg'd
                   by
                   Favour
                   of
                   the
                   Gods
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   found
                   an
                   Empire
                   in
                   these
                   new
                   Abodes
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   build
                   a
                   Town
                   ,
                   with
                   Statutes
                   to
                   restrain
                
                 
                   The
                   wild
                   Inhabitants
                   beneath
                   thy
                   Reign
                   :
                
                 
                   We
                   wretched
                   Trojans
                   tost
                   on
                   ev'ry
                   Shore
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   Sea
                   to
                   Sea
                   ,
                   thy
                   Clemency
                   implore
                   :
                
                 
                   Forbid
                   the
                   Fires
                   our
                   Shipping
                   to
                   deface
                   ,
                
                 
                   Receive
                   th'
                   unhappy
                   Fugitives
                   to
                   Grace
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   spare
                   the
                   remnant
                   of
                   a
                   Pious
                   Race
                   .
                
                 
                   We
                   come
                   not
                   with
                   design
                   of
                   wastful
                   Prey
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   drive
                   the
                   Country
                   ,
                   force
                   the
                   Swains
                   away
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   such
                   our
                   Strength
                   ,
                   nor
                   such
                   is
                   our
                   Desire
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   vanquish'd
                   dare
                   not
                   to
                   such
                   Thoughts
                   aspire
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   Land
                   there
                   is
                   ,
                   Hesperia
                   nam'd
                   of
                   old
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Soil
                   is
                   fruitful
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Men
                   are
                   bold
                   :
                
                 
                   Th'
                   Oenotrians
                   held
                   it
                   once
                   ,
                   by
                   common
                   Fame
                   ,
                
                 
                   Now
                   call'd
                   Italia
                   ,
                   from
                   the
                   Leaders
                   Name
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   To
                   that
                   sweet
                   Region
                   was
                   our
                   Voyage
                   bent
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   Winds
                   ,
                   and
                   ev'ry
                   warring
                   Element
                   ,
                
                 
                   Disturb'd
                   our
                   Course
                   ,
                   and
                   far
                   from
                   sight
                   of
                   Land
                   ,
                
                 
                   Cast
                   our
                   torn
                   Vessels
                   on
                   the
                   moving
                   Sand
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Sea
                   came
                   on
                   ;
                   the
                   South
                   with
                   mighty
                   Roar
                   ,
                
                 
                   Dispers'd
                   and
                   dash'd
                   the
                   rest
                   upon
                   the
                   Rocky
                   Shoar
                   .
                
                 
                   Those
                   few
                   you
                   see
                   escap'd
                   the
                   Storm
                   ,
                   and
                   fear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Unless
                   you
                   interpose
                   ,
                   a
                   Shipwreck
                   here
                   :
                
                 
                   What
                   Men
                   ,
                   what
                   Monsters
                   ,
                   what
                   inhuman
                   Race
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   Laws
                   ,
                   what
                   barb'rous
                   Customs
                   of
                   the
                   Place
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shut
                   up
                   a
                   desart
                   Shoar
                   to
                   drowning
                   Men
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   drives
                   us
                   to
                   the
                   cruel
                   Seas
                   agen
                   !
                
                 
                   If
                   our
                   hard
                   Fortune
                   no
                   Compassion
                   draws
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   hospitable
                   Rights
                   ,
                   nor
                   human
                   Laws
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Gods
                   are
                   just
                   ,
                   and
                   will
                   revenge
                   our
                   Cause
                   .
                
                 
                   Aeneas
                   was
                   our
                   Prince
                   ,
                   a
                   juster
                   Lord
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   nobler
                   Warriour
                   ,
                   never
                   drew
                   a
                   Sword
                   :
                
                 
                   Observant
                   of
                   the
                   Right
                   ,
                   religious
                   of
                   his
                   Word
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   yet
                   he
                   lives
                   ,
                   and
                   draws
                   this
                   vital
                   Air
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   we
                   his
                   Friends
                   of
                   Safety
                   shall
                   despair
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   you
                   ,
                   great
                   Queen
                   ,
                   these
                   Offices
                   repent
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   he
                   will
                   equal
                   ,
                   and
                   perhaps
                   prevent
                   .
                
                 
                   We
                   want
                   not
                   Cities
                   ,
                   nor
                   Sicilian
                   Coasts
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   King
                   
                     Acestes
                     Trojan
                  
                   Lineage
                   boasts
                   .
                
                 
                   Permit
                   our
                   Ships
                   a
                   Shelter
                   on
                   your
                   Shoars
                   ,
                
                 
                   Refitted
                   from
                   your
                   Woods
                   with
                   Planks
                   and
                   Oars
                   ;
                
                 
                   That
                   if
                   our
                   Prince
                   be
                   safe
                   ,
                   we
                   may
                   renew
                
                 
                   Our
                   destin'd
                   Course
                   ,
                   and
                   Italy
                   pursue
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   if
                   ,
                   O
                   best
                   of
                   Men
                   !
                   the
                   Fates
                   ordain
                
                 
                   That
                   thou
                   art
                   swallow'd
                   in
                   the
                   Lybian
                   Main
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   if
                   our
                   young
                   Iulus
                   be
                   no
                   more
                   ,
                
                 
                   Dismiss
                   our
                   Navy
                   from
                   your
                   friendly
                   Shoar
                   .
                
                 
                   That
                   we
                   to
                   good
                   Acestes
                   may
                   return
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   our
                   Friends
                   our
                   common
                   Losses
                   mourn
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Thus
                   spoke
                   Ilioneus
                   ;
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Crew
                
                 
                   With
                   Cries
                   and
                   Clamours
                   his
                   Request
                   renew
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   modest
                   Queen
                   a
                   while
                   ,
                   with
                   down-cast
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ponder'd
                   the
                   Speech
                   ;
                   then
                   briefly
                   thus
                   replies
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Trojans
                   dismiss
                   your
                   Fears
                   :
                   my
                   cruel
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   doubts
                   attending
                   an
                   unsetled
                   State
                   ,
                
                 
                   Force
                   me
                   to
                   guard
                   my
                   Coast
                   ,
                   from
                   Foreign
                   Foes
                   .
                
                 
                   Who
                   has
                   not
                   heard
                   the
                   story
                   of
                   your
                   Woes
                   ?
                
                 
                   The
                   Name
                   and
                   Fortune
                   of
                   your
                   Native
                   Place
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Fame
                   and
                   Valour
                   of
                   the
                   Phrygian
                   Race
                   ?
                
                 
                   We
                   Tyrians
                   are
                   not
                   so
                   devoid
                   of
                   Sense
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   so
                   remote
                   from
                   Phoebus
                   influence
                   .
                
                 
                   Whether
                   to
                   Latian
                   Shores
                   your
                   Course
                   is
                   bent
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   driv'n
                   by
                   Tempest's
                   from
                   your
                   first
                   intent
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   seek
                   the
                   good
                   Acestes
                   Government
                   ;
                
                 
                   Your
                   Men
                   shall
                   be
                   receiv'd
                   ,
                   your
                   Fleet
                   repair'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   sail
                   ,
                   with
                   Ships
                   of
                   Convoy
                   for
                   your
                   guard
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   ,
                   wou'd
                   you
                   stay
                   ,
                   and
                   joyn
                   your
                   friendly
                   Pow'rs
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   raise
                   and
                   to
                   defend
                   the
                   Tyrian
                   Tow'rs
                   ;
                
                 
                   My
                   Wealth
                   ,
                   my
                   City
                   ,
                   and
                   my Self
                   are
                   yours
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   wou'd
                   to
                   Heav'n
                   the
                   Storm
                   ,
                   you
                   felt
                   ,
                   wou'd
                   bring
                
                 
                   On
                   Carthaginian
                   Coasts
                   your
                   wand'ring
                   King.
                
                 
                   My
                   People
                   shall
                   ,
                   by
                   my
                   Command
                   ,
                   explore
                
                 
                   The
                   Ports
                   and
                   Creeks
                   of
                   ev'ry
                   winding
                   shore
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Towns
                   ,
                   and
                   Wilds
                   ,
                   and
                   shady
                   Woods
                   ,
                   in
                   quest
                
                 
                   Of
                   so
                   renown'd
                   and
                   so
                   desir'd
                   a
                   Guest
                   .
                
                 
                   Rais'd
                   in
                   his
                   Mind
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Heroe
                   stood
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   long'd
                   to
                   break
                   from
                   out
                   his
                   Ambient
                   Cloud
                   ;
                
                 
                   Achates
                   found
                   it
                   ;
                   and
                   thus
                   urg'd
                   his
                   way
                   ;
                
                 
                   From
                   whence
                   ,
                   O
                   Goddess
                   born
                   ,
                   this
                   long
                   delay
                   ?
                
                 
                   What
                   more
                   can
                   you
                   desire
                   ,
                   your
                   Welcome
                   sure
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   Fleet
                   in
                   safety
                   ,
                   and
                   your
                   Friends
                   secure
                   ?
                
                 
                   One
                   only
                   wants
                   ;
                   and
                   him
                   we
                   saw
                   in
                   vain
                
                 
                   Oppose
                   the
                   Storm
                   ,
                   and
                   swallow'd
                   in
                   the
                   Main
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Orontes
                   in
                   his
                   Fate
                   our
                   Forfeit
                   paid
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   rest
                   agrees
                   with
                   what
                   your
                   Mother
                   said
                   .
                
                 
                   Scarce
                   had
                   he
                   spoken
                   ,
                   when
                   the
                   Cloud
                   gave
                   way
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Mists
                   flew
                   upward
                   ,
                   and
                   dissolv'd
                   in
                   day
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Trojan
                   Chief
                   appear'd
                   in
                   open
                   sight
                   ,
                
                 
                   August
                   in
                   Visage
                   ,
                   and
                   serenely
                   bright
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   Mother
                   Goddess
                   ,
                   with
                   her
                   hands
                   Divine
                   ,
                
                 
                   Had
                   form'd
                   his
                   Curling
                   Locks
                   ,
                   and
                   made
                   his
                   Temples
                   shine
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   giv'n
                   his
                   rowling
                   Eyes
                   a
                   sparkling
                   grace
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   breath'd
                   a
                   youthful
                   vigour
                   on
                   his
                   Face
                   :
                
                 
                   Like
                   polish'd
                   Iv'ry
                   ,
                   beauteous
                   to
                   behold
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   Parian
                   Marble
                   ,
                   when
                   enchas'd
                   in
                   Gold
                   :
                
                 
                   Thus
                   radiant
                   from
                   the
                   circling
                   Cloud
                   he
                   broke
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   thus
                   with
                   manly
                   modesty
                   he
                   spoke
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   He
                   whom
                   you
                   seek
                   am
                   I
                   :
                   by
                   Tempests
                   tost
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   sav'd
                   from
                   Shipwreck
                   on
                   your
                   Lybian
                   Coast
                   :
                
                 
                   Presenting
                   ,
                   gracious
                   Queen
                   ,
                   before
                   your
                   Throne
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Prince
                   that
                   ows
                   his
                   Life
                   to
                   you
                   alone
                   .
                
                 
                   Fair
                   Majesty
                   ,
                   the
                   Refuge
                   and
                   Redress
                
                 
                   Of
                   those
                   whom
                   Fate
                   pursues
                   ,
                   and
                   Wants
                   oppress
                   .
                
                 
                   You
                   ,
                   who
                   your
                   pious
                   Offices
                   employ
                
                 
                   To
                   save
                   the
                   Reliques
                   of
                   abandon'd
                   Troy
                   ;
                
                 
                   Receive
                   the
                   Shipwreck'd
                   on
                   your
                   friendly
                   Shore
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   hospitable
                   Rites
                   relieve
                   the
                   Poor
                   :
                
                 
                   Associate
                   in
                   your
                   Town
                   a
                   wandring
                   Train
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Strangers
                   in
                   your
                   Palace
                   entertain
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   thanks
                   can
                   wretched
                   Fugitives
                   return
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   scatter'd
                   thro'
                   the
                   World
                   in
                   exile
                   mourn
                   ?
                
                 
                   The
                   Gods
                   ,
                   (
                   if
                   Gods
                   to
                   Goodness
                   are
                   inclin'd
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                   If
                   Acts
                   of
                   mercy
                   touch
                   their
                   Heav'nly
                   Mind
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   more
                   than
                   all
                   the
                   Gods
                   ,
                   your
                   gen'rous
                   heart
                   ,
                
                 
                   Conscious
                   of
                   worth
                   ,
                   requite
                   its
                   own
                   desert
                   !
                
                 
                   In
                   you
                   this
                   Age
                   is
                   happy
                   ,
                   and
                   this
                   Earth
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   Parents
                   more
                   than
                   Mortal
                   gave
                   you
                   birth
                   .
                
              
               
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     the
                     Right
                     Hon
                     ble
                     :
                     Elizabeth
                     Countess
                     Dowager
                     of
                     Winchelsea
                     &
                     ct
                     .
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     1.
                     l
                     :
                     875.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   While
                   rowling
                   Rivers
                   into
                   Seas
                   shall
                   run
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   round
                   the
                   space
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   the
                   radiant
                   Sun
                   ;
                
                 
                   While
                   Trees
                   the
                   Mountain
                   tops
                   with
                   Shades
                   supply
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   Honour
                   ,
                   Name
                   ,
                   and
                   Praise
                   shall
                   never
                   dye
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   e're
                   abode
                   my
                   Fortune
                   has
                   assign'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   Image
                   shall
                   be
                   present
                   in
                   my
                   Mind
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   having
                   said
                   ;
                   he
                   turn'd
                   with
                   pious
                   hast
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   joyful
                   his
                   expecting
                   Friends
                   embrac'd
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   his
                   right
                   hand
                   Ilioneus
                   was
                   grac'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Serestus
                   with
                   his
                   left
                   ;
                   then
                   to
                   his
                   breast
                
                 
                   Cloanthus
                   and
                   the
                   Noble
                   Gyas
                   prest
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   so
                   by
                   turns
                   descended
                   to
                   the
                   rest
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Tyrian
                   Queen
                   stood
                   fix'd
                   upon
                   his
                   Face
                   ,
                
                 
                   Pleas'd
                   with
                   his
                   motions
                   ,
                   ravish'd
                   with
                   his
                   grace
                   :
                
                 
                   Admir'd
                   his
                   Fortunes
                   ,
                   more
                   admir'd
                   the
                   Man
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   recollected
                   stood
                   ;
                   and
                   thus
                   began
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   What
                   Fate
                   ,
                   O
                   Goddess
                   born
                   ,
                   what
                   angry
                   Pow'rs
                
                 
                   Have
                   cast
                   you
                   shipwrack'd
                   on
                   our
                   barren
                   Shores
                   ?
                
                 
                   Are
                   you
                   the
                   great
                   Aeneas
                   ,
                   known
                   to
                   Fame
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   from
                   Coelestial
                   Seed
                   your
                   Lineage
                   claim
                   !
                
                 
                   The
                   same
                   Aeneas
                   whom
                   fair
                   Venus
                   bore
                
                 
                   To
                   fam'd
                   Anchises
                   on
                   th'
                   Idaean
                   Shore
                   ?
                
                 
                   It
                   calls
                   into
                   my
                   mind
                   ,
                   tho'
                   then
                   a
                   Child
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   Teucer
                   came
                   from
                   Salamis
                   exil'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   sought
                   my
                   Father's
                   aid
                   ,
                   to
                   be
                   restor'd
                   :
                
                 
                   My
                   Father
                   Belus
                   then
                   with
                   Fire
                   and
                   Sword
                
                 
                   Invaded
                   Cyprus
                   ,
                   made
                   the
                   Region
                   bare
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   Conqu'ring
                   ,
                   finish'd
                   the
                   successful
                   War.
                
                 
                   From
                   him
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Siege
                   I
                   understood
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Grecian
                   Chiefs
                   ,
                   and
                   your
                   Illustrious
                   Blood.
                
                 
                   Your
                   Foe
                   himself
                   the
                   Dardan
                   Valour
                   prais'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   his
                   own
                   Ancestry
                   from
                   Trojans
                   rais'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Enter
                   ,
                   my
                   Noble
                   Guest
                   ;
                   and
                   you
                   shall
                   find
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   not
                   a
                   costly
                   welcome
                   ,
                   yet
                   a
                   kind
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   For
                   I
                   my self
                   ,
                   like
                   you
                   ,
                   have
                   been
                   distress'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Till
                   Heav'n
                   afforded
                   me
                   this
                   place
                   of
                   rest
                   .
                
                 
                   Like
                   you
                   an
                   Alien
                   in
                   a
                   Land
                   unknown
                   ;
                
                 
                   I
                   learn
                   to
                   pity
                   Woes
                   ,
                   so
                   like
                   my
                   own
                   .
                
                 
                   She
                   said
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   the
                   Palace
                   led
                   her
                   Guest
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   offer'd
                   Incense
                   ,
                   and
                   proclaim'd
                   a
                   Feast
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   yet
                   less
                   careful
                   for
                   her
                   absent
                   Friends
                   ,
                
                 
                   Twice
                   ten
                   fat
                   Oxen
                   to
                   the
                   Ships
                   she
                   sends
                   :
                
                 
                   Besides
                   a
                   hundred
                   Boars
                   ,
                   a
                   hundred
                   Lambs
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   bleating
                   cries
                   ,
                   attend
                   their
                   Milky
                   Dams
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   Jars
                   of
                   gen'rous
                   Wine
                   ,
                   and
                   spacious
                   Bowls
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   gives
                   to
                   chear
                   the
                   Sailors
                   drooping
                   Souls
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   Purple
                   Hangings
                   cloath
                   the
                   Palace
                   Walls
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   sumptuous
                   Feasts
                   are
                   made
                   in
                   splendid
                   Halls
                   :
                
                 
                   On
                   Tyrian
                   Carpets
                   ,
                   richly
                   wrought
                   ,
                   they
                   dine
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   loads
                   of
                   Massy
                   Plate
                   the
                   Side-boards
                   shine
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   Antique
                   Vafes
                   all
                   of
                   Gold
                   Emboss'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   (
                   The
                   Gold
                   it self
                   inferiour
                   to
                   the
                   Cost
                   :
                   )
                
                 
                   Of
                   curious
                   Work
                   ,
                   where
                   on
                   the
                   sides
                   were
                   seen
                
                 
                   The
                   Fights
                   and
                   Figures
                   of
                   Illustrious
                   Men
                   ;
                
                 
                   From
                   their
                   first
                   Founder
                   to
                   the
                   present
                   Queen
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Good
                   Aeneas
                   ,
                   whose
                   Paternal
                   Care
                
                 
                   Iulus
                   absence
                   could
                   no
                   longer
                   bear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Dispatch'd
                   Achates
                   to
                   the
                   Ships
                   in
                   hast
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   give
                   a
                   glad
                   Relation
                   of
                   the
                   past
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   fraught
                   with
                   precious
                   Gifts
                   ,
                   to
                   bring
                   the
                   Boy
                
                 
                   Snatch'd
                   from
                   the
                   Ruins
                   of
                   unhappy
                   Troy
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   Robe
                   of
                   Tissue
                   ,
                   stiff
                   with
                   golden
                   Wire
                   ;
                
                 
                   An
                   upper
                   Vest
                   ,
                   once
                   Hellen's
                   rich
                   Attire
                   ;
                
                 
                   From
                   Argos
                   by
                   the
                   fam'd
                   Adultress
                   brought
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Golden
                   flow'rs
                   and
                   winding
                   foliage
                   wrought
                   ;
                
                 
                   Her
                   Mother
                   Laeda's
                   Present
                   ,
                   when
                   she
                   came
                
                 
                   To
                   ruin
                   Troy
                   ,
                   and
                   set
                   the
                   World
                   on
                   flame
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Scepter
                   
                   Priam's
                   eldest
                   Daughter
                   bore
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   orient
                   Necklace
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Crown
                   she
                   wore
                   ;
                
                 
                   Of
                   double
                   texture
                   ,
                   glorious
                   to
                   behold
                   ;
                
                 
                   One
                   order
                   set
                   with
                   Gems
                   ,
                   and
                   one
                   with
                   Gold.
                
                 
                   Instructed
                   thus
                   ,
                   the
                   wise
                   Achates
                   goes
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   his
                   diligence
                   his
                   duty
                   shows
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   Venus
                   ,
                   anxious
                   for
                   her
                   Son's
                   Affairs
                   ,
                
                 
                   New
                   Councils
                   tryes
                   ;
                   and
                   new
                   Designs
                   prepares
                   :
                
                 
                   That
                   Cupid
                   should
                   assume
                   the
                   Shape
                   and
                   Face
                
                 
                   Of
                   sweet
                   Ascanius
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   sprightly
                   grace
                   :
                
                 
                   Shou'd
                   bring
                   the
                   Prefents
                   ,
                   in
                   her
                   Nephews
                   stead
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   Eliza's
                   Veins
                   the
                   gentle
                   Poison
                   shed
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   much
                   she
                   fear'd
                   the
                   Tyrians
                   ,
                   double
                   tongu'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   knew
                   the
                   Town
                   to
                   Juno's
                   care
                   belong'd
                   .
                
                 
                   These
                   thoughts
                   by
                   Night
                   her
                   Golden
                   Slumbers
                   broke
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   thus
                   alarm'd
                   ,
                   to
                   winged
                   Love
                   she
                   spoke
                   .
                
                 
                   My
                   Son
                   ,
                   my
                   strength
                   ,
                   whose
                   mighty
                   Pow'r
                   alone
                
                 
                   Controuls
                   the
                   Thund'rer
                   ,
                   on
                   his
                   awful
                   Throne
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   thee
                   thy
                   much
                   afflicted
                   Mother
                   flies
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   on
                   thy
                   Succour
                   ,
                   and
                   thy
                   Faith
                   relies
                   .
                
                 
                   Thou
                   know'st
                   ,
                   my
                   Son
                   ,
                   how
                   
                   Jove's
                   revengeful
                   Wife
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   force
                   and
                   Fraud
                   ,
                   attempts
                   thy
                   Brother's
                   life
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   often
                   hast
                   thou
                   mourn'd
                   with
                   me
                   his
                   Pains
                   :
                
                 
                   Him
                   Dido
                   now
                   with
                   Blandishment
                   detains
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   I
                   suspect
                   the
                   Town
                   where
                   Juno
                   reigns
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   this
                   ,
                   't
                   is
                   needful
                   to
                   prevent
                   her
                   Art
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   fire
                   with
                   Love
                   the
                   proud
                   Phoenician's
                   heart
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   Love
                   so
                   violent
                   ,
                   so
                   fond
                   ,
                   so
                   sure
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   neither
                   Age
                   can
                   change
                   ,
                   nor
                   Art
                   can
                   cure
                   .
                
                 
                   How
                   this
                   may
                   be
                   perform'd
                   ,
                   now
                   take
                   my
                   mind
                   :
                
                 
                   Ascanius
                   ,
                   by
                   his
                   Father
                   is
                   design'd
                
                 
                   To
                   come
                   ,
                   with
                   Presents
                   ,
                   laden
                   from
                   the
                   Port
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   gratifie
                   the
                   Queen
                   ,
                   and
                   gain
                   the
                   Court.
                
                 
                 
                   I
                   mean
                   to
                   plunge
                   the
                   Boy
                   in
                   pleasing
                   Sleep
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   ravish'd
                   ,
                   in
                   Idalian
                   Bow'rs
                   to
                   keep
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   high
                   Cythaera
                   :
                   That
                   the
                   sweet
                   Deceipt
                
                 
                   May
                   pass
                   unseen
                   ,
                   and
                   none
                   prevent
                   the
                   Cheat
                   ,
                
                 
                   Take
                   thou
                   his
                   Form
                   and
                   Shape
                   .
                   I
                   beg
                   the
                   Grace
                
                 
                   But
                   only
                   for
                   a
                   Night
                   's
                   revolving
                   Space
                   ;
                
                 
                   Thy self
                   a
                   Boy
                   ,
                   assume
                   a
                   Boy
                   's
                   dissembled
                   Face
                   .
                
                 
                   That
                   when
                   amidst
                   the
                   fervour
                   of
                   the
                   Feast
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Tyrian
                   hugs
                   ,
                   and
                   fonds
                   thee
                   on
                   her
                   Breast
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   sweet
                   Kisses
                   in
                   her
                   Arms
                   constrains
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thou
                   may'st
                   infuse
                   thy
                   Venom
                   in
                   her
                   Veins
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   God
                   of
                   Love
                   obeys
                   ,
                   and
                   sets
                   aside
                
                 
                   His
                   Bow
                   ,
                   and
                   Quiver
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   plumy
                   Pride
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   walks
                   Iulus
                   in
                   his
                   Mother's
                   Sight
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   the
                   sweet
                   Resemblance
                   takes
                   Delight
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Goddess
                   then
                   to
                   young
                   Ascanius
                   flies
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   a
                   pleasing
                   Slumber
                   seals
                   his
                   Eyes
                   ;
                
                 
                   Lull'd
                   in
                   her
                   Lap
                   ,
                   amidst
                   a
                   Train
                   of
                   Loves
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   gently
                   bears
                   him
                   to
                   her
                   blissful
                   Groves
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   with
                   a
                   Wreath
                   of
                   Myrtle
                   crowns
                   his
                   Head
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   softly
                   lays
                   him
                   on
                   a
                   flow'ry
                   Bed.
                
                 
                   Cupid
                   mean
                   time
                   assum'd
                   his
                   Form
                   and
                   Face
                   ,
                
                 
                   Foll'wing
                   Achates
                   with
                   a
                   shorter
                   Pace
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   brought
                   the
                   Gifts
                   .
                   The
                   Queen
                   ,
                   already
                   sate
                
                 
                   Amidst
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Lords
                   ,
                   in
                   shining
                   State
                   ,
                
                 
                   High
                   on
                   a
                   Golden
                   Bed
                   :
                   Her
                   Princely
                   Guest
                
                 
                   Was
                   next
                   her
                   side
                   ,
                   in
                   order
                   sate
                   the
                   rest
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   Canisters
                   with
                   Bread
                   are
                   heap'd
                   on
                   high
                   ;
                
                 
                   Th'
                   Attendants
                   Water
                   for
                   their
                   Hands
                   supply
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   having
                   wash'd
                   ,
                   with
                   silken
                   Towels
                   dry
                   .
                
                 
                   Next
                   fifty
                   Handmaids
                   in
                   long
                   order
                   bore
                
                 
                   The
                   Censers
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   Fumes
                   the
                   Gods
                   adore
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   Youths
                   ,
                   and
                   Virgins
                   twice
                   as
                   many
                   ,
                   join
                
                 
                   To
                   place
                   the
                   Dishes
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   serve
                   the
                   Wine
                   .
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     the
                     most
                     Hon
                     ble
                     .
                     Ursula
                     Marchioness
                     of
                     Normaneby
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     1.
                     l
                     995
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                 
                   The
                   Tyrian
                   Train
                   ,
                   admitted
                   to
                   the
                   Feast
                   ,
                
                 
                   Approach
                   ,
                   and
                   on
                   the
                   painted
                   Couches
                   rest
                   .
                
                 
                   All
                   on
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Gifts
                   ,
                   with
                   Wonder
                   gaze
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   view
                   the
                   beauteous
                   Boy
                   with
                   more
                   amaze
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   Rosy-colour'd
                   Cheeks
                   ,
                   his
                   radiant
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Motions
                   ,
                   Voice
                   ,
                   and
                   Shape
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   the
                   God's
                   disguise
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   pass
                   unprais'd
                   the
                   Vest
                   and
                   Veil
                   Divine
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   wand'ring
                   Foliage
                   and
                   rich
                   Flow'rs
                   entwine
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   far
                   above
                   the
                   rest
                   ,
                   the
                   Royal
                   Dame
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   Already
                   doom'd
                   to
                   Love's
                   disastrous
                   Flame
                   ;
                   )
                
                 
                   With
                   Eyes
                   insatiate
                   ,
                   and
                   tumultuous
                   Joy
                   ,
                
                 
                   Beholds
                   the
                   Presents
                   ,
                   and
                   admires
                   the
                   Boy
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   guileful
                   God
                   ,
                   about
                   his
                   Father
                   long
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Children's
                   play
                   ,
                   and
                   false
                   Embraces
                   hung
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   sought
                   the
                   Queen
                   :
                   She
                   took
                   him
                   to
                   her
                   Arms
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   greedy
                   Pleasure
                   ,
                   and
                   devour'd
                   his
                   Charms
                   .
                
                 
                   Unhappy
                   Dido
                   little
                   thought
                   what
                   Guest
                   ,
                
                 
                   How
                   dire
                   a
                   God
                   she
                   drew
                   so
                   near
                   her
                   Breast
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   he
                   ,
                   not
                   mindless
                   of
                   his
                   Mother's
                   Pray'r
                   ,
                
                 
                   Works
                   in
                   the
                   pliant
                   Bosom
                   of
                   the
                   Fair
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   moulds
                   her
                   Heart
                   anew
                   ,
                   and
                   blots
                   her
                   former
                   Care.
                
                 
                   The
                   dead
                   is
                   to
                   the
                   living
                   Love
                   resign'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   Aeneas
                   enters
                   in
                   her
                   Mind
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Now
                   ,
                   when
                   the
                   Rage
                   of
                   Hunger
                   was
                   appeas'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Meat
                   remov'd
                   ,
                   and
                   ev'ry
                   Guest
                   was
                   pleas'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Golden
                   Bowls
                   with
                   sparkling
                   Wine
                   are
                   crown'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   through
                   the
                   Palace
                   chearful
                   Cries
                   resound
                   .
                
                 
                   From
                   gilded
                   Roofs
                   depending
                   Lamps
                   display
                
                 
                   Nocturnal
                   Beams
                   ,
                   that
                   emulate
                   the
                   Day
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   Golden
                   Bowl
                   ,
                   that
                   shone
                   with
                   Gems
                   Divine
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Queen
                   commanded
                   to
                   be
                   crown'd
                   with
                   Wine
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Bowl
                   that
                   Belus
                   us'd
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   the
                   Tyrian
                   Line
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   Silence
                   through
                   the
                   Hall
                   proclaim'd
                   ,
                   she
                   spoke
                   :
                
                 
                   O
                   hospitable
                   Jove
                   !
                   we
                   thus
                   invoke
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   With
                   solemn
                   Rites
                   ,
                   thy
                   sacred
                   Name
                   and
                   Pow'r
                   !
                
                 
                   Bless
                   to
                   both
                   Nations
                   this
                   auspicious
                   Hour
                   .
                
                 
                   So
                   may
                   the
                   Tojan
                   and
                   the
                   Tyrian
                   Line
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   lasting
                   Concord
                   ,
                   from
                   this
                   Day
                   combine
                   .
                
                 
                   Thou
                   ,
                   Bacchus
                   ,
                   God
                   of
                   Joys
                   and
                   friendly
                   Cheer
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   gracious
                   Juno
                   ,
                   both
                   be
                   present
                   here
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   you
                   ,
                   my
                   Lords
                   of
                   Tyre
                   ,
                   your
                   Vows
                   address
                
                 
                   To
                   Heav'n
                   with
                   mine
                   ,
                   to
                   ratifie
                   the
                   Peace
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Goblet
                   then
                   she
                   took
                   ,
                   with
                   Nectar
                   crown'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   Sprinkling
                   the
                   first
                   Libations
                   on
                   the
                   Ground
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                   And
                   rais'd
                   it
                   to
                   her
                   Mouth
                   with
                   sober
                   Grace
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   sipping
                   ,
                   offer'd
                   to
                   the
                   next
                   in
                   place
                   .
                
                 
                   'T
                   was
                   Bitias
                   whom
                   she
                   call'd
                   ,
                   a
                   thirsty
                   Soul
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   took
                   the
                   Challenge
                   ,
                   and
                   embrac'd
                   the
                   Bowl
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   Pleasure
                   swill'd
                   the
                   Gold
                   ,
                   nor
                   ceas'd
                   to
                   draw
                   ,
                
                 
                   'Till
                   he
                   the
                   bottom
                   of
                   the
                   Brimmer
                   saw
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Goblet
                   goes
                   around
                   :
                   Iopas
                   brought
                
                 
                   His
                   Golden
                   Lyre
                   ,
                   and
                   sung
                   what
                   ancient
                   Atlas
                   taught
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   various
                   Labours
                   of
                   the
                   wand'ring
                   Moon
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   whence
                   proceed
                   th'
                   Eclipses
                   of
                   the
                   Sun.
                
                 
                   Th'
                   Original
                   of
                   Men
                   ,
                   and
                   Beasts
                   ;
                   and
                   whence
                
                 
                   The
                   Rains
                   arise
                   ,
                   and
                   Fires
                   their
                   Warmth
                   dispence
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   fix'd
                   ,
                   and
                   erring
                   Stars
                   ,
                   dispose
                   their
                   Influence
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   shakes
                   the
                   solid
                   Earth
                   ,
                   what
                   Cause
                   delays
                
                 
                   The
                   Summer
                   Nights
                   ,
                   and
                   shortens
                   Winter
                   Days
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   Peals
                   of
                   Shouts
                   the
                   Tyrians
                   praise
                   the
                   Song
                   ;
                
                 
                   Those
                   Peals
                   are
                   echo'd
                   by
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Throng
                   .
                
                 
                   Th'
                   unhappy
                   Queen
                   with
                   Talk
                   prolong'd
                   the
                   Night
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   drank
                   large
                   Draughts
                   of
                   Love
                   with
                   vast
                   Delight
                   .
                
                 
                   Of
                   Priam
                   much
                   enquir'd
                   ,
                   of
                   Hector
                   more
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   ask'd
                   what
                   Arms
                   the
                   swarthy
                   Memnon
                   wore
                   ;
                
                 
                   What
                   Troops
                   he
                   landed
                   on
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Shore
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Steeds
                   of
                   Di'mede
                   vary'd
                   the
                   Discourse
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   fierce
                   Achilles
                   ,
                   with
                   his
                   matchless
                   Force
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   At
                   length
                   ,
                   as
                   Fate
                   and
                   her
                   ill
                   Stars
                   requir'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   hear
                   the
                   Series
                   of
                   the
                   War
                   desir'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Relate
                   at
                   large
                   ,
                   my
                   God-like
                   Guest
                   ,
                   she
                   said
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Grecian
                   Stratagems
                   ,
                   the
                   Town
                   betray'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   fatal
                   Issue
                   of
                   so
                   long
                   a
                   War
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   Flight
                   ,
                   your
                   Wand'rings
                   ,
                   and
                   your
                   Woes
                   declare
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   since
                   on
                   ev'ry
                   Sea
                   ,
                   on
                   ev'ry
                   Coast
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   Men
                   have
                   been
                   distress'd
                   ,
                   your
                   Navy
                   tost
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sev'n
                   times
                   the
                   Sun
                   has
                   either
                   Tropick
                   view'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Winter
                   banish'd
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Spring
                   renew'd
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 The
                 Second
                 Book
                 of
                 the
                 Aeneis
                 .
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Argument
                   .
                
                 
                   Aeneas
                   
                     relates
                     how
                     the
                     City
                     of
                  
                   Troy
                   
                     was
                     taken
                     ,
                     after
                     a
                     Ten
                     Years
                     Siege
                     ,
                     by
                     the
                     Treachery
                     of
                  
                   Sinon
                   ,
                   
                     and
                     the
                     Stratagem
                     of
                     a
                     wooden
                     Horse
                     .
                     He
                     declares
                     the
                     fixt
                     Resolution
                     he
                     had
                     taken
                     not
                     to
                     survive
                     the
                     Ruins
                     of
                     his
                     Country
                     ,
                     and
                     the
                     various
                     Adventures
                     he
                     met
                     with
                     in
                     the
                     Defence
                     of
                     it
                     :
                     at
                     last
                     having
                     been
                     before
                     advis'd
                     by
                  
                   Hector
                   
                     's
                     Ghost
                     ,
                     and
                     now
                     by
                     the
                     Appearance
                     of
                     his
                     Mother
                  
                   Venus
                   ,
                   
                     he
                     is
                     prevail'd
                     upon
                     to
                     leave
                     the
                     Town
                     ,
                     and
                     settle
                     his
                     Houshold-Gods
                     in
                     another
                     Country
                     .
                     in
                     order
                     to
                     this
                     ,
                     he
                     carries
                     off
                     his
                     Father
                     on
                     his
                     Shoulders
                     ,
                     and
                     leads
                     his
                     little
                     Son
                     by
                     the
                     Hand
                     ,
                     his
                     Wife
                     following
                     him
                     behind
                     .
                     When
                     he
                     comes
                     to
                     the
                     Place
                     appointed
                     for
                     the
                     general
                     Rendevouze
                     ,
                     he
                     finds
                     a
                     great
                     Confluence
                     of
                     People
                     ,
                     but
                     misses
                     his
                     Wife
                     ,
                     whose
                     Ghost
                     afterwards
                     appears
                     to
                     him
                     ,
                     and
                     tells
                     him
                     the
                     Land
                     which
                     was
                     design'd
                     for
                     him
                     .
                  
                
              
               
                 
                   ALL
                   were
                   attentive
                   to
                   the
                   God-like
                   Man
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   from
                   the
                   lofty
                   Couch
                   he
                   thus
                   began
                   .
                
                 
                   Great
                   Queen
                   ,
                   what
                   you
                   command
                   me
                   to
                   relate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Renews
                   the
                   sad
                   remembrance
                   of
                   our
                   Fate
                   .
                
                 
                   An
                   Empire
                   from
                   its
                   old
                   Foundations
                   rent
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ev'ry
                   Woe
                   the
                   Trojans
                   underwent
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   Peopl'd
                   City
                   made
                   a
                   Desart
                   Place
                   ;
                
                 
                   All
                   that
                   I
                   saw
                   ,
                   and
                   part
                   of
                   which
                   I
                   was
                   :
                
                 
                   Not
                   ev'n
                   the
                   hardest
                   of
                   our
                   Foes
                   cou'd
                   hear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   stern
                   Ulysses
                   tell
                   without
                   a
                   Tear.
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   the
                   latter
                   Watch
                   of
                   wasting
                   Night
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   setting
                   Stars
                   to
                   kindly
                   Rest
                   invite
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   since
                   you
                   take
                   such
                   Int'rest
                   in
                   our
                   Woe
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   
                   Troy's
                   disast'rous
                   end
                   desire
                   to
                   know
                   :
                
                 
                   I
                   will
                   restrain
                   my
                   Tears
                   ,
                   and
                   briefly
                   tell
                
                 
                   What
                   in
                   our
                   last
                   and
                   fatal
                   Night
                   befel
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   By
                   Destiny
                   compell'd
                   ,
                   and
                   in
                   Despair
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Greeks
                   grew
                   weary
                   of
                   the
                   tedious
                   War
                   :
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     y
                     e
                     most
                     Illustrious
                     Prince
                     Charles
                     Duke
                     of
                     Somerset
                     ,
                     Knight
                     of
                     y
                     e
                     most
                     Noble
                     Order
                     of
                     y
                     e
                     Garter
                     .
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     2.
                     l
                     :
                     1.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                 
                   And
                   by
                   
                   Minerva's
                   Aid
                   a
                   Fabrick
                   rear'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   like
                   a
                   Steed
                   of
                   monstrous
                   height
                   appear'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Sides
                   were
                   planck'd
                   with
                   Pine
                   ,
                   they
                   feign'd
                   it
                   made
                
                 
                   For
                   their
                   Return
                   ,
                   and
                   this
                   the
                   Vow
                   they
                   paid
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   they
                   pretend
                   ,
                   but
                   in
                   the
                   hollow
                   Side
                   ,
                
                 
                   Selected
                   Numbers
                   of
                   their
                   Souldiers
                   hide
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   inward
                   Arms
                   the
                   dire
                   Machine
                   they
                   load
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Iron
                   Bowels
                   stuff
                   the
                   dark
                   Abode
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   sight
                   of
                   Troy
                   lies
                   Tenedos
                   ,
                   an
                   Isle
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   While
                   Fortune
                   did
                   on
                   
                   Priam's
                   Empire
                   smile
                   )
                
                 
                   Renown'd
                   for
                   Wealth
                   ,
                   but
                   since
                   a
                   faithless
                   Bay
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   Ships
                   expos'd
                   to
                   Wind
                   and
                   Weather
                   lay
                   .
                
                 
                   There
                   was
                   their
                   Fleet
                   conceal'd
                   :
                   We
                   thought
                   for
                   Greece
                
                 
                   Their
                   Sails
                   were
                   hoisted
                   ,
                   and
                   our
                   Fears
                   release
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Trojans
                   coop'd
                   within
                   their
                   Walls
                   so
                   long
                   ,
                
                 
                   Unbar
                   their
                   Gates
                   ,
                   and
                   issue
                   in
                   a
                   Throng
                   ,
                
                 
                   Like
                   swarming
                   Bees
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   Delight
                   survey
                
                 
                   The
                   Camp
                   deserted
                   ,
                   where
                   the
                   Grecians
                   lay
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Quarters
                   of
                   the
                   sev'ral
                   Chiefs
                   they
                   show'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Here
                   Phoenix
                   ,
                   here
                   Achilles
                   made
                   abode
                   ,
                
                 
                   Here
                   join'd
                   the
                   Battels
                   ,
                   there
                   the
                   Navy
                   rode
                   .
                
                 
                   Part
                   on
                   the
                   Pile
                   their
                   wond'ring
                   Eyes
                   employ
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   The
                   Pile
                   by
                   Pallas
                   rais'd
                   to
                   ruin
                   Troy.
                   )
                
                 
                   Thymaetes
                   first
                   (
                   't
                   is
                   doubtful
                   whether
                   hir'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   so
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Destiny
                   requir'd
                   )
                
                 
                   Mov'd
                   that
                   the
                   Ramparts
                   might
                   be
                   broken
                   down
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   lodge
                   the
                   fatal
                   Engine
                   in
                   the
                   Town
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   Capys
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   rest
                   of
                   sounder
                   Mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   fatal
                   Present
                   to
                   the
                   Flames
                   design'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   to
                   the
                   watry
                   deep
                   :
                   At
                   least
                   to
                   bore
                
                 
                   The
                   hollow
                   sides
                   ,
                   and
                   hidden
                   Frauds
                   explore
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   giddy
                   Vulgar
                   ,
                   as
                   their
                   Fancies
                   guide
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Noise
                   say
                   nothing
                   ,
                   and
                   in
                   parts
                   divide
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Iaocoon
                   ,
                   follow'd
                   by
                   a
                   num'rous
                   Crowd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ran
                   from
                   the
                   Fort
                   ;
                   and
                   cry'd
                   ,
                   from
                   far
                   ,
                   aloud
                   ;
                
                 
                   O
                   wretched
                   Country-men
                   !
                   what
                   Fury
                   reigns
                   ?
                
                 
                   What
                   more
                   than
                   Madness
                   has
                   possess'd
                   your
                   Brains
                   ?
                
                 
                   Think
                   you
                   the
                   Grecians
                   from
                   your
                   Coasts
                   are
                   gone
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   are
                   Ulysses
                   Arts
                   no
                   better
                   known
                   ?
                
                 
                   This
                   hollow
                   Fabrick
                   either
                   must
                   inclose
                   ,
                
                 
                   Within
                   its
                   blind
                   Recess
                   ,
                   our
                   secret
                   Foes
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   't
                   is
                   an
                   Engine
                   rais'd
                   above
                   the
                   Town
                   ,
                
                 
                   T'
                   o'relook
                   the
                   Walls
                   ,
                   and
                   then
                   to
                   batter
                   down
                   .
                
                 
                   Somewhat
                   is
                   sure
                   design'd
                   ;
                   by
                   Fraud
                   or
                   Force
                   ;
                
                 
                   Trust
                   not
                   their
                   Presents
                   ,
                   nor
                   admit
                   the
                   Horse
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   having
                   said
                   ,
                   against
                   the
                   Steed
                   he
                   threw
                
                 
                   His
                   forceful
                   Spear
                   ,
                   which
                   ,
                   hissing
                   as
                   it
                   flew
                   ,
                
                 
                   Pierc'd
                   through
                   the
                   yielding
                   Planks
                   of
                   jointed
                   Wood
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   trembling
                   in
                   the
                   hollow
                   Belly
                   stood
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   sides
                   transpierc'd
                   ,
                   return
                   a
                   ratling
                   Sound
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Groans
                   of
                   Greeks
                   inclos'd
                   come
                   issuing
                   through
                   the
                   Wound
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   had
                   not
                   Heav'n
                   the
                   fall
                   of
                   Troy
                   design'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   had
                   not
                   Men
                   been
                   fated
                   to
                   be
                   blind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Enough
                   was
                   said
                   and
                   done
                   ,
                   t'
                   inspire
                   a
                   better
                   Mind
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   had
                   our
                   Lances
                   pierc'd
                   the
                   treach'rous
                   Wood
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Ilian
                   Tow'rs
                   ,
                   and
                   
                   Priam's
                   Empire
                   stood
                   .
                
                 
                   Mean
                   time
                   ,
                   with
                   Shouts
                   ,
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Shepherds
                   bring
                
                 
                   A
                   captive
                   Greek
                   in
                   Bands
                   ,
                   before
                   the
                   King
                   :
                
                 
                   Taken
                   ,
                   to
                   take
                   ;
                   who
                   made
                   himself
                   their
                   Prey
                   ,
                
                 
                   T'
                   impose
                   on
                   their
                   Belief
                   ,
                   and
                   Troy
                   betray
                   .
                
                 
                   Fix'd
                   on
                   his
                   Aim
                   ,
                   and
                   obstinately
                   bent
                
                 
                   To
                   die
                   undaunted
                   ,
                   or
                   to
                   circumvent
                   .
                
                 
                   About
                   the
                   Captive
                   ,
                   tides
                   of
                   Trojans
                   flow
                   ;
                
                 
                   All
                   press
                   to
                   see
                   ,
                   and
                   some
                   insult
                   the
                   Foe
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Now
                   hear
                   how
                   well
                   the
                   Greeks
                   their
                   Wiles
                   disguis'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Behold
                   a
                   Nation
                   in
                   a
                   Man
                   compris'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Trembling
                   the
                   Miscreant
                   stood
                   ,
                   unarm'd
                   and
                   bound
                   ;
                
                 
                   He
                   star'd
                   ,
                   and
                   rowl'd
                   his
                   hagger'd
                   Eyes
                   around
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   said
                   ,
                   Alas
                   !
                   what
                   Earth
                   remains
                   ,
                   what
                   Sea
                
                 
                   Is
                   open
                   to
                   receive
                   unhappy
                   me
                   !
                
                 
                   What
                   Fate
                   a
                   wretched
                   Fugitive
                   attends
                   ,
                
                 
                   Scorn'd
                   by
                   my
                   Foes
                   ,
                   abandon'd
                   by
                   my
                   Friends
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   said
                   ,
                   and
                   sigh'd
                   ,
                   and
                   cast
                   a
                   ruful
                   Eye
                   :
                
                 
                   Our
                   Pity
                   kindles
                   ,
                   and
                   our
                   Passions
                   dye
                   .
                
                 
                   We
                   chear
                   the
                   Youth
                   to
                   make
                   his
                   own
                   Defence
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   freely
                   tell
                   us
                   what
                   he
                   was
                   ,
                   and
                   whence
                   :
                
                 
                   What
                   News
                   he
                   cou'd
                   impart
                   ,
                   we
                   long
                   to
                   know
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   what
                   to
                   credit
                   from
                   a
                   captive
                   Foe
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   His
                   fear
                   at
                   length
                   dismiss'd
                   ,
                   he
                   said
                   ,
                   what
                   e're
                
                 
                   My
                   Fate
                   ordains
                   ,
                   my
                   Words
                   shall
                   be
                   sincere
                   :
                
                 
                   I
                   neither
                   can
                   ,
                   nor
                   dare
                   my
                   Birth
                   disclaim
                   ,
                
                 
                   Greece
                   is
                   my
                   Country
                   ,
                   Sinon
                   is
                   my
                   Name
                   :
                
                 
                   Though
                   plung'd
                   by
                   Fortune's
                   Pow'r
                   in
                   Misery
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   not
                   in
                   Fortune's
                   Pow'r
                   to
                   make
                   me
                   lye
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   any
                   chance
                   has
                   hither
                   brought
                   the
                   Name
                
                 
                   Of
                   Palamedes
                   ,
                   not
                   unknown
                   to
                   Fame
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   suffer'd
                   from
                   the
                   Malice
                   of
                   the
                   times
                   ;
                
                 
                   Accus'd
                   and
                   sentenc'd
                   for
                   pretended
                   Crimes
                   :
                
                 
                   Because
                   these
                   fatal
                   Wars
                   he
                   would
                   prevent
                   ;
                
                 
                   Whose
                   Death
                   the
                   wretched
                   Greeks
                   too
                   late
                   lament
                   ;
                
                 
                   Me
                   ,
                   then
                   a
                   Boy
                   ,
                   my
                   Father
                   ,
                   poor
                   and
                   bare
                
                 
                   Of
                   other
                   Means
                   ,
                   committed
                   to
                   his
                   Care
                   :
                
                 
                   His
                   Kinsman
                   and
                   Companion
                   in
                   the
                   War.
                
                 
                   While
                   Fortune
                   favour'd
                   ,
                   while
                   his
                   Arms
                   support
                
                 
                   The
                   Cause
                   ,
                   and
                   rul'd
                   the
                   Counsels
                   of
                   the
                   Court
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   made
                   some
                   figure
                   there
                   ;
                   nor
                   was
                   my
                   Name
                
                 
                   Obscure
                   ,
                   nor
                   I
                   without
                   my
                   share
                   of
                   Fame
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   But
                   when
                   Ulysses
                   ,
                   with
                   fallacious
                   Arts
                   ,
                
                 
                   Had
                   made
                   Impression
                   in
                   the
                   Peoples
                   Hearts
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   forg'd
                   a
                   Treason
                   in
                   my
                   Patron
                   's
                   Name
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   I
                   speak
                   of
                   things
                   too
                   far
                   divulg'd
                   by
                   Fame
                   )
                
                 
                   My
                   Kinsman
                   fell
                   ;
                   then
                   I
                   ,
                   without
                   support
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   private
                   mourn'd
                   his
                   Loss
                   ,
                   and
                   left
                   the
                   Court.
                
                 
                   Mad
                   as
                   I
                   was
                   ,
                   I
                   could
                   not
                   bear
                   his
                   Fate
                
                 
                   With
                   silent
                   Grief
                   ,
                   but
                   loudly
                   blam'd
                   the
                   State
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   curs'd
                   the
                   direful
                   Author
                   of
                   my
                   Woes
                   .
                
                 
                   'T
                   was
                   told
                   again
                   ,
                   and
                   hence
                   my
                   Ruin
                   rose
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   threatn'd
                   ,
                   if
                   indulgent
                   Heav'n
                   once
                   more
                
                 
                   Wou'd
                   land
                   me
                   safely
                   on
                   my
                   Native
                   Shore
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Death
                   with
                   double
                   Vengeance
                   to
                   restore
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   mov'd
                   the
                   Murderer's
                   Hate
                   ,
                   and
                   soon
                   ensu'd
                
                 
                   Th'
                   Effects
                   of
                   Malice
                   from
                   a
                   Man
                   so
                   proud
                   .
                
                 
                   Ambiguous
                   Rumors
                   thro
                   the
                   Camp
                   he
                   spread
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   sought
                   ,
                   by
                   Treason
                   ,
                   my
                   devoted
                   Head
                   :
                
                 
                   New
                   Crimes
                   invented
                   ,
                   left
                   unturn'd
                   no
                   Stone
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   make
                   my
                   Guilt
                   appear
                   ,
                   and
                   hide
                   his
                   own
                   .
                
                 
                   'Till
                   Calchas
                   was
                   by
                   Force
                   and
                   Threatning
                   wrought
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   why
                   —
                   Why
                   dwell
                   I
                   on
                   that
                   anxious
                   Thought
                   ?
                
                 
                   If
                   on
                   my
                   Nation
                   just
                   Revenge
                   you
                   seek
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   't
                   is
                   t'
                   appear
                   a
                   Foe
                   ,
                   t'
                   appear
                   a
                   Greek
                   ;
                
                 
                   Already
                   you
                   my
                   Name
                   and
                   Country
                   know
                   ,
                
                 
                   Asswage
                   your
                   thirst
                   of
                   Blood
                   ,
                   and
                   strike
                   the
                   Blow
                   :
                
                 
                   My
                   Death
                   will
                   both
                   the
                   Kingly
                   Brothers
                   please
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   set
                   insatiate
                   Ithacus
                   at
                   ease
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   fair
                   unfinish'd
                   Tale
                   ,
                   these
                   broken
                   starts
                   ,
                
                 
                   Rais'd
                   expectations
                   in
                   our
                   longing
                   Hearts
                   ;
                
                 
                   Unknowing
                   as
                   we
                   were
                   in
                   Grecian
                   Arts.
                
                 
                   His
                   former
                   trembling
                   once
                   again
                   renew'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   acted
                   Fear
                   ,
                   the
                   Villain
                   thus
                   pursu'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Long
                   had
                   the
                   Grecians
                   (
                   tir'd
                   with
                   fruitless
                   Care
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   weary'd
                   with
                   an
                   unsuccessful
                   War
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                 
                   Resolv'd
                   to
                   raise
                   the
                   Siege
                   ,
                   and
                   leave
                   the
                   Town
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   had
                   the
                   Gods
                   permitted
                   ,
                   they
                   had
                   gone
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   oft
                   the
                   Wintry
                   Seas
                   ,
                   and
                   Southern
                   Winds
                   ,
                
                 
                   Withstood
                   their
                   passage
                   home
                   ,
                   and
                   chang'd
                   their
                   Minds
                   .
                
                 
                   Portents
                   and
                   Prodigies
                   their
                   Souls
                   amaz'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   most
                   ,
                   when
                   this
                   stupendous
                   Pile
                   was
                   rais'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   flaming
                   Meteors
                   ,
                   hung
                   in
                   Air
                   ,
                   were
                   seen
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Thunders
                   ratled
                   through
                   a
                   Skie
                   serene
                   :
                
                 
                   Dismay'd
                   ,
                   and
                   fearful
                   of
                   some
                   dire
                   Event
                   ,
                
                 
                   Eurypylus
                   ,
                   t'
                   enquire
                   their
                   Fate
                   ,
                   was
                   sent
                   ;
                
                 
                   He
                   from
                   the
                   Gods
                   this
                   dreadful
                   Answer
                   brought
                   ;
                
                 
                   O
                   Grecians
                   ,
                   when
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Shores
                   you
                   sought
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   Passage
                   with
                   a
                   Virgin
                   's
                   Blood
                   was
                   bought
                   :
                
                 
                   So
                   must
                   your
                   safe
                   Return
                   be
                   bought
                   again
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Grecian
                   Blood
                   ,
                   once
                   more
                   attone
                   the
                   Main
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   spreading
                   Rumour
                   round
                   the
                   People
                   ran
                   ;
                
                 
                   All
                   fear'd
                   ,
                   and
                   each
                   believ'd
                   himself
                   the
                   Man.
                
                 
                   Ulysses
                   took
                   th'
                   advantage
                   of
                   their
                   fright
                   ;
                
                 
                   Call'd
                   Calchas
                   ,
                   and
                   produc'd
                   in
                   open
                   sight
                   :
                
                 
                   Than
                   bade
                   him
                   name
                   the
                   Wretch
                   ,
                   ordain'd
                   by
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Publick
                   Victim
                   ,
                   to
                   redeem
                   the
                   State.
                
                 
                   Already
                   some
                   presag'd
                   the
                   dire
                   Event
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   saw
                   what
                   Sacrifice
                   Ulysses
                   meant
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   twice
                   five
                   days
                   the
                   good
                   old
                   Seer
                   withstood
                
                 
                   Th'
                   intended
                   Treason
                   ,
                   and
                   was
                   dumb
                   to
                   Blood.
                
                 
                   Till
                   Tir'd
                   with
                   endless
                   Clamours
                   ,
                   and
                   pursute
                
                 
                   Of
                   Ithacus
                   ,
                   he
                   stood
                   no
                   longer
                   Mute
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   ,
                   as
                   it
                   was
                   agreed
                   ,
                   pronounc'd
                   ,
                   that
                   I
                
                 
                   Was
                   destin'd
                   by
                   the
                   wrathful
                   Gods
                   to
                   die
                   .
                
                 
                   All
                   prais'd
                   the
                   Sentence
                   ,
                   pleas'd
                   the
                   storm
                   should
                   fall
                
                 
                   On
                   one
                   alone
                   ,
                   whose
                   Fury
                   threatn'd
                   all
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   dismal
                   day
                   was
                   come
                   ,
                   the
                   Priests
                   prepare
                
                 
                   Their
                   leaven'd
                   Cakes
                   ;
                   and
                   Fillets
                   for
                   my
                   Hair.
                
                 
                 
                   I
                   follow'd
                   Natur
                   's
                   Laws
                   ,
                   and
                   must
                   avow
                
                 
                   I
                   broke
                   my
                   Bonds
                   ,
                   and
                   fled
                   the
                   fatal
                   blow
                   .
                
                 
                   Hid
                   in
                   a
                   weedy
                   Lake
                   all
                   Night
                   I
                   lay
                   ,
                
                 
                   Secure
                   of
                   Safety
                   when
                   they
                   sail'd
                   away
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   now
                   what
                   further
                   Hopes
                   for
                   me
                   remain
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   see
                   my
                   Friends
                   or
                   Native
                   Soil
                   again
                   ?
                
                 
                   My
                   tender
                   Infants
                   ,
                   or
                   my
                   careful
                   Sire
                   ;
                
                 
                   Whom
                   they
                   returning
                   will
                   to
                   Death
                   require
                   ?
                
                 
                   Will
                   perpetrate
                   on
                   them
                   their
                   first
                   Design
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   take
                   the
                   forfeit
                   of
                   their
                   heads
                   for
                   mine
                   ?
                
                 
                   Which
                   ,
                   O
                   if
                   Pity
                   mortal
                   Minds
                   can
                   move
                   !
                
                 
                   If
                   there
                   be
                   Faith
                   below
                   ,
                   or
                   Gods
                   above
                   !
                
                 
                   If
                   Innocence
                   and
                   Truth
                   can
                   claim
                   desert
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ye
                   Trojans
                   from
                   an
                   injur'd
                   Wretch
                   avert
                   .
                
                 
                   False
                   Tears
                   true
                   Pity
                   move
                   :
                   the
                   King
                   Commands
                
                 
                   To
                   loose
                   his
                   Fetters
                   ,
                   and
                   unbind
                   his
                   hands
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   adds
                   these
                   friendly
                   words
                   ;
                   dismiss
                   thy
                   Fears
                   ,
                
                 
                   Forget
                   the
                   Greeks
                   ,
                   be
                   mine
                   as
                   thou
                   wert
                   theirs
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   truly
                   tell
                   ,
                   was
                   it
                   for
                   Force
                   or
                   Guile
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   some
                   Religious
                   End
                   ,
                   you
                   rais'd
                   the
                   Pile
                   ?
                
                 
                   Thus
                   said
                   the
                   King.
                   He
                   full
                   of
                   fraudful
                   Arts
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   well
                   invented
                   Tale
                   for
                   Truth
                   imparts
                   .
                
                 
                   Ye
                   Lamps
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   !
                   he
                   said
                   ,
                   and
                   lifted
                   high
                
                 
                   His
                   hands
                   now
                   free
                   ,
                   thou
                   venerable
                   Sky
                   ,
                
                 
                   Inviolable
                   Pow'rs
                   ,
                   ador'd
                   with
                   dread
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ye
                   fatal
                   Fillets
                   ,
                   that
                   once
                   bound
                   this
                   head
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ye
                   sacred
                   Altars
                   ,
                   from
                   whose
                   flames
                   I
                   fled
                   !
                
                 
                   Be
                   all
                   of
                   you
                   adjur'd
                   ;
                   and
                   grant
                   I
                   may
                   ,
                
                 
                   Without
                   a
                   Crime
                   ,
                   th'
                   ungrateful
                   Greeks
                   betray
                   !
                
                 
                   Reveal
                   the
                   Secrets
                   of
                   the
                   guilty
                   State
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   justly
                   punish
                   whom
                   I
                   justly
                   hate
                   !
                
                 
                   But
                   you
                   ,
                   O
                   King
                   ,
                   preseve
                   the
                   Faith
                   you
                   gave
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   I
                   to
                   save
                   my self
                   your
                   Empire
                   save
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Grecian
                   Hopes
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   th'
                   Attempts
                   they
                   made
                   ,
                
                 
                   Were
                   only
                   founded
                   on
                   
                   Minerva's
                   Aid
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   from
                   the
                   time
                   when
                   impious
                   Diomede
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   false
                   Ulysses
                   ,
                   that
                   inventive
                   Head
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   fatal
                   Image
                   from
                   the
                   Temple
                   drew
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   sleeping
                   Guardians
                   of
                   the
                   Castle
                   slew
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   Virgin
                   Statue
                   with
                   their
                   bloody
                   Hands
                
                 
                   Polluted
                   ,
                   and
                   prophan'd
                   her
                   holy
                   Bands
                   :
                
                 
                   From
                   thence
                   the
                   Tide
                   of
                   Fortune
                   left
                   their
                   Shore
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ebb'd
                   much
                   faster
                   than
                   it
                   flow'd
                   before
                   :
                
                 
                   Their
                   Courage
                   languish'd
                   ,
                   as
                   their
                   Hope
                   's
                   decay'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Pallas
                   ,
                   now
                   averse
                   ,
                   refus'd
                   her
                   Aid
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   did
                   the
                   Goddess
                   doubtfully
                   declare
                
                 
                   Her
                   alter'd
                   Mind
                   ,
                   and
                   alienated
                   Care
                   :
                
                 
                   When
                   first
                   her
                   fatal
                   Image
                   touch'd
                   the
                   Ground
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   sternly
                   cast
                   her
                   glaring
                   Eyes
                   around
                   ;
                
                 
                   That
                   sparkl'd
                   as
                   they
                   rowl'd
                   ,
                   and
                   seem'd
                   to
                   threat
                   :
                
                 
                   Her
                   Heav'nly
                   Limbs
                   distill'd
                   a
                   briny
                   Sweat.
                
                 
                   Thrice
                   from
                   the
                   Ground
                   she
                   leap'd
                   ,
                   was
                   seen
                   to
                   wield
                
                 
                   Her
                   brandish'd
                   Lance
                   ,
                   and
                   shake
                   her
                   horrid
                   Shield
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   Calchas
                   bad
                   our
                   Host
                   for
                   flight
                   prepare
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   hope
                   no
                   Conquest
                   from
                   the
                   tedious
                   War
                   :
                
                 
                   'Till
                   first
                   they
                   sail'd
                   for
                   Greece
                   ;
                   with
                   Pray'rs
                   besought
                
                 
                   Her
                   injur'd
                   Pow'r
                   ,
                   and
                   better
                   Omens
                   brought
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   their
                   Navy
                   ploughs
                   the
                   wat'ry
                   Main
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   ,
                   soon
                   expect
                   it
                   on
                   your
                   Shoars
                   again
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Pallas
                   pleas'd
                   ;
                   as
                   Calchas
                   did
                   ordain
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   first
                   ,
                   to
                   reconcile
                   the
                   blue-ey'd
                   Maid
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   her
                   stoln
                   Statue
                   ,
                   and
                   her
                   Tow'r
                   betray'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Warn'd
                   by
                   the
                   Seer
                   ,
                   to
                   her
                   offended
                   Name
                
                 
                   We
                   rais'd
                   ,
                   and
                   dedicate
                   this
                   wond'rous
                   Frame
                   :
                
                 
                   So
                   lofty
                   ,
                   lest
                   through
                   your
                   forbidden
                   Gates
                
                 
                   It
                   pass
                   ,
                   and
                   intercept
                   our
                   better
                   Fates
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   For
                   ,
                   once
                   admitted
                   there
                   ,
                   our
                   hopes
                   are
                   lost
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Troy
                   may
                   then
                   a
                   new
                   Palladium
                   boast
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   so
                   Religion
                   and
                   the
                   Gods
                   ordain
                   ;
                
                 
                   That
                   if
                   you
                   violate
                   with
                   Hands
                   prophane
                
                 
                   
                   Minerva's
                   Gift
                   ,
                   your
                   Town
                   in
                   Flames
                   shall
                   burn
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   Which
                   Omen
                   ,
                   O
                   ye
                   Gods
                   ,
                   on
                   Grecia
                   turn
                   !
                   )
                
                 
                   But
                   if
                   it
                   climb
                   ,
                   with
                   your
                   assisting
                   Hands
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Trojan
                   Walls
                   ,
                   and
                   in
                   the
                   City
                   stands
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   Troy
                   shall
                   Argos
                   and
                   Mycenae
                   burn
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   reverse
                   of
                   Fate
                   on
                   us
                   return
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   With
                   such
                   Deceits
                   he
                   gain'd
                   their
                   easie
                   Hearts
                   ,
                
                 
                   Too
                   prone
                   to
                   credit
                   his
                   perfidious
                   Arts.
                
                 
                   What
                   Diomede
                   ,
                   nor
                   Thetis
                   greater
                   Son
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   thousand
                   Ships
                   ,
                   nor
                   ten
                   years
                   Siege
                   had
                   done
                   :
                
                 
                   False
                   Tears
                   and
                   fawning
                   Words
                   the
                   City
                   won
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   greater
                   Omen
                   ,
                   and
                   of
                   worse
                   portent
                   ,
                
                 
                   Did
                   our
                   unwary
                   Minds
                   with
                   fear
                   torment
                   :
                
                 
                   Concurring
                   to
                   produce
                   the
                   dire
                   Event
                   .
                
                 
                   Laocoon
                   ,
                   Neptune's
                   Priest
                   by
                   Lot
                   that
                   Year
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   solemn
                   pomp
                   then
                   sacrific'd
                   a
                   Steer
                   .
                
                 
                   When
                   ,
                   dreadful
                   to
                   behold
                   ,
                   from
                   Sea
                   we
                   spy'd
                
                 
                   Two
                   Serpents
                   rank'd
                   abreast
                   ,
                   the
                   Seas
                   divide
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   smoothly
                   sweep
                   along
                   the
                   swelling
                   Tide
                   .
                
                 
                   Their
                   flaming
                   Crests
                   above
                   the
                   Waves
                   they
                   show
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   Bellies
                   seem
                   to
                   burn
                   the
                   Seas
                   below
                   :
                
                 
                   Their
                   speckled
                   Tails
                   advance
                   to
                   steer
                   their
                   Course
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   on
                   the
                   sounding
                   Shoar
                   the
                   flying
                   Billows
                   force
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   the
                   Strand
                   ,
                   and
                   now
                   the
                   Plain
                   they
                   held
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   ardent
                   Eyes
                   with
                   bloody
                   streaks
                   were
                   fill'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Their
                   nimble
                   Tongues
                   they
                   brandish'd
                   as
                   they
                   came
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   lick'd
                   their
                   hissing
                   Jaws
                   ,
                   that
                   sputter'd
                   Flame
                   .
                
                 
                   We
                   fled
                   amaz'd
                   ;
                   their
                   destin'd
                   Way
                   they
                   take
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   to
                   Laocoon
                   and
                   his
                   Children
                   make
                   :
                
              
               
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     the
                     Right
                     Hon
                     ble
                     :
                     James
                     Earle
                     of
                     Salisbury
                     &
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     2.
                     l.
                     290.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   And
                   first
                   around
                   the
                   tender
                   Boys
                   they
                   wind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   with
                   their
                   sharpen'd
                   Fangs
                   their
                   Limbs
                   and
                   Bodies
                   grind
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   wretched
                   Father
                   ,
                   running
                   to
                   their
                   Aid
                
                 
                   With
                   pious
                   Haste
                   ,
                   but
                   vain
                   ,
                   they
                   next
                   invade
                   :
                
                 
                   Twice
                   round
                   his
                   waste
                   their
                   winding
                   Volumes
                   rowl'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   twice
                   about
                   his
                   gasping
                   Throat
                   they
                   fold
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Priest
                   ,
                   thus
                   doubly
                   choak'd
                   ,
                   their
                   Crests
                   divide
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   tow'ring
                   o're
                   his
                   Head
                   ,
                   in
                   Triumph
                   ride
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   both
                   his
                   Hands
                   he
                   labours
                   at
                   the
                   Knots
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Holy
                   Fillets
                   the
                   blue
                   Venom
                   blots
                   :
                
                 
                   His
                   roaring
                   fills
                   the
                   flitting
                   Air
                   around
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   ,
                   when
                   an
                   Oxe
                   receives
                   a
                   glancing
                   Wound
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   breaks
                   his
                   Bands
                   ,
                   the
                   fatal
                   Altar
                   flies
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   loud
                   Bellowings
                   breaks
                   the
                   yielding
                   Skies
                   .
                
                 
                   Their
                   Tasks
                   perform'd
                   ,
                   the
                   Serpents
                   quit
                   their
                   prey
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   to
                   the
                   Tow'r
                   of
                   Pallas
                   make
                   their
                   way
                   :
                
                 
                   Couch'd
                   at
                   her
                   Feet
                   ,
                   they
                   lie
                   protected
                   there
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   her
                   large
                   Buckler
                   ,
                   and
                   protended
                   Spear
                   .
                
                 
                   Amazement
                   seizes
                   all
                   ;
                   the
                   gen'ral
                   Cry
                
                 
                   Proclaims
                   Laocoon
                   justly
                   doom'd
                   to
                   die
                   .
                
                 
                   Whose
                   hand
                   the
                   Will
                   of
                   Pallas
                   had
                   withstood
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   dar'd
                   to
                   violate
                   the
                   Sacred
                   Wood.
                
                 
                   All
                   vote
                   t'
                   admit
                   the
                   Steed
                   ,
                   that
                   Vows
                   be
                   paid
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Incense
                   offer'd
                   to
                   th'
                   offended
                   Maid
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   spacious
                   Breach
                   is
                   made
                   ,
                   the
                   Town
                   lies
                   bare
                   ,
                
                 
                   Some
                   hoisting
                   Leavers
                   ,
                   some
                   the
                   Wheels
                   prepare
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   fasten
                   to
                   the
                   Horses
                   Feet
                   :
                   the
                   rest
                
                 
                   With
                   Cables
                   haul
                   along
                   th'
                   unweildy
                   Beast
                   .
                
                 
                   Each
                   on
                   his
                   Fellow
                   for
                   Assistance
                   calls
                   :
                
                 
                   At
                   length
                   the
                   fatal
                   Fabrick
                   mounts
                   the
                   Walls
                   ,
                
                 
                   Big
                   with
                   Destruction
                   .
                   Boys
                   with
                   Chaplets
                   crown'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Quires
                   of
                   Virgins
                   sing
                   ,
                   and
                   dance
                   around
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   rais'd
                   aloft
                   ,
                   and
                   then
                   descending
                   down
                   ,
                
                 
                   It
                   enters
                   o're
                   our
                   Heads
                   ,
                   and
                   threats
                   the
                   Town
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   O
                   sacred
                   City
                   !
                   built
                   by
                   Hands
                   Divine
                   !
                
                 
                   O
                   valiant
                   Heroes
                   of
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Line
                   !
                
                 
                   Four
                   times
                   he
                   struck
                   ;
                   as
                   oft
                   the
                   clashing
                   sound
                
                 
                   Of
                   Arms
                   was
                   heard
                   ,
                   and
                   inward
                   Groans
                   rebound
                   .
                
                 
                   Yet
                   mad
                   with
                   Zeal
                   ,
                   and
                   blinded
                   with
                   our
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   We
                   hawl
                   along
                   the
                   Horse
                   ,
                   in
                   solemn
                   state
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   place
                   the
                   dire
                   Portent
                   within
                   the
                   Tow'r
                   .
                
                 
                   Cassandra
                   cry'd
                   ,
                   and
                   curs'd
                   th'
                   unhappy
                   Hour
                   ;
                
                 
                   Foretold
                   our
                   Fate
                   ;
                   but
                   by
                   the
                   Gods
                   decree
                
                 
                   All
                   heard
                   ,
                   and
                   none
                   believ'd
                   the
                   Prophecy
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   Branches
                   we
                   the
                   Fanes
                   adorn
                   ,
                   and
                   wast
                
                 
                   In
                   jollity
                   ,
                   the
                   Day
                   ordain'd
                   to
                   be
                   the
                   last
                   .
                
                 
                   Mean
                   time
                   the
                   rapid
                   Heav'ns
                   rowl'd
                   down
                   the
                   Light
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   on
                   the
                   shaded
                   Ocean
                   rush'd
                   the
                   Night
                   :
                
                 
                   Our
                   Men
                   secure
                   ,
                   nor
                   Guards
                   nor
                   Centries
                   held
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   easie
                   Sleep
                   their
                   weary
                   Limbs
                   compell'd
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Grecians
                   had
                   embark'd
                   their
                   Naval
                   Pow'rs
                
                 
                   From
                   Tenedos
                   ,
                   and
                   sought
                   our
                   well
                   known
                   Shoars
                   :
                
                 
                   Safe
                   under
                   Covert
                   of
                   the
                   silent
                   Night
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   guided
                   by
                   th'
                   Imperial
                   Galley's
                   light
                   .
                
                 
                   When
                   Sinon
                   ,
                   favour'd
                   by
                   the
                   Partial
                   Gods
                   ,
                
                 
                   Unlock'd
                   the
                   Horse
                   ,
                   and
                   op'd
                   his
                   dark
                   abodes
                   :
                
                 
                   Restor'd
                   to
                   vital
                   Air
                   our
                   hidden
                   Foes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   joyful
                   from
                   their
                   long
                   Confinement
                   rose
                   .
                
                 
                   Tysander
                   bold
                   ,
                   and
                   Sthenelus
                   their
                   Guide
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   dire
                   Ulysses
                   down
                   the
                   Cable
                   slide
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   
                     Thoas
                     ,
                     Athamas
                  
                   ,
                   and
                   Pyrrhus
                   hast
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   was
                   the
                   Podalyrian
                   Heroe
                   last
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   injur'd
                   Menelaus
                   ,
                   nor
                   the
                   fam'd
                
                 
                   Epeus
                   ,
                   who
                   the
                   fatal
                   Engine
                   fram'd
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   nameless
                   Crowd
                   succeed
                   ;
                   their
                   Forces
                   join
                
                 
                   T'
                   invade
                   the
                   Town
                   ,
                   oppress'd
                   with
                   Sleep
                   and
                   Wine
                   .
                
                 
                   Those
                   few
                   they
                   find
                   awake
                   ,
                   first
                   meet
                   their
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   to
                   their
                   Fellows
                   they
                   unbar
                   the
                   Gate
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   'T
                   was
                   in
                   the
                   dead
                   of
                   Night
                   ,
                   when
                   Sleep
                   repairs
                
                 
                   Our
                   Bodies
                   worn
                   with
                   Toils
                   ,
                   our
                   Minds
                   with
                   Cares
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   
                   Hector's
                   Ghost
                   before
                   my
                   sight
                   appears
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   bloody
                   Shrowd
                   he
                   seem'd
                   ,
                   and
                   bath'd
                   in
                   Tears
                   .
                
                 
                   Such
                   as
                   he
                   was
                   ,
                   when
                   ,
                   by
                   foul
                   Treason
                   slain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thessalian
                   Coursers
                   drag'd
                   him
                   o're
                   the
                   Plain
                   .
                
                 
                   Swoln
                   were
                   his
                   Feet
                   ,
                   as
                   when
                   the
                   Thongs
                   were
                   thrust
                
                 
                   Through
                   the
                   bor'd
                   holes
                   ,
                   his
                   Body
                   black
                   with
                   dust
                   .
                
                 
                   Unlike
                   that
                   Hector
                   ,
                   who
                   return'd
                   from
                   toils
                
                 
                   Of
                   War
                   Triumphant
                   ,
                   in
                   Aeacian
                   Spoils
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   him
                   ,
                   who
                   made
                   the
                   fainting
                   Greeks
                   retire
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   lanch'd
                   against
                   their
                   Navy
                   Phrygian
                   Fire
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   Hair
                   and
                   Beard
                   stood
                   stiffen'd
                   with
                   his
                   gore
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   the
                   Wounds
                   he
                   for
                   his
                   Country
                   bore
                   ,
                
                 
                   Now
                   stream'd
                   afresh
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   new
                   Purple
                   ran
                   :
                
                 
                   I
                   wept
                   to
                   see
                   the
                   visionary
                   Man
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   while
                   my
                   Trance
                   continu'd
                   ,
                   thus
                   began
                   .
                
                 
                   O
                   Light
                   of
                   Trojans
                   ,
                   and
                   Support
                   of
                   Troy
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Father's
                   Champion
                   ,
                   and
                   thy
                   Country's
                   Joy
                   !
                
                 
                   O
                   ,
                   long
                   expected
                   by
                   thy
                   Friends
                   !
                   from
                   whence
                
                 
                   Art
                   thou
                   so
                   late
                   return'd
                   for
                   our
                   Defence
                   ?
                
                 
                   Do
                   we
                   behold
                   thee
                   ,
                   weary'd
                   as
                   we
                   are
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   length
                   of
                   Labours
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   Toils
                   of
                   War
                   ?
                
                 
                   After
                   so
                   many
                   Fun'rals
                   of
                   thy
                   own
                   ,
                
                 
                   Art
                   thou
                   restor'd
                   to
                   thy
                   declining
                   Town
                   ?
                
                 
                   But
                   say
                   ,
                   what
                   Wounds
                   are
                   these
                   ?
                   What
                   new
                   Disgrace
                
                 
                   Deforms
                   the
                   Manly
                   Features
                   of
                   thy
                   Face
                   ?
                
                 
                   To
                   this
                   the
                   Spectre
                   no
                   Reply
                   did
                   frame
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   answer'd
                   to
                   the
                   Cause
                   for
                   which
                   he
                   came
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   groaning
                   from
                   the
                   bottom
                   of
                   his
                   Breast
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   Warning
                   ,
                   in
                   these
                   mournful
                   Words
                   express'd
                   .
                
                 
                   O
                   Goddess-born
                   !
                   escape
                   ,
                   by
                   timely
                   flight
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Flames
                   ,
                   and
                   Horrors
                   of
                   this
                   fatal
                   Night
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Foes
                   already
                   have
                   possess'd
                   the
                   Wall
                   ,
                
                 
                   Troy
                   nods
                   from
                   high
                   ,
                   and
                   totters
                   to
                   her
                   Fall.
                
                 
                   Enough
                   is
                   paid
                   to
                   
                   Priam's
                   Royal
                   Name
                   ,
                
                 
                   More
                   than
                   enough
                   to
                   Duty
                   and
                   to
                   Fame
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   by
                   a
                   Mortal
                   Hand
                   my
                   Father's
                   Throne
                
                 
                   Cou'd
                   be
                   defended
                   ,
                   't
                   was
                   by
                   mine
                   alone
                   :
                
                 
                   Now
                   Troy
                   to
                   thee
                   commends
                   her
                   future
                   State
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   gives
                   her
                   Gods
                   Companions
                   of
                   thy
                   Fate
                   :
                
                 
                   From
                   their
                   assistance
                   happyer
                   Walls
                   expect
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   ,
                   wand'ring
                   long
                   ,
                   at
                   last
                   thou
                   shalt
                   erect
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   said
                   ,
                   and
                   brought
                   me
                   ,
                   from
                   their
                   blest
                   abodes
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   venerable
                   Statues
                   of
                   the
                   Gods
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   ancient
                   Vesta
                   from
                   the
                   sacred
                   Quire
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Wreaths
                   and
                   Relicks
                   of
                   th'
                   Immortal
                   Fire
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Now
                   peals
                   of
                   Shouts
                   come
                   thund'ring
                   from
                   afar
                   ,
                
                 
                   Cries
                   ,
                   Threats
                   ,
                   and
                   loud
                   Laments
                   ,
                   and
                   mingl'd
                   War
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Noise
                   approaches
                   ,
                   though
                   our
                   Palace
                   stood
                
                 
                   Aloof
                   from
                   Streets
                   ,
                   encompass'd
                   with
                   a
                   Wood.
                
                 
                   Louder
                   ,
                   and
                   yet
                   more
                   loud
                   ,
                   I
                   hear
                   th'
                   Allarms
                
                 
                   Of
                   Human
                   Cries
                   distinct
                   ,
                   and
                   clashing
                   Arms
                   :
                
                 
                   Fear
                   broke
                   my
                   Slumbers
                   ;
                   I
                   no
                   longer
                   stay
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   mount
                   the
                   Terrass
                   ,
                   thence
                   the
                   Town
                   survey
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   hearken
                   what
                   the
                   frightful
                   Sounds
                   convey
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   when
                   a
                   flood
                   of
                   Fire
                   by
                   Winds
                   is
                   born
                   ,
                
                 
                   Crackling
                   it
                   rowls
                   ,
                   and
                   mows
                   the
                   standing
                   Corn
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   Deluges
                   ,
                   descending
                   on
                   the
                   Plains
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sweep
                   o're
                   the
                   yellow
                   Year
                   ,
                   destroy
                   the
                   pains
                
                 
                   Of
                   lab'ring
                   Oxen
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Peasant's
                   gains
                   :
                
                 
                   Unroot
                   the
                   Forrest
                   Oaks
                   ,
                   and
                   bear
                   away
                
                 
                   Flocks
                   ,
                   Folds
                   ,
                   and
                   Trees
                   ,
                   an
                   undistinguish'd
                   Prey
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Shepherd
                   climbs
                   the
                   Cliff
                   ,
                   and
                   sees
                   from
                   far
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   wastful
                   Ravage
                   of
                   the
                   wat'ry
                   War.
                
                 
                   Then
                   
                   Hector's
                   Faith
                   was
                   manifestly
                   clear'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Grecian
                   Frauds
                   in
                   open
                   light
                   appear'd
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Palace
                   of
                   Deiphobus
                   ascends
                
                 
                   In
                   smoaky
                   Flames
                   ,
                   and
                   catches
                   on
                   his
                   Friends
                   .
                
                 
                   Ucalegon
                   burns
                   next
                   ;
                   the
                   Seas
                   are
                   bright
                
                 
                   With
                   splendor
                   ,
                   not
                   their
                   own
                   ;
                   and
                   shine
                   with
                   Trojan
                   light
                   .
                
                 
                   New
                   Clamours
                   ,
                   and
                   new
                   Clangors
                   now
                   arise
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   sound
                   of
                   Trumpets
                   mix'd
                   with
                   fighting
                   cries
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   frenzy
                   seiz'd
                   ,
                   I
                   run
                   to
                   meet
                   th'
                   Alarms
                   ,
                
                 
                   Resolv'd
                   on
                   death
                   ,
                   resolv'd
                   to
                   die
                   in
                   Arms.
                
                 
                   But
                   first
                   to
                   gather
                   Friends
                   ,
                   with
                   them
                   t'
                   oppose
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   Fortune
                   favour'd
                   ,
                   and
                   repel
                   the
                   Foes
                   .
                
                 
                   Spurr'd
                   by
                   my
                   courage
                   ,
                   by
                   my
                   Country
                   fir'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   sense
                   of
                   Honour
                   ,
                   and
                   Revenge
                   inspir'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Pantheus
                   ,
                   Apollo's
                   Priest
                   ,
                   a
                   sacred
                   Name
                   ,
                
                 
                   Had
                   scap'd
                   the
                   Grecian
                   Swords
                   ,
                   and
                   pass'd
                   the
                   Flame
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   Reliques
                   loaden
                   ,
                   to
                   my
                   Doors
                   he
                   fled
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   by
                   the
                   hand
                   his
                   tender
                   Grand-son
                   led
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   hope
                   ,
                   O
                   Pantheus
                   !
                   whither
                   can
                   we
                   run
                   ?
                
                 
                   Where
                   make
                   a
                   stand
                   ?
                   and
                   what
                   may
                   yet
                   be
                   done
                   ?
                
                 
                   Scarce
                   had
                   I
                   said
                   ,
                   when
                   Pantheus
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   groan
                   ,
                
                 
                   Troy
                   is
                   no
                   more
                   ,
                   and
                   Ilium
                   was
                   a
                   Town
                   !
                
                 
                   The
                   fatal
                   Day
                   ,
                   th'
                   appointed
                   Hour
                   is
                   come
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   wrathful
                   
                   Jove's
                   irrevocable
                   doom
                
                 
                   Transfers
                   the
                   Trojan
                   State
                   to
                   Grecian
                   hands
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Fire
                   consumes
                   the
                   Town
                   ,
                   the
                   Foe
                   commands
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   armed
                   Hosts
                   ,
                   an
                   unexpected
                   Force
                   ,
                
                 
                   Break
                   from
                   the
                   Bowels
                   of
                   the
                   Fatal
                   Horse
                   .
                
                 
                   Within
                   the
                   Gates
                   ,
                   proud
                   Sinon
                   throws
                   about
                
                 
                   The
                   flames
                   ,
                   and
                   Foes
                   for
                   entrance
                   press
                   without
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   thousand
                   others
                   ,
                   whom
                   I
                   fear
                   to
                   name
                   ,
                
                 
                   More
                   than
                   from
                   Argos
                   ,
                   or
                   Mycenae
                   came
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   sev'ral
                   Posts
                   their
                   Parties
                   they
                   divide
                   ;
                
                 
                   Some
                   block
                   the
                   narrow
                   Streets
                   ,
                   some
                   scour
                   the
                   wide
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   bold
                   they
                   kill
                   ,
                   th'
                   unwary
                   they
                   surprise
                   ;
                
                 
                   Who
                   fights
                   finds
                   Death
                   ,
                   and
                   Death
                   finds
                   him
                   who
                   flies
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Warders
                   of
                   the
                   Gate
                   but
                   scarce
                   maintain
                
                 
                   Th'
                   unequal
                   Combat
                   ,
                   and
                   resist
                   in
                   vain
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   Heard
                   ;
                   and
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   that
                   well-born
                   Souls
                   inspires
                   ,
                
                 
                   Prompts
                   me
                   ,
                   thro'
                   lifted
                   Swords
                   ,
                   and
                   rising
                   Fires
                
                 
                   To
                   run
                   ,
                   where
                   clashing
                   Arms
                   and
                   Clamour
                   calls
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   rush
                   undaunted
                   to
                   defend
                   the
                   Walls
                   .
                
                 
                   Ripheus
                   and
                   Iph'itus
                   by
                   my
                   side
                   engage
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   Valour
                   one
                   Renown'd
                   ,
                   and
                   one
                   for
                   Age.
                
                 
                   Dymas
                   and
                   Hypanis
                   by
                   Moonlight
                   knew
                
                 
                   My
                   motions
                   ,
                   and
                   my
                   Meen
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   my
                   Party
                   drew
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   young
                   Choroebus
                   ,
                   who
                   by
                   Love
                   was
                   led
                
                 
                   To
                   win
                   Renown
                   ,
                   and
                   fair
                   
                   Cassandra's
                   Bed
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   lately
                   brought
                   his
                   Troops
                   to
                   
                   Priam's
                   aid
                   :
                
                 
                   Forewarn'd
                   in
                   vain
                   ,
                   by
                   the
                   Prophetic
                   Maid
                   .
                
                 
                   Whom
                   ,
                   when
                   I
                   saw
                   ,
                   resolv'd
                   in
                   Arms
                   to
                   fall
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   that
                   one
                   Spirit
                   animated
                   all
                   ;
                
                 
                   Brave
                   Souls
                   ,
                   said
                   I
                   ,
                   but
                   Brave
                   ,
                   alas
                   !
                   in
                   vain
                   :
                
                 
                   Come
                   ,
                   finish
                   what
                   our
                   Cruel
                   Fates
                   ordain
                   .
                
                 
                   You
                   see
                   the
                   desp'rate
                   state
                   of
                   our
                   Affairs
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Heav'ns
                   protecting
                   Pow'rs
                   are
                   deaf
                   to
                   Pray'rs
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   passive
                   Gods
                   behold
                   the
                   Greeks
                   defile
                
                 
                   Their
                   Temples
                   ,
                   and
                   abandon
                   to
                   the
                   Spoil
                
                 
                   Their
                   own
                   Abodes
                   :
                   we
                   ,
                   feeble
                   few
                   ,
                   conspire
                
                 
                   To
                   save
                   a
                   sinking
                   Town
                   ,
                   involv'd
                   in
                   Fire
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   let
                   us
                   fall
                   ,
                   but
                   fall
                   amidst
                   our
                   Foes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Despair
                   of
                   Life
                   ,
                   the
                   Means
                   of
                   Living
                   shows
                   .
                
                 
                   So
                   fierce
                   a
                   Speech
                   incourag'd
                   their
                   desire
                
                 
                   Of
                   Death
                   ,
                   and
                   added
                   fuel
                   to
                   their
                   fire
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   As
                   hungry
                   Wolves
                   ,
                   with
                   raging
                   appetite
                   ,
                
                 
                   Scour
                   thro'
                   the
                   fields
                   ,
                   nor
                   fear
                   the
                   stormy
                   Night
                   ;
                
                 
                   Their
                   Whelps
                   at
                   home
                   expect
                   the
                   promis'd
                   Food
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   long
                   to
                   temper
                   their
                   dry
                   Chaps
                   in
                   Blood
                   :
                
                 
                   So
                   rush'd
                   we
                   forth
                   at
                   once
                   ,
                   resolv'd
                   to
                   die
                   ,
                
                 
                   Resolv'd
                   in
                   Death
                   the
                   last
                   Extreams
                   to
                   try
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   We
                   leave
                   the
                   narrow
                   Lanes
                   behind
                   ,
                   and
                   dare
                
                 
                   Th'
                   unequal
                   Combat
                   in
                   the
                   publick
                   Square
                   :
                
                 
                   Night
                   was
                   our
                   Friend
                   ,
                   our
                   Leader
                   was
                   Despair
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   Tongue
                   can
                   tell
                   the
                   Slaughter
                   of
                   that
                   Night
                   ?
                
                 
                   What
                   Eyes
                   can
                   weep
                   the
                   Sorrows
                   and
                   Affright
                   !
                
                 
                   An
                   ancient
                   and
                   imperial
                   City
                   falls
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Streets
                   are
                   fill'd
                   with
                   frequent
                   Funerals
                   :
                
                 
                   Houses
                   and
                   Holy
                   Temples
                   float
                   in
                   Blood
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   hostile
                   Nations
                   make
                   a
                   common
                   Flood
                   .
                
                 
                   Not
                   only
                   Trojans
                   fall
                   ,
                   but
                   in
                   their
                   turn
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   vanquish'd
                   Triumph
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Victors
                   mourn
                   .
                
                 
                   Ours
                   take
                   new
                   Courage
                   from
                   Despair
                   and
                   Night
                   ;
                
                 
                   Confus'd
                   the
                   Fortune
                   is
                   ,
                   confus'd
                   the
                   Fight
                   .
                
                 
                   All
                   parts
                   resound
                   with
                   Tumults
                   ,
                   Plaints
                   ,
                   and
                   Fears
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   grisly
                   Death
                   in
                   sundry
                   shapes
                   appears
                   .
                
                 
                   Androgeos
                   fell
                   among
                   us
                   ,
                   with
                   his
                   Band
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   thought
                   us
                   Grecians
                   newly
                   come
                   to
                   Land
                   :
                
                 
                   From
                   whence
                   ,
                   said
                   he
                   ,
                   my
                   Friends
                   this
                   long
                   delay
                   ?
                
                 
                   You
                   loiter
                   ,
                   while
                   the
                   Spoils
                   are
                   born
                   away
                   :
                
                 
                   Our
                   Ships
                   are
                   laden
                   with
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Store
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   you
                   like
                   Truants
                   come
                   too
                   late
                   ashore
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   said
                   ,
                   but
                   soon
                   corrected
                   his
                   Mistake
                   ,
                
                 
                   Found
                   ,
                   by
                   the
                   doubtful
                   Answers
                   which
                   we
                   make
                   :
                
                 
                   Amaz'd
                   ,
                   he
                   wou'd
                   have
                   shun'd
                   th'
                   unequal
                   Fight
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   we
                   ,
                   more
                   num'rous
                   ,
                   intercept
                   his
                   flight
                   .
                
                 
                   As
                   when
                   some
                   Peasant
                   in
                   a
                   bushy
                   Brake
                   ,
                
                 
                   Has
                   with
                   unwary
                   Footing
                   press'd
                   a
                   Snake
                   ;
                
                 
                   He
                   starts
                   aside
                   ,
                   astonish'd
                   ,
                   when
                   he
                   spies
                
                 
                   His
                   rising
                   Crest
                   ,
                   blue
                   Neck
                   ,
                   and
                   rowling
                   Eyes
                   ;
                
                 
                   So
                   from
                   our
                   Arms
                   ,
                   surpriz'd
                   Androgeos
                   flies
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   vain
                   ;
                   for
                   him
                   and
                   his
                   we
                   compass'd
                   round
                   ,
                
                 
                   Possess'd
                   with
                   Fear
                   ,
                   unknowing
                   of
                   the
                   Ground
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   of
                   their
                   Lives
                   an
                   easy
                   Conquest
                   found
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Thus
                   Fortune
                   on
                   our
                   first
                   Endeavour
                   smil'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Choraebus
                   then
                   ,
                   with
                   youthful
                   Hopes
                   beguil'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Swoln
                   with
                   Success
                   ,
                   and
                   of
                   a
                   daring
                   Mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   new
                   Invention
                   fatally
                   design'd
                   .
                
                 
                   My
                   Friends
                   ,
                   said
                   he
                   ,
                   since
                   Fortune
                   shows
                   the
                   way
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   fit
                   we
                   shou'd
                   th'
                   auspicious
                   Guide
                   obey
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   what
                   has
                   she
                   these
                   Grecian
                   Arms
                   bestow'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   their
                   Destruction
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Trojans
                   good
                   ?
                
                 
                   Then
                   change
                   we
                   Shields
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   Devices
                   bear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Let
                   Fraud
                   supply
                   the
                   want
                   of
                   Force
                   in
                   War.
                
                 
                   They
                   find
                   us
                   Arms
                   ;
                   this
                   said
                   ,
                   himself
                   he
                   dress'd
                
                 
                   In
                   dead
                   
                   Androgeos's
                   Spoils
                   ,
                   his
                   upper
                   Vest
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   painted
                   Buckler
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   plumy
                   Crest
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   
                     Ripheus
                     ,
                     Dymas
                  
                   ,
                   all
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Train
                
                 
                   Lay
                   down
                   their
                   own
                   Attire
                   ,
                   and
                   strip
                   the
                   slain
                   .
                
                 
                   Mix'd
                   with
                   the
                   Greeks
                   ,
                   we
                   go
                   with
                   ill
                   Presage
                   ,
                
                 
                   Flatter'd
                   with
                   hopes
                   to
                   glut
                   our
                   greedy
                   Rage
                   :
                
                 
                   Unknown
                   ,
                   assaulting
                   whom
                   we
                   blindly
                   meet
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   strew
                   ,
                   with
                   Grecian
                   Carcasses
                   ,
                   the
                   Street
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   while
                   their
                   stragling
                   Parties
                   we
                   defeat
                   ,
                
                 
                   Some
                   to
                   the
                   Shoar
                   and
                   safer
                   Ships
                   retreat
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   some
                   oppress'd
                   with
                   more
                   ignoble
                   Fear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Remount
                   the
                   hollow
                   Horse
                   ,
                   and
                   pant
                   in
                   secret
                   there
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   ah
                   !
                   what
                   use
                   of
                   Valour
                   can
                   be
                   made
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   Heav'ns
                   propitious
                   Pow'rs
                   refuse
                   their
                   Aid
                   !
                
                 
                   Behold
                   the
                   royal
                   Prophetess
                   ,
                   the
                   Fair
                
                 
                   Cassandra
                   ,
                   drag'd
                   by
                   her
                   dishevel'd
                   Hair
                   ;
                
                 
                   Whom
                   not
                   
                   Minerva's
                   Shrine
                   ,
                   nor
                   sacred
                   Bands
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   safety
                   cou'd
                   protect
                   from
                   sacrilegious
                   Hands
                   :
                
                 
                   On
                   Heav'n
                   she
                   cast
                   her
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   she
                   sigh'd
                   ,
                   she
                   cry'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   'T
                   was
                   all
                   she
                   cou'd
                   )
                   her
                   tender
                   Arms
                   were
                   ty'd
                   .
                
                 
                   So
                   sad
                   a
                   Sight
                   Choraebus
                   cou'd
                   not
                   bear
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   fir'd
                   with
                   Rage
                   ,
                   distracted
                   with
                   Despair
                   ;
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     the
                     Right
                     Hon
                     ble
                     .
                     William
                     OBryen
                     Earle
                     of
                     Inchiquin
                     in
                     the
                     Kingdom
                     of
                     Ireland
                     &
                     ct
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     2.
                     l
                     :
                     545.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                 
                   Amid
                   the
                   barb'rous
                   Ravishers
                   he
                   flew
                   :
                
                 
                   Our
                   Leader's
                   rash
                   Example
                   we
                   pursue
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   storms
                   of
                   Stones
                   ,
                   from
                   the
                   proud
                   Temple's
                   height
                   ,
                
                 
                   Pour
                   down
                   ,
                   and
                   on
                   our
                   batter'd
                   Helms
                   alight
                   .
                
                 
                   We
                   from
                   our
                   Friends
                   receiv'd
                   this
                   fatal
                   Blow
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   thought
                   us
                   Grecians
                   ,
                   as
                   we
                   seem'd
                   in
                   show
                   .
                
                 
                   They
                   aim
                   at
                   the
                   mistaken
                   Crests
                   ,
                   from
                   high
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ours
                   beneath
                   the
                   pond'rous
                   Ruin
                   lie
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   mov'd
                   with
                   Anger
                   and
                   Disdain
                   ,
                   to
                   see
                
                 
                   Their
                   Troops
                   dispers'd
                   ,
                   the
                   Royal
                   Virgin
                   free
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Grecians
                   rally
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   Pow'rs
                   unite
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   Fury
                   charge
                   us
                   ,
                   and
                   renew
                   the
                   Fight
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Brother-Kings
                   with
                   Ajax
                   join
                   their
                   force
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   whole
                   Squadron
                   of
                   Thessalian
                   Horse
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Thus
                   ,
                   when
                   the
                   Rival
                   Winds
                   their
                   Quarrel
                   try
                   ,
                
                 
                   Contending
                   for
                   the
                   Kingdom
                   of
                   the
                   Skie
                   ;
                
                 
                   South
                   ,
                   East
                   ,
                   and
                   West
                   ,
                   on
                   airy
                   Coursers
                   born
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Whirlwind
                   gathers
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Woods
                   are
                   torn
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   Nereus
                   strikes
                   the
                   deep
                   ,
                   the
                   Billows
                   rise
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   mix'd
                   with
                   Ooze
                   and
                   Sand
                   ,
                   pollute
                   the
                   Skies
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Troops
                   we
                   squander'd
                   first
                   ,
                   again
                   appear
                
                 
                   From
                   sev'ral
                   Quarters
                   ,
                   and
                   enclose
                   the
                   Rear
                   .
                
                 
                   They
                   first
                   observe
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   the
                   rest
                   betray
                
                 
                   Our
                   diff'rent
                   Speech
                   ;
                   our
                   borrow'd
                   Arms
                   survey
                   .
                
                 
                   Oppress'd
                   with
                   odds
                   ,
                   we
                   fall
                   ;
                   Choraebus
                   first
                   ,
                
                 
                   At
                   
                   Pallas's
                   Altar
                   ,
                   by
                   Peneleus
                   pierc'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   Ripheus
                   follow'd
                   ,
                   in
                   th'
                   unequal
                   Fight
                   ;
                
                 
                   Just
                   of
                   his
                   Word
                   ,
                   observant
                   of
                   the
                   right
                   ;
                
                 
                   Heav'n
                   thought
                   not
                   so
                   :
                   Dymas
                   their
                   Fate
                   attends
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Hypanis
                   ,
                   mistaken
                   by
                   their
                   Friends
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Pantheus
                   ,
                   thee
                   ,
                   thy
                   Mitre
                   nor
                   the
                   Bands
                
                 
                   Of
                   awful
                   Phoebus
                   ,
                   sav'd
                   from
                   impious
                   Hands
                   .
                
                 
                   Ye
                   Trojan
                   Flames
                   your
                   Testimony
                   bear
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   I
                   perform'd
                   ,
                   and
                   what
                   I
                   suffer'd
                   there
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   No
                   Sword
                   avoiding
                   in
                   the
                   fatal
                   Strife
                   ,
                
                 
                   Expos'd
                   to
                   Death
                   ,
                   and
                   prodigal
                   of
                   Life
                   .
                
                 
                   Witness
                   ,
                   ye
                   Heav'ns
                   !
                   I
                   live
                   not
                   by
                   my
                   Fault
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   strove
                   to
                   have
                   deserv'd
                   the
                   Death
                   I
                   sought
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   when
                   I
                   cou'd
                   not
                   fight
                   ,
                   and
                   wou'd
                   have
                   dy'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Born
                   off
                   to
                   distance
                   by
                   the
                   growing
                   Tide
                   ,
                
                 
                   Old
                   Iphitus
                   and
                   I
                   were
                   hurry'd
                   thence
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Pelias
                   wounded
                   ,
                   and
                   without
                   Defence
                   .
                
                 
                   New
                   Clamors
                   from
                   th'
                   invested
                   Palace
                   ring
                   ;
                
                 
                   We
                   run
                   to
                   die
                   ,
                   or
                   disengage
                   the
                   King.
                
                 
                   So
                   hot
                   th'
                   Assault
                   ,
                   so
                   high
                   the
                   Tumult
                   rose
                   ,
                
                 
                   While
                   ours
                   defend
                   ,
                   and
                   while
                   the
                   Greeks
                   oppose
                   ;
                
                 
                   As
                   all
                   the
                   Dardan
                   and
                   Argolick
                   Race
                
                 
                   Had
                   been
                   contracted
                   in
                   that
                   narrow
                   Space
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   as
                   all
                   Ilium
                   else
                   were
                   void
                   of
                   Fear
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Tumult
                   ,
                   War
                   ,
                   and
                   Slaughter
                   only
                   there
                   .
                
                 
                   Their
                   Targets
                   in
                   a
                   Tortoise
                   cast
                   ,
                   the
                   Foes
                
                 
                   Secure
                   advancing
                   ,
                   to
                   the
                   Turrets
                   rose
                   :
                
                 
                   Some
                   mount
                   the
                   scaling
                   Ladders
                   ,
                   some
                   more
                   bold
                
                 
                   Swerve
                   upwards
                   ,
                   and
                   by
                   Posts
                   and
                   Pillars
                   hold
                   :
                
                 
                   Their
                   left
                   hand
                   gripes
                   their
                   Bucklers
                   ,
                   in
                   th'
                   ascent
                   ,
                
                 
                   While
                   with
                   the
                   right
                   they
                   seise
                   the
                   Battlement
                   .
                
                 
                   From
                   their
                   demolish'd
                   Tow'rs
                   the
                   Trojans
                   throw
                
                 
                   Huge
                   heaps
                   of
                   Stones
                   ,
                   that
                   falling
                   ,
                   crush
                   the
                   Foe
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   heavy
                   Beams
                   ,
                   and
                   Rafters
                   from
                   the
                   sides
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   Such
                   Arms
                   their
                   last
                   necessity
                   provides
                   :
                   )
                
                 
                   And
                   gilded
                   Roofs
                   come
                   tumbling
                   from
                   on
                   high
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   marks
                   of
                   State
                   ,
                   and
                   ancient
                   Royalty
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Guards
                   below
                   ,
                   fix'd
                   in
                   the
                   Pass
                   ,
                   attend
                
                 
                   The
                   Charge
                   undaunted
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Gate
                   defend
                   .
                
                 
                   Renew'd
                   in
                   Courage
                   with
                   recover'd
                   Breath
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   second
                   time
                   we
                   ran
                   to
                   tempt
                   our
                   Death
                   :
                
                 
                   To
                   clear
                   the
                   Palace
                   from
                   the
                   Foe
                   ,
                   succeed
                
                 
                   The
                   weary
                   living
                   ,
                   and
                   revenge
                   the
                   dead
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   A
                   Postern-door
                   ,
                   yet
                   unobserv'd
                   and
                   free
                   ,
                
                 
                   Join'd
                   by
                   the
                   length
                   of
                   a
                   blind
                   Gallery
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   the
                   King's
                   Closet
                   led
                   ;
                   a
                   way
                   well
                   known
                
                 
                   To
                   
                   Hector's
                   Wife
                   ,
                   while
                   Priam
                   held
                   the
                   Throne
                   :
                
                 
                   Through
                   which
                   she
                   brought
                   Astyanax
                   ,
                   unseen
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   chear
                   his
                   Grandsire
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Grandsire's
                   Queen
                   .
                
                 
                   Through
                   this
                   we
                   pass
                   ,
                   and
                   mount
                   the
                   Tow'r
                   ,
                   from
                   whence
                
                 
                   With
                   unavailing
                   Arms
                   the
                   Trojans
                   make
                   defence
                   .
                
                 
                   From
                   this
                   the
                   trembling
                   King
                   had
                   oft
                   descry'd
                
                 
                   The
                   Grecian
                   Camp
                   ,
                   and
                   saw
                   their
                   Navy
                   ride
                   .
                
                 
                   Beams
                   from
                   its
                   lofty
                   height
                   with
                   Swords
                   we
                   hew
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   wrenching
                   with
                   our
                   hands
                   ,
                   th'
                   Assault
                   renew
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   where
                   the
                   Rafters
                   on
                   the
                   Columns
                   meet
                   ,
                
                 
                   We
                   push
                   them
                   headlong
                   with
                   our
                   Arms
                   and
                   Feet
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Lightning
                   flies
                   not
                   swifter
                   than
                   the
                   Fall
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Thunder
                   louder
                   than
                   the
                   ruin'd
                   Wall
                   :
                
                 
                   Down
                   goes
                   the
                   top
                   at
                   once
                   ;
                   the
                   Greeks
                   beneath
                
                 
                   Are
                   piecemeal
                   torn
                   ,
                   or
                   pounded
                   into
                   Death
                   .
                
                 
                   Yet
                   more
                   succeed
                   ,
                   and
                   more
                   to
                   death
                   are
                   sent
                   ;
                
                 
                   We
                   cease
                   not
                   from
                   above
                   ,
                   nor
                   they
                   below
                   relent
                   .
                
                 
                   Before
                   the
                   Gate
                   stood
                   Pyrrhus
                   ,
                   threat'ning
                   loud
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   glitt'ring
                   Arms
                   conspicuous
                   in
                   the
                   Crowd
                   .
                
                 
                   So
                   shines
                   ,
                   renew'd
                   in
                   Youth
                   ,
                   the
                   crested
                   Snake
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   slept
                   the
                   Winter
                   in
                   a
                   thorny
                   Brake
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   casting
                   off
                   his
                   Slough
                   ,
                   when
                   Spring
                   returns
                   ,
                
                 
                   Now
                   looks
                   aloft
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   new
                   Glory
                   burns
                   :
                
                 
                   Restor'd
                   with
                   pois'nous
                   Herbs
                   ,
                   his
                   ardent
                   sides
                
                 
                   Reflect
                   the
                   Sun
                   ,
                   and
                   rais'd
                   on
                   Spires
                   he
                   rides
                   :
                
                 
                   High
                   o're
                   the
                   Grass
                   ,
                   hissing
                   he
                   rowls
                   along
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   brandishes
                   by
                   fits
                   his
                   sorky
                   Tongue
                   .
                
                 
                   Proud
                   Periphas
                   ,
                   and
                   fierce
                   Automedon
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Father's
                   Charioteer
                   ,
                   together
                   run
                
                 
                   To
                   force
                   the
                   Gate
                   :
                   The
                   Scyrian
                   Infantry
                
                 
                   Rush
                   on
                   in
                   Crowds
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   barr'd
                   Passage
                   free
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Ent'ring
                   the
                   Court
                   ,
                   with
                   Shouts
                   the
                   Skies
                   they
                   rend
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   flaming
                   Firebrands
                   to
                   the
                   Roofs
                   ascend
                   .
                
                 
                   Himself
                   ,
                   among
                   the
                   foremost
                   ,
                   deals
                   his
                   Blows
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   his
                   Axe
                   repeated
                   Stroaks
                   bestows
                
                 
                   On
                   the
                   strong
                   Doors
                   :
                   then
                   all
                   their
                   Shoulders
                   ply
                   ,
                
                 
                   'Till
                   from
                   the
                   Posts
                   the
                   brazen
                   Hinges
                   fly
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   hews
                   apace
                   ,
                   the
                   double
                   Bars
                   at
                   length
                
                 
                   Yield
                   to
                   his
                   Ax
                   ,
                   and
                   unresisted
                   Strength
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   mighty
                   Breach
                   is
                   made
                   ;
                   the
                   Rooms
                   conceal'd
                
                 
                   Appear
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   the
                   Palace
                   is
                   reveal'd
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Halls
                   of
                   Audience
                   ,
                   and
                   of
                   publick
                   State
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   where
                   the
                   lonely
                   Queen
                   in
                   secret
                   sate
                   .
                
                 
                   Arm'd
                   Souldiers
                   now
                   by
                   trembling
                   Maids
                   are
                   seen
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   not
                   a
                   Door
                   ,
                   and
                   scarce
                   a
                   Space
                   between
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   House
                   is
                   fill'd
                   with
                   loud
                   Laments
                   and
                   Cries
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Shrieks
                   of
                   Women
                   rend
                   the
                   vaulted
                   Skies
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   fearful
                   Matrons
                   run
                   from
                   place
                   to
                   place
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   kiss
                   the
                   Thresholds
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Posts
                   embrace
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   fatal
                   work
                   inhuman
                   Pyrrhus
                   plies
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   his
                   Father
                   sparkles
                   in
                   his
                   Eyes
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Bars
                   ,
                   nor
                   fighting
                   Guards
                   his
                   force
                   sustain
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Bars
                   are
                   broken
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Guards
                   are
                   slain
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   rush
                   the
                   Greeks
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   the
                   Apartments
                   fill
                   ;
                
                 
                   Those
                   few
                   Defendants
                   whom
                   they
                   find
                   ,
                   they
                   kill
                   .
                
                 
                   Not
                   with
                   so
                   fierce
                   a
                   Rage
                   ,
                   the
                   foaming
                   Flood
                
                 
                   Roars
                   ,
                   when
                   he
                   finds
                   his
                   rapid
                   Course
                   withstood
                   :
                
                 
                   Bears
                   down
                   the
                   Dams
                   with
                   unresisted
                   sway
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   sweeps
                   the
                   Cattle
                   and
                   the
                   Cots
                   away
                   .
                
                 
                   These
                   Eyes
                   beheld
                   him
                   ,
                   when
                   he
                   march'd
                   between
                
                 
                   The
                   Brother-Kings
                   :
                   I
                   saw
                   th'
                   unhappy
                   Queen
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   hundred
                   Wives
                   ,
                   and
                   where
                   old
                   Priam
                   stood
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   stain
                   his
                   hallow'd
                   Altar
                   with
                   his
                   Blood.
                
                 
                   The
                   fifty
                   Nuptial
                   Beds
                   :
                   (
                   such
                   Hopes
                   had
                   he
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   large
                   a
                   Promise
                   of
                   a
                   Progeny
                   .
                   )
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Posts
                   of
                   plated
                   Gold
                   ,
                   and
                   hung
                   with
                   Spoils
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fell
                   the
                   Reward
                   of
                   the
                   proud
                   Victor's
                   Toils
                   .
                
                 
                   Where
                   e're
                   the
                   raging
                   Fire
                   had
                   left
                   a
                   space
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Grecians
                   enter
                   ,
                   and
                   possess
                   the
                   Place
                   .
                
                 
                   Perhaps
                   you
                   may
                   of
                   
                   Priam's
                   Fate
                   enquire
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   ,
                   when
                   he
                   saw
                   his
                   Regal
                   Town
                   on
                   fire
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   ruin'd
                   Palace
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   ent'ring
                   Foes
                   ,
                
                 
                   On
                   ev'ry
                   side
                   inevitable
                   woes
                   ;
                
                 
                   In
                   Arms
                   ,
                   disus'd
                   ,
                   invests
                   his
                   Limbs
                   decay'd
                
                 
                   Like
                   them
                   ,
                   with
                   Age
                   ;
                   a
                   late
                   and
                   useless
                   aid
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   feeble
                   shoulders
                   scarce
                   the
                   weight
                   sustain
                   :
                
                 
                   Loaded
                   ,
                   not
                   arm'd
                   ,
                   he
                   creeps
                   along
                   ,
                   with
                   pain
                   ;
                
                 
                   Despairing
                   of
                   Success
                   ;
                   ambitious
                   to
                   be
                   slain
                   !
                
                 
                   Uncover'd
                   but
                   by
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   there
                   stood
                   in
                   view
                
                 
                   An
                   Altar
                   ;
                   near
                   the
                   hearth
                   a
                   Lawrel
                   grew
                   ;
                
                 
                   Dodder'd
                   with
                   Age
                   ,
                   whose
                   Boughs
                   encompass
                   round
                
                 
                   The
                   Household
                   Gods
                   ,
                   and
                   shade
                   the
                   holy
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                   Here
                   Hecuba
                   ,
                   with
                   all
                   her
                   helpless
                   Train
                
                 
                   Of
                   Dames
                   ,
                   for
                   shelter
                   sought
                   ,
                   but
                   sought
                   in
                   vain
                   .
                
                 
                   Driv'n
                   like
                   a
                   Flock
                   of
                   Doves
                   along
                   the
                   skie
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   Images
                   they
                   hugg
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   their
                   Altars
                   fly
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Queen
                   ,
                   when
                   she
                   beheld
                   her
                   trembling
                   Lord
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   hanging
                   by
                   his
                   side
                   a
                   heavy
                   Sword
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   Rage
                   ,
                   she
                   cry'd
                   ,
                   has
                   seiz'd
                   my
                   Husband's
                   mind
                   ;
                
                 
                   What
                   Arms
                   are
                   these
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   what
                   use
                   design'd
                   ?
                
                 
                   These
                   times
                   want
                   other
                   aids
                   :
                   were
                   Hector
                   here
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   Hector
                   now
                   in
                   vain
                   ,
                   like
                   Priam
                   wou'd
                   appear
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   us
                   ,
                   one
                   common
                   shelter
                   thou
                   shalt
                   find
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   in
                   one
                   common
                   Fate
                   with
                   us
                   be
                   join'd
                   .
                
                 
                   She
                   said
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   a
                   last
                   Salute
                   embrac'd
                
                 
                   The
                   poor
                   old
                   Man
                   ,
                   and
                   by
                   the
                   Lawrel
                   plac'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Behold
                   Polites
                   ,
                   one
                   of
                   
                   Priam's
                   Sons
                   ,
                
                 
                   Pursu'd
                   by
                   Pyrrhus
                   ,
                   there
                   for
                   safety
                   runs
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Thro
                   Swords
                   ,
                   and
                   Foes
                   ,
                   amaz'd
                   and
                   hurt
                   ,
                   he
                   flies
                
                 
                   Through
                   empty
                   Courts
                   ,
                   and
                   open
                   Galleries
                   :
                
                 
                   Him
                   Pyrrhus
                   ,
                   urging
                   with
                   his
                   Lance
                   ,
                   pursues
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   often
                   reaches
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   thrusts
                   renews
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Youth
                   transfix'd
                   ,
                   with
                   lamentable
                   Cries
                
                 
                   Expires
                   ,
                   before
                   his
                   wretched
                   Parent
                   's
                   Eyes
                   .
                
                 
                   Whom
                   ,
                   gasping
                   at
                   his
                   feet
                   ,
                   when
                   Priam
                   saw
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Fear
                   of
                   death
                   gave
                   place
                   to
                   Nature's
                   Law.
                
                 
                   And
                   shaking
                   more
                   with
                   Anger
                   ,
                   than
                   with
                   Age
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Gods
                   ,
                   said
                   He
                   ,
                   requite
                   thy
                   brutal
                   Rage
                   :
                
                 
                   As
                   sure
                   they
                   will
                   ,
                   Barbarian
                   ,
                   sure
                   they
                   must
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   there
                   be
                   Gods
                   in
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   and
                   Gods
                   be
                   just
                   :
                
                 
                   Who
                   tak'st
                   in
                   Wrongs
                   an
                   insolent
                   delight
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   a
                   Son's
                   death
                   t'
                   infect
                   a
                   Father's
                   sight
                   .
                
                 
                   Not
                   He
                   ,
                   whom
                   thou
                   and
                   lying
                   Fame
                   conspire
                
                 
                   To
                   call
                   thee
                   his
                   ;
                   Not
                   He
                   ,
                   thy
                   vaunted
                   Sire
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thus
                   us'd
                   my
                   wretched
                   Age
                   :
                   The
                   Gods
                   he
                   fear'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Laws
                   of
                   Nature
                   and
                   of
                   Nations
                   heard
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   chear'd
                   my
                   Sorrows
                   ,
                   and
                   for
                   Sums
                   of
                   Gold
                
                 
                   The
                   bloodless
                   Carcass
                   of
                   my
                   Hector
                   sold
                   .
                
                 
                   Pity'd
                   the
                   Woes
                   a
                   Parent
                   underwent
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   sent
                   me
                   back
                   in
                   safety
                   from
                   his
                   Tent.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   This
                   said
                   ,
                   his
                   feeble
                   hand
                   a
                   Javelin
                   threw
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   flutt'ring
                   ,
                   seem'd
                   to
                   loiter
                   as
                   it
                   flew
                   :
                
                 
                   Just
                   ,
                   and
                   but
                   barely
                   ,
                   to
                   the
                   Mark
                   it
                   held
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   faintly
                   tinckl'd
                   on
                   the
                   Brazen
                   Shield
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   Pyrrhus
                   thus
                   :
                   go
                   thou
                   from
                   me
                   to
                   Fate
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   to
                   my
                   Father
                   my
                   foul
                   deeds
                   relate
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   dye
                   :
                   with
                   that
                   he
                   dragg'd
                   the
                   trembling
                   Sire
                   ,
                
                 
                   Slidd'ring
                   through
                   clotter'd
                   Blood
                   ,
                   and
                   holy
                   Mire
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   The
                   mingl'd
                   Paste
                   his
                   murder'd
                   Son
                   had
                   made
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                   Haul'd
                   from
                   beneath
                   the
                   violated
                   Shade
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   on
                   the
                   Sacred
                   Pile
                   ,
                   the
                   Royal
                   Victim
                   laid
                   .
                
              
               
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     y
                     e
                     Right
                     Hon
                     ble
                     Roger
                     Earle
                     of
                     Orrery
                     Baron
                     of
                     Broghill
                     &
                     ct
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     2.
                     l
                     :
                     765.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   His
                   right
                   Hand
                   held
                   his
                   bloody
                   Fauchion
                   bare
                   ;
                
                 
                   His
                   left
                   he
                   twisted
                   in
                   his
                   hoary
                   Hair
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   speeding
                   Thrust
                   ,
                   his
                   Heart
                   he
                   found
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   lukewarm
                   Blood
                   came
                   rushing
                   through
                   the
                   wound
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   sanguine
                   Streams
                   distain'd
                   the
                   sacred
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   Priam
                   fell
                   :
                   and
                   shar'd
                   one
                   common
                   Fate
                
                 
                   With
                   Troy
                   in
                   Ashes
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   ruin'd
                   State
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   ,
                   who
                   the
                   Scepter
                   of
                   all
                   Asia
                   sway'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whom
                   Monarchs
                   like
                   domestick
                   Slaves
                   obey'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   On
                   the
                   bleak
                   Shoar
                   now
                   lies
                   th'
                   abandon'd
                   King
                   ,
                
                 
                   *
                   A
                   headless
                   Carcass
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   nameless
                   thing
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   not
                   before
                   ,
                   I
                   felt
                   my
                   crudled
                   Blood
                
                 
                   Congeal
                   with
                   Fear
                   ;
                   my
                   Hair
                   with
                   horror
                   stood
                   :
                
                 
                   My
                   Father's
                   Image
                   fill'd
                   my
                   pious
                   Mind
                   ;
                
                 
                   Lest
                   equal
                   Years
                   might
                   equal
                   Fortune
                   find
                   .
                
                 
                   Again
                   I
                   thought
                   on
                   my
                   forsaken
                   Wife
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   trembl'd
                   for
                   my
                   Son
                   's
                   abandon'd
                   Life
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   look'd
                   about
                   ;
                   but
                   found
                   my self
                   alone
                   :
                
                 
                   Deserted
                   at
                   my
                   need
                   ,
                   my
                   Friends
                   were
                   gone
                   .
                
                 
                   Some
                   spent
                   with
                   Toil
                   ,
                   some
                   with
                   Despair
                   oppress'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Leap'd
                   headlong
                   from
                   the
                   Heights
                   ;
                   the
                   Flames
                   consum'd
                   the
                   (
                   rest
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   ,
                   wand'ring
                   in
                   my
                   way
                   ,
                   without
                   a
                   Guide
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   graceless
                   Helen
                   in
                   the
                   Porch
                   I
                   spy'd
                
                 
                   Of
                   
                   Vesta's
                   Temple
                   :
                   there
                   she
                   lurk'd
                   alone
                   ;
                
                 
                   Muffled
                   she
                   sate
                   ,
                   and
                   what
                   she
                   cou'd
                   ,
                   unknown
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   ,
                   by
                   the
                   Flames
                   ,
                   that
                   cast
                   their
                   Blaze
                   around
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   common
                   Bane
                   of
                   Greece
                   and
                   Troy
                   ,
                   I
                   found
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   Ilium
                   burnt
                   ,
                   she
                   dreads
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Sword
                   ;
                
                 
                   More
                   dreads
                   the
                   Vengeance
                   of
                   her
                   injur'd
                   Lord
                   ;
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   by
                   those
                   Gods
                   ,
                   who
                   refug'd
                   her
                   ,
                   abhorr'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Trembling
                   with
                   Rage
                   ,
                   the
                   Strumpet
                   I
                   regard
                   ;
                
                 
                   Resolv'd
                   to
                   give
                   her
                   Guilt
                   the
                   due
                   reward
                   .
                
                 
                   Shall
                   she
                   triumphant
                   sail
                   before
                   the
                   Wind
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   leave
                   in
                   Flames
                   ,
                   unhappy
                   Troy
                   behind
                   ?
                
                 
                 
                   Shall
                   she
                   ,
                   her
                   Kingdom
                   and
                   her
                   Friends
                   review
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   State
                   attended
                   with
                   a
                   Captive
                   Crew
                   ;
                
                 
                   While
                   unreveng'd
                   the
                   good
                   old
                   Priam
                   falls
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Grecian
                   Fires
                   consume
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Walls
                   ?
                
                 
                   For
                   this
                   the
                   Phrygian
                   Fields
                   ,
                   and
                   Xanthian
                   Flood
                
                 
                   Were
                   swell'd
                   with
                   Bodies
                   ,
                   and
                   were
                   drunk
                   with
                   Blood
                   ?
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   true
                   a
                   Souldier
                   can
                   small
                   Honour
                   gain
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   boast
                   no
                   Conquest
                   from
                   a
                   Woman
                   slain
                   :
                
                 
                   Yet
                   shall
                   the
                   Fact
                   not
                   pass
                   without
                   Applause
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   Vengeance
                   taken
                   in
                   so
                   just
                   a
                   Cause
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   punish'd
                   Crime
                   shall
                   set
                   my
                   Soul
                   at
                   ease
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   murm'ring
                   Manes
                   of
                   my
                   Friends
                   appease
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   while
                   I
                   rave
                   ,
                   a
                   gleam
                   of
                   pleasing
                   Light
                
                 
                   Spread
                   o're
                   the
                   Place
                   ,
                   and
                   shining
                   Heav'nly
                   bright
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Mother
                   stood
                   reveal'd
                   before
                   my
                   Sight
                   .
                
                 
                   Never
                   so
                   radiant
                   did
                   her
                   Eyes
                   appear
                   ;
                
                 
                   Not
                   her
                   own
                   Star
                   confess'd
                   a
                   Light
                   so
                   clear
                   .
                
                 
                   Great
                   in
                   her
                   Charms
                   ,
                   as
                   when
                   on
                   Gods
                   above
                
                 
                   She
                   looks
                   ,
                   and
                   breaths
                   her self
                   into
                   their
                   Love.
                
                 
                   She
                   held
                   my
                   hand
                   ,
                   the
                   destin'd
                   Blow
                   to
                   break
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   from
                   her
                   rosie
                   Lips
                   began
                   to
                   speak
                   .
                
                 
                   My
                   Son
                   ,
                   from
                   whence
                   this
                   Madness
                   ,
                   this
                   neglect
                
                 
                   Of
                   my
                   Commands
                   ,
                   and
                   those
                   whom
                   I
                   protect
                   ?
                
                 
                   Why
                   this
                   unmanly
                   Rage
                   ?
                   Recall
                   to
                   mind
                
                 
                   Whom
                   you
                   forsake
                   ,
                   what
                   Pledges
                   leave
                   behind
                   .
                
                 
                   Look
                   if
                   your
                   helpless
                   Father
                   yet
                   survive
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   if
                   Ascanius
                   ,
                   or
                   Creusa
                   live
                   .
                
                 
                   Around
                   your
                   House
                   the
                   greedy
                   Grecians
                   err
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   these
                   had
                   perish'd
                   in
                   the
                   nightly
                   War
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   for
                   my
                   Presence
                   and
                   protecting
                   Care.
                
                 
                   Not
                   
                   Helen's
                   Face
                   ,
                   nor
                   Paris
                   was
                   in
                   fault
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   by
                   the
                   Gods
                   was
                   this
                   Destruction
                   brought
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   cast
                   your
                   Eyes
                   around
                   ;
                   while
                   I
                   dissolve
                
                 
                   The
                   Mists
                   and
                   Films
                   that
                   mortal
                   Eyes
                   involve
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Purge
                   from
                   your
                   sight
                   the
                   Dross
                   ,
                   and
                   make
                   you
                   see
                
                 
                   The
                   Shape
                   of
                   each
                   avenging
                   Deity
                   .
                
                 
                   Enlighten'd
                   thus
                   ,
                   my
                   just
                   Commands
                   fulfill
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   fear
                   Obedience
                   to
                   your
                   Mother's
                   Will.
                
                 
                   Where
                   you
                   disorder'd
                   heap
                   of
                   Ruin
                   lies
                   ,
                
                 
                   Stones
                   rent
                   from
                   Stones
                   ,
                   where
                   Clouds
                   of
                   dust
                   arise
                   ,
                
                 
                   Amid
                   that
                   smother
                   ,
                   Neptune
                   holds
                   his
                   place
                   :
                
                 
                   Below
                   the
                   Wall
                   's
                   foundation
                   drives
                   his
                   Mace
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   heaves
                   the
                   Building
                   from
                   the
                   solid
                   Base
                   .
                
                 
                   Look
                   where
                   ,
                   in
                   Arms
                   ,
                   Imperial
                   Juno
                   stands
                   ,
                
                 
                   Full
                   in
                   the
                   Scaean
                   Gate
                   ,
                   with
                   loud
                   Commands
                   ;
                
                 
                   Urging
                   on
                   Shore
                   the
                   tardy
                   Grecian
                   Bands
                   .
                
                 
                   See
                   Pallas
                   ,
                   of
                   her
                   snaky
                   Buckler
                   proud
                   ,
                
                 
                   Bestrides
                   the
                   Tow'r
                   ,
                   refulgent
                   through
                   the
                   Cloud
                   :
                
                 
                   See
                   Jove
                   new
                   Courage
                   to
                   the
                   Foe
                   supplies
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   arms
                   against
                   the
                   Town
                   ,
                   the
                   partial
                   Deities
                   .
                
                 
                   Haste
                   hence
                   ,
                   my
                   Son
                   ;
                   this
                   fruitless
                   Labour
                   end
                   :
                
                 
                   Haste
                   where
                   your
                   trembling
                   Spouse
                   ,
                   and
                   Sire
                   attend
                   :
                
                 
                   Haste
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   Mother's
                   Care
                   your
                   Passage
                   shall
                   befriend
                   .
                
                 
                   She
                   said
                   :
                   and
                   swiftly
                   vanish'd
                   from
                   my
                   Sight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Obscure
                   in
                   Clouds
                   ,
                   and
                   gloomy
                   Shades
                   of
                   Night
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   look'd
                   ,
                   I
                   listen'd
                   ;
                   dreadful
                   Sounds
                   I
                   hear
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   dire
                   Forms
                   of
                   hostile
                   Gods
                   appear
                   .
                
                 
                   Troy
                   sunk
                   in
                   Flames
                   I
                   saw
                   ,
                   nor
                   could
                   prevent
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Ilium
                   from
                   its
                   old
                   Foundations
                   rent
                   .
                
                 
                   Rent
                   like
                   a
                   Mountain
                   Ash
                   ,
                   which
                   dar'd
                   the
                   Winds
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   stood
                   the
                   sturdy
                   Stroaks
                   of
                   lab'ring
                   Hinds
                   :
                
                 
                   About
                   the
                   Roots
                   the
                   cruel
                   Ax
                   resounds
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Stumps
                   are
                   pierc'd
                   ,
                   with
                   oft
                   repeated
                   Wounds
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   War
                   is
                   felt
                   on
                   high
                   ,
                   the
                   nodding
                   Crown
                
                 
                   Now
                   threats
                   a
                   Fall
                   ,
                   and
                   throws
                   the
                   leafy
                   Honours
                   down
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   their
                   united
                   Force
                   it
                   yields
                   ,
                   though
                   late
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   mourns
                   with
                   mortal
                   Groans
                   th'
                   approaching
                   Fate
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Roots
                   no
                   more
                   their
                   upper
                   load
                   sustain
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   down
                   she
                   falls
                   ,
                   and
                   spreads
                   a
                   ruin
                   thro'
                   the
                   Plain
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Descending
                   thence
                   ,
                   I
                   scape
                   through
                   Foes
                   ,
                   and
                   Fire
                   :
                
                 
                   Before
                   the
                   Goddess
                   ,
                   Foes
                   and
                   Flames
                   retire
                   .
                
                 
                   Arriv'd
                   at
                   home
                   ,
                   he
                   for
                   whose
                   only
                   sake
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   most
                   for
                   his
                   ,
                   such
                   Toils
                   I
                   undertake
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   good
                   Anchises
                   ,
                   whom
                   ,
                   by
                   timely
                   Flight
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   purpos'd
                   to
                   secure
                   on
                   
                   Ida's
                   height
                   ,
                
                 
                   Refus'd
                   the
                   Journey
                   :
                   Resolute
                   to
                   die
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   add
                   his
                   Fun'rals
                   to
                   the
                   fate
                   of
                   Troy
                   :
                
                 
                   Rather
                   than
                   Exile
                   and
                   old
                   Age
                   sustain
                   .
                
                 
                   Go
                   you
                   ,
                   whose
                   Blood
                   runs
                   warm
                   in
                   ev'ry
                   Vein
                   :
                
                 
                   Had
                   Heav'n
                   decreed
                   that
                   I
                   shou'd
                   Life
                   enjoy
                   ,
                
                 
                   Heav'n
                   had
                   decreed
                   to
                   save
                   unhappy
                   Troy.
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   sure
                   enough
                   ,
                   if
                   not
                   too
                   much
                   for
                   one
                   ;
                
                 
                   Twice
                   to
                   have
                   seen
                   our
                   Ilium
                   overthrown
                   .
                
                 
                   Make
                   haste
                   to
                   save
                   the
                   poor
                   remaining
                   Crew
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   give
                   this
                   useless
                   Corps
                   a
                   long
                   Adieu
                   .
                
                 
                   These
                   weak
                   old
                   Hands
                   suffice
                   to
                   stop
                   my
                   Breath
                   :
                
                 
                   At
                   least
                   the
                   pitying
                   Foes
                   will
                   aid
                   my
                   Death
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   take
                   my
                   Spoils
                   :
                   and
                   leave
                   my
                   Body
                   bare
                   :
                
                 
                   As
                   for
                   my
                   Sepulchre
                   let
                   Heav'n
                   take
                   Care.
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   long
                   since
                   I
                   ,
                   for
                   my
                   Coelestial
                   Wife
                   ,
                
                 
                   Loath'd
                   by
                   the
                   Gods
                   ,
                   have
                   drag'd
                   a
                   ling'ring
                   Life
                   :
                
                 
                   Since
                   ev'ry
                   Hour
                   and
                   Moment
                   I
                   expire
                   ,
                
                 
                   Blasted
                   from
                   Heav'n
                   by
                   
                   Jove's
                   avenging
                   Fire
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   oft
                   repeated
                   ,
                   he
                   stood
                   fix'd
                   to
                   die
                   :
                
                 
                   My self
                   ,
                   my
                   Wife
                   ,
                   my
                   Son
                   ,
                   my
                   Family
                   ,
                
                 
                   Intreat
                   ,
                   pray
                   ,
                   beg
                   ,
                   and
                   raise
                   a
                   doleful
                   Cry.
                
                 
                   What
                   ,
                   will
                   he
                   still
                   persist
                   ,
                   on
                   Death
                   resolve
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   his
                   Ruin
                   all
                   his
                   House
                   involve
                   !
                
                 
                   He
                   still
                   persists
                   ,
                   his
                   reasons
                   to
                   maintain
                   ;
                
                 
                   Our
                   Pray'rs
                   ,
                   our
                   Tears
                   ,
                   our
                   loud
                   Laments
                   are
                   vain
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Urg'd
                   by
                   Despair
                   ,
                   again
                   I
                   go
                   to
                   try
                
                 
                   The
                   fate
                   of
                   Arms
                   ,
                   resolv'd
                   in
                   Fight
                   to
                   die
                   .
                
              
               
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     y
                     e
                     Right
                     Hon
                     ble
                     ,
                     Rob
                     t
                     :
                     Ld.
                     Constable
                     Vis
                     nt
                     .
                     Dunbar
                     in
                     y
                     e
                     Kingdom
                     of
                     Scotland
                  
                   
                     AE
                     2.
                     l.
                     915.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   What
                   hope
                   remains
                   ,
                   but
                   what
                   my
                   Death
                   must
                   give
                   ?
                
                 
                   Can
                   I
                   without
                   so
                   dear
                   a
                   Father
                   live
                   ?
                
                 
                   You
                   term
                   it
                   Prudence
                   ,
                   what
                   I
                   Baseness
                   call
                   :
                
                 
                   Cou'd
                   such
                   a
                   Word
                   from
                   such
                   a
                   Parent
                   fall
                   ?
                
                 
                   If
                   Fortune
                   please
                   ,
                   and
                   so
                   the
                   Gods
                   ordain
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   nothing
                   shou'd
                   of
                   ruin'd
                   Troy
                   remain
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   you
                   conspire
                   with
                   Fortune
                   ,
                   to
                   be
                   slain
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   way
                   to
                   Death
                   is
                   wide
                   ,
                   th'
                   Approaches
                   near
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   soon
                   relentless
                   Pyrrhus
                   will
                   appear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Reeking
                   with
                   
                   Priam's
                   Blood
                   :
                   The
                   wretch
                   who
                   slew
                
                 
                   The
                   Son
                   (
                   inhuman
                   )
                   in
                   the
                   Father's
                   view
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   then
                   the
                   Sire
                   himself
                   ,
                   to
                   the
                   dire
                   Altar
                   drew
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   O
                   Goddess
                   Mother
                   ,
                   give
                   me
                   back
                   to
                   fate
                   ;
                
                 
                   Your
                   Gift
                   was
                   undesir'd
                   ,
                   and
                   came
                   too
                   late
                   .
                
                 
                   Did
                   you
                   for
                   this
                   ,
                   unhappy
                   me
                   convey
                
                 
                   Through
                   Foes
                   and
                   Fires
                   to
                   see
                   my
                   House
                   a
                   Prey
                   ?
                
                 
                   Shall
                   I
                   ,
                   my
                   Father
                   ,
                   Wife
                   ,
                   and
                   Son
                   ,
                   behold
                
                 
                   Welt'ring
                   in
                   Blood
                   ,
                   each
                   others
                   Arms
                   infold
                   ?
                
                 
                   Haste
                   ,
                   gird
                   my
                   Sword
                   ,
                   tho'
                   spent
                   ,
                   and
                   overcome
                   :
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   the
                   last
                   Summons
                   to
                   receive
                   our
                   Doom
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   hear
                   thee
                   ,
                   Fate
                   ,
                   and
                   I
                   obey
                   thy
                   Call
                   :
                
                 
                   Not
                   unreveng'd
                   the
                   Foe
                   shall
                   see
                   my
                   Fall.
                
                 
                   Restore
                   me
                   to
                   the
                   yet
                   unfinish'd
                   Fight
                   :
                
                 
                   My
                   Death
                   is
                   wanting
                   to
                   conclude
                   the
                   Night
                   .
                
                 
                   Arm'd
                   once
                   again
                   ,
                   my
                   glitt'ring
                   Sword
                   I
                   wield
                   ,
                
                 
                   While
                   th'
                   other
                   hand
                   sustains
                   my
                   weighty
                   Shield
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   forth
                   I
                   rush
                   to
                   seek
                   th'
                   abandon'd
                   Field
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   went
                   ;
                   but
                   sad
                   Creusa
                   stop'd
                   my
                   way
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   cross
                   the
                   Threshold
                   in
                   my
                   Passage
                   lay
                   ;
                
                 
                   Embrac'd
                   my
                   Knees
                   ;
                   and
                   when
                   I
                   wou'd
                   have
                   gone
                
                 
                   Shew'd
                   me
                   my
                   feeble
                   Sire
                   ,
                   and
                   tender
                   Son.
                
                 
                   If
                   Death
                   be
                   your
                   design
                   ,
                   at
                   least
                   ,
                   said
                   she
                   ,
                
                 
                   Take
                   us
                   along
                   ,
                   to
                   share
                   your
                   Destiny
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   any
                   farther
                   hopes
                   in
                   Arms
                   remain
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   Place
                   ,
                   these
                   Pledges
                   of
                   your
                   Love
                   ,
                   maintain
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   To
                   whom
                   do
                   you
                   expose
                   your
                   Father's
                   Life
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   Son
                   's
                   ,
                   and
                   mine
                   ,
                   your
                   now
                   forgotten
                   Wife
                   !
                
                 
                   While
                   thus
                   she
                   fills
                   the
                   House
                   with
                   clam'rous
                   Cries
                   ,
                
                 
                   Our
                   Hearing
                   is
                   diverted
                   by
                   our
                   Eyes
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   while
                   I
                   held
                   my
                   Son
                   ,
                   in
                   the
                   short
                   space
                   ,
                
                 
                   Betwixt
                   our
                   Kisses
                   and
                   our
                   last
                   Embrace
                   ;
                
                 
                   Strange
                   to
                   relate
                   ,
                   from
                   young
                   Iulus
                   Head
                
                 
                   A
                   lambent
                   Flame
                   arose
                   ,
                   which
                   gently
                   spread
                
                 
                   Around
                   his
                   Brows
                   ,
                   and
                   on
                   his
                   Temples
                   fed
                   .
                
                 
                   Amaz'd
                   ,
                   with
                   running
                   Water
                   we
                   prepare
                
                 
                   To
                   quench
                   the
                   sacred
                   Fire
                   ,
                   and
                   shake
                   his
                   Hair
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   old
                   Anchises
                   ,
                   vers'd
                   in
                   Omens
                   ,
                   rear'd
                
                 
                   His
                   hands
                   to
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   and
                   this
                   request
                   preferr'd
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   any
                   Vows
                   ,
                   Almighty
                   Jove
                   ,
                   can
                   bend
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Will
                   ,
                   if
                   Piety
                   can
                   Pray'rs
                   commend
                   ,
                
                 
                   Confirm
                   the
                   glad
                   Presage
                   which
                   thou
                   art
                   pleas'd
                   to
                   send
                   .
                
                 
                   Scarce
                   had
                   he
                   said
                   ,
                   when
                   ,
                   on
                   our
                   left
                   ,
                   we
                   hear
                
                 
                   A
                   peal
                   of
                   ratling
                   Thunder
                   rowl
                   in
                   Air
                   :
                
                 
                   There
                   shot
                   a
                   streaming
                   Lamp
                   along
                   the
                   Sky
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   on
                   the
                   winged
                   Lightning
                   seem'd
                   to
                   fly
                   ;
                
                 
                   From
                   o're
                   the
                   Roof
                   the
                   blaze
                   began
                   to
                   move
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   trailing
                   vanish'd
                   in
                   th'
                   Idean
                   Grove
                   .
                
                 
                   It
                   swept
                   a
                   path
                   in
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   and
                   shone
                   a
                   Guide
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   in
                   a
                   steaming
                   stench
                   of
                   Sulphur
                   dy'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   good
                   old
                   Man
                   with
                   suppliant
                   hands
                   implor'd
                
                 
                   The
                   Gods
                   protection
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   Star
                   ador'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   ,
                   now
                   ,
                   said
                   he
                   ,
                   my
                   Son
                   ,
                   no
                   more
                   delay
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   yield
                   ,
                   I
                   follow
                   where
                   Heav'n
                   shews
                   the
                   way
                   .
                
                 
                   Keep
                   (
                   O
                   my
                   Country
                   Gods
                   )
                   our
                   dwelling
                   Place
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   guard
                   this
                   Relick
                   of
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Race
                   :
                
                 
                   This
                   tender
                   Child
                   ;
                   these
                   Omens
                   are
                   your
                   own
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   you
                   can
                   yet
                   restore
                   the
                   ruin'd
                   Town
                   .
                
                 
                   At
                   least
                   accomplish
                   what
                   your
                   Signs
                   foreshow
                   :
                
                 
                   I
                   stand
                   resign'd
                   ,
                   and
                   am
                   prepar'd
                   to
                   go
                   .
                
              
               
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     y
                     e
                     Right
                     Hon
                     ble
                     :
                     Mary
                     Countess
                     Dowager
                     of
                     Northampton
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     2.
                     l.
                     985.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   He
                   said
                   ;
                   the
                   crackling
                   Flames
                   appear
                   on
                   high
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   driving
                   Sparkles
                   dance
                   along
                   the
                   Sky
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   
                   Vulcan's
                   rage
                   the
                   rising
                   Winds
                   conspire
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   near
                   our
                   Palace
                   rowl
                   the
                   flood
                   of
                   Fire
                   .
                
                 
                   Haste
                   ,
                   my
                   dear
                   Father
                   ,
                   (
                   't
                   is
                   no
                   time
                   to
                   wait
                   )
                
                 
                   And
                   load
                   my
                   Shoulders
                   with
                   a
                   willing
                   Fraight
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   e're
                   befalls
                   ,
                   your
                   Life
                   shall
                   be
                   my
                   care
                   ,
                
                 
                   One
                   Death
                   ,
                   or
                   one
                   Deliv'rance
                   we
                   will
                   share
                   .
                
                 
                   My
                   hand
                   shall
                   lead
                   our
                   little
                   Son
                   ;
                   and
                   you
                
                 
                   My
                   faithful
                   Consort
                   ,
                   shall
                   our
                   Steps
                   purfue
                   .
                
                 
                   Next
                   ,
                   you
                   my
                   Servants
                   ,
                   heed
                   my
                   strict
                   Commands
                   :
                
                 
                   Without
                   the
                   Walls
                   a
                   ruin'd
                   Temple
                   stands
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   Ceres
                   hollow'd
                   once
                   ;
                   a
                   Cypress
                   nigh
                
                 
                   Shoots
                   up
                   her
                   venerable
                   Head
                   on
                   high
                   ;
                
                 
                   By
                   long
                   Religion
                   kept
                   :
                   there
                   bend
                   your
                   Feet
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   divided
                   Parties
                   let
                   us
                   meet
                   .
                
                 
                   Our
                   Country
                   Gods
                   ,
                   the
                   Relicks
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Bands
                   ,
                
                 
                   Hold
                   you
                   ,
                   my
                   Father
                   ,
                   in
                   your
                   guiltless
                   Hands
                   :
                
                 
                   In
                   me
                   't
                   is
                   impious
                   holy
                   things
                   to
                   bear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Red
                   as
                   I
                   am
                   with
                   Slaughter
                   ,
                   new
                   from
                   War
                   :
                
                 
                   'Till
                   in
                   some
                   living
                   Stream
                   I
                   cleanse
                   the
                   Guilt
                
                 
                   Of
                   dire
                   Debate
                   ,
                   and
                   Blood
                   in
                   Battel
                   spilt
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   ,
                   ord'ring
                   all
                   that
                   Prudence
                   cou'd
                   provide
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   cloath
                   my
                   Shoulders
                   with
                   a
                   Lion's
                   Hide
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   yellow
                   Spoils
                   :
                   Then
                   ,
                   on
                   my
                   bending
                   Back
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   welcome
                   load
                   of
                   my
                   dear
                   Father
                   take
                   .
                
                 
                   While
                   on
                   my
                   better
                   Hand
                   Ascanius
                   hung
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   unequal
                   Paces
                   tript
                   along
                   .
                
                 
                   Creusa
                   kept
                   behind
                   :
                   by
                   choice
                   we
                   stray
                
                 
                   Through
                   ev'ry
                   dark
                   and
                   ev'ry
                   devious
                   Way
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   ,
                   who
                   so
                   bold
                   and
                   dauntless
                   just
                   before
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Grecian
                   Darts
                   and
                   shock
                   of
                   Lances
                   bore
                   ,
                
                 
                   At
                   ev'ry
                   Shadow
                   now
                   am
                   seiz'd
                   with
                   Fear
                   :
                
                 
                   Not
                   for
                   my self
                   ,
                   but
                   for
                   the
                   Charge
                   I
                   bear
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Till
                   near
                   the
                   ruin'd
                   Gate
                   arriv'd
                   at
                   last
                   ,
                
                 
                   Secure
                   ,
                   and
                   deeming
                   all
                   the
                   Danger
                   past
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   frightful
                   noise
                   of
                   trampling
                   Feet
                   we
                   hear
                   ;
                
                 
                   My
                   Father
                   looking
                   through
                   the
                   Shades
                   ,
                   with
                   fear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Cry'd
                   out
                   ,
                   haste
                   ,
                   haste
                   my
                   Son
                   ,
                   the
                   Foes
                   are
                   nigh
                   ;
                
                 
                   Their
                   Swords
                   ,
                   and
                   shining
                   Armour
                   I
                   descry
                   .
                
                 
                   Some
                   hostile
                   God
                   ,
                   for
                   some
                   unknown
                   Offence
                   ,
                
                 
                   Had
                   sure
                   bereft
                   my
                   Mind
                   of
                   better
                   Sence
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   while
                   through
                   winding
                   Ways
                   I
                   took
                   my
                   Flight
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   sought
                   the
                   shelter
                   of
                   the
                   gloomy
                   Night
                   ;
                
                 
                   Alas
                   !
                   I
                   lost
                   Creusa
                   :
                   hard
                   to
                   tell
                
                 
                   If
                   by
                   her
                   fatal
                   Destiny
                   she
                   fell
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   weary
                   sate
                   ,
                   or
                   wander'd
                   with
                   affright
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   she
                   was
                   lost
                   for
                   ever
                   to
                   my
                   sight
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   knew
                   not
                   ,
                   or
                   reflected
                   ,
                   'till
                   I
                   meet
                
                 
                   My
                   Friends
                   ,
                   at
                   Ceres
                   now
                   deserted
                   Seat
                   :
                
                 
                   We
                   met
                   :
                   not
                   one
                   was
                   wanting
                   ,
                   only
                   she
                
                 
                   Deceiv'd
                   her
                   Friends
                   ,
                   her
                   Son
                   ,
                   and
                   wretched
                   me
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   mad
                   expessions
                   did
                   my
                   Tongue
                   refuse
                   !
                
                 
                   Whom
                   did
                   I
                   not
                   of
                   Gods
                   or
                   Men
                   accuse
                   !
                
                 
                   This
                   was
                   the
                   fatal
                   Blow
                   ,
                   that
                   pain'd
                   me
                   more
                
                 
                   Than
                   all
                   I
                   felt
                   from
                   ruin'd
                   Troy
                   before
                   .
                
                 
                   Stung
                   with
                   my
                   Loss
                   ,
                   and
                   raving
                   with
                   Despair
                   ,
                
                 
                   Abandoning
                   my
                   now
                   forgotten
                   Care
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   Counsel
                   ,
                   Comfort
                   ,
                   and
                   of
                   Hope
                   bereft
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Sire
                   ,
                   my
                   Son
                   ,
                   my
                   Country
                   Gods
                   ,
                   I
                   left
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   shining
                   Armour
                   once
                   again
                   I
                   sheath
                
                 
                   My
                   Limbs
                   ,
                   not
                   feeling
                   Wounds
                   ,
                   nor
                   fearing
                   Death
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   headlong
                   to
                   the
                   burning
                   Walls
                   I
                   run
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   seek
                   the
                   Danger
                   I
                   was
                   forc'd
                   to
                   shun
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   tread
                   my
                   former
                   Tracks
                   :
                   through
                   Night
                   explore
                
                 
                   Each
                   Passage
                   ,
                   ev'ry
                   Street
                   I
                   cross'd
                   before
                   .
                
                 
                   All
                   things
                   were
                   full
                   of
                   Horrour
                   and
                   Affright
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   dreadful
                   ev'n
                   the
                   silence
                   of
                   the
                   Night
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   to
                   my
                   Father's
                   House
                   I
                   make
                   repair
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   some
                   small
                   Glimps
                   of
                   hope
                   to
                   find
                   her
                   there
                   :
                
                 
                   Instead
                   of
                   her
                   the
                   cruel
                   Greeks
                   I
                   met
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   house
                   was
                   fill'd
                   with
                   Foes
                   ,
                   with
                   Flames
                   beset
                   .
                
                 
                   Driv'n
                   on
                   the
                   wings
                   of
                   Winds
                   ,
                   whole
                   sheets
                   of
                   Fire
                   ,
                
                 
                   Through
                   Air
                   transported
                   ,
                   to
                   the
                   Roofs
                   aspire
                   .
                
                 
                   From
                   thence
                   to
                   
                   Priam's
                   Palace
                   I
                   resort
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   search
                   the
                   Citadel
                   ,
                   and
                   desart
                   Court.
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   unobserv'd
                   ,
                   I
                   pass
                   by
                   
                   Juno's
                   Church
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   guard
                   of
                   Grecians
                   had
                   possess'd
                   the
                   Porch
                   :
                
                 
                   There
                   Phaenix
                   and
                   Ulysses
                   watch
                   the
                   Prey
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   thither
                   all
                   the
                   Wealth
                   of
                   Troy
                   convey
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Spoils
                   which
                   they
                   from
                   ransack'd
                   Houses
                   brought
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   golden
                   Bowls
                   from
                   burning
                   Altars
                   caught
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Tables
                   of
                   the
                   Gods
                   ,
                   the
                   Purple
                   Vests
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   People's
                   Treasure
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Pomp
                   of
                   Priests
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   ranck
                   of
                   wretched
                   Youths
                   ,
                   with
                   pinion'd
                   Hands
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   captive
                   Matrons
                   in
                   long
                   Order
                   stands
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   with
                   ungovern'd
                   Madness
                   ,
                   I
                   proclaim
                   ,
                
                 
                   Through
                   all
                   the
                   silent
                   Streets
                   ,
                   
                   Creusa's
                   Name
                   .
                
                 
                   Creusa
                   still
                   I
                   call
                   :
                   At
                   length
                   she
                   hears
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   suddain
                   ,
                   through
                   the
                   Shades
                   of
                   Night
                   appears
                   .
                
                 
                   Appears
                   ,
                   no
                   more
                   Creusa
                   ,
                   nor
                   my
                   Wife
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   a
                   pale
                   Spectre
                   ,
                   larger
                   than
                   the
                   Life
                   .
                
                 
                   Aghast
                   ,
                   astonish'd
                   ,
                   and
                   struk
                   dumb
                   with
                   Fear
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   stood
                   ;
                   like
                   Bristles
                   rose
                   my
                   stiffen'd
                   Hair.
                
                 
                   Then
                   thus
                   the
                   Ghost
                   began
                   to
                   sooth
                   my
                   Grief
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Tears
                   ,
                   nor
                   Cries
                   can
                   give
                   the
                   dead
                   Relief
                   ;
                
                 
                   Desist
                   ,
                   my
                   much
                   lov'd
                   Lord
                   ,
                   t'indulge
                   your
                   Pain
                   :
                
                 
                   You
                   bear
                   no
                   more
                   than
                   what
                   the
                   Gods
                   ordain
                   .
                
                 
                   My
                   Fates
                   permit
                   me
                   not
                   from
                   hence
                   to
                   fly
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   he
                   ,
                   the
                   great
                   Comptroller
                   of
                   the
                   Sky
                   .
                
                 
                   Long
                   wandring
                   Ways
                   for
                   you
                   the
                   Pow'rs
                   decree
                   :
                
                 
                   On
                   Land
                   hard
                   Labors
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   length
                   of
                   Sea.
                
                 
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   after
                   many
                   painful
                   Years
                   are
                   past
                   ,
                
                 
                   On
                   
                   Latium's
                   happy
                   Shore
                   you
                   shall
                   be
                   cast
                   :
                
                 
                   Where
                   gentle
                   Tiber
                   from
                   his
                   Bed
                   beholds
                
                 
                   The
                   flow'ry
                   Meadows
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   feeding
                   Folds
                   .
                
                 
                   There
                   end
                   your
                   Toils
                   :
                   And
                   there
                   your
                   Fates
                   provide
                
                 
                   A
                   quiet
                   Kingdom
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   Royal
                   Bride
                   :
                
                 
                   There
                   Fortune
                   shall
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Line
                   restore
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   you
                   for
                   lost
                   Creusa
                   weep
                   no
                   more
                   .
                
                 
                   Fear
                   not
                   that
                   I
                   shall
                   watch
                   with
                   servile
                   Shame
                   ,
                
                 
                   Th'
                   imperious
                   Looks
                   of
                   some
                   proud
                   Grecian
                   Dame
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   ,
                   stooping
                   to
                   the
                   Victor's
                   Lust
                   ,
                   disgrace
                
                 
                   My
                   Goddess
                   Mother
                   ,
                   or
                   my
                   Royal
                   Race
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   ,
                   farewell
                   :
                   the
                   Parent
                   of
                   the
                   Gods
                
                 
                   Restrains
                   my
                   fleeting
                   Soul
                   in
                   her
                   Abodes
                   :
                
                 
                   I
                   trust
                   our
                   common
                   Issue
                   to
                   your
                   Care.
                
                 
                   She
                   said
                   :
                   And
                   gliding
                   pass'd
                   unseen
                   in
                   Air.
                
                 
                   I
                   strove
                   to
                   speak
                   ,
                   but
                   Horror
                   ty'd
                   my
                   Tongue
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   thrice
                   about
                   her
                   Neck
                   my
                   Arms
                   I
                   flung
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   thrice
                   deceiv'd
                   ,
                   on
                   vain
                   Embraces
                   hung
                   .
                
                 
                   Light
                   as
                   an
                   empty
                   Dream
                   at
                   break
                   of
                   Day
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   as
                   a
                   blast
                   of
                   Wind
                   ,
                   she
                   rush'd
                   away
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Thus
                   ,
                   having
                   pass'd
                   the
                   Night
                   in
                   fruitless
                   Pain
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   ,
                   to
                   my
                   longing
                   Friends
                   ,
                   return
                   again
                   .
                
                 
                   Amaz'd
                   th'
                   augmented
                   Number
                   to
                   behold
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   Men
                   ,
                   and
                   Matrons
                   mix'd
                   ,
                   of
                   young
                   and
                   old
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   wretched
                   Exil'd
                   Crew
                   together
                   brought
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Arms
                   appointed
                   ,
                   and
                   With
                   Treasure
                   fraught
                   .
                
                 
                   Resolv'd
                   ,
                   and
                   willing
                   under
                   my
                   Command
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   run
                   all
                   hazards
                   both
                   of
                   Sea
                   and
                   Land.
                
                 
                   The
                   Morn
                   began
                   ,
                   from
                   Ida
                   ,
                   to
                   display
                
                 
                   Her
                   rosy
                   Cheeks
                   ,
                   and
                   Phosphor
                   led
                   the
                   day
                   ;
                
                 
                   Before
                   the
                   Gates
                   the
                   Grecians
                   took
                   their
                   Post
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   pretence
                   of
                   late
                   Relief
                   was
                   lost
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   yield
                   to
                   Fate
                   ,
                   unwillingly
                   retire
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   loaded
                   ,
                   up
                   the
                   Hill
                   convey
                   my
                   Sire
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
               
               
                 The
                 Third
                 Book
                 of
                 the
                 Aeneis
                 .
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Argument
                   .
                
                 
                   Aeneas
                   
                     proceeds
                     in
                     his
                     Relation
                     :
                     He
                     gives
                     an
                     Account
                     of
                     the
                     Fleet
                     with
                     which
                     he
                     sail'd
                     ,
                     and
                     the
                     Success
                     of
                     his
                     first
                     Voyage
                     to
                  
                   Thrace
                   ;
                   
                     from
                     thence
                     he
                     directs
                     his
                     Course
                     to
                  
                   Delos
                   ,
                   
                     and
                     asks
                     the
                     Oracle
                     what
                     place
                     the
                     Gods
                     had
                     appointed
                     for
                     his
                     Habitation
                     ?
                     By
                     a
                     mistake
                     of
                     the
                     Oracle's
                     Answer
                     ,
                     he
                     settles
                     in
                  
                   Crete
                   ;
                   
                     his
                     household
                     Gods
                     give
                     him
                     the
                     true
                     sense
                     of
                     the
                     Oracle
                     ,
                     in
                     a
                     Dream
                     .
                     He
                     follows
                     their
                     advice
                     ,
                     and
                     makes
                     the
                     best
                     of
                     his
                     way
                     for
                  
                   Italy
                   :
                   
                     He
                     is
                     cast
                     on
                     several
                     Shores
                     ,
                     and
                     meets
                     with
                     very
                     surprising
                     Adventures
                     ,
                     'till
                     at
                     length
                     he
                     lands
                     on
                  
                   Sicily
                   :
                   
                     where
                     his
                     Father
                  
                   Anchises
                   
                     dies
                     .
                     This
                     is
                     the
                     place
                     which
                     he
                     was
                     sailing
                     from
                     when
                     the
                     Tempest
                     rose
                     and
                     threw
                     him
                     upon
                     the
                  
                   Carthaginian
                   Coast
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     the
                     Right
                     Hon
                     ble
                     .
                     William
                     Stanley
                     Earle
                     of
                     Derby
                     &
                     ct
                     L
                     d
                     of
                     Man
                     &
                     y
                     e
                     Isles
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     e.
                     l.
                     2.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                   WHen
                   Heav'n
                   had
                   overturn'd
                   the
                   Trojan
                   State
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   
                   Priam's
                   Throne
                   ,
                   by
                   too
                   severe
                   a
                   Fate
                   :
                
                 
                   When
                   ruin'd
                   Troy
                   became
                   the
                   Grecians
                   Prey
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   
                   Ilium's
                   lofty
                   Tow'rs
                   in
                   Ashes
                   lay
                   :
                
                 
                   Warn'd
                   by
                   Coelestial
                   Omens
                   ,
                   we
                   retreat
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   seek
                   in
                   foreign
                   Lands
                   a
                   happier
                   Seat.
                
                 
                   Near
                   old
                   Antandros
                   ,
                   and
                   at
                   
                   Ida's
                   foot
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Timber
                   of
                   the
                   sacred
                   Groves
                   we
                   cut
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   build
                   our
                   Fleet
                   ;
                   uncertain
                   yet
                   to
                   find
                
                 
                   What
                   place
                   the
                   Gods
                   for
                   our
                   Repose
                   assign'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Friends
                   daily
                   flock
                   ;
                   and
                   scarce
                   the
                   kindly
                   Spring
                
                 
                   Began
                   to
                   cloath
                   the
                   Ground
                   ,
                   and
                   Birds
                   to
                   sing
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   old
                   Anchises
                   summon'd
                   all
                   to
                   Sea
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Crew
                   ,
                   my
                   Father
                   and
                   the
                   Fates
                   obey
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   Sighs
                   and
                   Tears
                   I
                   leave
                   my
                   native
                   Shore
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   empty
                   Fields
                   ,
                   where
                   Ilium
                   stood
                   before
                   .
                
                 
                   My
                   Sire
                   ,
                   my
                   Son
                   ,
                   our
                   less
                   ,
                   and
                   greater
                   Gods
                   ,
                
                 
                   All
                   sail
                   at
                   once
                   ;
                   and
                   tempt
                   the
                   briny
                   Floods
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Against
                   our
                   Coast
                   appears
                   a
                   spacious
                   Land
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   once
                   the
                   fierce
                   Lycurgus
                   did
                   command
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Thracia
                   the
                   Name
                   ;
                   the
                   People
                   bold
                   in
                   War
                   ;
                
                 
                   Vast
                   are
                   their
                   Fields
                   ,
                   and
                   Tillage
                   is
                   their
                   Care.
                
                 
                   A
                   hospitable
                   Realm
                   while
                   Fate
                   was
                   kind
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   Troy
                   in
                   friendship
                   and
                   Religion
                   join'd
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   land
                   ;
                   with
                   luckless
                   Omens
                   ,
                   then
                   adore
                
                 
                   Their
                   Gods
                   ,
                   and
                   draw
                   a
                   Line
                   along
                   the
                   Shore
                   :
                
                 
                   I
                   lay
                   the
                   deep
                   Foundations
                   of
                   a
                   Wall
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Enos
                   ,
                   nam'd
                   from
                   me
                   ,
                   the
                   City
                   call
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   
                     Dionaean
                     Venus
                  
                   Vows
                   are
                   paid
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   the
                   Pow'rs
                   that
                   rising
                   Labours
                   aid
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   Bull
                   on
                   
                   Jove's
                   Imperial
                   Altar
                   laid
                   .
                
                 
                   Not
                   far
                   ,
                   a
                   rising
                   Hillock
                   stood
                   in
                   view
                   ;
                
                 
                   Sharp
                   Myrtles
                   ,
                   on
                   the
                   sides
                   ,
                   and
                   Cornels
                   grew
                   .
                
                 
                   There
                   ,
                   while
                   I
                   went
                   to
                   crop
                   the
                   Silvan
                   Scenes
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   shade
                   our
                   Altar
                   with
                   their
                   leafy
                   Greens
                   ;
                
                 
                   I
                   pull'd
                   a
                   Plant
                   ;
                   with
                   horror
                   I
                   relate
                
                 
                   A
                   Prodigy
                   so
                   strange
                   ,
                   and
                   full
                   of
                   Fate
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   rooted
                   Fibers
                   rose
                   ;
                   and
                   from
                   the
                   Wound
                   ,
                
                 
                   Black
                   bloody
                   Drops
                   distill'd
                   upon
                   the
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                   Mute
                   ,
                   and
                   amaz'd
                   ,
                   my
                   Hair
                   with
                   Horror
                   stood
                   ;
                
                 
                   Fear
                   shrunk
                   my
                   Sinews
                   ,
                   and
                   congeal'd
                   my
                   Blood.
                
                 
                   Man'd
                   once
                   again
                   ,
                   another
                   Plant
                   I
                   try
                   ;
                
                 
                   That
                   other
                   gush'd
                   with
                   the
                   same
                   sanguine
                   Dye
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   fearing
                   Guilt
                   ,
                   for
                   some
                   Offence
                   unknown
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Pray'rs
                   and
                   Vows
                   the
                   Driads
                   I
                   attone
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   all
                   the
                   Sisters
                   of
                   the
                   Woods
                   ,
                   and
                   most
                
                 
                   The
                   God
                   of
                   Arms
                   ,
                   who
                   rules
                   the
                   Thracian
                   Coast
                   :
                
                 
                   That
                   they
                   ,
                   or
                   he
                   ,
                   these
                   Omens
                   wou'd
                   avert
                   ;
                
                 
                   Release
                   our
                   Fears
                   ,
                   and
                   better
                   signs
                   impart
                   .
                
                 
                   Clear'd
                   ,
                   as
                   I
                   thought
                   ,
                   and
                   fully
                   fix'd
                   at
                   length
                
                 
                   To
                   learn
                   the
                   Cause
                   ,
                   I
                   tug'd
                   with
                   all
                   my
                   Strength
                   ;
                
                 
                   I
                   bent
                   my
                   knees
                   against
                   the
                   Ground
                   ;
                   once
                   more
                
                 
                   The
                   violated
                   Myrtle
                   ran
                   with
                   purple
                   Gore
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Scarce
                   dare
                   I
                   tell
                   the
                   Sequel
                   :
                   From
                   the
                   Womb
                
                 
                   Of
                   wounded
                   Earth
                   ,
                   and
                   Caverns
                   of
                   the
                   Tomb
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Groan
                   ,
                   as
                   of
                   a
                   troubled
                   Ghost
                   ,
                   renew'd
                
                 
                   My
                   Fright
                   ,
                   and
                   then
                   these
                   dreadful
                   Words
                   ensu'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Why
                   dost
                   thou
                   thus
                   my
                   bury'd
                   Body
                   rend
                   ?
                
                 
                   O
                   spare
                   the
                   Corps
                   of
                   thy
                   unhappy
                   Friend
                   !
                
                 
                   Spare
                   to
                   pollute
                   thy
                   pious
                   Hands
                   with
                   Blood
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Tears
                   distil
                   not
                   from
                   the
                   wounded
                   Wood
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   ev'ry
                   drop
                   this
                   living
                   Tree
                   contains
                   ,
                
                 
                   Is
                   kindred
                   Blood
                   ,
                   and
                   ran
                   in
                   Trojan
                   Veins
                   :
                
                 
                   O
                   fly
                   from
                   this
                   unhospitable
                   Shore
                   ,
                
                 
                   Warn'd
                   by
                   my
                   Fate
                   ;
                   for
                   I
                   am
                   Polydore
                   !
                
                 
                   Here
                   loads
                   of
                   Lances
                   ,
                   in
                   my
                   Blood
                   embru'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Again
                   shoot
                   upward
                   ,
                   by
                   my
                   Blood
                   renew'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   My
                   faultring
                   Tongue
                   ,
                   and
                   shiv'ring
                   Limbs
                   declare
                
                 
                   My
                   Horror
                   ,
                   and
                   in
                   Bristles
                   rose
                   my
                   Hair.
                
                 
                   When
                   Troy
                   with
                   Grecian
                   Arms
                   was
                   closely
                   pent
                   ,
                
                 
                   Old
                   Priam
                   ,
                   fearful
                   of
                   the
                   Wars
                   Event
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   hapless
                   Polydore
                   to
                   Thracia
                   sent
                   .
                
                 
                   Loaded
                   with
                   Gold
                   ,
                   he
                   sent
                   his
                   Darling
                   ,
                   far
                
                 
                   From
                   Noise
                   and
                   Tumults
                   ,
                   and
                   destructive
                   War
                   :
                
                 
                   Commited
                   to
                   the
                   faithless
                   Tyrant's
                   Care.
                
                 
                   Who
                   ,
                   when
                   he
                   saw
                   the
                   Pow'r
                   of
                   Troy
                   decline
                   ,
                
                 
                   Forsook
                   the
                   weaker
                   ,
                   with
                   the
                   strong
                   to
                   join
                   .
                
                 
                   Broke
                   ev'ry
                   Bond
                   of
                   Nature
                   ,
                   and
                   of
                   Truth
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   murder'd
                   ,
                   for
                   his
                   Wealth
                   ,
                   the
                   Royal
                   Youth
                   .
                
                 
                   O
                   sacred
                   Hunger
                   of
                   pernicious
                   Gold
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   bands
                   of
                   Faith
                   can
                   impious
                   Lucre
                   hold
                   !
                
                 
                   Now
                   ,
                   when
                   my
                   Soul
                   had
                   shaken
                   off
                   her
                   Fears
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   call
                   my
                   Father
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Peers
                   :
                
                 
                   Relate
                   the
                   Prodigies
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   ;
                   require
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   he
                   commands
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   Advice
                   desire
                   .
                
                 
                   All
                   vote
                   to
                   leave
                   that
                   execrable
                   Shore
                   ,
                
                 
                   Polluted
                   with
                   the
                   Blood
                   of
                   Polydore
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   But
                   e're
                   we
                   sail
                   ,
                   his
                   Fun'ral
                   Rites
                   prepare
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   to
                   his
                   Ghost
                   ,
                   a
                   Tomb
                   and
                   Altars
                   rear
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   mournful
                   Pomp
                   the
                   Matrons
                   walk
                   the
                   round
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   baleful
                   Cypress
                   ,
                   and
                   blue
                   Fillets
                   crown'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   Eyes
                   dejected
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   Hair
                   unbound
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   Bowls
                   of
                   tepid
                   Milk
                   and
                   Blood
                   we
                   pour
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   thrice
                   invoke
                   the
                   Soul
                   of
                   Polydore
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   when
                   the
                   raging
                   Storms
                   no
                   longer
                   reign
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   Southern
                   Gales
                   invite
                   us
                   to
                   the
                   Main
                   ;
                
                 
                   We
                   launch
                   our
                   Vessels
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   prosp'rous
                   Wind
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   leave
                   the
                   Cities
                   and
                   the
                   Shores
                   behind
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   An
                   Island
                   in
                   th'
                   Aegean
                   Main
                   appears
                   :
                
                 
                   Neptune
                   and
                   wat'ry
                   Doris
                   claim
                   it
                   theirs
                   .
                
                 
                   It
                   floated
                   once
                   ,
                   till
                   Phoebus
                   fix'd
                   the
                   sides
                
                 
                   To
                   rooted
                   Earth
                   ,
                   and
                   now
                   it
                   braves
                   the
                   Tides
                   .
                
                 
                   Here
                   ,
                   born
                   by
                   friendly
                   Winds
                   ,
                   we
                   come
                   ashore
                
                 
                   With
                   needful
                   ease
                   our
                   weary
                   Limbs
                   restore
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   Sun's
                   Temple
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Town
                   adore
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Anius
                   the
                   Priest
                   ,
                   and
                   King
                   ,
                   with
                   Lawrel
                   crown'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   hoary
                   Locks
                   with
                   purple
                   Fillets
                   bound
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   saw
                   my
                   Sire
                   the
                   Delian
                   Shore
                   ascend
                   ,
                
                 
                   Came
                   forth
                   with
                   eager
                   haste
                   to
                   meet
                   his
                   Friend
                   .
                
                 
                   Invites
                   him
                   to
                   his
                   Palace
                   ;
                   and
                   in
                   sign
                
                 
                   Of
                   ancient
                   Love
                   ,
                   their
                   plighted
                   Hands
                   they
                   join
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   to
                   the
                   Temple
                   of
                   the
                   God
                   I
                   went
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   thus
                   ,
                   before
                   the
                   Shrine
                   ,
                   my
                   Vows
                   present
                   .
                
                 
                   Give
                   ,
                   O
                   Thymbraeus
                   ,
                   give
                   a
                   resting
                   place
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   the
                   sad
                   Relicks
                   of
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Race
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   Seat
                   secure
                   ,
                   a
                   Region
                   of
                   their
                   own
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   lasting
                   Empire
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   happier
                   Town
                   .
                
                 
                   Where
                   shall
                   we
                   fix
                   ,
                   where
                   shall
                   our
                   Labours
                   end
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whom
                   shall
                   we
                   follow
                   ,
                   and
                   what
                   Fate
                   attend
                   ?
                
                 
                   Let
                   not
                   my
                   Pray'rs
                   a
                   doubtful
                   Answer
                   find
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   in
                   clear
                   Auguries
                   unveil
                   thy
                   Mind
                   .
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     the
                     Right
                     Hon
                     ble
                     :
                     Nathanael
                     Lord
                     Bishop
                     of
                     Durham
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     3
                     l
                     :
                     220
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                 
                   Scarce
                   had
                   I
                   said
                   ,
                   He
                   shook
                   the
                   holy
                   Ground
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Lawrels
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   lofty
                   Hills
                   around
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   from
                   the
                   Tripos
                   rush'd
                   a
                   bellowing
                   sound
                   .
                
                 
                   Prostrate
                   we
                   fell
                   ;
                   confess'd
                   the
                   present
                   God
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   gave
                   this
                   Answer
                   from
                   his
                   dark
                   Abode
                   .
                
                 
                   Undaunted
                   Youths
                   ,
                   go
                   seek
                   that
                   Mother
                   Earth
                
                 
                   From
                   which
                   your
                   Ancestors
                   derive
                   their
                   Birth
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Soil
                   that
                   sent
                   you
                   forth
                   ,
                   her
                   Ancient
                   Race
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   her
                   old
                   Bosom
                   ,
                   shall
                   again
                   embrace
                   .
                
                 
                   Through
                   the
                   wide
                   World
                   th'
                   Eneian
                   House
                   shall
                   reign
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Childrens
                   Children
                   shall
                   the
                   Crown
                   sustain
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   Phoebus
                   did
                   our
                   future
                   Fates
                   disclose
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   mighty
                   Tumult
                   ,
                   mix'd
                   with
                   Joy
                   ,
                   arose
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   All
                   are
                   concern'd
                   to
                   know
                   what
                   place
                   the
                   God
                
                 
                   Assign'd
                   and
                   where
                   determind
                   our
                   abode
                   .
                
                 
                   My
                   Father
                   ,
                   long
                   revolving
                   in
                   His
                   Mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Race
                   and
                   Lineage
                   of
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Kind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thus
                   answer'd
                   their
                   demands
                   :
                   Ye
                   Princes
                   ,
                   hear
                
                 
                   Your
                   pleasing
                   Fortune
                   ;
                   and
                   dispel
                   your
                   fear
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   fruitful
                   Isle
                   of
                   Crete
                   well
                   known
                   to
                   Fame
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sacred
                   of
                   old
                   to
                   
                   Jove's
                   Immortal
                   Name
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   the
                   mid
                   Ocean
                   lies
                   ,
                   with
                   large
                   Command
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   on
                   its
                   Plains
                   a
                   hundred
                   Cities
                   stand
                   .
                
                 
                   Another
                   Ida
                   rises
                   there
                   ;
                   and
                   we
                
                 
                   From
                   thence
                   derive
                   our
                   Trojan
                   Ancestry
                   .
                
                 
                   From
                   thence
                   ,
                   as
                   't
                   is
                   divulg'd
                   by
                   certain
                   Fame
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   the
                   Rhaetean
                   Shores
                   old
                   Teucrus
                   came
                   .
                
                 
                   There
                   fix'd
                   ,
                   and
                   there
                   the
                   Seat
                   of
                   Empire
                   chose
                   ,
                
                 
                   E're
                   Ilium
                   and
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Tow'rs
                   arose
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   humble
                   Vales
                   they
                   built
                   their
                   soft
                   abodes
                   :
                
                 
                   Till
                   Cybele
                   ,
                   the
                   Mother
                   of
                   the
                   Gods
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   tinckling
                   Cymbals
                   charm'd
                   th'
                   Idean
                   Woods
                   ▪
                
                 
                   She
                   ,
                   secret
                   Rites
                   and
                   Ceremonies
                   taught
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   to
                   the
                   Yoke
                   ,
                   the
                   salvage
                   Lions
                   brought
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Let
                   us
                   the
                   Land
                   ,
                   which
                   Heav'n
                   appoints
                   ,
                   explore
                   ;
                
                 
                   Appease
                   the
                   Winds
                   ,
                   and
                   seek
                   the
                   Gnossian
                   Shore
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   Jove
                   assists
                   tht
                   passage
                   of
                   our
                   Fleet
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   third
                   propitious
                   dawn
                   discovers
                   Creet
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   having
                   said
                   ,
                   the
                   Sacrifices
                   laid
                
                 
                   On
                   smoking
                   Altars
                   ,
                   to
                   the
                   Gods
                   He
                   paid
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   Bull
                   ,
                   to
                   Neptune
                   an
                   Oblation
                   due
                   ,
                
                 
                   Another
                   Bull
                   to
                   bright
                   Apollo
                   slew
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   milk
                   white
                   Ewe
                   the
                   Western
                   Winds
                   to
                   please
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   one
                   cole
                   black
                   to
                   calm
                   the
                   stormy
                   Seas
                   .
                
                 
                   E're
                   this
                   ,
                   a
                   flying
                   Rumour
                   had
                   been
                   spred
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   fierce
                   Idomeneus
                   from
                   Crete
                   was
                   fled
                   ;
                
                 
                   Expell'd
                   and
                   exil'd
                   ;
                   that
                   the
                   Coast
                   was
                   free
                
                 
                   From
                   Foreign
                   or
                   Domestick
                   Enemy
                   :
                
                 
                   We
                   leave
                   the
                   Delian
                   Ports
                   ,
                   and
                   put
                   to
                   Sea
                   :
                
                 
                   By
                   Naxos
                   ,
                   fam'd
                   for
                   Vintage
                   ,
                   make
                   our
                   way
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   green
                   Donysa
                   pass
                   ;
                   and
                   Sail
                   in
                   sight
                
                 
                   Of
                   Paros
                   Isle
                   ,
                   with
                   Marble
                   Quarries
                   white
                   .
                
                 
                   We
                   pass
                   the
                   scatter'd
                   Isles
                   of
                   Cyclades
                   ;
                
                 
                   That
                   ,
                   scarce
                   distinguish'd
                   ,
                   seem
                   to
                   stud
                   the
                   Seas
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   shouts
                   of
                   Saylors
                   double
                   near
                   the
                   shores
                   ;
                
                 
                   They
                   stretch
                   their
                   Canvass
                   ,
                   and
                   they
                   ply
                   their
                   Oars
                   .
                
                 
                   All
                   hands
                   aloft
                   ,
                   for
                   Creet
                   for
                   Creet
                   they
                   cry
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   swiftly
                   through
                   the
                   foamy
                   Billows
                   fly
                   .
                
                 
                   Full
                   on
                   the
                   promis'd
                   Land
                   at
                   length
                   we
                   bore
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Joy
                   desending
                   on
                   the
                   Cretan
                   Shore
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   eager
                   haste
                   a
                   rising
                   Town
                   I
                   frame
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   from
                   the
                   
                     Trojan
                     Pergamus
                  
                   I
                   name
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Name
                   it self
                   was
                   grateful
                   ;
                   I
                   exhort
                
                 
                   To
                   found
                   their
                   Houses
                   ,
                   and
                   erect
                   a
                   Fort.
                
                 
                   Our
                   Ships
                   are
                   haul'd
                   upon
                   the
                   yellow
                   strand
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Youth
                   begin
                   to
                   till
                   the
                   labour'd
                   Land.
                
                 
                   And
                   I
                   my self
                   new
                   Marriages
                   promote
                   ,
                
                 
                   Give
                   Laws
                   :
                   and
                   Dwellings
                   I
                   divide
                   by
                   Lot.
                
                 
                 
                   When
                   rising
                   Vapours
                   choak
                   the
                   wholesom
                   Air
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   blasts
                   of
                   noisom
                   Winds
                   corrupt
                   the
                   Year
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Trees
                   ,
                   devouring
                   Caterpillers
                   burn
                   :
                
                 
                   Parch'd
                   was
                   the
                   Grass
                   ,
                   and
                   blited
                   was
                   the
                   Corn.
                
                 
                   Nor
                   scape
                   the
                   Beasts
                   :
                   for
                   Syrius
                   from
                   on
                   high
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   pestilential
                   Heat
                   infects
                   the
                   Sky
                   :
                
                 
                   My
                   Men
                   ,
                   some
                   fall
                   ,
                   the
                   rest
                   in
                   Feavers
                   fry
                   .
                
                 
                   Again
                   my
                   Father
                   bids
                   me
                   seek
                   the
                   Shore
                
                 
                   Of
                   sacred
                   Delos
                   ;
                   and
                   the
                   God
                   implore
                   :
                
                 
                   To
                   learn
                   what
                   end
                   of
                   Woes
                   we
                   might
                   expect
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   to
                   what
                   Clime
                   ,
                   our
                   weary
                   Course
                   direct
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   'T
                   was
                   Night
                   ,
                   when
                   ev'ry
                   Creature
                   ,
                   void
                   of
                   Cares
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   common
                   gift
                   of
                   balmy
                   Slumber
                   shares
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Statues
                   of
                   my
                   Gods
                   ,
                   (
                   for
                   such
                   they
                   seem'd
                   )
                
                 
                   Those
                   Gods
                   whom
                   I
                   from
                   flaming
                   Troy
                   redeem'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Before
                   me
                   stood
                   ;
                   Majestically
                   bright
                   ,
                
                 
                   Full
                   in
                   the
                   Beams
                   of
                   
                   Phoebe's
                   entring
                   light
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   thus
                   they
                   spoke
                   ;
                   and
                   eas'd
                   my
                   troubled
                   Mind
                   :
                
                 
                   What
                   from
                   the
                   Delian
                   God
                   thou
                   go'st
                   to
                   find
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   tells
                   thee
                   here
                   ;
                   and
                   sends
                   us
                   to
                   relate
                   :
                
                 
                   Those
                   Pow'rs
                   are
                   we
                   ,
                   Companions
                   of
                   thy
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   from
                   the
                   burning
                   Town
                   by
                   thee
                   were
                   brought
                   ;
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Fortune
                   follow'd
                   ,
                   and
                   thy
                   safety
                   wrought
                   .
                
                 
                   Through
                   Seas
                   and
                   Lands
                   ,
                   as
                   we
                   thy
                   Steps
                   attend
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   shall
                   our
                   Care
                   thy
                   Glorious
                   Race
                   befriend
                   .
                
                 
                   An
                   ample
                   Realm
                   for
                   thee
                   thy
                   Fates
                   ordain
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   Town
                   ,
                   that
                   o're
                   the
                   conquer'd
                   World
                   shall
                   reign
                   .
                
                 
                   Thou
                   ,
                   mighty
                   Walls
                   for
                   mighty
                   Nations
                   build
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   let
                   thy
                   weary
                   Mind
                   to
                   Labours
                   yield
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   change
                   thy
                   Seat
                   ;
                   for
                   not
                   the
                   Delian
                   God
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   we
                   ,
                   have
                   giv'n
                   thee
                   Crete
                   for
                   our
                   Abode
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   Land
                   there
                   is
                   ,
                   Hesperia
                   call'd
                   of
                   old
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Soil
                   is
                   fruitful
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Natives
                   bold
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Th'
                   Oenotrians
                   held
                   it
                   once
                   ;
                   by
                   later
                   Fame
                   ,
                
                 
                   Now
                   call'd
                   Italia
                   from
                   the
                   Leader's
                   Name
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Jäsius
                   there
                   ,
                   and
                   Dardanus
                   were
                   born
                   :
                
                 
                   From
                   thence
                   we
                   came
                   ,
                   and
                   thither
                   must
                   return
                   .
                
                 
                   Rise
                   ,
                   and
                   thy
                   Sire
                   with
                   these
                   glad
                   Tidings
                   greet
                   ;
                
                 
                   Search
                   Italy
                   ,
                   for
                   Jove
                   denies
                   thee
                   Creet
                   .
                
                 
                   Astonish'd
                   at
                   their
                   Voices
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   sight
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   Nor
                   were
                   they
                   Dreams
                   ,
                   but
                   Visions
                   of
                   the
                   Night
                   ;
                
                 
                   I
                   saw
                   ,
                   I
                   knew
                   their
                   Faces
                   ,
                   and
                   descry'd
                
                 
                   In
                   perfect
                   View
                   ,
                   their
                   Hair
                   with
                   Fillets
                   ty'd
                   :
                   )
                
                 
                   I
                   started
                   from
                   my
                   Couch
                   ,
                   a
                   clammy
                   Sweat
                
                 
                   On
                   all
                   my
                   Limbs
                   ,
                   and
                   shiv'ring
                   Body
                   sate
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   Heav'n
                   I
                   lift
                   my
                   Hands
                   with
                   pious
                   haste
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   sacred
                   Incense
                   in
                   the
                   Flames
                   I
                   cast
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   to
                   the
                   Gods
                   their
                   perfect
                   Honours
                   done
                   ,
                
                 
                   More
                   chearful
                   to
                   my
                   good
                   old
                   Sire
                   I
                   run
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   tell
                   the
                   pleasing
                   News
                   ;
                   in
                   little
                   space
                
                 
                   He
                   found
                   his
                   Error
                   ,
                   of
                   the
                   double
                   Race
                   .
                
                 
                   Not
                   ,
                   as
                   before
                   he
                   deem'd
                   ,
                   deriv'd
                   from
                   Creet
                   ;
                
                 
                   No
                   more
                   deluded
                   by
                   the
                   doubtful
                   Seat.
                
                 
                   Then
                   said
                   ,
                   O
                   Son
                   ,
                   turmoil'd
                   in
                   Trojan
                   Fate
                   ;
                
                 
                   Such
                   things
                   as
                   these
                   Cassandra
                   did
                   relate
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   Day
                   revives
                   within
                   my
                   Mind
                   ,
                   what
                   she
                
                 
                   Foretold
                   of
                   Troy
                   renew'd
                   in
                   Italy
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Latian
                   Lands
                   :
                   but
                   who
                   cou'd
                   then
                   have
                   thought
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   Phrygian
                   Gods
                   to
                   Latium
                   should
                   be
                   brought
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   who
                   believ'd
                   what
                   mad
                   Cassandra
                   taught
                   ?
                
                 
                   Now
                   let
                   us
                   go
                   ,
                   where
                   Phoebus
                   leads
                   the
                   way
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   said
                   ,
                   and
                   we
                   with
                   glad
                   Consent
                   obey
                   .
                
                 
                   Forsake
                   the
                   Seat
                   ;
                   and
                   leaving
                   few
                   behind
                   ,
                
                 
                   We
                   spread
                   our
                   sails
                   before
                   the
                   willing
                   Wind.
                
                 
                   Now
                   from
                   the
                   sight
                   of
                   Land
                   ,
                   our
                   Gallies
                   move
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   only
                   Seas
                   around
                   ,
                   and
                   Skies
                   above
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   When
                   o're
                   our
                   Heads
                   ,
                   descends
                   a
                   burst
                   of
                   Rain
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Night
                   ,
                   with
                   sable
                   Clouds
                   involves
                   the
                   Main
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   ruffling
                   Winds
                   the
                   foamy
                   Billows
                   raise
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   scatter'd
                   Fleet
                   is
                   forc'd
                   to
                   sev'ral
                   Ways
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   face
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   is
                   ravish'd
                   from
                   our
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   redoubl'd
                   Peals
                   the
                   roaring
                   Thunder
                   flys
                   .
                
                 
                   Cast
                   from
                   our
                   Course
                   ,
                   we
                   wander
                   in
                   the
                   Dark
                   ;
                
                 
                   No
                   Stars
                   to
                   guide
                   ,
                   no
                   point
                   of
                   Land
                   to
                   mark
                   .
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   Palinurus
                   no
                   distinction
                   found
                
                 
                   Betwixt
                   the
                   Night
                   and
                   Day
                   ;
                   such
                   Darkness
                   reign'd
                   around
                   .
                
                 
                   Three
                   starless
                   Nights
                   the
                   doubtful
                   Navy
                   strays
                
                 
                   Without
                   Distinction
                   ,
                   and
                   three
                   Sunless
                   Days
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   fourth
                   renews
                   the
                   Light
                   ,
                   and
                   from
                   our
                   Shrowds
                
                 
                   We
                   view
                   a
                   rising
                   Land
                   like
                   distant
                   Clouds
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Mountain
                   tops
                   confirm
                   the
                   pleasing
                   Sight
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   curling
                   Smoke
                   ascending
                   from
                   their
                   Height
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Canvas
                   falls
                   ;
                   their
                   Oars
                   the
                   Sailors
                   ply
                   ;
                
                 
                   From
                   the
                   rude
                   strokes
                   the
                   whirling
                   Waters
                   fly
                   .
                
                 
                   At
                   length
                   I
                   land
                   upon
                   the
                   Strophades
                   ;
                
                 
                   Safe
                   from
                   the
                   danger
                   of
                   the
                   stormy
                   Seas
                   :
                
                 
                   Those
                   Isles
                   are
                   compass'd
                   by
                   th'
                   Ionian
                   Main
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   dire
                   Abode
                   where
                   the
                   foul
                   Harpies
                   reign
                   :
                
                 
                   Forc'd
                   by
                   the
                   winged
                   Warriors
                   to
                   repair
                
                 
                   To
                   their
                   old
                   Homes
                   ,
                   and
                   leave
                   their
                   costly
                   Fare
                   .
                
                 
                   Monsters
                   more
                   fierce
                   ,
                   offended
                   Heav'n
                   ne're
                   sent
                
                 
                   From
                   Hell's
                   Abyss
                   ,
                   for
                   Human
                   Punishment
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   Virgin-faces
                   ,
                   but
                   with
                   Wombs
                   obscene
                   ,
                
                 
                   Foul
                   Paunches
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   Ordure
                   still
                   unclean
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   Claws
                   for
                   Hands
                   ,
                   and
                   Looks
                   for
                   ever
                   lean
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   We
                   landed
                   at
                   the
                   Port
                   ;
                   and
                   soon
                   beheld
                
                 
                   Fat
                   Herds
                   of
                   Oxen
                   graze
                   the
                   flowry
                   Field
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   wanton
                   Goats
                   without
                   a
                   Keeper
                   stray'd
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   Weapons
                   we
                   the
                   welcome
                   Prey
                   invade
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Then
                   call
                   the
                   Gods
                   ,
                   for
                   Partners
                   of
                   our
                   Feast
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   Jove
                   himself
                   the
                   chief
                   invited
                   Guest
                   .
                
                 
                   We
                   spread
                   the
                   Tables
                   ,
                   on
                   the
                   greensword
                   Ground
                   :
                
                 
                   We
                   feed
                   with
                   Hunger
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Bowls
                   go
                   round
                   .
                
                 
                   When
                   from
                   the
                   Mountain
                   tops
                   ,
                   with
                   hideous
                   Cry
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   clatt'ring
                   Wings
                   ,
                   the
                   hungry
                   Harpies
                   fly
                   :
                
                 
                   They
                   snatch
                   the
                   Meat
                   ;
                   defiling
                   all
                   they
                   find
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   parting
                   leave
                   a
                   loathsom
                   Stench
                   behind
                   .
                
                 
                   Close
                   by
                   a
                   hollow
                   Rock
                   ,
                   again
                   we
                   sit
                   ;
                
                 
                   New
                   dress
                   the
                   Dinner
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Beds
                   refit
                   :
                
                 
                   Secure
                   from
                   Sight
                   ,
                   beneath
                   a
                   pleasing
                   Shade
                   ;
                
                 
                   Where
                   tufted
                   Trees
                   a
                   native
                   Arbour
                   made
                   .
                
                 
                   Again
                   the
                   Holy
                   Fires
                   on
                   Altars
                   burn
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   once
                   again
                   the
                   rav'nous
                   Birds
                   return
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   from
                   the
                   dark
                   Recesses
                   where
                   they
                   ly
                   ▪
                
                 
                   Or
                   from
                   another
                   Quarter
                   of
                   the
                   Sky
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   filthy
                   Claws
                   their
                   odious
                   Meal
                   repeat
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   mix
                   their
                   loathsom
                   Ordures
                   with
                   their
                   Meat
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   bid
                   my
                   Friends
                   for
                   Vengeance
                   then
                   prepare
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   the
                   Hellish
                   Nation
                   wage
                   the
                   War.
                
                 
                   They
                   ,
                   as
                   commanded
                   ,
                   for
                   the
                   Fight
                   provide
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   the
                   Grass
                   their
                   glitt'ring
                   Weapons
                   hide
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   when
                   along
                   the
                   crooked
                   Shoar
                   we
                   hear
                
                 
                   Their
                   clatt'ring
                   Wings
                   ,
                   and
                   saw
                   the
                   Foes
                   appear
                   ;
                
                 
                   Misenus
                   sounds
                   a
                   charge
                   :
                   We
                   take
                   th'
                   Alarm
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   our
                   strong
                   hands
                   with
                   Swords
                   and
                   Bucklers
                   arm
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   this
                   new
                   kind
                   of
                   Combat
                   ,
                   all
                   employ
                
                 
                   Their
                   utmost
                   Force
                   ,
                   the
                   Monsters
                   to
                   destroy
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   vain
                   ;
                   the
                   fated
                   Skin
                   is
                   proof
                   to
                   Wounds
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   from
                   their
                   Plumes
                   the
                   shining
                   Sword
                   rebounds
                   .
                
                 
                   At
                   length
                   rebuff'd
                   ,
                   they
                   leave
                   their
                   mangled
                   Prey
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   their
                   stretch'd
                   Pinions
                   to
                   the
                   Skies
                   display
                   .
                
                 
                   Yet
                   one
                   remain'd
                   ,
                   the
                   Messenger
                   of
                   Fate
                   ;
                
                 
                   High
                   on
                   a
                   craggy
                   Cliff
                   Celaeno
                   sate
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   thus
                   her
                   dismal
                   Errand
                   did
                   relate
                   .
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     y
                     e
                     Right
                     Reverend
                     D
                     r
                     :
                     John
                     Hartstonge
                     B
                     p
                     :
                     of
                     Ossory
                     in
                     Kilkenny
                     Son
                     of
                     Sr.
                     Standish
                     Hartstonge
                     Bar
                     t
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     3.
                     l.
                     315.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                 
                   What
                   ,
                   not
                   contented
                   with
                   our
                   Oxen
                   slain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Dare
                   you
                   with
                   Heav'n
                   an
                   impious
                   War
                   maintain
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   drive
                   the
                   Harpies
                   from
                   their
                   Native
                   Reign
                   ?
                
                 
                   Heed
                   therefore
                   what
                   I
                   say
                   ;
                   and
                   keep
                   in
                   mind
                
                 
                   What
                   Jove
                   decrees
                   ,
                   what
                   Phoebus
                   has
                   design'd
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   I
                   ,
                   the
                   Fury's
                   Queen
                   ,
                   from
                   both
                   relate
                   :
                
                 
                   You
                   seek
                   th'
                   Italian
                   Shores
                   ,
                   foredoom'd
                   by
                   Fate
                   :
                
                 
                   Th'
                   Italian
                   Shores
                   are
                   granted
                   you
                   to
                   find
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   a
                   safe
                   Passage
                   to
                   the
                   Port
                   assign'd
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   know
                   ,
                   that
                   e're
                   your
                   promis'd
                   Walls
                   you
                   build
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Curses
                   shall
                   severely
                   be
                   fulfill'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Fierce
                   Famine
                   is
                   your
                   Lot
                   ,
                   for
                   this
                   Misdeed
                   ,
                
                 
                   Reduc'd
                   to
                   grind
                   the
                   Plates
                   on
                   which
                   you
                   feed
                   .
                
                 
                   She
                   said
                   ;
                   and
                   to
                   the
                   neighb'ring
                   Forest
                   flew
                   :
                
                 
                   Our
                   Courage
                   fails
                   us
                   ,
                   and
                   our
                   Fears
                   renew
                   .
                
                 
                   Hopeless
                   to
                   win
                   by
                   War
                   ,
                   to
                   Pray'rs
                   we
                   fall
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   on
                   th'
                   offended
                   Harpies
                   humbly
                   call
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   whether
                   Gods
                   ,
                   or
                   Birds
                   obscene
                   they
                   were
                   ,
                
                 
                   Our
                   Vows
                   for
                   Pardon
                   ,
                   and
                   for
                   Peace
                   prefer
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   old
                   Anchises
                   ,
                   off'ring
                   Sacrifice
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   lifting
                   up
                   to
                   Heav'n
                   his
                   Hands
                   ,
                   and
                   Eyes
                   ;
                
                 
                   Ador'd
                   the
                   greater
                   Gods
                   :
                   Avert
                   ,
                   said
                   he
                   ,
                
                 
                   These
                   Omens
                   ,
                   render
                   vain
                   this
                   Prophecy
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   from
                   th'
                   impending
                   Curse
                   ,
                   a
                   Pious
                   People
                   free
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   having
                   said
                   ,
                   he
                   bids
                   us
                   put
                   to
                   Sea
                   ;
                
                 
                   We
                   loose
                   from
                   Shore
                   our
                   Haulsers
                   ,
                   and
                   obey
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   soon
                   with
                   swelling
                   Sails
                   ,
                   pursue
                   the
                   wat'ry
                   Way
                   .
                
                 
                   Amidst
                   our
                   course
                   Zacynthian
                   Woods
                   appear
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   next
                   by
                   rocky
                   Neritos
                   we
                   steer
                   :
                
                 
                   We
                   fly
                   from
                   
                   Ithaca's
                   detested
                   Shore
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   curse
                   the
                   Land
                   which
                   dire
                   Ulysses
                   bore
                   .
                
                 
                   At
                   length
                   Leucates
                   cloudy
                   top
                   appears
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Phoebus
                   Temple
                   ,
                   which
                   the
                   Sailor
                   fears
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Resolv'd
                   to
                   breath
                   a
                   while
                   from
                   Labour
                   past
                   ,
                
                 
                   Our
                   crooked
                   Anchors
                   from
                   the
                   Prow
                   we
                   cast
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   joyful
                   to
                   the
                   little
                   City
                   haste
                   .
                
                 
                   Here
                   safe
                   beyond
                   our
                   Hopes
                   ,
                   our
                   Vows
                   we
                   pay
                
                 
                   To
                   Jove
                   ,
                   the
                   Guide
                   and
                   Patron
                   of
                   our
                   way
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Customs
                   of
                   our
                   Country
                   we
                   pursue
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Trojan
                   Games
                   on
                   Actian
                   Shores
                   renew
                   .
                
                 
                   Our
                   Youth
                   ,
                   their
                   naked
                   Limbs
                   besmear
                   with
                   Oyl
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   exercise
                   the
                   Wrastlers
                   noble
                   Toil.
                
                 
                   Pleas'd
                   to
                   have
                   sail'd
                   so
                   long
                   before
                   the
                   Wind
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   left
                   so
                   many
                   Grecian
                   Towns
                   behind
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Sun
                   had
                   now
                   fulfill'd
                   his
                   Annual
                   Course
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Boreas
                   on
                   the
                   Seas
                   display'd
                   his
                   Force
                   :
                
                 
                   I
                   fix'd
                   upon
                   the
                   Temples
                   lofty
                   Door
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   brazen
                   Shield
                   which
                   vanquish'd
                   Abas
                   bore
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Verse
                   beneath
                   ,
                   my
                   Name
                   and
                   Action
                   speaks
                   ,
                
                 
                   These
                   Arms
                   ,
                   Aeneas
                   took
                   from
                   Conqu'ring
                   Greeks
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   I
                   command
                   to
                   weigh
                   ;
                   the
                   Seamen
                   ply
                
                 
                   Their
                   sweeping
                   Oars
                   ,
                   the
                   smokeing
                   Billows
                   fly
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   sight
                   of
                   high
                   Phaeacia
                   soon
                   we
                   lost
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   skim'd
                   along
                   Epirus
                   rocky
                   Coast
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   to
                   
                   Chaonia's
                   Port
                   our
                   Course
                   we
                   bend
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   landed
                   ,
                   to
                   Buthrotus
                   heights
                   ascend
                   .
                
                 
                   Here
                   wond'rous
                   things
                   were
                   loudly
                   blaz'd
                   by
                   Fame
                   ;
                
                 
                   How
                   Helenus
                   reviv'd
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Name
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   raign'd
                   in
                   Greece
                   :
                   That
                   
                   Priam's
                   captive
                   Son
                
                 
                   Succeeded
                   Pyrrhus
                   in
                   his
                   Bed
                   and
                   Throne
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   fair
                   Andromache
                   ,
                   restor'd
                   by
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Once
                   more
                   was
                   happy
                   in
                   a
                   Trojan
                   Mate
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   leave
                   my
                   Gallies
                   riding
                   in
                   the
                   Port
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   long
                   to
                   see
                   the
                   new
                   Dardanian
                   Court.
                
                 
                   By
                   chance
                   ,
                   the
                   mournful
                   Queen
                   ,
                   before
                   the
                   Gate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   solemniz'd
                   her
                   former
                   Husbands
                   Fate
                   .
                
              
               
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     The
                     Hon
                     ble
                     .
                     D
                     r
                     :
                     Io
                     n
                     :
                     Mountague
                     Master
                     of
                     Trinity
                     College
                     in
                     Cambridge
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     3.
                     l
                     :
                     415.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Green
                   Altars
                   rais'd
                   of
                   Turf
                   ,
                   with
                   Gifts
                   she
                   Crown'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   sacred
                   Priests
                   in
                   order
                   stand
                   around
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   thrice
                   the
                   Name
                   of
                   hapless
                   Hector
                   sound
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Grove
                   it self
                   resembles
                   
                   Ida's
                   Wood
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Simois
                   seem'd
                   the
                   well
                   dissembl'd
                   Flood
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   when
                   ,
                   at
                   nearer
                   distance
                   ,
                   she
                   beheld
                
                 
                   My
                   shining
                   Armour
                   ,
                   and
                   my
                   Trojan
                   Shield
                   ;
                
                 
                   Astonish'd
                   at
                   the
                   sight
                   ,
                   the
                   vital
                   Heat
                
                 
                   Forsakes
                   her
                   Limbs
                   ,
                   her
                   Veins
                   no
                   longer
                   beat
                   :
                
                 
                   She
                   faints
                   ,
                   she
                   falls
                   ,
                   and
                   scarce
                   recov'ring
                   strength
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thus
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   falt'ring
                   Tongue
                   ,
                   she
                   speaks
                   at
                   length
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Are
                   you
                   alive
                   ,
                   O
                   Goddess
                   born
                   !
                   she
                   said
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   if
                   a
                   Ghost
                   ,
                   then
                   where
                   is
                   
                   Hector's
                   Shade
                   ?
                
                 
                   At
                   this
                   ,
                   she
                   cast
                   a
                   loud
                   and
                   frightful
                   Cry
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   broken
                   words
                   ,
                   I
                   made
                   this
                   brief
                   Reply
                   .
                
                 
                   All
                   of
                   me
                   that
                   remains
                   ,
                   appears
                   in
                   sight
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   live
                   ;
                   if
                   living
                   be
                   to
                   loath
                   the
                   Light.
                
                 
                   No
                   Phantome
                   ;
                   but
                   I
                   drag
                   a
                   wretched
                   life
                   ;
                
                 
                   My
                   Fate
                   resembling
                   that
                   of
                   
                   Hector's
                   Wife
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   have
                   you
                   suffer'd
                   since
                   you
                   lost
                   your
                   Lord
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   what
                   strange
                   blessing
                   are
                   you
                   now
                   restor'd
                   !
                
                 
                   Still
                   are
                   you
                   
                   Hector's
                   ,
                   or
                   is
                   Hector
                   fled
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   his
                   Remembrance
                   lost
                   in
                   Pyrrhus
                   Bed
                   ?
                
                 
                   With
                   Eyes
                   dejected
                   ,
                   in
                   a
                   lowly
                   tone
                   ,
                
                 
                   After
                   a
                   modest
                   pause
                   ,
                   she
                   thus
                   begun
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Oh
                   only
                   happy
                   Maid
                   of
                   Priam's
                   Race
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whom
                   Death
                   deliver'd
                   from
                   the
                   Foes
                   embrace
                   !
                
                 
                   Commanded
                   on
                   Achilles
                   Tomb
                   to
                   die
                   ,
                
                 
                   Not
                   forc'd
                   ,
                   like
                   us
                   ,
                   to
                   hard
                   Captivity
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   in
                   a
                   haughty
                   Master's
                   Arms
                   to
                   lie
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   Grecian
                   Ships
                   unhappy
                   we
                   were
                   born
                   :
                
                 
                   Endur'd
                   the
                   Victor's
                   Lust
                   ,
                   sustain'd
                   the
                   Scorn
                   :
                
                 
                   Thus
                   I
                   submitted
                   to
                   the
                   lawless
                   pride
                
                 
                   Of
                   Pyrrhus
                   ,
                   more
                   a
                   Handmaid
                   than
                   a
                   Bride
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Cloy'd
                   with
                   Possession
                   ,
                   He
                   forsook
                   my
                   Bed
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   
                   Helen's
                   lovely
                   Daughter
                   sought
                   to
                   wed
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   me
                   ,
                   to
                   
                     Trojan
                     Helenus
                  
                   resign'd
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   his
                   two
                   Slaves
                   in
                   equal
                   Marriage
                   join'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Till
                   young
                   Orestes
                   ,
                   pierc'd
                   with
                   deep
                   despair
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   longing
                   to
                   redeem
                   the
                   promis'd
                   Fair
                   ,
                
                 
                   Before
                   
                   Apollo's
                   Altar
                   slew
                   the
                   Ravisher
                   .
                
                 
                   By
                   Pyrrhus
                   death
                   the
                   Kingdom
                   we
                   regain'd
                   :
                
                 
                   At
                   least
                   one
                   half
                   with
                   Helenus
                   remain'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Our
                   part
                   ,
                   from
                   Chaon
                   ,
                   He
                   Chaonia
                   calls
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   names
                   ,
                   from
                   Pergamus
                   ,
                   his
                   rising
                   Walls
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   you
                   ,
                   what
                   Fates
                   have
                   landed
                   on
                   our
                   Coast
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   Gods
                   have
                   sent
                   you
                   ,
                   or
                   what
                   Storms
                   have
                   tost
                   ?
                
                 
                   Does
                   young
                   Ascanius
                   life
                   and
                   health
                   enjoy
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sav'd
                   from
                   the
                   Ruins
                   of
                   unhappy
                   Troy
                   !
                
                 
                   O
                   tell
                   me
                   how
                   his
                   Mothers
                   loss
                   he
                   bears
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   hopes
                   are
                   promis'd
                   from
                   his
                   blooming
                   years
                   ,
                
                 
                   How
                   much
                   of
                   Hector
                   in
                   his
                   Face
                   appears
                   ?
                
                 
                   She
                   spoke
                   :
                   and
                   mix'd
                   her
                   Speech
                   with
                   mournful
                   Cries
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   fruitless
                   Tears
                   came
                   trickling
                   from
                   her
                   Eyes
                   .
                
                 
                   At
                   length
                   her
                   Lord
                   descends
                   upon
                   the
                   Plain
                   ;
                
                 
                   In
                   pomp
                   ,
                   attended
                   with
                   a
                   num'rous
                   Train
                   :
                
                 
                   Receives
                   his
                   Friends
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   the
                   City
                   leads
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Tears
                   of
                   Joy
                   amidst
                   his
                   Welcome
                   sheds
                   .
                
                 
                   Proceeding
                   on
                   ,
                   another
                   Troy
                   I
                   see
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   ,
                   in
                   less
                   compass
                   ,
                   
                   Troy's
                   Epitome
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   Riv'let
                   by
                   the
                   name
                   of
                   Xanthus
                   ran
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   I
                   embrace
                   the
                   Scaean
                   Gate
                   again
                   .
                
                 
                   My
                   Friends
                   in
                   Portico's
                   were
                   entertain'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Feasts
                   and
                   Pleasures
                   through
                   the
                   City
                   reign'd
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Tables
                   fill'd
                   the
                   spacious
                   Hall
                   around
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   Golden
                   Bowls
                   with
                   sparkling
                   Wine
                   were
                   crown'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Two
                   days
                   we
                   pass'd
                   in
                   mirth
                   ,
                   till
                   friendly
                   Gales
                   ,
                
                 
                   Blown
                   from
                   the
                   South
                   ,
                   supply'd
                   our
                   swelling
                   Sails
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Then
                   to
                   the
                   Royal
                   Seer
                   I
                   thus
                   began
                   :
                
                 
                   O
                   thou
                   who
                   know'st
                   beyond
                   the
                   reach
                   of
                   Man
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Laws
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   and
                   what
                   the
                   Stars
                   decree
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whom
                   Phoebus
                   taught
                   unerring
                   Prophecy
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   his
                   own
                   Tripod
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   holy
                   Tree
                   :
                
                 
                   Skill'd
                   in
                   the
                   wing'd
                   Inhabitants
                   of
                   Air
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   Auspices
                   their
                   notes
                   ,
                   and
                   flights
                   declare
                   :
                
                 
                   O
                   say
                   ;
                   for
                   all
                   Religious
                   Rites
                   portend
                
                 
                   A
                   happy
                   Voyage
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   prosp'rous
                   End
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   ev'ry
                   Pow'r
                   and
                   Omen
                   of
                   the
                   Sky
                   ,
                
                 
                   Direct
                   my
                   Course
                   for
                   destin'd
                   Italy
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   only
                   dire
                   Celaeno
                   ,
                   from
                   the
                   Gods
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   dismal
                   Famine
                   fatally
                   fore-bodes
                   :
                
                 
                   O
                   say
                   what
                   Dangers
                   I
                   am
                   first
                   to
                   shun
                   :
                
                 
                   What
                   Toils
                   to
                   vanquish
                   ,
                   and
                   what
                   Course
                   to
                   run
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Prophet
                   first
                   with
                   Sacrifice
                   adores
                
                 
                   The
                   greater
                   Gods
                   ;
                   their
                   Pardon
                   then
                   implores
                   :
                
                 
                   Unbinds
                   the
                   Fillet
                   from
                   his
                   holy
                   Head
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   Phoebus
                   next
                   ,
                   my
                   trembling
                   Steps
                   he
                   led
                   :
                
                 
                   Full
                   of
                   religious
                   Doubts
                   ,
                   and
                   awful
                   dread
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   with
                   his
                   God
                   possess'd
                   ,
                   before
                   the
                   Shrine
                   ,
                
                 
                   These
                   words
                   proceeded
                   from
                   his
                   Mouth
                   Divine
                   .
                
                 
                   O
                   Goddess-born
                   ,
                   (
                   for
                   Heav'n's
                   appointed
                   Will
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   greater
                   Auspices
                   of
                   good
                   than
                   ill
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fore-shows
                   thy
                   Voyage
                   ,
                   and
                   thy
                   Course
                   directs
                   ;
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Fates
                   conspire
                   ,
                   and
                   Jove
                   himself
                   protects
                   :
                   )
                
                 
                   Of
                   many
                   things
                   ,
                   some
                   few
                   I
                   shall
                   explain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Teach
                   thee
                   to
                   shun
                   the
                   dangers
                   of
                   the
                   Main
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   how
                   at
                   length
                   the
                   promis'd
                   Shore
                   to
                   gain
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   rest
                   the
                   Fates
                   from
                   Helenus
                   conceal
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   
                   Juno's
                   angry
                   Pow'r
                   forbids
                   to
                   tell
                   .
                
                 
                   First
                   then
                   ,
                   that
                   happy
                   Shore
                   ,
                   that
                   seems
                   so
                   nigh
                   ,
                
                 
                   Will
                   far
                   from
                   your
                   deluded
                   Wishes
                   fly
                   :
                
                 
                   Long
                   tracts
                   of
                   Seas
                   divide
                   your
                   hopes
                   from
                   Italy
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   For
                   you
                   must
                   cruise
                   along
                   Sicilian
                   Shoars
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   stem
                   the
                   Currents
                   with
                   your
                   struggling
                   Oars
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   round
                   th'
                   Italian
                   Coast
                   your
                   Navy
                   steer
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   after
                   this
                   to
                   
                   Circe's
                   Island
                   veer
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   last
                   ,
                   before
                   your
                   new
                   Foundations
                   rise
                   ,
                
                 
                   Must
                   pass
                   the
                   Stygian
                   Lake
                   ,
                   and
                   view
                   the
                   neather
                   Skies
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   mark
                   the
                   Signs
                   of
                   future
                   Ease
                   and
                   Rest
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   bear
                   them
                   safely
                   treasur'd
                   in
                   thy
                   Breast
                   .
                
                 
                   When
                   in
                   the
                   shady
                   Shelter
                   of
                   a
                   Wood
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   near
                   the
                   Margin
                   of
                   a
                   gentle
                   Flood
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thou
                   shalt
                   behold
                   a
                   Sow
                   upon
                   the
                   Ground
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   thirty
                   sucking
                   young
                   encompass'd
                   round
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Dam
                   and
                   Off-spring
                   white
                   as
                   falling
                   Snow
                   :
                
                 
                   These
                   on
                   thy
                   City
                   shall
                   their
                   Name
                   bestow
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   there
                   shall
                   end
                   thy
                   Labours
                   and
                   thy
                   Woe
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   let
                   the
                   threatned
                   Famine
                   fright
                   thy
                   Mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   Phoebus
                   will
                   assist
                   ;
                   and
                   Fate
                   the
                   way
                   will
                   find
                   .
                
                 
                   Let
                   not
                   thy
                   Course
                   to
                   that
                   ill
                   Coast
                   be
                   bent
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   fronts
                   from
                   far
                   th'
                   Epirian
                   Continent
                   ;
                
                 
                   Those
                   parts
                   are
                   all
                   by
                   Grecian
                   Foes
                   possess'd
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   salvage
                   Locrians
                   here
                   the
                   Shores
                   infest
                   :
                
                 
                   There
                   fierce
                   Idomeneus
                   his
                   City
                   builds
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   guards
                   with
                   Arms
                   the
                   Salentinian
                   Fields
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   on
                   the
                   Mountains
                   brow
                   Petilia
                   stands
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   Philoctetes
                   with
                   his
                   Troops
                   commands
                   .
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   when
                   thy
                   Fleet
                   is
                   landed
                   on
                   the
                   Shore
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Priests
                   with
                   holy
                   Vows
                   the
                   Gods
                   adore
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   with
                   a
                   Purple
                   Veil
                   involve
                   your
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lest
                   hostile
                   Faces
                   blast
                   the
                   Sacrifice
                   .
                
                 
                   These
                   Rites
                   and
                   Customs
                   to
                   the
                   Rest
                   commend
                   ;
                
                 
                   That
                   to
                   your
                   Pious
                   Race
                   they
                   may
                   descend
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   When
                   parted
                   hence
                   ,
                   the
                   Wind
                   that
                   ready
                   waits
                
                 
                   For
                   Sicily
                   ,
                   shall
                   bear
                   you
                   to
                   the
                   Streights
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Where
                   proud
                   Pelorus
                   opes
                   a
                   wider
                   way
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tack
                   to
                   the
                   Larboord
                   ,
                   and
                   stand
                   off
                   to
                   Sea
                   :
                
                 
                   Veer
                   Star-board
                   Sea
                   and
                   Land.
                   Th'
                   Italian
                   Shore
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   fair
                   
                   Sicilia's
                   Coast
                   were
                   one
                   ,
                   before
                
                 
                   An
                   Earthquake
                   caus'd
                   the
                   Flaw
                   ,
                   the
                   roaring
                   Tides
                
                 
                   The
                   Passage
                   broke
                   ,
                   that
                   Land
                   from
                   Land
                   divides
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   where
                   the
                   Lands
                   retir'd
                   ,
                   the
                   rushing
                   Ocean
                   rides
                   .
                
                 
                   Distinguish'd
                   by
                   the
                   Streights
                   ,
                   on
                   either
                   hand
                   ,
                
                 
                   Now
                   rising
                   Cities
                   in
                   long
                   order
                   stand
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   fruitful
                   Fields
                   :
                   So
                   much
                   can
                   Time
                   invade
                
                 
                   The
                   mouldring
                   Work
                   ,
                   that
                   beauteous
                   Nature
                   made
                   .
                
                 
                   Far
                   on
                   the
                   right
                   ,
                   her
                   Dogs
                   foul
                   Scylla
                   hides
                   :
                
                 
                   Charibdis
                   roaring
                   on
                   the
                   left
                   presides
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   her
                   greedy
                   Whirl-pool
                   sucks
                   the
                   Tides
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   Spouts
                   them
                   from
                   below
                   ;
                   with
                   Fury
                   driv'n
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Waves
                   mount
                   up
                   ,
                   and
                   wash
                   the
                   face
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   Scylla
                   from
                   her
                   Den
                   ,
                   with
                   open
                   Jaws
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   sinking
                   Vessel
                   in
                   her
                   Eddy
                   draws
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   dashes
                   on
                   the
                   Rocks
                   :
                   A
                   Human
                   Face
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Virgin
                   Bosom
                   ,
                   hides
                   her
                   Tails
                   disgrace
                   .
                
                 
                   Her
                   Parts
                   obscene
                   below
                   the
                   Waves
                   descend
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Dogs
                   inclos'd
                   ;
                   and
                   in
                   a
                   Dolphin
                   end
                   .
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   safer
                   ,
                   then
                   ,
                   to
                   bear
                   aloof
                   to
                   Sea
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   coast
                   Pachynus
                   ,
                   though
                   with
                   more
                   delay
                   ;
                
                 
                   Than
                   once
                   to
                   view
                   mishapen
                   Scylla
                   near
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   loud
                   yell
                   of
                   watry
                   Wolves
                   to
                   hear
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Besides
                   ,
                   if
                   Faith
                   to
                   Helenus
                   be
                   due
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   if
                   Prophetick
                   Phoebus
                   tell
                   me
                   true
                   ;
                
                 
                   Do
                   not
                   this
                   Precept
                   of
                   your
                   Friend
                   forget
                   ;
                
                 
                   Which
                   therefore
                   more
                   than
                   once
                   I
                   must
                   repeat
                   .
                
                 
                   Above
                   the
                   rest
                   ,
                   great
                   
                   Juno's
                   Name
                   adore
                   :
                
                 
                   Pay
                   Vows
                   to
                   Juno
                   ;
                   Juno's
                   Aid
                   implore
                   .
                
                 
                   Let
                   Gifts
                   be
                   to
                   the
                   mighty
                   Queen
                   design'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   mollify
                   with
                   Pray'rs
                   her
                   haughty
                   Mind
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Thus
                   ,
                   at
                   the
                   length
                   ,
                   your
                   Passage
                   shall
                   be
                   free
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   you
                   shall
                   safe
                   descend
                   on
                   Italy
                   .
                
                 
                   Arriv'd
                   at
                   Cumae
                   ,
                   when
                   you
                   view
                   the
                   Flood
                
                 
                   Of
                   black
                   Avernus
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   sounding
                   Wood
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   mad
                   prophetick
                   Sybil
                   you
                   shall
                   find
                   ,
                
                 
                   Dark
                   in
                   a
                   Cave
                   ,
                   and
                   on
                   a
                   Rock
                   reclin'd
                   .
                
                 
                   She
                   sings
                   the
                   Fates
                   ,
                   and
                   in
                   her
                   frantick
                   Fitts
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Notes
                   and
                   Names
                   inscrib'd
                   ,
                   to
                   Leafs
                   commits
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   she
                   commits
                   to
                   Leafs
                   ,
                   in
                   order
                   laid
                   ,
                
                 
                   Before
                   the
                   Caverns
                   Entrance
                   are
                   display'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Unmov'd
                   they
                   lie
                   ,
                   but
                   if
                   a
                   Blast
                   of
                   Wind
                
                 
                   Without
                   ,
                   or
                   Vapours
                   issue
                   from
                   behind
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Leafs
                   are
                   born
                   aloft
                   in
                   liquid
                   Air
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   she
                   resumes
                   no
                   more
                   her
                   Museful
                   Care
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   gathers
                   from
                   the
                   Rocks
                   her
                   scatter'd
                   Verse
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   sets
                   in
                   order
                   what
                   the
                   Winds
                   disperse
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   ,
                   many
                   not
                   succeeding
                   ,
                   most
                   upbraid
                
                 
                   The
                   Madness
                   of
                   the
                   visionary
                   Maid
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   loud
                   Curses
                   leave
                   the
                   mystick
                   Shade
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Think
                   it
                   not
                   loss
                   of
                   time
                   a
                   while
                   to
                   stay
                   ;
                
                 
                   Though
                   thy
                   Companions
                   chide
                   thy
                   long
                   delay
                   :
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   summon'd
                   to
                   the
                   Seas
                   ,
                   tho'
                   pleasing
                   Gales
                
                 
                   Invite
                   thy
                   Course
                   ,
                   and
                   stretch
                   thy
                   swelling
                   Sails
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   beg
                   the
                   sacred
                   Priestess
                   to
                   relate
                
                 
                   With
                   willing
                   Words
                   ,
                   and
                   not
                   to
                   write
                   thy
                   Fate
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   fierce
                   Italian
                   People
                   she
                   will
                   show
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   thy
                   Wars
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   thy
                   Future
                   Woe
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   what
                   thou
                   may'st
                   avoid
                   ,
                   and
                   what
                   must
                   undergo
                   .
                
                 
                   She
                   shall
                   direct
                   thy
                   Course
                   ,
                   instruct
                   thy
                   Mind
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   teach
                   thee
                   how
                   the
                   happy
                   Shores
                   to
                   find
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   is
                   what
                   Heav'n
                   allows
                   me
                   to
                   relate
                   :
                
                 
                   Now
                   part
                   in
                   Peace
                   ;
                   pursue
                   thy
                   better
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   raise
                   ,
                   by
                   strength
                   of
                   Arms
                   ,
                   the
                   Trojan
                   State
                   ▪
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   This
                   ,
                   when
                   the
                   Priest
                   with
                   friendly
                   Voice
                   declar'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   gave
                   me
                   Licence
                   ,
                   and
                   rich
                   Gifts
                   prepar'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Bounteous
                   of
                   Treasure
                   ,
                   he
                   supply'd
                   my
                   want
                
                 
                   With
                   heavy
                   Gold
                   ,
                   and
                   polish'd
                   Elephant
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   Dodonaean
                   Caldrons
                   put
                   on
                   Bord
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ev'ry
                   Ship
                   with
                   Sums
                   of
                   Silver
                   stor'd
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   trusty
                   Coat
                   of
                   Mail
                   to
                   me
                   he
                   sent
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thrice
                   chain'd
                   with
                   Gold
                   ,
                   for
                   Use
                   and
                   Ornament
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Helm
                   of
                   Pyrrhus
                   added
                   to
                   the
                   rest
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   flourish'd
                   with
                   a
                   Plume
                   and
                   waving
                   Crest
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   was
                   my
                   Sire
                   forgotten
                   ,
                   nor
                   my
                   Friends
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   large
                   Recruits
                   he
                   to
                   my
                   Navy
                   sends
                   ;
                
                 
                   Men
                   ,
                   Horses
                   ,
                   Captains
                   ,
                   Arms
                   ,
                   and
                   warlick
                   Stores
                   :
                
                 
                   Supplies
                   new
                   Pilots
                   ,
                   and
                   new
                   sweeping
                   Oars
                   .
                
                 
                   Mean
                   time
                   ,
                   my
                   Sire
                   commands
                   to
                   hoist
                   our
                   Sails
                   ;
                
                 
                   Lest
                   we
                   shou'd
                   lose
                   the
                   first
                   auspicious
                   Gales
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Prophet
                   bless'd
                   the
                   parting
                   Crew
                   :
                   and
                   last
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Words
                   like
                   these
                   ,
                   his
                   ancient
                   Friend
                   embrac'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Old
                   happy
                   Man
                   ,
                   the
                   Care
                   of
                   Gods
                   above
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whom
                   Heav'nly
                   Venus
                   honour'd
                   with
                   her
                   Love
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   twice
                   preserv'd
                   thy
                   Life
                   ,
                   when
                   Troy
                   was
                   lost
                   ;
                
                 
                   Behold
                   from
                   far
                   the
                   wish'd
                   Ausonian
                   Coast
                   :
                
                 
                   There
                   land
                   ;
                   but
                   take
                   a
                   larger
                   Compass
                   round
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   that
                   before
                   is
                   all
                   forbidden
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Shore
                   that
                   Phoebus
                   has
                   design'd
                   for
                   you
                   ,
                
                 
                   At
                   farther
                   distance
                   lies
                   ,
                   conceal'd
                   from
                   view
                   .
                
                 
                   Go
                   happy
                   hence
                   ,
                   and
                   seek
                   your
                   new
                   Abodes
                   ;
                
                 
                   Bless'd
                   in
                   a
                   Son
                   ,
                   and
                   favour'd
                   by
                   the
                   Gods
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   I
                   with
                   useless
                   words
                   prolong
                   your
                   stay
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   Southern
                   Gales
                   have
                   summon'd
                   you
                   away
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Nor
                   less
                   the
                   Queen
                   our
                   parting
                   thence
                   deplor'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   was
                   less
                   bounteous
                   than
                   her
                   Trojan
                   Lord.
                
                 
                   A
                   noble
                   Present
                   to
                   my
                   Son
                   she
                   brought
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Robe
                   with
                   Flow'rs
                   on
                   Golden
                   Tissue
                   wrought
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   A
                   Phrygian
                   Vest
                   ;
                   and
                   loads
                   ,
                   with
                   Gifts
                   beside
                
                 
                   Of
                   precious
                   Texture
                   ,
                   and
                   of
                   Asian
                   Pride
                   .
                
                 
                   Accept
                   ,
                   she
                   said
                   ,
                   these
                   Monuments
                   of
                   Love
                   ;
                
                 
                   Which
                   in
                   my
                   Youth
                   with
                   happier
                   Hands
                   I
                   wove
                   :
                
                 
                   Regard
                   these
                   Trifles
                   for
                   the
                   Giver's
                   sake
                   ;
                
                 
                   T
                   is
                   the
                   last
                   Present
                   
                   Hector's
                   Wife
                   can
                   make
                   .
                
                 
                   Thou
                   call'st
                   my
                   lost
                   Astyanax
                   to
                   mind
                   :
                
                 
                   In
                   thee
                   his
                   Features
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Form
                   I
                   find
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   Eyes
                   so
                   sparkled
                   with
                   a
                   lively
                   Flame
                   ;
                
                 
                   Such
                   were
                   his
                   Motions
                   ,
                   such
                   was
                   all
                   his
                   Frame
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   ah
                   !
                   had
                   Heav'n
                   so
                   pleas'd
                   ,
                   his
                   Years
                   had
                   been
                   the
                   same
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   With
                   Tears
                   I
                   took
                   my
                   last
                   adieu
                   ,
                   and
                   said
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   Fortune
                   ,
                   happy
                   pair
                   ,
                   already
                   made
                   ,
                
                 
                   Leaves
                   you
                   no
                   farther
                   Wish
                   :
                   My
                   diff'rent
                   state
                   ,
                
                 
                   Avoiding
                   one
                   ,
                   incurs
                   another
                   Fate
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   you
                   a
                   quiet
                   Seat
                   the
                   Gods
                   allow
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   have
                   no
                   Shores
                   to
                   search
                   ,
                   no
                   Seas
                   to
                   plow
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Fields
                   of
                   flying
                   Italy
                   to
                   chase
                   :
                
                 
                   (
                   Deluding
                   Visions
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   vain
                   Embrace
                   !
                   )
                
                 
                   You
                   see
                   another
                   Simois
                   ,
                   and
                   enjoy
                
                 
                   The
                   labour
                   of
                   your
                   Hands
                   another
                   Troy
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   better
                   Auspice
                   than
                   her
                   ancient
                   Tow'rs
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   less
                   obnoxious
                   to
                   the
                   Grecian
                   Pow'rs
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   e're
                   the
                   Gods
                   ,
                   whom
                   I
                   with
                   Vows
                   adore
                   ,
                
                 
                   Conduct
                   my
                   Steps
                   to
                   
                   Tiber's
                   happy
                   Shore
                   :
                
                 
                   If
                   ever
                   I
                   ascend
                   the
                   Latian
                   Throne
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   build
                   a
                   City
                   I
                   may
                   call
                   my
                   own
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   both
                   of
                   us
                   our
                   Birth
                   from
                   Troy
                   derive
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   let
                   our
                   Kindred
                   Lines
                   in
                   Concord
                   live
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   both
                   in
                   Acts
                   of
                   equal
                   Friendship
                   strive
                   .
                
                 
                   Our
                   Fortunes
                   ,
                   good
                   or
                   bad
                   ,
                   shall
                   be
                   the
                   same
                   ▪
                
                 
                   The
                   double
                   Troy
                   shall
                   differ
                   but
                   in
                   Name
                   :
                
                 
                   That
                   what
                   we
                   now
                   begin
                   ,
                   may
                   never
                   end
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   long
                   ,
                   to
                   late
                   Posterity
                   descend
                   .
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     Edward
                     Browne
                     Dr.
                     in
                     Physick
                     .
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     3.
                     l.
                     625.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                 
                   Near
                   the
                   Ceraunean
                   Rocks
                   our
                   Course
                   we
                   bore
                   :
                
                 
                   (
                   The
                   shortest
                   passage
                   to
                   th'
                   Italian
                   shore
                   :
                   )
                
                 
                   Now
                   had
                   the
                   Sun
                   withdrawn
                   his
                   radiant
                   Light
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Hills
                   were
                   hid
                   in
                   dusky
                   Shades
                   of
                   Night
                   :
                
                 
                   We
                   land
                   ;
                   and
                   on
                   the
                   bosom
                   of
                   the
                   Ground
                
                 
                   A
                   safe
                   Retreat
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   bare
                   Lodging
                   found
                   ;
                
                 
                   Close
                   by
                   the
                   Shore
                   we
                   lay
                   ;
                   the
                   Sailors
                   keep
                
                 
                   Their
                   watches
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   rest
                   securely
                   sleep
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Night
                   proceeding
                   on
                   with
                   silent
                   pace
                   ,
                
                 
                   Stood
                   in
                   her
                   noon
                   ;
                   and
                   view'd
                   with
                   equal
                   Face
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   steepy
                   rise
                   ,
                   and
                   her
                   declining
                   Race
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   wakeful
                   Palinurus
                   rose
                   ,
                   to
                   spie
                
                 
                   The
                   face
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Nocturnal
                   Skie
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   listen'd
                   ev'ry
                   breath
                   of
                   Air
                   to
                   try
                   :
                
                 
                   Observes
                   the
                   Stars
                   ,
                   and
                   notes
                   their
                   sliding
                   Course
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   
                     Pleiads
                     ,
                     Hyads
                  
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   wat'ry
                   force
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   both
                   the
                   Bears
                   is
                   careful
                   to
                   behold
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   bright
                   Orion
                   arm'd
                   with
                   burnish'd
                   Gold.
                
                 
                   Then
                   when
                   he
                   saw
                   no
                   threat'ning
                   Tempest
                   Nigh
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   a
                   sure
                   promise
                   of
                   a
                   settled
                   Skie
                   ;
                
                 
                   He
                   gave
                   the
                   Sign
                   to
                   weigh
                   ;
                   we
                   break
                   our
                   sleep
                   ;
                
                 
                   Forsake
                   the
                   pleasing
                   Shore
                   ,
                   and
                   plow
                   the
                   deep
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   the
                   rising
                   Morn
                   ,
                   with
                   rosie
                   light
                
                 
                   Adorns
                   the
                   Skies
                   ,
                   and
                   puts
                   the
                   Stars
                   to
                   flight
                   :
                
                 
                   When
                   we
                   from
                   far
                   ,
                   like
                   bluish
                   Mists
                   ,
                   descry
                
                 
                   The
                   Hills
                   ,
                   and
                   then
                   the
                   Plains
                   of
                   Italy
                   .
                
                 
                   Achates
                   first
                   pronounc'd
                   the
                   Joyful
                   sound
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   Italy
                   the
                   chearful
                   Crew
                   rebound
                   .
                
                 
                   My
                   Sire
                   Anchises
                   crown'd
                   a
                   Cup
                   with
                   Wine
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   off'ring
                   ,
                   thus
                   implor'd
                   the
                   Pow'rs
                   Divine
                   .
                
                 
                   Ye
                   Gods
                   ,
                   presiding
                   over
                   Lands
                   and
                   Seas
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   you
                   who
                   raging
                   Winds
                   and
                   Waves
                   appease
                   ,
                
                 
                   Breath
                   on
                   our
                   swelling
                   Sails
                   a
                   prosp'rous
                   Wind
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   smooth
                   our
                   Passage
                   to
                   the
                   Port
                   assign'd
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   gentle
                   Gales
                   their
                   flagging
                   force
                   renew
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   the
                   happy
                   Harbour
                   is
                   in
                   view
                   .
                
                 
                   
                   Minerva's
                   Temple
                   then
                   salutes
                   our
                   sight
                   ;
                
                 
                   Plac'd
                   ,
                   as
                   a
                   Land-mark
                   ,
                   on
                   the
                   Mountains
                   height
                   :
                
                 
                   We
                   furl
                   our
                   Sails
                   ,
                   and
                   turn
                   the
                   Prows
                   to
                   shore
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   curling
                   Waters
                   round
                   the
                   Galleys
                   roar
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Land
                   lies
                   open
                   to
                   the
                   raging
                   East
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   bending
                   like
                   a
                   Bow
                   ,
                   with
                   Rocks
                   compress'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shuts
                   out
                   the
                   Storms
                   ;
                   the
                   Winds
                   and
                   Waves
                   complain
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   vent
                   their
                   malice
                   on
                   the
                   Cliffs
                   in
                   vain
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Port
                   lies
                   hid
                   within
                   ;
                   on
                   either
                   side
                
                 
                   Two
                   Tow'ring
                   Rocks
                   the
                   narrow
                   mouth
                   divide
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Temple
                   ,
                   which
                   aloft
                   we
                   view'd
                   before
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   distance
                   flies
                   ,
                   and
                   seems
                   to
                   shun
                   the
                   Shore
                   .
                
                 
                   Scarce
                   landed
                   ,
                   the
                   first
                   Omens
                   I
                   beheld
                
                 
                   Were
                   four
                   white
                   Steeds
                   that
                   crop'd
                   the
                   flow'ry
                   Field
                   .
                
                 
                   War
                   ,
                   War
                   is
                   threaten'd
                   from
                   this
                   Forreign
                   Ground
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   My
                   Father
                   cry'd
                   )
                   where
                   warlike
                   Steeds
                   are
                   found
                   .
                
                 
                   Yet
                   ,
                   since
                   reclaim'd
                   to
                   Chariots
                   they
                   submit
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   bend
                   to
                   stubborn
                   Yokes
                   ,
                   and
                   champ
                   the
                   Bitt
                   ,
                
                 
                   Peace
                   may
                   succeed
                   to
                   Warr.
                   Our
                   way
                   we
                   bend
                
                 
                   To
                   Pallas
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   sacred
                   Hill
                   ascend
                   .
                
                 
                   There
                   ,
                   prostrate
                   to
                   the
                   fierce
                   Virago
                   pray
                   ;
                
                 
                   Whose
                   Temple
                   was
                   the
                   Land-Mark
                   of
                   our
                   way
                   .
                
                 
                   Each
                   with
                   a
                   Phrygian
                   Mantle
                   veil'd
                   his
                   Head
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   Commands
                   of
                   Helenus
                   obey'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   pious
                   Rites
                   to
                   
                     Grecian
                     Juno
                  
                   paid
                   .
                
                 
                   These
                   dues
                   perform'd
                   ,
                   we
                   stretch
                   our
                   Sails
                   ,
                   and
                   stand
                
                 
                   To
                   Sea
                   ,
                   forsaking
                   that
                   suspected
                   Land.
                
                 
                   From
                   hence
                   
                   Tarentum's
                   Bay
                   appears
                   in
                   view
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   Hercules
                   renown'd
                   ,
                   if
                   Fame
                   be
                   true
                   .
                
                 
                   Just
                   opposite
                   ,
                   
                     Lacinian
                     Juno
                  
                   stands
                   ;
                
                 
                   Caulonian
                   Tow'rs
                   and
                   Scylacaean
                   Strands
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   For
                   Shipwrecks
                   fear'd
                   :
                   Mount
                   Etna
                   thence
                   we
                   spy
                   ,
                
                 
                   Known
                   by
                   the
                   smoaky
                   Flames
                   which
                   Cloud
                   the
                   Skie
                   .
                
                 
                   Far
                   off
                   we
                   hear
                   the
                   Waves
                   ,
                   with
                   surly
                   sound
                
                 
                   Invade
                   the
                   Rocks
                   ,
                   the
                   Rocks
                   their
                   groans
                   rebound
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Billows
                   break
                   upon
                   the
                   sounding
                   Strand
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   roul
                   the
                   rising
                   Tide
                   ,
                   impure
                   with
                   Sand.
                
                 
                   Then
                   thus
                   Anchises
                   ,
                   in
                   Experience
                   old
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   that
                   Charibdis
                   which
                   the
                   Seer
                   foretold
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   those
                   the
                   promis'd
                   Rocks
                   ;
                   bear
                   off
                   to
                   Sea
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   haste
                   the
                   frighted
                   Mariners
                   obey
                   .
                
                 
                   First
                   Palinurus
                   to
                   the
                   Larboor'd
                   veer'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   all
                   the
                   Fleet
                   by
                   his
                   Example
                   steer'd
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   Heav'n
                   aloft
                   on
                   ridgy
                   Waves
                   we
                   ride
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   down
                   to
                   Hell
                   descend
                   ,
                   when
                   they
                   divide
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   thrice
                   our
                   Gallies
                   knock'd
                   the
                   stony
                   ground
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   thrice
                   the
                   hollow
                   Rocks
                   return'd
                   the
                   sound
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   thrice
                   we
                   saw
                   the
                   Stars
                   ,
                   that
                   stood
                   with
                   dews
                   around
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   flagging
                   Winds
                   forsook
                   us
                   ,
                   with
                   the
                   Sun
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   weary'd
                   ,
                   on
                   Cyclopean
                   Shores
                   we
                   run
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Port
                   capacious
                   ,
                   and
                   secure
                   from
                   Wind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Is
                   to
                   the
                   foot
                   of
                   thundring
                   Etna
                   joyn'd
                   .
                
                 
                   By
                   turns
                   a
                   pitchy
                   Cloud
                   she
                   rowls
                   on
                   high
                   ;
                
                 
                   By
                   turns
                   hot
                   Embers
                   from
                   her
                   entrails
                   fly
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   flakes
                   of
                   mounting
                   Flames
                   ,
                   that
                   lick
                   the
                   Skie
                   .
                
                 
                   Oft
                   from
                   her
                   Bowels
                   massy
                   Rocks
                   are
                   thrown
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   shiver'd
                   by
                   the
                   force
                   come
                   piece-meal
                   down
                   .
                
                 
                   Oft
                   liquid
                   Lakes
                   of
                   burning
                   Sulphur
                   flow
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fed
                   from
                   the
                   fiery
                   Springs
                   that
                   boil
                   below
                   .
                
                 
                   Enceladus
                   they
                   say
                   ,
                   transfix'd
                   by
                   Jove
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   blasted
                   Limbs
                   came
                   tumbling
                   from
                   above
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   where
                   he
                   fell
                   ,
                   th'
                   Avenging
                   Father
                   drew
                
                 
                   This
                   flaming
                   Hill
                   ,
                   and
                   on
                   his
                   Body
                   threw
                   :
                
                 
                   As
                   often
                   as
                   he
                   turns
                   his
                   weary
                   sides
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   shakes
                   the
                   solid
                   Isle
                   ,
                   and
                   smoke
                   the
                   Heavens
                   hides
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   In
                   shady
                   Woods
                   we
                   pass
                   the
                   tedious
                   Night
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   bellowing
                   Sounds
                   and
                   Groans
                   our
                   Souls
                   affright
                
                 
                   Of
                   which
                   no
                   Cause
                   is
                   offer'd
                   to
                   the
                   sight
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   not
                   one
                   Star
                   was
                   kindled
                   in
                   the
                   Skie
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   cou'd
                   the
                   Moon
                   her
                   borrow'd
                   Light
                   supply
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   misty
                   Clouds
                   invovl'd
                   the
                   Firmament
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Stars
                   were
                   muffled
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Moon
                   was
                   pent
                   .
                
                 
                   Scarce
                   had
                   the
                   rising
                   Sun
                   the
                   day
                   reveal'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Scarce
                   had
                   his
                   heat
                   the
                   pearly
                   dews
                   dispell'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   from
                   the
                   Woods
                   there
                   bolts
                   ,
                   before
                   our
                   sight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Somewhat
                   ,
                   betwixt
                   a
                   Mortal
                   and
                   a
                   Spright
                   .
                
                 
                   So
                   thin
                   ,
                   so
                   ghastly
                   meagre
                   ,
                   and
                   so
                   wan
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   bare
                   of
                   flesh
                   ,
                   he
                   scarce
                   resembled
                   Man.
                
                 
                   This
                   thing
                   ,
                   all
                   tatter'd
                   ,
                   seem'd
                   from
                   far
                   t'implore
                
                 
                   Our
                   pious
                   aid
                   ,
                   and
                   pointed
                   to
                   the
                   Shore
                   .
                
                 
                   We
                   look
                   behind
                   ;
                   then
                   view
                   his
                   shaggy
                   Beard
                   ;
                
                 
                   His
                   Cloaths
                   were
                   tagg'd
                   with
                   Thorns
                   ,
                   and
                   Filth
                   his
                   Limbs
                   besmear'd
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   rest
                   ,
                   in
                   Meen
                   ,
                   in
                   habit
                   ,
                   and
                   in
                   Face
                   ,
                
                 
                   Appear'd
                   a
                   Greek
                   ;
                   and
                   such
                   indeed
                   he
                   was
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   cast
                   on
                   us
                   ,
                   from
                   far
                   ,
                   a
                   frightful
                   view
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whom
                   soon
                   for
                   Trojans
                   and
                   for
                   Foes
                   he
                   knew
                   :
                
                 
                   Stood
                   still
                   ,
                   and
                   paus'd
                   ;
                   then
                   all
                   at
                   once
                   began
                
                 
                   To
                   stretch
                   his
                   Limbs
                   ,
                   and
                   trembled
                   as
                   he
                   ran
                   .
                
                 
                   Soon
                   as
                   approach'd
                   ,
                   upon
                   his
                   Knees
                   he
                   falls
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   thus
                   with
                   Tears
                   and
                   Sighs
                   for
                   pity
                   calls
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   by
                   the
                   Pow'rs
                   above
                   ,
                   and
                   what
                   we
                   share
                
                 
                   As
                   Nature's
                   common
                   Gift
                   ,
                   this
                   vital
                   Air
                   ,
                
                 
                   O
                   Trojans
                   take
                   me
                   hence
                   :
                   I
                   beg
                   no
                   more
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   bear
                   me
                   far
                   from
                   this
                   unhappy
                   Shore
                   .
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   true
                   I
                   am
                   a
                   Greek
                   ,
                   and
                   farther
                   own
                   ,
                
                 
                   Among
                   your
                   Foes
                   besieg'd
                   th'
                   Imperial
                   Town
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   such
                   Demerits
                   if
                   my
                   death
                   be
                   due
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   more
                   for
                   this
                   abandon'd
                   life
                   I
                   sue
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   This
                   only
                   Favour
                   let
                   my
                   Tears
                   obtain
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   throw
                   me
                   headlong
                   in
                   the
                   rapid
                   Main
                   :
                
                 
                   Since
                   nothing
                   more
                   than
                   Death
                   my
                   Crime
                   demands
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   dye
                   content
                   ,
                   to
                   dye
                   by
                   human
                   Hands
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   said
                   ,
                   and
                   on
                   his
                   Knees
                   my
                   Knees
                   embrac'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   bad
                   him
                   boldly
                   tell
                   his
                   Fortune
                   past
                   ;
                
                 
                   His
                   present
                   State
                   ,
                   his
                   Lineage
                   and
                   his
                   Name
                   ;
                
                 
                   Th'
                   occasion
                   of
                   his
                   Fears
                   ,
                   and
                   whence
                   he
                   came
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   good
                   Anchises
                   rais'd
                   him
                   with
                   his
                   Hand
                   ;
                
                 
                   Who
                   ,
                   thus
                   encourag'd
                   ,
                   answer'd
                   our
                   Demand
                   :
                
                 
                   From
                   Ithaca
                   my
                   native
                   Soil
                   I
                   came
                
                 
                   To
                   Troy
                   ,
                   and
                   Achaemenides
                   my
                   Name
                   .
                
                 
                   Me
                   ,
                   my
                   poor
                   Father
                   ,
                   with
                   Ulysses
                   sent
                   ;
                
                 
                   (
                   Oh
                   had
                   I
                   stay'd
                   ,
                   with
                   Poverty
                   content
                   !
                   )
                
                 
                   But
                   fearful
                   for
                   themselves
                   ,
                   my
                   Country-men
                
                 
                   Left
                   me
                   forsaken
                   in
                   the
                   
                   Cyclop's
                   Den.
                
                 
                   The
                   Cave
                   ,
                   though
                   large
                   ,
                   was
                   dark
                   ,
                   the
                   dismal
                   Flore
                
                 
                   Was
                   pav'd
                   with
                   mangled
                   Limbs
                   and
                   putrid
                   Gore
                   .
                
                 
                   Our
                   monstrous
                   Host
                   ,
                   of
                   more
                   than
                   Human
                   Size
                   ,
                
                 
                   Erects
                   his
                   Head
                   ,
                   and
                   stares
                   within
                   the
                   Skies
                   .
                
                 
                   Bellowing
                   his
                   Voice
                   ,
                   and
                   horrid
                   is
                   his
                   Hue.
                
                 
                   Ye
                   Gods
                   ,
                   remove
                   this
                   Plague
                   from
                   Mortal
                   View
                   !
                
                 
                   The
                   Joints
                   of
                   slaughter'd
                   Wretches
                   are
                   his
                   Food
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   for
                   his
                   Wine
                   he
                   quaffs
                   the
                   streaming
                   Blood.
                
                 
                   These
                   Eyes
                   beheld
                   ,
                   when
                   with
                   his
                   spacious
                   Hand
                
                 
                   He
                   seiz'd
                   two
                   Captives
                   of
                   our
                   Grecian
                   Band
                   ;
                
                 
                   Stretch'd
                   on
                   his
                   Back
                   ,
                   he
                   dash'd
                   against
                   the
                   Stones
                
                 
                   Their
                   broken
                   Bodies
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   crackling
                   Bones
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   spouting
                   Blood
                   the
                   Purple
                   Pavement
                   swims
                   ,
                
                 
                   While
                   the
                   dire
                   Glutton
                   grinds
                   the
                   trembling
                   Limbs
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Not
                   unreveng'd
                   ,
                   Ulysses
                   bore
                   their
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   thoughtless
                   of
                   his
                   own
                   unhappy
                   State
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   ,
                   gorg'd
                   with
                   Flesh
                   ,
                   and
                   drunk
                   with
                   Human
                   Wine
                   ,
                
                 
                   While
                   fast
                   asleep
                   the
                   Gyant
                   lay
                   supine
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   Snoaring
                   aloud
                   ,
                   and
                   belching
                   from
                   his
                   Maw
                
                 
                   His
                   indigested
                   Foam
                   ,
                   and
                   Morsels
                   raw
                   :
                
                 
                   We
                   pray
                   ,
                   we
                   cast
                   the
                   Lots
                   ,
                   and
                   then
                   surround
                
                 
                   The
                   monstrous
                   Body
                   ,
                   stretch'd
                   along
                   the
                   Ground
                   :
                
                 
                   Each
                   ,
                   as
                   he
                   cou'd
                   approach
                   him
                   ,
                   lends
                   a
                   hand
                
                 
                   To
                   bore
                   his
                   Eyeball
                   with
                   a
                   flaming
                   Brand.
                
                 
                   Beneath
                   his
                   frowning
                   Forehead
                   lay
                   his
                   Eye
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   For
                   onely
                   one
                   did
                   the
                   vast
                   Frame
                   supply
                   ;
                   )
                
                 
                   But
                   that
                   a
                   Globe
                   so
                   large
                   ,
                   his
                   Front
                   it
                   fill'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Like
                   the
                   Sun
                   's
                   disk
                   ,
                   or
                   like
                   a
                   Grecian
                   Shield
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Stroke
                   succeeds
                   ;
                   and
                   down
                   the
                   Pupil
                   bends
                   ;
                
                 
                   This
                   Vengeance
                   follow'd
                   for
                   our
                   slaughter'd
                   Friends
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   haste
                   ,
                   unhappy
                   Wretches
                   ,
                   haste
                   to
                   fly
                   ;
                
                 
                   Your
                   Cables
                   cut
                   ,
                   and
                   on
                   your
                   Oars
                   rely
                   .
                
                 
                   Such
                   ,
                   and
                   so
                   vast
                   as
                   Polypheme
                   appears
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   hundred
                   more
                   this
                   hated
                   Island
                   bears
                   :
                
                 
                   Like
                   him
                   in
                   Caves
                   they
                   shut
                   their
                   woolly
                   Sheep
                   ,
                
                 
                   Like
                   him
                   ,
                   their
                   Herds
                   on
                   tops
                   of
                   Mountains
                   keep
                   ;
                
                 
                   Like
                   him
                   ,
                   with
                   mighty
                   Strides
                   ,
                   they
                   stalk
                   from
                   Steep
                   to
                   Steep
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   three
                   Moons
                   their
                   sharpen'd
                   Horns
                   renew
                
                 
                   Since
                   thus
                   in
                   Woods
                   and
                   Wilds
                   ,
                   obscure
                   from
                   view
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   drag
                   my
                   loathsom
                   Days
                   with
                   mortal
                   Fright
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   deserted
                   Caverns
                   lodge
                   by
                   Night
                   .
                
                 
                   Oft
                   from
                   the
                   Rocks
                   a
                   dreadful
                   Prospect
                   see
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   the
                   huge
                   Cyclops
                   ,
                   like
                   a
                   walking
                   Tree
                   :
                
                 
                   From
                   far
                   I
                   hear
                   his
                   thund'ring
                   Voice
                   resound
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   trampling
                   Feet
                   that
                   shake
                   the
                   solid
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                   Cornels
                   ,
                   and
                   salvage
                   Berries
                   of
                   the
                   Wood
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Roots
                   and
                   Herbs
                   have
                   been
                   my
                   meagre
                   Food
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   While
                   all
                   around
                   my
                   longing
                   Eyes
                   I
                   cast
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   saw
                   your
                   happy
                   Ships
                   appear
                   at
                   last
                   .
                
                 
                   On
                   those
                   I
                   fix'd
                   my
                   hopes
                   ,
                   to
                   these
                   I
                   run
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   all
                   I
                   ask
                   this
                   cruel
                   Race
                   to
                   shun
                   :
                
              
               
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     Wm.
                     Gibbons
                     D
                     r.
                     :
                     in
                     Physick
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     3.
                     l.
                     865.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   What
                   other
                   Death
                   you
                   please
                   your selves
                   ,
                   bestow
                   .
                
                 
                   Scarce
                   had
                   he
                   said
                   ,
                   when
                   on
                   the
                   Mountain's
                   brow
                   ,
                
                 
                   We
                   saw
                   the
                   Gyant-Shepherd
                   stalk
                   before
                
                 
                   His
                   following
                   Flock
                   ,
                   and
                   leading
                   to
                   the
                   Shore
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   monstrous
                   Bulk
                   ,
                   deform'd
                   ,
                   depriv'd
                   of
                   Sight
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Staff
                   a
                   trunk
                   of
                   Pine
                   ,
                   to
                   guide
                   his
                   steps
                   aright
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   pondrous
                   Whistle
                   from
                   his
                   Neck
                   descends
                   ;
                
                 
                   His
                   woolly
                   Care
                   their
                   pensive
                   Lord
                   attends
                   :
                
                 
                   This
                   onely
                   Solace
                   his
                   hard
                   Fortune
                   sends
                   .
                
                 
                   Soon
                   as
                   he
                   reach'd
                   the
                   Shore
                   ,
                   and
                   touch'd
                   the
                   Waves
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   his
                   bor'd
                   Eye
                   the
                   gutt'ring
                   Blood
                   he
                   laves
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   gnash'd
                   his
                   Teeth
                   and
                   groan'd
                   ;
                   thro'
                   Seas
                   he
                   strides
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   scarce
                   the
                   topmost
                   Billows
                   touch'd
                   his
                   sides
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Seiz'd
                   with
                   a
                   sudden
                   Fear
                   ,
                   we
                   run
                   to
                   Sea
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Cables
                   cut
                   ,
                   and
                   silent
                   haste
                   away
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   well
                   deserving
                   Stranger
                   entertain
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   buckling
                   to
                   the
                   Work
                   ,
                   our
                   Oars
                   divide
                   the
                   Main
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Gyant
                   harken'd
                   to
                   the
                   dashing
                   Sound
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   when
                   our
                   Vessels
                   out
                   of
                   reach
                   he
                   found
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   strided
                   onward
                   ;
                   and
                   in
                   vain
                   essay'd
                
                 
                   Th'
                   Ionian
                   Deep
                   ,
                   and
                   durst
                   no
                   farther
                   wade
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   that
                   he
                   roar'd
                   aloud
                   ;
                   the
                   dreadful
                   Cry
                
                 
                   Shakes
                   Earth
                   ,
                   and
                   Air
                   ,
                   and
                   Seas
                   ;
                   the
                   Billows
                   fly
                
                 
                   Before
                   the
                   bellowing
                   Noise
                   ,
                   to
                   distant
                   Italy
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   neighb'ring
                   Aetna
                   trembled
                   all
                   around
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   winding
                   Caverns
                   echo
                   to
                   the
                   sound
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   brother
                   Cyclops
                   hear
                   the
                   yelling
                   Roar
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   rushing
                   down
                   the
                   Mountains
                   ,
                   crowd
                   the
                   Shoar
                   :
                
                 
                   We
                   saw
                   their
                   stern
                   distorted
                   looks
                   ,
                   from
                   far
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   one
                   ey'd
                   Glance
                   ,
                   that
                   vainly
                   threatned
                   War.
                
                 
                   A
                   dreadful
                   Council
                   ,
                   with
                   their
                   heads
                   on
                   high
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   misty
                   Clouds
                   about
                   their
                   Foreheads
                   fly
                   :
                
                 
                   Not
                   yielding
                   to
                   the
                   tow'ring
                   Tree
                   of
                   Jove
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   tallest
                   Cypress
                   of
                   
                   Diana's
                   Grove
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   New
                   Pangs
                   of
                   mortal
                   Fear
                   our
                   Minds
                   assail
                   ,
                
                 
                   We
                   tug
                   at
                   ev'ry
                   Oar
                   ,
                   and
                   hoist
                   up
                   ev'ry
                   Sail
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   take
                   th'
                   Advantage
                   of
                   the
                   friendly
                   Gale.
                
                 
                   Forewarn'd
                   by
                   Helenus
                   ,
                   we
                   strive
                   to
                   shun
                
                 
                   Charibdis
                   Gulph
                   ,
                   nor
                   dare
                   to
                   Scylla
                   run
                   .
                
                 
                   An
                   equal
                   Fate
                   on
                   either
                   side
                   appears
                   ;
                
                 
                   We
                   ,
                   tacking
                   to
                   the
                   left
                   ,
                   are
                   free
                   from
                   Fears
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   from
                   Pelorus
                   Point
                   ,
                   the
                   North
                   arose
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   drove
                   us
                   back
                   where
                   swift
                   Pantagias
                   flows
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   Rocky
                   Mouth
                   we
                   pass
                   ;
                   and
                   make
                   our
                   Way
                
                 
                   By
                   Thapsus
                   ,
                   and
                   
                   Megara's
                   winding
                   Bay
                   ;
                
                 
                   This
                   Passage
                   Achaemenides
                   had
                   shown
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tracing
                   the
                   Course
                   which
                   he
                   before
                   had
                   run
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Right
                   o're-against
                   
                   Plemmyrium's
                   watry
                   Strand
                   ,
                
                 
                   There
                   lies
                   an
                   Isle
                   once
                   call'd
                   th'
                   Ortygian
                   Land
                   :
                
                 
                   Alphëus
                   ,
                   as
                   Old
                   Fame
                   reports
                   ,
                   has
                   found
                
                 
                   From
                   Greece
                   a
                   secret
                   Passage
                   under-ground
                   :
                
                 
                   By
                   Love
                   to
                   beauteous
                   Arethusa
                   led
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   mingling
                   here
                   ,
                   they
                   rowl
                   in
                   the
                   same
                   Sacred
                   Bed.
                
                 
                   As
                   Helenus
                   enjoyn'd
                   ,
                   we
                   next
                   adore
                
                 
                   
                   Diana's
                   Name
                   ,
                   Protectress
                   of
                   the
                   Shore
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   prosp'rous
                   Gales
                   we
                   pass
                   the
                   quiet
                   Sounds
                
                 
                   Of
                   still
                   Elorus
                   and
                   his
                   fruitsul
                   Bounds
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   doubling
                   Cape
                   Pachynus
                   ,
                   we
                   survey
                
                 
                   The
                   rocky
                   Shore
                   extended
                   to
                   the
                   Sea.
                
                 
                   The
                   Town
                   of
                   Camarine
                   from
                   far
                   we
                   see
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   fenny
                   Lake
                   undrain'd
                   by
                   Fates
                   decree
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   sight
                   of
                   the
                   Geloan
                   Fields
                   we
                   pass
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   large
                   Walls
                   ,
                   where
                   mighty
                   Gela
                   was
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   Agragas
                   with
                   lofty
                   Summets
                   crown'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Long
                   for
                   the
                   Race
                   of
                   warlike
                   Steeds
                   renown'd
                   :
                
                 
                   We
                   pass'd
                   Selinus
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Palmy
                   Land
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   widely
                   shun
                   the
                   Lilybaean
                   Strand
                   ,
                
                 
                   Unsafe
                   ,
                   for
                   secret
                   Rocks
                   ,
                   and
                   moving
                   Sand.
                
                 
                 
                   At
                   length
                   on
                   Shore
                   the
                   weary
                   Fleet
                   arriv'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Which
                   
                   Drepanum's
                   unhappy
                   Port
                   receiv'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Here
                   ,
                   after
                   endless
                   Labours
                   ,
                   often
                   tost
                
                 
                   By
                   raging
                   Storms
                   ,
                   and
                   driv'n
                   on
                   ev'ry
                   Coast
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   dear
                   ,
                   dear
                   Father
                   ,
                   spent
                   with
                   Age
                   ,
                   I
                   lost
                   .
                
                 
                   Ease
                   of
                   my
                   Cares
                   ,
                   and
                   Solace
                   of
                   my
                   Pain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sav'd
                   through
                   a
                   thousand
                   Toils
                   ,
                   but
                   sav'd
                   in
                   vain
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Prophet
                   ,
                   who
                   my
                   future
                   Woes
                   reveal'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   this
                   ,
                   the
                   greatest
                   and
                   the
                   worst
                   ,
                   conceal'd
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   dire
                   Celoeno
                   ,
                   whose
                   foreboding
                   Skill
                
                 
                   Denounc'd
                   all
                   else
                   ,
                   was
                   silent
                   of
                   this
                   Ill
                   :
                
                 
                   This
                   my
                   last
                   Labour
                   was
                   .
                   Some
                   friendly
                   God
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   thence
                   convey'd
                   us
                   to
                   your
                   blest
                   Abode
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Thus
                   to
                   the
                   listning
                   Queen
                   ,
                   the
                   Royal
                   Guest
                
                 
                   His
                   wand'ring
                   Course
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   his
                   Toils
                   express'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   here
                   concluding
                   ,
                   he
                   retir'd
                   to
                   rest
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 The
                 Fourth
                 Book
                 of
                 the
                 Aeneis
                 .
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Argument
                   .
                
                 
                   Dido
                   
                     discovers
                     to
                     her
                     Sister
                     her
                     Passion
                     for
                  
                   Aeneas
                   ,
                   
                     and
                     her
                     thoughts
                     of
                     marrying
                     him
                     .
                     She
                     prepares
                     a
                     Hunting-Match
                     for
                     his
                     Entertainment
                     .
                  
                   Juno
                   by
                   Venus
                   
                     's
                     consent
                     raises
                     a
                     Storm
                     ,
                     which
                     separates
                     the
                     Hunters
                     ,
                     and
                     drives
                  
                   Aeneas
                   and
                   Dido
                   
                     into
                     the
                     same
                     Cave
                     ,
                     where
                     their
                     Marriage
                     is
                     suppos'd
                     to
                     be
                     compleated
                     .
                  
                   Jupiter
                   dispatches
                   Mercury
                   to
                   Aeneas
                   ,
                   
                     to
                     warn
                     him
                     from
                  
                   Carthage
                   ;
                   Aeneas
                   
                     secretly
                     prepares
                     for
                     his
                     Voyage
                  
                   :
                   Dido
                   
                     finds
                     out
                     his
                     Design
                     ,
                     and
                     to
                     put
                     a
                     stop
                     to
                     it
                     ,
                     makes
                     use
                     of
                     her
                     own
                     ,
                     and
                     her
                     Sister's
                     Entreaties
                     ,
                     and
                     discovers
                     all
                     the
                     variety
                     of
                     Passions
                     that
                     are
                     incident
                     to
                     a
                     neglected
                     Lover
                     :
                     When
                     nothing
                     wou'd
                     prevail
                     upon
                     him
                     ,
                     she
                     contrives
                     her
                     own
                     Death
                     ,
                     with
                     which
                     this
                     Book
                     concludes
                     .
                  
                
              
               
                 
                   BUT
                   anxious
                   Cares
                   already
                   seiz'd
                   the
                   Queen
                   :
                
                 
                   She
                   fed
                   within
                   her
                   Veins
                   a
                   Flame
                   unseen
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Heroe's
                   Valour
                   ,
                   Acts
                   ,
                   and
                   Birth
                   inspire
                
                 
                   Her
                   Soul
                   with
                   Love
                   ,
                   and
                   fann
                   the
                   secret
                   Fire
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   Words
                   ,
                   his
                   Looks
                   imprinted
                   in
                   her
                   Heart
                   ,
                
                 
                   Improve
                   the
                   Passion
                   ,
                   and
                   increase
                   the
                   Smart
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   ,
                   when
                   the
                   Purple
                   Morn
                   had
                   chas'd
                   away
                
                 
                   The
                   dewy
                   Shadows
                   ,
                   and
                   restor'd
                   the
                   Day
                   ;
                
                 
                   Her
                   Sister
                   first
                   ,
                   with
                   early
                   Care
                   she
                   sought
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   thus
                   in
                   mournful
                   Accents
                   eas'd
                   her
                   Thought
                   .
                
                 
                   My
                   dearest
                   Anna
                   ,
                   what
                   new
                   Dreams
                   affright
                
                 
                   My
                   lab'ring
                   Soul
                   ;
                   what
                   Visions
                   of
                   the
                   Night
                
                 
                   Disturb
                   my
                   Quiet
                   ,
                   and
                   distract
                   my
                   Breast
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   strange
                   Ideas
                   of
                   our
                   Trojan
                   Guest
                   ?
                
                 
                   His
                   Worth
                   ,
                   his
                   Actions
                   ,
                   and
                   Majestick
                   Air
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Man
                   descended
                   from
                   the
                   Gods
                   declare
                   :
                
                 
                   Fear
                   never
                   harbours
                   in
                   a
                   Noble
                   Mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   Modesty
                   ,
                   with
                   just
                   Assurance
                   join'd
                   .
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     y
                     e
                     Right
                     Hon
                     ble
                     .
                     John
                     Earle
                     of
                     Exeter
                     Baron
                     Coecill
                     of
                     Burleigh
                     &
                     ct
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     4.
                     l
                     :
                     1.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   what
                   he
                   suffer'd
                   ,
                   when
                   by
                   Fate
                   betray'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   brave
                   Attempts
                   for
                   falling
                   Troy
                   he
                   made
                   !
                
                 
                   Such
                   were
                   his
                   Looks
                   ,
                   so
                   gracefully
                   he
                   spoke
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   were
                   I
                   not
                   resolv'd
                   against
                   the
                   Yoke
                
                 
                   Of
                   hapless
                   Marriage
                   ;
                   never
                   to
                   be
                   curs'd
                
                 
                   With
                   second
                   Love
                   ,
                   so
                   fatal
                   was
                   my
                   first
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   this
                   one
                   Error
                   I
                   might
                   yield
                   again
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   since
                   Sichaeus
                   was
                   untimely
                   slain
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   onely
                   Man
                   ,
                   is
                   able
                   to
                   subvert
                
                 
                   The
                   fix'd
                   Foundations
                   of
                   my
                   stubborn
                   Heart
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   to
                   confess
                   my
                   Frailty
                   ,
                   to
                   my
                   shame
                   ,
                
                 
                   Somewhat
                   I
                   find
                   within
                   ,
                   if
                   not
                   the
                   same
                   ,
                
                 
                   Too
                   like
                   the
                   Sparkles
                   of
                   my
                   former
                   Flame
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   first
                   let
                   yawning
                   Earth
                   a
                   Passage
                   rend
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   let
                   me
                   through
                   the
                   dark
                   Abyss
                   descend
                   ;
                
                 
                   First
                   let
                   avenging
                   Jove
                   ,
                   with
                   Flames
                   from
                   high
                   ,
                
                 
                   Drive
                   down
                   this
                   Body
                   ,
                   to
                   the
                   neather
                   Sky
                   ,
                
                 
                   Condemn'd
                   with
                   Ghosts
                   in
                   endless
                   Night
                   to
                   lye
                   ;
                
                 
                   Before
                   I
                   break
                   the
                   plighted
                   Faith
                   I
                   gave
                   ;
                
                 
                   No
                   ;
                   he
                   who
                   had
                   my
                   Vows
                   ,
                   shall
                   ever
                   have
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   whom
                   I
                   lov'd
                   on
                   Earth
                   ,
                   I
                   worship
                   in
                   the
                   Grave
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   She
                   said
                   ;
                   the
                   Tears
                   ran
                   gushing
                   from
                   her
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   stop'd
                   her
                   Speech
                   :
                   her
                   Sister
                   thus
                   replies
                   .
                
                 
                   O
                   dearer
                   than
                   the
                   vital
                   Air
                   I
                   breath
                   ,
                
                 
                   Will
                   you
                   to
                   Grief
                   your
                   blooming
                   Years
                   bequeath
                   ?
                
                 
                   Condem'd
                   to
                   wast
                   in
                   Woes
                   ,
                   your
                   lonely
                   Life
                   ,
                
                 
                   Without
                   the
                   Joys
                   of
                   Mother
                   ,
                   or
                   of
                   Wife
                   .
                
                 
                   Think
                   you
                   these
                   Tears
                   ,
                   this
                   pompous
                   Train
                   of
                   Woe
                   ,
                
                 
                   Are
                   known
                   ,
                   or
                   valu'd
                   by
                   the
                   Ghosts
                   below
                   ?
                
                 
                   I
                   grant
                   ,
                   that
                   while
                   your
                   Sorrows
                   yet
                   were
                   green
                   ,
                
                 
                   It
                   well
                   became
                   a
                   Woman
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   Queen
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Vows
                   of
                   Tyrian
                   Princes
                   to
                   neglect
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   scorn
                   Hyarbas
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Love
                   reject
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   With
                   all
                   the
                   Lybian
                   Lords
                   of
                   mighty
                   Name
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   will
                   you
                   fight
                   against
                   a
                   pleasing
                   Flame
                   !
                
                 
                   This
                   little
                   Spot
                   of
                   Land
                   ,
                   which
                   Heav'n
                   bestows
                   ,
                
                 
                   On
                   ev'ry
                   side
                   is
                   hemm'd
                   with
                   warlike
                   Foes
                   :
                
                 
                   Getulian
                   Cities
                   here
                   are
                   spread
                   around
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   fierce
                   Numidians
                   there
                   your
                   Frontiers
                   bound
                   ;
                
                 
                   Here
                   lies
                   a
                   barren
                   Wast
                   of
                   thirsty
                   Land
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   there
                   the
                   Syrtes
                   raise
                   the
                   moving
                   Sand
                   :
                
                 
                   Barcaean
                   Troops
                   befiege
                   the
                   narrow
                   Shore
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   from
                   the
                   Sea
                   Pigmalion
                   threatens
                   more
                   .
                
                 
                   Propitious
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   and
                   gracious
                   Juno
                   ,
                   lead
                
                 
                   This
                   wand'ring
                   Navy
                   to
                   your
                   needful
                   Aid
                   :
                
                 
                   How
                   will
                   your
                   Empire
                   spread
                   ,
                   your
                   City
                   rise
                
                 
                   From
                   such
                   an
                   Union
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   such
                   Allies
                   !
                
                 
                   Implore
                   the
                   Favour
                   of
                   the
                   Pow'rs
                   above
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   leave
                   the
                   Conduct
                   of
                   the
                   rest
                   to
                   Love.
                
                 
                   Continue
                   still
                   your
                   hospitable
                   way
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   still
                   invent
                   occasions
                   of
                   their
                   Stay
                   ;
                
                 
                   'Till
                   Storms
                   ,
                   and
                   winter
                   Winds
                   ,
                   shall
                   cease
                   to
                   threat
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Plancks
                   and
                   Oars
                   ,
                   repair
                   their
                   shatter'd
                   Fleet.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   These
                   Words
                   ,
                   which
                   from
                   a
                   Friend
                   ,
                   and
                   Sister
                   came
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Ease
                   resolv'd
                   the
                   Scruples
                   of
                   her
                   Fame
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   added
                   Fury
                   to
                   the
                   kindled
                   Flame
                   .
                
                 
                   Inspir'd
                   with
                   Hope
                   ,
                   the
                   Project
                   they
                   pursue
                   ;
                
                 
                   On
                   ev'ry
                   Altar
                   Sacrifice
                   renew
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   chosen
                   Ewe
                   of
                   two
                   Years
                   old
                   they
                   pay
                
                 
                   To
                   
                     Ceres
                     ,
                     Bacchus
                  
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   God
                   of
                   Day
                   :
                
                 
                   Preferring
                   
                   Juno's
                   Pow'r
                   :
                   For
                   Juno
                   ties
                
                 
                   The
                   Nuptial
                   Knot
                   ,
                   and
                   makes
                   the
                   Marriage
                   Joys
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   beauteous
                   Queen
                   before
                   her
                   Altar
                   stands
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   holds
                   the
                   Golden
                   Goblet
                   in
                   her
                   Hands
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   milk-white
                   Heifar
                   she
                   with
                   Flow'rs
                   adorns
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   pours
                   the
                   ruddy
                   Wine
                   betwixt
                   her
                   Horns
                   ;
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     the
                     Lady
                     Mary
                     Giffard
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     4.
                     l.
                     80.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                 
                   And
                   while
                   the
                   Priests
                   with
                   Pray'r
                   the
                   Gods
                   invoke
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   feeds
                   their
                   Altars
                   with
                   Sabaean
                   Smoke
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   hourly
                   Care
                   the
                   Sacrifice
                   renews
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   anxiously
                   the
                   panting
                   Entrails
                   Views
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   Priestly
                   Rites
                   ,
                   alas
                   !
                   what
                   Pious
                   Art
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   Vows
                   avail
                   to
                   cure
                   a
                   bleeding
                   Heart
                   !
                
                 
                   A
                   gentle
                   Fire
                   she
                   feeds
                   within
                   her
                   Veins
                   ;
                
                 
                   Where
                   the
                   soft
                   God
                   secure
                   in
                   silence
                   reigns
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Sick
                   with
                   desire
                   ,
                   and
                   seeking
                   him
                   she
                   loves
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   Street
                   to
                   Street
                   ,
                   the
                   raving
                   Dido
                   roves
                   .
                
                 
                   So
                   when
                   the
                   watchful
                   Shepherd
                   ,
                   from
                   the
                   Blind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Wounds
                   with
                   a
                   random
                   Shaft
                   the
                   careless
                   Hind
                   ;
                
                 
                   Distracted
                   with
                   her
                   pain
                   she
                   flies
                   the
                   Woods
                   ,
                
                 
                   Bounds
                   o're
                   the
                   Lawn
                   ,
                   and
                   seeks
                   the
                   silent
                   Floods
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   fruitless
                   Care
                   ;
                   for
                   still
                   the
                   fatal
                   Dart
                
                 
                   Sticks
                   in
                   her
                   side
                   ;
                   and
                   ranckles
                   in
                   her
                   Heart
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   she
                   leads
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Chief
                   ,
                   along
                
                 
                   The
                   lofty
                   Walls
                   ,
                   amidst
                   the
                   buisie
                   Throng
                   ;
                
                 
                   Displays
                   her
                   Tyrian
                   Wealth
                   ,
                   and
                   rising
                   Town
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   Love
                   ,
                   without
                   his
                   Labour
                   ,
                   makes
                   his
                   own
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   Pomp
                   she
                   shows
                   to
                   tempt
                   her
                   wond'ring
                   Guest
                   ;
                
                 
                   Her
                   falt'ring
                   Tongue
                   forbids
                   to
                   speak
                   the
                   rest
                   .
                
                 
                   When
                   Day
                   declines
                   ,
                   and
                   Feasts
                   renew
                   the
                   Night
                   ,
                
                 
                   Still
                   on
                   his
                   Face
                   she
                   feeds
                   her
                   famish'd
                   sight
                   ;
                
                 
                   She
                   longs
                   again
                   to
                   hear
                   the
                   Prince
                   relate
                
                 
                   His
                   own
                   Adventures
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Fate
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   tells
                   it
                   o're
                   and
                   o're
                   ;
                   but
                   still
                   in
                   vain
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   still
                   she
                   begs
                   to
                   hear
                   it
                   ,
                   once
                   again
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Hearer
                   on
                   the
                   Speaker's
                   Mouth
                   depends
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   thus
                   the
                   Tragick
                   Story
                   never
                   ends
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   when
                   they
                   part
                   ,
                   when
                   
                   Phoebe's
                   paler
                   Light
                
                 
                   Withdraws
                   ,
                   and
                   falling
                   Stars
                   to
                   Sleep
                   invite
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   last
                   remains
                   ,
                   when
                   when
                   ev'ry
                   Guest
                   is
                   gone
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sits
                   on
                   the
                   Bed
                   he
                   press'd
                   ,
                   and
                   sighs
                   alone
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   Absent
                   ,
                   her
                   absent
                   Heroe
                   sees
                   and
                   hears
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   in
                   her
                   Bosom
                   young
                   Ascanius
                   bears
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   seeks
                   the
                   Father's
                   Image
                   in
                   the
                   Child
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   Love
                   by
                   Likeness
                   might
                   be
                   so
                   beguil'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Mean
                   time
                   the
                   rising
                   Tow'rs
                   are
                   at
                   a
                   stand
                   :
                
                 
                   No
                   Labours
                   exercise
                   the
                   youthful
                   Band
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   use
                   of
                   Arts
                   ,
                   nor
                   Toils
                   of
                   Arms
                   they
                   know
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Mole
                   is
                   left
                   unfinish'd
                   to
                   the
                   Foe
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Mounds
                   ,
                   the
                   Works
                   ,
                   the
                   Walls
                   ,
                   neglected
                   lye
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   left
                   unbuilt
                   ,
                   are
                   shorter
                   of
                   the
                   Sky
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   when
                   Imperial
                   Juno
                   ,
                   from
                   above
                   ,
                
                 
                   Saw
                   Dido
                   fetter'd
                   in
                   the
                   Chains
                   of
                   Love
                   ;
                
                 
                   Hot
                   with
                   the
                   Venom
                   ,
                   which
                   her
                   Veins
                   inflam'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   by
                   no
                   sense
                   of
                   Shame
                   to
                   be
                   reclaim'd
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   soothing
                   Words
                   to
                   Venus
                   she
                   begun
                   .
                
                 
                   High
                   Praises
                   ,
                   endless
                   Honours
                   you
                   have
                   won
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   mighty
                   Trophees
                   with
                   your
                   worthy
                   Son
                   :
                
                 
                   Two
                   Gods
                   a
                   silly
                   Woman
                   have
                   undone
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   am
                   I
                   ignorant
                   ,
                   you
                   both
                   suspect
                
                 
                   This
                   rising
                   City
                   ,
                   which
                   my
                   Hands
                   erect
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   shall
                   Coelestial
                   Discord
                   never
                   cease
                   ?
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   better
                   ended
                   in
                   a
                   lasting
                   Peace
                   .
                
                 
                   You
                   stand
                   possess'd
                   of
                   all
                   your
                   Soul
                   desir'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Poor
                   Dido
                   with
                   consuming
                   Love
                   is
                   fir'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Your
                   Trojan
                   with
                   my
                   Tyrian
                   let
                   us
                   join
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   Dido
                   shall
                   be
                   yours
                   ,
                   Aeneas
                   mine
                   :
                
                 
                   One
                   common
                   Kingdom
                   ,
                   one
                   united
                   Line
                   .
                
                 
                   Elisa
                   shall
                   a
                   Dardan
                   Lord
                   obey
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   lofty
                   Carthage
                   for
                   a
                   Dow'r
                   convey
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   Venus
                   ,
                   who
                   her
                   hidden
                   Fraud
                   descry'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   Which
                   wou'd
                   the
                   Scepter
                   of
                   the
                   World
                   ,
                   misguide
                
                 
                   To
                   Lybian
                   Shores
                   ,
                   )
                   thus
                   artfully
                   reply'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   but
                   a
                   Fool
                   ,
                   wou'd
                   Wars
                   with
                   Juno
                   chuse
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   such
                   Alliance
                   ,
                   and
                   such
                   Gifts
                   refuse
                   ?
                
                 
                 
                   If
                   Fortune
                   with
                   our
                   joint
                   Desires
                   comply
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Doubt
                   is
                   all
                   from
                   Jove
                   ,
                   and
                   Destiny
                   .
                
                 
                   Lest
                   he
                   forbid
                   ,
                   with
                   absolute
                   Command
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   mix
                   the
                   People
                   in
                   one
                   common
                   Land.
                
                 
                   Or
                   will
                   the
                   Trojan
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Tyrian
                   Line
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   lasting
                   Leagues
                   ,
                   and
                   sure
                   Succession
                   join
                   ?
                
                 
                   But
                   you
                   ,
                   the
                   Partner
                   of
                   his
                   Bed
                   and
                   Throne
                   ,
                
                 
                   May
                   move
                   his
                   Mind
                   ;
                   my
                   Wishes
                   are
                   your
                   own
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Mine
                   ,
                   said
                   Imperial
                   Juno
                   ,
                   be
                   the
                   Care
                   ;
                
                 
                   Time
                   urges
                   ,
                   now
                   ,
                   to
                   perfect
                   this
                   Affair
                   :
                
                 
                   Attend
                   my
                   Counsel
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Secret
                   share
                   .
                
                 
                   When
                   next
                   the
                   Sun
                   his
                   rising
                   Light
                   displays
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   guilds
                   the
                   World
                   below
                   ,
                   with
                   Purple
                   Rays
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Queen
                   ,
                   Aeneas
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Tyrian
                   Court
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shall
                   to
                   the
                   shady
                   Woods
                   ,
                   for
                   Silvan
                   Game
                   ,
                   resort
                   .
                
                 
                   There
                   ,
                   while
                   the
                   Huntsmen
                   pitch
                   their
                   Toils
                   around
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   chearful
                   Horns
                   ,
                   from
                   Side
                   to
                   Side
                   ,
                   resound
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   Pitchy
                   Cloud
                   shall
                   cover
                   all
                   the
                   Plain
                
                 
                   With
                   Hail
                   ,
                   and
                   Thunder
                   ,
                   and
                   tempestuous
                   Rain
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   fearful
                   Train
                   shall
                   take
                   their
                   speedy
                   Flight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Dispers'd
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   involv'd
                   in
                   gloomy
                   Night
                   :
                
                 
                   One
                   Cave
                   a
                   grateful
                   Shelter
                   shall
                   afford
                
                 
                   To
                   the
                   fair
                   Princess
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Lord.
                
                 
                   I
                   will
                   my self
                   ,
                   the
                   bridal
                   Bed
                   prepare
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   you
                   ,
                   to
                   bless
                   the
                   Nuptials
                   ,
                   will
                   be
                   there
                   :
                
                 
                   So
                   shall
                   their
                   Loves
                   be
                   crown'd
                   with
                   due
                   Delights
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Hymen
                   shall
                   be
                   present
                   at
                   the
                   Rites
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Queen
                   of
                   Love
                   consents
                   ,
                   and
                   closely
                   smiles
                
                 
                   At
                   her
                   vain
                   Project
                   ,
                   and
                   discover'd
                   Wiles
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   rosy
                   Morn
                   was
                   risen
                   from
                   the
                   Main
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Horns
                   and
                   Hounds
                   awake
                   the
                   Princely
                   Train
                   :
                
                 
                   They
                   issue
                   early
                   through
                   the
                   City
                   Gate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   the
                   more
                   wakeful
                   Huntsmen
                   ready
                   wait
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   With
                   Nets
                   ,
                   and
                   Toils
                   ,
                   and
                   Darts
                   ,
                   beside
                   the
                   force
                
                 
                   Of
                   Spartan
                   Dogs
                   ,
                   and
                   swift
                   Massylian
                   Horse
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Tyrian
                   Peers
                   ,
                   and
                   Officers
                   of
                   State
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   the
                   slow
                   Queen
                   ,
                   in
                   Anti-Chambers
                   wait
                   :
                
                 
                   Her
                   lofty
                   Courser
                   ,
                   in
                   the
                   Court
                   below
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   Who
                   his
                   Majestick
                   Rider
                   seems
                   to
                   know
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                   Proud
                   of
                   his
                   Purple
                   Trappings
                   ,
                   paws
                   the
                   Ground
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   champs
                   the
                   Golden
                   Bitt
                   ;
                   and
                   spreads
                   the
                   Foam
                   around
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Queen
                   at
                   length
                   appears
                   :
                   On
                   either
                   Hand
                
                 
                   The
                   brawny
                   Guards
                   in
                   Martial
                   Order
                   stand
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   flow'rd
                   Cymarr
                   ,
                   with
                   Golden
                   Fringe
                   ,
                   she
                   wore
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   at
                   her
                   Back
                   a
                   Golden
                   Quiver
                   bore
                   :
                
                 
                   Her
                   flowing
                   Hair
                   ,
                   a
                   Golden
                   Caul
                   restrains
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   golden
                   Clasp
                   ,
                   the
                   Tyrian
                   Robe
                   sustains
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   young
                   Ascanius
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   sprightly
                   Grace
                   ,
                
                 
                   Leads
                   on
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Youth
                   to
                   view
                   the
                   Chace
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   far
                   above
                   the
                   rest
                   in
                   beauty
                   shines
                
                 
                   The
                   great
                   Aeneas
                   ,
                   when
                   the
                   Troop
                   he
                   joins
                   :
                
                 
                   Like
                   fair
                   Apollo
                   ,
                   when
                   he
                   leaves
                   the
                   frost
                
                 
                   Of
                   wintry
                   Xanthus
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Lycian
                   Coast
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   to
                   his
                   Native
                   Delos
                   he
                   resorts
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ordains
                   the
                   Dances
                   ,
                   and
                   renews
                   the
                   Sports
                   :
                
                 
                   Where
                   painted
                   Scythians
                   ,
                   mix'd
                   with
                   Cretan
                   Bands
                   ,
                
                 
                   Before
                   the
                   joyful
                   Altars
                   join
                   their
                   Hands
                   .
                
                 
                   Himself
                   ,
                   on
                   Cynthus
                   walking
                   ,
                   sees
                   below
                
                 
                   The
                   merry
                   Madness
                   of
                   the
                   sacred
                   Show
                   .
                
                 
                   Green
                   Wreaths
                   of
                   Bays
                   his
                   length
                   of
                   Hair
                   inclose
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Golden
                   Fillet
                   binds
                   his
                   awful
                   Brows
                   :
                
                 
                   His
                   Quiver
                   sounds
                   :
                   Not
                   less
                   the
                   Prince
                   is
                   seen
                
                 
                   In
                   manly
                   Presence
                   ,
                   or
                   in
                   lofty
                   Meen
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Now
                   had
                   they
                   reach'd
                   the
                   Hills
                   ,
                   and
                   storm'd
                   the
                   Seat
                
                 
                   Of
                   salvage
                   Beasts
                   ,
                   in
                   Dens
                   ,
                   their
                   last
                   Retreat
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Cry
                   pursues
                   the
                   Mountain-Goats
                   ;
                   they
                   bound
                
                 
                   From
                   Rock
                   to
                   Rock
                   ,
                   and
                   keep
                   the
                   craggy
                   Ground
                   :
                
              
               
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     The
                     Right
                     Hon
                     ble
                     .
                     Hugh
                     L
                     d
                     Clifford
                     Baron
                     of
                     Chudleigh
                     in
                     y
                     e
                     County
                     of
                     Devon
                     ,
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     4.
                     l.
                     230.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Quite
                   otherwise
                   the
                   Stags
                   ,
                   a
                   trembling
                   Train
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   Herds
                   unsingl'd
                   ,
                   scour
                   the
                   dusty
                   Plain
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   a
                   long
                   Chace
                   ,
                   in
                   open
                   view
                   ,
                   maintain
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   glad
                   Ascanius
                   ,
                   as
                   his
                   Courser
                   guides
                   ,
                
                 
                   Spurs
                   through
                   the
                   Vale
                   ;
                   and
                   these
                   and
                   those
                   outrides
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   Horses
                   flanks
                   and
                   sides
                   are
                   forc'd
                   to
                   feel
                
                 
                   The
                   clanking
                   lash
                   ,
                   and
                   goring
                   of
                   the
                   Steel
                   .
                
                 
                   Impatiently
                   he
                   views
                   the
                   feeble
                   Prey
                   ,
                
                 
                   Wishing
                   some
                   Nobler
                   Beast
                   to
                   cross
                   his
                   way
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   rather
                   wou'd
                   the
                   tusky
                   Boar
                   attend
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   see
                   the
                   Lyon
                   from
                   the
                   Hills
                   descend
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Mean
                   time
                   ,
                   the
                   gath'ring
                   Clouds
                   obscure
                   the
                   Skies
                   ;
                
                 
                   From
                   Pole
                   to
                   Pole
                   the
                   forky
                   Lightning
                   flies
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   ratling
                   Thunders
                   rowl
                   ;
                   and
                   Juno
                   pours
                
                 
                   A
                   wintry
                   Deluge
                   down
                   ;
                   and
                   founding
                   Show'rs
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Company
                   dispers'd
                   ,
                   to
                   Coverts
                   ride
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   seek
                   the
                   homely
                   Cotts
                   ,
                   or
                   Mountains
                   hollow
                   side
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   rapid
                   Rains
                   ,
                   descending
                   from
                   the
                   Hills
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   rowling
                   Torrents
                   raise
                   the
                   creeping
                   Rills
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Queen
                   and
                   Prince
                   ,
                   as
                   Love
                   or
                   Fortune
                   guides
                   ,
                
                 
                   One
                   common
                   Cavern
                   in
                   her
                   Bosom
                   hides
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   first
                   the
                   trembling
                   Earth
                   the
                   signal
                   gave
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   flashing
                   Fires
                   enlighten
                   all
                   the
                   Cave
                   :
                
                 
                   Hell
                   from
                   below
                   ,
                   and
                   Juno
                   from
                   above
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   howling
                   Nymphs
                   ,
                   were
                   conscious
                   to
                   their
                   Love.
                
                 
                   From
                   this
                   ill
                   Omend
                   Hour
                   ,
                   in
                   Time
                   arose
                
                 
                   Debate
                   and
                   Death
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   succeeding
                   woes
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Queen
                   whom
                   sense
                   of
                   Honour
                   cou'd
                   not
                   move
                
                 
                   No
                   longer
                   made
                   a
                   Secret
                   of
                   her
                   Love
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   call'd
                   it
                   Marriage
                   ,
                   by
                   that
                   specious
                   Name
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   veil
                   the
                   Crime
                   and
                   sanctifie
                   the
                   Shame
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   loud
                   Report
                   through
                   Lybian
                   Cities
                   goes
                   ;
                
                 
                   Fame
                   ,
                   the
                   great
                   Ill
                   ,
                   from
                   fmall
                   beginnings
                   grows
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Swift
                   from
                   the
                   first
                   ;
                   and
                   ev'ry
                   Moment
                   brings
                
                 
                   New
                   Vigour
                   to
                   her
                   flights
                   ,
                   new
                   Pinions
                   to
                   her
                   wings
                   .
                
                 
                   Soon
                   grows
                   the
                   Pygmee
                   to
                   Gygantic
                   size
                   ;
                
                 
                   Her
                   Feet
                   on
                   Earth
                   ,
                   her
                   Forehead
                   in
                   the
                   Skies
                   :
                
                 
                   Inrag'd
                   against
                   the
                   Gods
                   ,
                   revengful
                   Earth
                
                 
                   Produc'd
                   her
                   last
                   of
                   the
                   Titanian
                   birth
                   .
                
                 
                   Swift
                   is
                   her
                   walk
                   ,
                   more
                   swift
                   her
                   winged
                   hast
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   monstrous
                   Fantom
                   ,
                   horrible
                   and
                   vast
                   ;
                
                 
                   As
                   many
                   Plumes
                   as
                   raise
                   her
                   lofty
                   flight
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   many
                   piercing
                   Eyes
                   inlarge
                   her
                   sight
                   :
                
                 
                   Millions
                   of
                   opening
                   Mouths
                   to
                   Fame
                   belong
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   ev'ry
                   Mouth
                   is
                   furnish'd
                   with
                   a
                   Tongue
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   round
                   with
                   listning
                   Ears
                   the
                   flying
                   Plague
                   is
                   hung
                   .
                
                 
                   She
                   fills
                   the
                   peaceful
                   Universe
                   with
                   Cries
                   ;
                
                 
                   No
                   Slumbers
                   ever
                   close
                   her
                   wakeful
                   Eyes
                   .
                
                 
                   By
                   Day
                   from
                   lofty
                   Tow'rs
                   her
                   Head
                   she
                   shews
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   spreads
                   through
                   trembling
                   Crowds
                   disastrous
                   News
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   Court
                   Informers
                   haunts
                   ,
                   and
                   Royal
                   Spies
                   ,
                
                 
                   Things
                   done
                   relates
                   ,
                   not
                   done
                   she
                   feigns
                   ;
                   and
                   mingles
                   Truth
                   with
                   Lyes
                   .
                
                 
                   Talk
                   is
                   her
                   business
                   ;
                   and
                   her
                   chief
                   delight
                
                 
                   To
                   tell
                   of
                   Prodigies
                   ,
                   and
                   cause
                   affright
                   .
                
                 
                   She
                   fills
                   the
                   Peoples
                   Ears
                   with
                   Dido's
                   Name
                   ;
                
                 
                   Who
                   ,
                   lost
                   to
                   Honour
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   sense
                   of
                   Shame
                   ,
                
                 
                   Admits
                   into
                   her
                   Throne
                   and
                   Nuptial
                   Bed
                
                 
                   A
                   wandring
                   Guest
                   ,
                   who
                   from
                   his
                   Country
                   fled
                   :
                
                 
                   Whole
                   days
                   with
                   him
                   she
                   passes
                   in
                   delights
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   wasts
                   in
                   Luxury
                   long
                   Winter
                   Nights
                   .
                
                 
                   Forgetful
                   of
                   her
                   Fame
                   ,
                   and
                   Royal
                   Trust
                   ;
                
                 
                   Dissolv'd
                   in
                   Ease
                   ,
                   abandon'd
                   to
                   her
                   Lust
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Goddess
                   widely
                   spreads
                   the
                   loud
                   Report
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   flies
                   at
                   length
                   to
                   King
                   
                   Hyarba's
                   Court.
                
                 
                   When
                   first
                   possess'd
                   with
                   this
                   unwelcome
                   News
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whom
                   did
                   he
                   not
                   of
                   Men
                   and
                   Gods
                   accuse
                   !
                
                 
                 
                   This
                   Prince
                   ,
                   from
                   ravish'd
                   Garamantis
                   born
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   hundred
                   Temples
                   did
                   with
                   Spoils
                   adorn
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   
                   Ammon's
                   Honour
                   ,
                   his
                   Coelestial
                   Sire
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   hundred
                   Altars
                   fed
                   ,
                   with
                   wakeful
                   Fire
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   through
                   his
                   vast
                   Dominions
                   ,
                   Priests
                   ordain'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whose
                   watchful
                   Care
                   these
                   holy
                   Rites
                   maintain'd
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Gates
                   and
                   Columns
                   were
                   with
                   Garlands
                   crown'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Blood
                   of
                   Victim
                   Beasts
                   enrich
                   the
                   Ground
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   He
                   ,
                   when
                   he
                   heard
                   a
                   Fugitive
                   cou'd
                   move
                
                 
                   The
                   Tyrian
                   Princess
                   ,
                   who
                   disdain'd
                   his
                   Love
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Breast
                   with
                   Fury
                   burn'd
                   ,
                   his
                   Eyes
                   with
                   Fire
                   ;
                
                 
                   Mad
                   with
                   Despair
                   ,
                   impatient
                   with
                   Desire
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   on
                   the
                   Sacred
                   Altars
                   pouring
                   Wine
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   thus
                   with
                   Pray'rs
                   implor'd
                   his
                   Sire
                   divine
                   .
                
                 
                   Great
                   Jove
                   ,
                   propitious
                   to
                   the
                   Moorish
                   Race
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   feast
                   on
                   painted
                   Beds
                   ,
                   with
                   Off'rings
                   grace
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Temples
                   ,
                   and
                   adore
                   thy
                   Pow'r
                   Divine
                
                 
                   With
                   offer'd
                   Victims
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   sparkling
                   Wine
                   :
                
                 
                   Seest
                   thou
                   not
                   this
                   ?
                   or
                   do
                   we
                   fear
                   in
                   vain
                
                 
                   Thy
                   boasted
                   Thunder
                   ,
                   and
                   thy
                   thoughtless
                   Reign
                   ?
                
                 
                   Do
                   thy
                   broad
                   Hands
                   the
                   forky
                   Lightnings
                   lance
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thine
                   are
                   the
                   Bolts
                   ,
                   or
                   the
                   blind
                   work
                   of
                   Chance
                   ?
                
                 
                   A
                   wandring
                   Woman
                   builds
                   ,
                   within
                   our
                   State
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   little
                   Town
                   ,
                   bought
                   at
                   an
                   easie
                   Rate
                   ;
                
                 
                   She
                   pays
                   me
                   Homage
                   ,
                   and
                   my
                   Grants
                   allow
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   narrow
                   space
                   of
                   Lybian
                   Lands
                   to
                   plough
                   .
                
                 
                   Yet
                   scorning
                   me
                   ,
                   by
                   Passion
                   blindly
                   led
                   ,
                
                 
                   Admits
                   a
                   banish'd
                   Trojan
                   to
                   her
                   Bed
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   this
                   other
                   Paris
                   ,
                   with
                   his
                   Train
                
                 
                   Of
                   conquer'd
                   Cowards
                   ,
                   must
                   in
                   Affrick
                   reign
                   !
                
                 
                   (
                   Whom
                   ,
                   what
                   they
                   are
                   ,
                   their
                   Looks
                   and
                   Garb
                   confess
                   ;
                
                 
                   Their
                   Locks
                   with
                   Oil
                   perfum'd
                   ,
                   their
                   Lydian
                   dress
                   :
                   )
                
                 
                   He
                   takes
                   the
                   Spoil
                   ,
                   enjoys
                   the
                   Princely
                   Dame
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   I
                   ,
                   rejected
                   I
                   ,
                   adore
                   an
                   empty
                   Name
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   His
                   Vows
                   ,
                   in
                   haughty
                   Terms
                   ,
                   he
                   thus
                   preferr'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   held
                   his
                   Altar's
                   Horns
                   ;
                   the
                   mighty
                   Thund'rer
                   heard
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   cast
                   his
                   Eyes
                   on
                   Carthage
                   ,
                   where
                   he
                   found
                
                 
                   The
                   lustful
                   Pair
                   ,
                   in
                   lawless
                   pleasure
                   drown'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Lost
                   in
                   their
                   Loves
                   ,
                   insensible
                   of
                   Shame
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   both
                   forgetful
                   of
                   their
                   better
                   Fame
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   calls
                   Cyllenius
                   ;
                   and
                   the
                   God
                   attends
                   ;
                
                 
                   By
                   whom
                   his
                   menacing
                   Command
                   he
                   sends
                   .
                
                 
                   Go
                   ,
                   mount
                   the
                   Western
                   Winds
                   ,
                   and
                   cleave
                   the
                   Skie
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   swift
                   descent
                   ,
                   to
                   Carthage
                   fly
                   :
                
                 
                   There
                   find
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Chief
                   ,
                   who
                   wastes
                   his
                   Days
                
                 
                   In
                   sloathful
                   Riot
                   ,
                   and
                   inglorious
                   Ease
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   minds
                   the
                   future
                   City
                   ,
                   giv'n
                   by
                   Fate
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   him
                   this
                   Message
                   from
                   my
                   Mouth
                   relate
                   .
                
                 
                   Not
                   so
                   ,
                   fair
                   Venus
                   hop'd
                   ,
                   when
                   twice
                   she
                   won
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Life
                   with
                   Pray'rs
                   ;
                   nor
                   promis'd
                   such
                   a
                   Son.
                
                 
                   Hers
                   was
                   a
                   Heroe
                   ,
                   destin'd
                   to
                   command
                
                 
                   A
                   Martial
                   Race
                   ;
                   and
                   rule
                   the
                   Latian
                   Land.
                
                 
                   Who
                   shou'd
                   his
                   ancient
                   Line
                   from
                   Teucer
                   draw
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   on
                   the
                   conquer'd
                   World
                   ,
                   impose
                   the
                   Law.
                
                 
                   If
                   Glory
                   cannot
                   move
                   a
                   Mind
                   so
                   mean
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   future
                   Praise
                   ,
                   from
                   fading
                   Pleasure
                   wean
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   why
                   shou'd
                   he
                   defraud
                   his
                   Son
                   of
                   Fame
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   grudge
                   the
                   Romans
                   their
                   Immortal
                   Name
                   !
                
                 
                   What
                   are
                   his
                   vain
                   Designs
                   !
                   what
                   hopes
                   he
                   more
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   his
                   long
                   ling'ring
                   on
                   a
                   hostile
                   Shore
                   ?
                
                 
                   Regardless
                   to
                   redeem
                   his
                   Honour
                   lost
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   for
                   his
                   Race
                   to
                   gain
                   th'
                   Ausonian
                   Coast
                   !
                
                 
                   Bid
                   him
                   with
                   Speed
                   the
                   Tyrian
                   Court
                   forsake
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   this
                   Command
                   the
                   slumb'ring
                   Warrior
                   wake
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Hermes
                   obeys
                   ;
                   with
                   Golden
                   Pinions
                   binds
                
                 
                   His
                   flying
                   Feet
                   ,
                   and
                   mounts
                   the
                   Western
                   Winds
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   whether
                   o're
                   the
                   Seas
                   or
                   Earth
                   he
                   flies
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   rapid
                   Force
                   ,
                   they
                   bear
                   him
                   down
                   the
                   Skies
                   .
                
              
               
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     John
                     Walkeden
                     of
                     ye.
                     Inner
                     Temple
                     Esq
                     :
                     r
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     4.
                     l.
                     230.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   But
                   first
                   he
                   grasps
                   within
                   his
                   awful
                   Hand
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   mark
                   of
                   Sov'raign
                   Pow'r
                   ,
                   his
                   Magick
                   Wand
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   this
                   ,
                   he
                   draws
                   the
                   Ghosts
                   from
                   hollow
                   Graves
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   this
                   he
                   drives
                   them
                   down
                   the
                   Stygian
                   Waves
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   this
                   he
                   seals
                   in
                   Sleep
                   ,
                   the
                   wakeful
                   sight
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   though
                   clos'd
                   in
                   Death
                   restores
                   to
                   Light.
                
                 
                   Thus
                   arm'd
                   ,
                   the
                   God
                   begins
                   his
                   Airy
                   Race
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   drives
                   the
                   racking
                   Clouds
                   along
                   the
                   liquid
                   Space
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   sees
                   the
                   Tops
                   of
                   Atlas
                   ,
                   as
                   he
                   flies
                   ;
                
                 
                   Whose
                   brawny
                   Back
                   supports
                   the
                   starry
                   Skies
                   :
                
                 
                   Atlas
                   ,
                   whose
                   Head
                   with
                   Piny
                   Forests
                   crown'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Is
                   beaten
                   by
                   the
                   Winds
                   ;
                   with
                   foggy
                   Vapours
                   bound
                   .
                
                 
                   Snows
                   hide
                   his
                   Shoulders
                   ;
                   from
                   beneath
                   his
                   Chin
                
                 
                   The
                   Founts
                   of
                   rolling
                   Streams
                   their
                   Race
                   begin
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   beard
                   of
                   Yce
                   on
                   his
                   large
                   Breast
                   depends
                   :
                
                 
                   Here
                   pois'd
                   upon
                   his
                   Wings
                   ,
                   the
                   God
                   descends
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   rested
                   thus
                   ,
                   he
                   from
                   the
                   tow'ring
                   height
                
                 
                   Plung'd
                   downward
                   ,
                   with
                   precipitated
                   Flight
                   :
                
                 
                   Lights
                   on
                   the
                   Seas
                   ,
                   and
                   skims
                   along
                   the
                   Flood
                   :
                
                 
                   As
                   Water-fowl
                   ,
                   who
                   seek
                   their
                   fishy
                   Food
                   ,
                
                 
                   Less
                   ,
                   and
                   yet
                   less
                   ,
                   to
                   distant
                   Prospect
                   show
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   turns
                   they
                   dance
                   aloft
                   ,
                   and
                   dive
                   below
                   :
                
                 
                   Like
                   these
                   ,
                   the
                   steerage
                   of
                   his
                   Wings
                   he
                   plies
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   near
                   the
                   surface
                   of
                   the
                   Water
                   flies
                   .
                
                 
                   'Till
                   having
                   pass'd
                   the
                   Seas
                   ,
                   and
                   cross'd
                   the
                   Sands
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   clos'd
                   his
                   Wings
                   ,
                   and
                   stoop'd
                   on
                   Lybian
                   Lands
                   :
                
                 
                   Where
                   Shepherds
                   once
                   were
                   hous'd
                   in
                   homely
                   Sheds
                   ,
                
                 
                   Now
                   Tow'rs
                   within
                   the
                   Clouds
                   ,
                   advance
                   their
                   Heads
                   .
                
                 
                   Arriving
                   there
                   ,
                   he
                   found
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Prince
                   ,
                
                 
                   New
                   Ramparts
                   raising
                   for
                   the
                   Town
                   's
                   defence
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   Purple
                   Scarf
                   ,
                   with
                   Gold
                   embroider'd
                   o're
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   Queen
                   
                   Dido's
                   Gift
                   )
                   about
                   his
                   Waste
                   he
                   wore
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   Sword
                   with
                   glitt'ring
                   Gems
                   diversify'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   Ornament
                   ,
                   not
                   use
                   ,
                   hung
                   idly
                   by
                   his
                   side
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Then
                   thus
                   ,
                   with
                   winged
                   Words
                   ,
                   the
                   God
                   began
                   ;
                
                 
                   (
                   Resuming
                   his
                   own
                   Shape
                   )
                   degenerate
                   Man
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thou
                   Woman's
                   Property
                   ,
                   what
                   mak'st
                   thou
                   here
                   ,
                
                 
                   These
                   foreign
                   Walls
                   ,
                   and
                   Tyrian
                   Tow'rs
                   to
                   rear
                   ?
                
                 
                   Forgetful
                   of
                   thy
                   own
                   ?
                   All
                   pow'rful
                   Jove
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   sways
                   the
                   World
                   below
                   ,
                   and
                   Heav'n
                   above
                   ,
                
                 
                   Has
                   sent
                   me
                   down
                   ,
                   with
                   this
                   severe
                   Command
                   :
                
                 
                   What
                   means
                   thy
                   ling'ring
                   in
                   the
                   Lybian
                   Land
                   ?
                
                 
                   If
                   Glory
                   cannot
                   move
                   a
                   Mind
                   so
                   mean
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   future
                   Praise
                   ,
                   from
                   flitting
                   Pleasure
                   wean
                   ,
                
                 
                   Regard
                   the
                   Fortunes
                   of
                   thy
                   rising
                   Heir
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   promis'd
                   Crown
                   let
                   young
                   Ascanius
                   wear
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   whom
                   th'
                   Ausonian
                   Scepter
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   State
                
                 
                   Of
                   
                   Rome's
                   Imperial
                   Name
                   ,
                   is
                   ow'd
                   by
                   Fate
                   .
                
                 
                   So
                   spoke
                   the
                   God
                   ;
                   and
                   speaking
                   took
                   his
                   flight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Involv'd
                   in
                   Clouds
                   ;
                   and
                   vanish'd
                   out
                   of
                   sight
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Pious
                   Prince
                   was
                   seiz'd
                   with
                   sudden
                   Fear
                   ;
                
                 
                   Mute
                   was
                   his
                   Tongue
                   ,
                   and
                   upright
                   stood
                   his
                   Hair
                   :
                
                 
                   Revolving
                   in
                   his
                   Mind
                   the
                   stern
                   Command
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   longs
                   to
                   fly
                   ,
                   and
                   loaths
                   the
                   charming
                   Land.
                
                 
                   What
                   shou'd
                   he
                   say
                   ,
                   or
                   how
                   shou'd
                   he
                   begin
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   Course
                   ,
                   alas
                   !
                   remains
                   ,
                   to
                   steer
                   between
                
                 
                   Th'
                   offended
                   Lover
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Pow'rful
                   Queen
                   !
                
                 
                   This
                   way
                   ,
                   and
                   that
                   ,
                   he
                   turns
                   his
                   anxious
                   Mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   Expedients
                   tries
                   ,
                   and
                   none
                   can
                   find
                   :
                
                 
                   Fix'd
                   on
                   the
                   Deed
                   ,
                   but
                   doubtful
                   of
                   the
                   Means
                   ;
                
                 
                   After
                   long
                   Thought
                   to
                   this
                   Advice
                   he
                   leans
                   .
                
                 
                   Three
                   Chiefs
                   he
                   calls
                   ,
                   commands
                   them
                   to
                   repair
                
                 
                   The
                   Fleet
                   ,
                   and
                   ship
                   their
                   Men
                   with
                   silent
                   Care
                   :
                
                 
                   Some
                   plausible
                   Pretence
                   he
                   bids
                   them
                   find
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   colour
                   what
                   in
                   secret
                   he
                   design'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Himself
                   ,
                   mean
                   time
                   ,
                   the
                   softest
                   Hours
                   wou'd
                   chuse
                   ,
                
                 
                   Before
                   the
                   Love-sick
                   Lady
                   heard
                   the
                   News
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   move
                   her
                   tender
                   Mind
                   ,
                   by
                   slow
                   degrees
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   suffer
                   what
                   the
                   Sov'raign
                   Pow'r
                   decrees
                   :
                
                 
                   Jove
                   will
                   inspire
                   him
                   ,
                   when
                   ,
                   and
                   what
                   to
                   say
                   :
                
                 
                   They
                   hear
                   with
                   Pleasure
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   haste
                   obey
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   soon
                   the
                   Queen
                   perceives
                   the
                   thin
                   Disguise
                   ;
                
                 
                   (
                   What
                   Arts
                   can
                   blind
                   a
                   jealous
                   Woman's
                   Eyes
                   !
                   )
                
                 
                   She
                   was
                   the
                   first
                   to
                   find
                   the
                   secret
                   Fraud
                   ,
                
                 
                   Before
                   the
                   fatal
                   News
                   was
                   blaz'd
                   abroad
                   .
                
                 
                   Love
                   ,
                   the
                   first
                   Motions
                   of
                   the
                   Lover
                   hears
                   ,
                
                 
                   Quick
                   to
                   presage
                   ,
                   and
                   ev'n
                   in
                   Safety
                   fears
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   impious
                   Fame
                   was
                   wanting
                   to
                   report
                
                 
                   The
                   Ships
                   repair'd
                   ;
                   the
                   Trojans
                   thick
                   Resort
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   purpose
                   to
                   forsake
                   the
                   Tyrian
                   Court.
                
                 
                   Frantick
                   with
                   Fear
                   ,
                   impatient
                   of
                   the
                   Wound
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   impotent
                   of
                   Mind
                   ,
                   she
                   roves
                   the
                   City
                   round
                   .
                
                 
                   Less
                   wild
                   the
                   Bacchanalian
                   Dames
                   appear
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   ,
                   from
                   afar
                   ,
                   their
                   nightly
                   God
                   they
                   hear
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   houl
                   about
                   the
                   Hills
                   ,
                   and
                   shake
                   the
                   wreathy
                   Spear
                   .
                
                 
                   At
                   length
                   she
                   finds
                   the
                   dear
                   perfidious
                   Man
                   ;
                
                 
                   Prevents
                   his
                   form'd
                   Excuse
                   ,
                   and
                   thus
                   began
                   .
                
                 
                   Base
                   and
                   ungrateful
                   ,
                   cou'd
                   you
                   hope
                   to
                   fly
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   undisover'd
                   scape
                   a
                   Lover's
                   Eye
                   !
                
                 
                   Nor
                   cou'd
                   my
                   Kindness
                   your
                   Compassion
                   move
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   plighted
                   Vows
                   ,
                   nor
                   dearer
                   bands
                   of
                   Love
                   !
                
                 
                   Or
                   is
                   the
                   Death
                   of
                   a
                   despairing
                   Queen
                
                 
                   Not
                   worth
                   preventing
                   ,
                   though
                   too
                   well
                   foreseen
                   ?
                
                 
                   Even
                   when
                   the
                   Wint'ry
                   Winds
                   command
                   your
                   stay
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   dare
                   the
                   Tempests
                   ,
                   and
                   defie
                   the
                   Sea.
                
                 
                   False
                   ,
                   as
                   you
                   are
                   ,
                   suppose
                   you
                   were
                   not
                   bound
                
                 
                   To
                   Lands
                   unknown
                   ,
                   and
                   foreign
                   Coasts
                   to
                   found
                   ;
                
                 
                   Were
                   Troy
                   restor'd
                   ,
                   and
                   
                   Priam's
                   happy
                   Reign
                   ,
                
                 
                   Now
                   durst
                   you
                   tempt
                   for
                   Troy
                   ,
                   the
                   raging
                   Main
                   ?
                
                 
                   See
                   ,
                   whom
                   you
                   fly
                   ;
                   am
                   I
                   the
                   Foe
                   you
                   shun
                   ?
                
                 
                   Now
                   by
                   those
                   holy
                   Vows
                   ,
                   so
                   late
                   begun
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   By
                   this
                   right
                   Hand
                   ,
                   (
                   since
                   I
                   have
                   nothing
                   more
                
                 
                   To
                   challenge
                   ,
                   but
                   the
                   Faith
                   you
                   gave
                   before
                   ;
                   )
                
                 
                   I
                   beg
                   you
                   by
                   these
                   Tears
                   too
                   truly
                   shed
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   the
                   new
                   Pleasures
                   of
                   our
                   Nuptial
                   Bed
                   ;
                
                 
                   If
                   ever
                   Dido
                   ,
                   when
                   you
                   most
                   were
                   kind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Were
                   pleasing
                   in
                   your
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   or
                   touch'd
                   your
                   Mind
                   ;
                
                 
                   By
                   these
                   my
                   Pray'rs
                   ,
                   if
                   Pray'rs
                   may
                   yet
                   have
                   Place
                   ,
                
                 
                   Pity
                   the
                   Fortunes
                   of
                   a
                   falling
                   Race
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   you
                   I
                   have
                   provok'd
                   a
                   Tyrant's
                   Hate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Incens'd
                   the
                   Lybian
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Tyrian
                   State
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   you
                   alone
                   I
                   suffer
                   in
                   my
                   Fame
                   ;
                
                 
                   Bereft
                   of
                   Honour
                   ,
                   and
                   expos'd
                   to
                   Shame
                   :
                
                 
                   Whom
                   have
                   I
                   now
                   to
                   trust
                   ,
                   (
                   ungrateful
                   Guest
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                   That
                   only
                   Name
                   remains
                   of
                   all
                   the
                   rest
                   !
                
                 
                   What
                   have
                   I
                   left
                   ,
                   or
                   whither
                   can
                   I
                   fly
                   ;
                
                 
                   Must
                   I
                   attend
                   
                   Pygmalion's
                   Cruelty
                   !
                
                 
                   Or
                   till
                   Hyarba
                   shall
                   in
                   Triumph
                   lead
                
                 
                   A
                   Queen
                   ,
                   that
                   proudly
                   scorn'd
                   his
                   proffer'd
                   Bed
                   !
                
                 
                   Had
                   you
                   deferr'd
                   ,
                   at
                   least
                   ,
                   your
                   hasty
                   Flight
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   left
                   behind
                   some
                   Pledge
                   of
                   our
                   delight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Some
                   Babe
                   to
                   bless
                   the
                   Mother's
                   mournful
                   sight
                   ;
                
                 
                   Some
                   young
                   Aeneas
                   ,
                   to
                   supply
                   your
                   place
                   ;
                
                 
                   Whose
                   Features
                   might
                   express
                   his
                   Father's
                   Face
                   ;
                
                 
                   I
                   should
                   not
                   then
                   complain
                   to
                   live
                   bereft
                
                 
                   Of
                   all
                   my
                   Husband
                   ,
                   or
                   be
                   wholly
                   left
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Here
                   paus'd
                   the
                   Queen
                   ;
                   unmov'd
                   he
                   holds
                   his
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   
                   Jove's
                   Command
                   ;
                   nor
                   suffer'd
                   Love
                   to
                   rise
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   heaving
                   in
                   his
                   Heart
                   ;
                   and
                   thus
                   at
                   length
                   ,
                   replies
                   .
                
                 
                   Fair
                   Queen
                   ,
                   you
                   never
                   can
                   enough
                   repeat
                
                 
                   Your
                   boundless
                   Favours
                   ,
                   or
                   I
                   own
                   my
                   Debt
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   can
                   my
                   Mind
                   forget
                   
                   Eliza's
                   Name
                   ,
                
                 
                   While
                   vital
                   Breath
                   inspires
                   this
                   Mortal
                   Frame
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   ,
                   only
                   let
                   me
                   speak
                   in
                   my
                   Defence
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   never
                   hop'd
                   a
                   secret
                   Flight
                   from
                   hence
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Much
                   less
                   pretended
                   to
                   the
                   Lawful
                   Claim
                
                 
                   Of
                   Sacred
                   Nuptials
                   ,
                   or
                   ,
                   a
                   Husband's
                   Name
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   if
                   indulgent
                   Heav'n
                   would
                   leave
                   me
                   free
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   not
                   submit
                   my
                   Life
                   to
                   Fate
                   's
                   Decree
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Choice
                   would
                   lead
                   me
                   to
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Shore
                   ,
                
                 
                   Those
                   Reliques
                   to
                   review
                   ,
                   their
                   Dust
                   adore
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   
                   Priam's
                   ruin'd
                   Palace
                   to
                   restore
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   now
                   the
                   
                     Delphian
                     Oracle
                  
                   Commands
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Fate
                   invites
                   me
                   to
                   the
                   Latian
                   Lands
                   .
                
                 
                   That
                   is
                   the
                   promis'd
                   Place
                   to
                   which
                   I
                   steer
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   my
                   Vows
                   are
                   terminated
                   there
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   you
                   ,
                   a
                   Tyrian
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   Stranger
                   born
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Walls
                   and
                   Tow'rs
                   a
                   Lybian
                   Town
                   adorn
                   ;
                
                 
                   Why
                   may
                   not
                   we
                   ,
                   like
                   you
                   ,
                   a
                   Foreign
                   Race
                   ,
                
                 
                   Like
                   you
                   seek
                   shelter
                   in
                   a
                   Foreign
                   Place
                   ?
                
                 
                   As
                   often
                   as
                   the
                   Night
                   obscures
                   the
                   Skies
                
                 
                   With
                   humid
                   Shades
                   ,
                   or
                   twinkling
                   Stars
                   arise
                   ,
                
                 
                   Anchises
                   angry
                   Ghost
                   in
                   Dreams
                   appears
                   ;
                
                 
                   Chides
                   my
                   delay
                   ,
                   and
                   fills
                   my
                   Soul
                   with
                   fears
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   young
                   Ascanius
                   justly
                   may
                   complain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   his
                   defrauded
                   Fate
                   ,
                   and
                   destin'd
                   Reign
                   .
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   now
                   the
                   Herald
                   of
                   the
                   Gods
                   appear'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Waking
                   I
                   saw
                   him
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Message
                   heard
                   .
                
                 
                   From
                   Jove
                   he
                   came
                   commission'd
                   ,
                   Heav'nly
                   bright
                
                 
                   With
                   Radiant
                   Beams
                   ,
                   and
                   manifest
                   to
                   Sight
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Sender
                   and
                   the
                   Sent
                   ,
                   I
                   both
                   attest
                   ,
                
                 
                   These
                   Walls
                   he
                   enter'd
                   ,
                   and
                   those
                   Words
                   express'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Fair
                   Queen
                   ,
                   oppose
                   not
                   what
                   the
                   Gods
                   command
                   ;
                
                 
                   Forc'd
                   by
                   my
                   Fate
                   ,
                   I
                   leave
                   your
                   happy
                   Land.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Thus
                   ,
                   while
                   he
                   spoke
                   ,
                   already
                   She
                   began
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   sparkling
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   to
                   view
                   the
                   guilty
                   Man
                   :
                
                 
                   From
                   Head
                   to
                   Foot
                   survey'd
                   his
                   Person
                   o're
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   longer
                   these
                   outrageous
                   Threats
                   forbore
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   False
                   as
                   thou
                   art
                   ,
                   and
                   more
                   than
                   false
                   ,
                   forsworn
                   ;
                
                 
                   Not
                   sprung
                   from
                   Noble
                   Blood
                   ,
                   nor
                   Goddess-born
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   hewn
                   from
                   hardned
                   Entrails
                   of
                   a
                   Rock
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   rough
                   Hyrcanian
                   Tygers
                   gave
                   thee
                   suck
                   .
                
                 
                   Why
                   shou'd
                   I
                   fawn
                   ,
                   what
                   have
                   I
                   worse
                   to
                   fear
                   ?
                
                 
                   Did
                   he
                   once
                   look
                   ,
                   or
                   lent
                   a
                   list'ning
                   Ear
                   ;
                
                 
                   Sigh'd
                   when
                   I
                   sob'd
                   ,
                   or
                   shed
                   one
                   kindly
                   Tear
                   ?
                
                 
                   All
                   Symptoms
                   of
                   a
                   base
                   Ungrateful
                   Mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   foul
                   ,
                   that
                   which
                   is
                   worse
                   ,
                   't
                   is
                   hard
                   to
                   find
                   .
                
                 
                   Of
                   Man's
                   Injustice
                   ,
                   why
                   shou'd
                   I
                   complain
                   ?
                
                 
                   The
                   Gods
                   ,
                   and
                   Jove
                   himself
                   behold
                   in
                   vain
                
                 
                   Triumphant
                   Treason
                   ,
                   yet
                   no
                   Thunder
                   flyes
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Juno
                   views
                   my
                   Wrongs
                   with
                   equal
                   Eyes
                   ;
                
                 
                   Faithless
                   is
                   Earth
                   ,
                   and
                   Faithless
                   are
                   the
                   Skies
                   !
                
                 
                   Justice
                   is
                   fled
                   ,
                   and
                   Truth
                   is
                   now
                   no
                   more
                   ;
                
                 
                   I
                   sav'd
                   the
                   Shipwrack'd
                   Exile
                   on
                   my
                   Shore
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   needful
                   Food
                   his
                   hungry
                   Trojans
                   fed
                   ;
                
                 
                   I
                   took
                   the
                   Traytor
                   to
                   my
                   Throne
                   and
                   Bed
                   :
                
                 
                   Fool
                   that
                   I
                   was
                   —
                   't
                   is
                   little
                   to
                   repeat
                
                 
                   The
                   rest
                   ,
                   I
                   stor'd
                   and
                   Rigg'd
                   his
                   ruin'd
                   Flect
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   rave
                   ,
                   I
                   rave
                   :
                   A
                   God's
                   Command
                   he
                   pleads
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   makes
                   Heav'n
                   accessary
                   to
                   his
                   Deeds
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   Lycian
                   Lotts
                   ,
                   and
                   now
                   the
                   Delian
                   God
                   ;
                
                 
                   Now
                   Hermes
                   is
                   employ'd
                   from
                   
                   Jove's
                   abode
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   warn
                   him
                   hence
                   ;
                   as
                   if
                   the
                   peaceful
                   State
                
                 
                   Of
                   Heav'nly
                   Pow'rs
                   were
                   touch'd
                   with
                   Humane
                   Fate
                   !
                
                 
                   But
                   go
                   ;
                   thy
                   flight
                   no
                   longer
                   I
                   detain
                   ;
                
                 
                   Go
                   seek
                   thy
                   promis'd
                   Kingdom
                   through
                   the
                   Main
                   :
                
                 
                   Yet
                   if
                   the
                   Heav'ns
                   will
                   hear
                   my
                   Pious
                   Vow
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   faithless
                   Waves
                   ,
                   not
                   half
                   so
                   false
                   as
                   thou
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   secret
                   Sands
                   ,
                   shall
                   Sepulchers
                   afford
                
                 
                   To
                   thy
                   proud
                   Vessels
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   perjur'd
                   Lord.
                
                 
                   Then
                   shalt
                   thou
                   call
                   on
                   injur'd
                   Dido's
                   Name
                   ;
                
                 
                   Dido
                   shall
                   come
                   ,
                   in
                   a
                   black
                   Sulph'ry
                   flame
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   death
                   has
                   once
                   dissolv'd
                   her
                   Mortal
                   frame
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Shall
                   smile
                   to
                   see
                   the
                   Traitor
                   vainly
                   weep
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   angry
                   Ghost
                   arising
                   from
                   the
                   Deep
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shall
                   haunt
                   thee
                   waking
                   ,
                   and
                   disturb
                   thy
                   Sleep
                   .
                
                 
                   At
                   least
                   my
                   Shade
                   thy
                   Punishment
                   shall
                   know
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Fame
                   shall
                   spread
                   the
                   pleasing
                   News
                   below
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Abruptly
                   here
                   she
                   stops
                   :
                   Then
                   turns
                   away
                
                 
                   Her
                   loathing
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   and
                   shuns
                   the
                   sight
                   of
                   Day
                   .
                
                 
                   Amaz'd
                   he
                   stood
                   ,
                   revolving
                   in
                   his
                   Mind
                
                 
                   What
                   Speech
                   to
                   frame
                   ,
                   and
                   what
                   Excuse
                   to
                   find
                   .
                
                 
                   Her
                   fearful
                   Maids
                   their
                   fainting
                   Mistress
                   led
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   softly
                   laid
                   her
                   on
                   her
                   Iv'ry
                   Bed.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   good
                   Aeneas
                   ,
                   tho'
                   he
                   much
                   desir'd
                
                 
                   To
                   give
                   that
                   Pity
                   ,
                   which
                   her
                   Grief
                   requir'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   much
                   he
                   mourn'd
                   ,
                   and
                   labour'd
                   with
                   his
                   Love
                   ,
                
                 
                   Resolv'd
                   at
                   length
                   ,
                   obeys
                   the
                   Will
                   of
                   Jove
                   :
                
                 
                   Reviews
                   his
                   Forces
                   ;
                   they
                   with
                   early
                   Care
                
                 
                   Unmoor
                   their
                   Vessels
                   ,
                   and
                   for
                   Sea
                   prepare
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Fleet
                   is
                   soon
                   afloat
                   ,
                   in
                   all
                   its
                   Pride
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   well
                   calk'd
                   Gallies
                   in
                   the
                   Harbour
                   ride
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   Oaks
                   for
                   Oars
                   they
                   fell'd
                   ;
                   or
                   as
                   they
                   stood
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   its
                   green
                   Arms
                   despoil'd
                   the
                   growing
                   Wood.
                
                 
                   Studious
                   of
                   Flight
                   :
                   The
                   Beach
                   is
                   cover'd
                   o're
                
                 
                   With
                   Trojan
                   Bands
                   that
                   blacken
                   all
                   the
                   Shore
                   :
                
                 
                   On
                   ev'ry
                   side
                   are
                   seen
                   ,
                   descending
                   down
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thick
                   swarms
                   of
                   Souldiers
                   loaden
                   from
                   the
                   Town
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   ,
                   in
                   Battalia
                   ,
                   march
                   embody'd
                   Ants
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fearful
                   of
                   Winter
                   ,
                   and
                   of
                   future
                   Wants
                   ,
                
                 
                   T'
                   invade
                   the
                   Corn
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   their
                   Cells
                   convey
                
                 
                   The
                   plunder'd
                   Forrage
                   of
                   their
                   yellow
                   Prey
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   sable
                   Troops
                   ,
                   along
                   the
                   narrow
                   Tracks
                   ,
                
                 
                   Scarce
                   bear
                   the
                   weighty
                   Burthen
                   on
                   their
                   Backs
                   :
                
                 
                   Some
                   set
                   their
                   Shoulders
                   to
                   the
                   pond'rous
                   Grain
                   ;
                
                 
                   Some
                   guard
                   the
                   Spoil
                   ,
                   some
                   lash
                   the
                   lagging
                   Train
                   ;
                
                 
                   All
                   ply
                   their
                   sev'ral
                   Tasks
                   ,
                   and
                   equal
                   Toil
                   sustain
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   What
                   Pangs
                   the
                   tender
                   Breast
                   of
                   Dido
                   tore
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   ,
                   from
                   the
                   Tow'r
                   ,
                   she
                   saw
                   the
                   cover'd
                   Shore
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   heard
                   the
                   Shouts
                   of
                   Sailors
                   from
                   afar
                   ,
                
                 
                   Mix'd
                   with
                   the
                   Murmurs
                   of
                   the
                   wat'ry
                   War
                   ?
                
                 
                   All
                   pow'rful
                   Love
                   ,
                   what
                   Changes
                   canst
                   thou
                   cause
                
                 
                   In
                   Human
                   Hearts
                   ,
                   subjected
                   to
                   thy
                   Laws
                   !
                
                 
                   Once
                   more
                   her
                   haughty
                   Soul
                   the
                   Tyrant
                   bends
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   Pray'rs
                   and
                   mean
                   Submissions
                   she
                   descends
                   .
                
                 
                   No
                   female
                   Arts
                   or
                   Aids
                   she
                   left
                   untry'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Counsels
                   unexplor'd
                   ,
                   before
                   she
                   dy'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Look
                   ,
                   Anna
                   ,
                   look
                   ;
                   the
                   Trojans
                   crowd
                   to
                   Sea
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   spread
                   their
                   Canvass
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   Anchors
                   weigh
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   shouting
                   Crew
                   ,
                   their
                   Ships
                   with
                   Garlands
                   binds
                   ;
                
                 
                   Invoke
                   the
                   Sea-Gods
                   ,
                   and
                   invite
                   the
                   Winds
                   .
                
                 
                   Cou'd
                   I
                   have
                   thought
                   this
                   threatning
                   Blow
                   so
                   near
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   tender
                   Soul
                   had
                   been
                   forewarn'd
                   to
                   bear
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   do
                   not
                   you
                   my
                   last
                   Request
                   deny
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   yon
                   perfidious
                   Man
                   your
                   Int'rest
                   try
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   bring
                   me
                   News
                   ,
                   if
                   I
                   must
                   live
                   or
                   dye
                   .
                
                 
                   You
                   are
                   his
                   Fav'rite
                   ,
                   you
                   alone
                   can
                   find
                
                 
                   The
                   dark
                   recesses
                   of
                   his
                   inmost
                   Mind
                   :
                
                 
                   In
                   all
                   his
                   trusted
                   Secrets
                   you
                   have
                   part
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   know
                   the
                   soft
                   Approaches
                   to
                   his
                   Heart
                   .
                
                 
                   Haste
                   then
                   ,
                   and
                   humbly
                   seek
                   my
                   haughty
                   Foe
                   ;
                
                 
                   Tell
                   him
                   ,
                   I
                   did
                   not
                   with
                   the
                   Grecians
                   goe
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   did
                   my
                   Fleet
                   against
                   his
                   Friends
                   employ
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   swore
                   the
                   Ruin
                   of
                   unhappy
                   Troy.
                
                 
                   Nor
                   mov'd
                   with
                   Hands
                   prophane
                   his
                   Father's
                   Dust
                   ;
                
                 
                   Why
                   shou'd
                   he
                   then
                   reject
                   a
                   suit
                   so
                   just
                   !
                
                 
                   Whom
                   does
                   he
                   shun
                   ,
                   and
                   whither
                   would
                   he
                   fly
                   ;
                
                 
                   Can
                   he
                   this
                   last
                   ,
                   this
                   only
                   Pray'r
                   deny
                   !
                
                 
                   Let
                   him
                   at
                   least
                   his
                   dang'rous
                   Flight
                   delay
                   ,
                
                 
                   Wait
                   better
                   Winds
                   ,
                   and
                   hope
                   a
                   calmer
                   Sea.
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Nuptials
                   he
                   disclaims
                   I
                   urge
                   no
                   more
                   ;
                
                 
                   Let
                   him
                   pursue
                   the
                   promis'd
                   Latian
                   Shore
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   short
                   delay
                   is
                   all
                   I
                   ask
                   him
                   now
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   pause
                   of
                   Grief
                   ;
                   an
                   interval
                   from
                   Woe
                   :
                
                 
                   'Till
                   my
                   soft
                   Soul
                   be
                   temper'd
                   to
                   sustain
                
                 
                   Accustom'd
                   Sorrows
                   ,
                   and
                   inur'd
                   to
                   Pain
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   you
                   in
                   Pity
                   grant
                   this
                   one
                   Request
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Death
                   shall
                   leave
                   you
                   of
                   my
                   Crown
                   possess'd
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   mournful
                   message
                   ,
                   Pious
                   Anna
                   bears
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   seconds
                   ,
                   with
                   her
                   own
                   ,
                   her
                   Sister's
                   Tears
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   all
                   her
                   Arts
                   are
                   still
                   employ'd
                   in
                   vain
                   ;
                
                 
                   Again
                   she
                   comes
                   ,
                   and
                   is
                   refus'd
                   again
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   harden'd
                   Heart
                   nor
                   Pray'rs
                   nor
                   Threatnings
                   move
                   ;
                
                 
                   Fate
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   God
                   ,
                   had
                   stop'd
                   his
                   Ears
                   to
                   Love.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   As
                   when
                   the
                   Winds
                   their
                   airy
                   Quarrel
                   try
                   ;
                
                 
                   Justling
                   from
                   ev'ry
                   quarter
                   of
                   the
                   Sky
                   ;
                
                 
                   This
                   way
                   and
                   that
                   ,
                   the
                   Mountain
                   Oak
                   they
                   bend
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Boughs
                   they
                   shatter
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Branches
                   rend
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   Leaves
                   ,
                   and
                   falling
                   Mast
                   ,
                   they
                   spread
                   the
                   Ground
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   hollow
                   Vallies
                   echo
                   to
                   the
                   Sound
                   :
                
                 
                   Unmov'd
                   ,
                   the
                   Royal
                   Plant
                   their
                   Fury
                   mocks
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   shaken
                   ,
                   clings
                   more
                   closely
                   to
                   the
                   Rocks
                   :
                
                 
                   Far
                   as
                   he
                   shoots
                   his
                   tow'ring
                   Head
                   on
                   high
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   deep
                   in
                   Earth
                   his
                   fix'd
                   Foundations
                   lye
                   .
                
                 
                   No
                   less
                   a
                   Storm
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Heroe
                   bears
                   ;
                
                 
                   Thick
                   Messages
                   and
                   loud
                   Complaints
                   he
                   hears
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   bandy'd
                   Words
                   ,
                   still
                   beating
                   on
                   his
                   Ears
                   .
                
                 
                   Sighs
                   ,
                   Groans
                   and
                   Tears
                   ,
                   proclaim
                   his
                   inward
                   Pains
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   the
                   firm
                   purpose
                   of
                   his
                   Heart
                   remains
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   wretched
                   Queen
                   ,
                   pursu'd
                   by
                   cruel
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Begins
                   at
                   length
                   the
                   light
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   to
                   hate
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   loaths
                   to
                   live
                   :
                   Then
                   dire
                   Portents
                   she
                   sees
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   hasten
                   on
                   the
                   Death
                   her
                   Soul
                   decrees
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Strange
                   to
                   relate
                   :
                   for
                   when
                   before
                   the
                   Shrine
                
                 
                   She
                   pours
                   ,
                   in
                   Sacrifice
                   ,
                   the
                   Purple
                   Wine
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Purple
                   Wine
                   is
                   turn'd
                   to
                   putrid
                   Blood
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   white
                   offer'd
                   Milk
                   ,
                   converts
                   to
                   Mud.
                
                 
                   This
                   dire
                   Presage
                   ,
                   to
                   her
                   alone
                   reveal'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   all
                   ,
                   and
                   ev'n
                   her
                   Sister
                   ,
                   she
                   conceal'd
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   Marble
                   Temple
                   stood
                   within
                   the
                   Grove
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sacred
                   to
                   Death
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   her
                   murther'd
                   Love
                   ;
                
                 
                   That
                   honour'd
                   Chappel
                   she
                   had
                   hung
                   around
                
                 
                   With
                   snowy
                   Fleeces
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   Garlands
                   crown'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Oft
                   ,
                   when
                   she
                   visited
                   this
                   lonely
                   Dome
                   ,
                
                 
                   Strange
                   Voices
                   issu'd
                   from
                   her
                   Husband's
                   Tomb
                   :
                
                 
                   She
                   thought
                   she
                   heard
                   him
                   summon
                   her
                   away
                   ;
                
                 
                   Invite
                   her
                   to
                   his
                   Grave
                   ;
                   and
                   chide
                   her
                   stay
                   .
                
                 
                   Hourly
                   't
                   is
                   heard
                   ,
                   when
                   with
                   a
                   bodeing
                   Note
                
                 
                   The
                   solitary
                   Screech-Owl
                   strains
                   her
                   Throat
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   on
                   a
                   Chimney's
                   top
                   ,
                   or
                   Turret's
                   hight
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Songs
                   obscene
                   ,
                   disturbs
                   the
                   Silence
                   of
                   the
                   Night
                   .
                
                 
                   Besides
                   ,
                   old
                   Prophesies
                   augment
                   her
                   Fears
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   stern
                   Aeneas
                   in
                   her
                   Dreams
                   appears
                   ,
                
                 
                   ●●sdainful
                   as
                   by
                   Day
                   :
                   She
                   seems
                   alone
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   wander
                   in
                   her
                   Sleep
                   ,
                   thro
                   ways
                   unknown
                   ,
                
                 
                   Guidless
                   and
                   dark
                   :
                   or
                   ,
                   in
                   a
                   Desart
                   Plain
                   ,
                
                 
                   〈◊〉
                   seek
                   her
                   Subjects
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   seek
                   in
                   vain
                   .
                
                 
                   〈…〉
                   k
                   Pentheus
                   ,
                   when
                   distracted
                   with
                   his
                   Fear
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   saw
                   two
                   Suns
                   ,
                   and
                   double
                   Thebes
                   appear
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   mad
                   Orestes
                   ,
                   when
                   his
                   Mother's
                   Ghost
                
                 
                   ●ull
                   in
                   his
                   Face
                   ,
                   infernal
                   Torches
                   tost
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   shook
                   her
                   snaky
                   locks
                   :
                   He
                   shuns
                   the
                   sight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Flies
                   o're
                   the
                   Stage
                   ,
                   surpris'd
                   with
                   mortal
                   fright
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Furies
                   guard
                   the
                   Door
                   ;
                   and
                   intercept
                   his
                   flight
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Now
                   ,
                   sinking
                   underneath
                   a
                   load
                   of
                   Grief
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   Death
                   alone
                   ,
                   she
                   seeks
                   her
                   last
                   Relief
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Time
                   and
                   Means
                   ,
                   resolv'd
                   within
                   her
                   Breast
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   to
                   her
                   mournful
                   Sister
                   ,
                   thus
                   address'd
                   .
                
                 
                   (
                   Dissembling
                   hope
                   ,
                   her
                   cloudy
                   front
                   she
                   clears
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   a
                   false
                   Vigour
                   in
                   her
                   Eyes
                   appears
                   .
                   )
                
                 
                   Rejoice
                   she
                   said
                   ,
                   instructed
                   from
                   above
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Lover
                   I
                   shall
                   gain
                   ,
                   or
                   lose
                   my
                   Love.
                
                 
                   Nigh
                   rising
                   Atlas
                   ,
                   next
                   the
                   falling
                   Sun
                   ,
                
                 
                   Long
                   tracts
                   of
                   Ethiopian
                   Clymates
                   run
                   :
                
                 
                   There
                   ,
                   a
                   Massylian
                   Priestess
                   I
                   have
                   found
                   ,
                
                 
                   Honour'd
                   for
                   Age
                   ;
                   for
                   Magick
                   Arts
                   renown'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Th'
                   Hesperian
                   Temple
                   was
                   her
                   trusted
                   Care
                   ;
                
                 
                   'T
                   was
                   she
                   supply'd
                   the
                   wakeful
                   Dragons
                   Fare
                   .
                
                 
                   She
                   Poppy-Seeds
                   in
                   Honey
                   taught
                   to
                   steep
                   ;
                
                 
                   Reclaim'd
                   his
                   Rage
                   ;
                   and
                   sooth'd
                   him
                   into
                   sleep
                   .
                
                 
                   She
                   watch'd
                   the
                   Golden
                   Fruit
                   ;
                   her
                   Charms
                   unbind
                
                 
                   The
                   Chains
                   of
                   Love
                   ;
                   or
                   fix
                   them
                   on
                   the
                   Mind
                   .
                
                 
                   She
                   stops
                   the
                   Torrents
                   ,
                   leaves
                   the
                   Channel
                   dry
                   ;
                
                 
                   Repels
                   the
                   Stars
                   ;
                   and
                   backward
                   bears
                   the
                   Sky
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   yawning
                   Earth
                   rebellows
                   to
                   her
                   Call
                   ;
                
                 
                   Pale
                   Ghosts
                   ascend
                   ;
                   and
                   Mountain
                   Ashes
                   fall
                   .
                
                 
                   Witness
                   ,
                   ye
                   Gods
                   ,
                   and
                   thou
                   my
                   better
                   part
                   ,
                
                 
                   How
                   loth
                   I
                   am
                   to
                   try
                   this
                   impious
                   Art
                   !
                
                 
                   Within
                   the
                   secret
                   Court
                   ,
                   with
                   silent
                   Care
                   ,
                
                 
                   Erect
                   a
                   lofty
                   Pile
                   ,
                   expos'd
                   in
                   Air
                   :
                
                 
                   Hang
                   on
                   the
                   topmost
                   part
                   ,
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Vest
                   ;
                
                 
                   Spoils
                   ,
                   Arms
                   ,
                   and
                   Presents
                   of
                   my
                   faithless
                   Guest
                   .
                
                 
                   Next
                   ,
                   under
                   these
                   ,
                   the
                   bridal
                   Bed
                   be
                   plac'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   I
                   my
                   Ruin
                   in
                   his
                   Arms
                   embrac'd
                   :
                
                 
                   All
                   Relicks
                   of
                   the
                   Wretch
                   are
                   doom'd
                   to
                   Fire
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   so
                   the
                   Priestess
                   ,
                   and
                   her
                   Charms
                   require
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   far
                   she
                   said
                   ,
                   and
                   farther
                   Speech
                   forbears
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   Mortal
                   Paleness
                   in
                   her
                   Face
                   appears
                   :
                
                 
                   Yet
                   ,
                   the
                   mistrustless
                   Anna
                   ,
                   could
                   not
                   find
                
                 
                   The
                   secret
                   Fun'ral
                   ,
                   in
                   these
                   Rites
                   design'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   thought
                   so
                   dire
                   a
                   Rage
                   possess'd
                   her
                   Mind
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Unknowing
                   of
                   a
                   Train
                   conceal'd
                   so
                   well
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   fear'd
                   no
                   worse
                   than
                   when
                   Sichaeus
                   fell
                   :
                
                 
                   Therefore
                   obeys
                   .
                   The
                   fatal
                   Pile
                   they
                   rear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Within
                   the
                   secret
                   Court
                   ,
                   expos'd
                   in
                   Air.
                
                 
                   The
                   cloven
                   Holms
                   and
                   Pines
                   are
                   heap'd
                   on
                   high
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Garlands
                   on
                   the
                   hollow
                   Spaces
                   lye
                   .
                
                 
                   Sad
                   Cypress
                   ,
                   Vervain
                   ,
                   Eugh
                   ,
                   compose
                   the
                   Wreath
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   ev'ry
                   baleful
                   green
                   denoting
                   Death
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Queen
                   ,
                   determin'd
                   to
                   the
                   fatal
                   Deed
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Spoils
                   and
                   Sword
                   he
                   left
                   ,
                   in
                   order
                   spread
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   Man's
                   Image
                   on
                   the
                   Nuptial
                   Bed.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   now
                   (
                   the
                   sacred
                   Altars
                   plac'd
                   around
                   )
                
                 
                   The
                   Priestess
                   enters
                   ,
                   with
                   her
                   Hair
                   unbound
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   thrice
                   invokes
                   the
                   Pow'rs
                   below
                   the
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                   Night
                   ,
                   Erebus
                   ,
                   and
                   Chaos
                   she
                   proclaims
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   threefold
                   Hecat
                   ,
                   with
                   her
                   hundred
                   Names
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   three
                   
                   Diana's
                   :
                   next
                   she
                   sprinkles
                   round
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   feign'd
                   Avernian
                   Drops
                   ,
                   the
                   hallow'd
                   ground
                   ;
                
                 
                   Culls
                   hoary
                   Simples
                   ,
                   found
                   by
                   
                   Phoebe's
                   Light
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   brazen
                   Sickles
                   reap'd
                   at
                   Noon
                   of
                   Night
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   mixes
                   baleful
                   Juices
                   in
                   the
                   Bowl
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   cuts
                   the
                   Forehead
                   of
                   a
                   new-born
                   Fole
                   ;
                
                 
                   Robbing
                   the
                   Mother's
                   love
                   .
                   The
                   destin'd
                   Queen
                
                 
                   Observes
                   ,
                   assisting
                   at
                   the
                   Rites
                   obscene
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   leaven'd
                   Cake
                   in
                   her
                   devoted
                   Hands
                
                 
                   She
                   holds
                   ,
                   and
                   next
                   the
                   highest
                   Altar
                   stands
                   :
                
                 
                   One
                   tender
                   Foot
                   was
                   shod
                   ,
                   her
                   other
                   bare
                   ;
                
                 
                   Girt
                   was
                   her
                   gather'd
                   Gown
                   ,
                   and
                   loose
                   her
                   Hair.
                
                 
                   Thus
                   dress'd
                   ,
                   she
                   summon'd
                   with
                   her
                   dying
                   Breath
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Heav'ns
                   and
                   Planets
                   conscious
                   of
                   her
                   Death
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   ev'ry
                   Pow'r
                   ,
                   if
                   any
                   rules
                   above
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   minds
                   ,
                   or
                   who
                   revenges
                   injur'd
                   Love.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   'T
                   was
                   dead
                   of
                   Night
                   ,
                   when
                   weary
                   Bodies
                   close
                
                 
                   Their
                   Eyes
                   in
                   balmy
                   Sleep
                   ,
                   and
                   soft
                   Repose
                   :
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     Henry
                     Tasburgh
                     
                       Esq
                    
                     of
                     Bodney
                     in
                     y
                     e
                     County
                     of
                     Norfolk
                     .
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     4.
                     l.
                     730.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                 
                   The
                   Winds
                   no
                   longer
                   whisper
                   through
                   the
                   Woods
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   murm'ring
                   Tides
                   disturb
                   the
                   gentle
                   Floods
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Stars
                   in
                   silent
                   order
                   mov'd
                   around
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Peace
                   ,
                   with
                   downy
                   wings
                   ,
                   was
                   brooding
                   on
                   the
                   ground
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Flocks
                   and
                   Herds
                   ,
                   and
                   parti-colour'd
                   Fowl
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   haunt
                   the
                   Woods
                   ,
                   or
                   swim
                   the
                   weedy
                   Pool
                   ;
                
                 
                   Stretch'd
                   on
                   the
                   quiet
                   Earth
                   securely
                   lay
                   ,
                
                 
                   Forgetting
                   the
                   past
                   Labours
                   of
                   the
                   day
                   .
                
                 
                   All
                   else
                   of
                   Nature's
                   common
                   Gift
                   partake
                   ;
                
                 
                   Unhappy
                   Dido
                   was
                   alone
                   awake
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Sleep
                   nor
                   Ease
                   the
                   Furious
                   Queen
                   can
                   find
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sleep
                   fled
                   her
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   as
                   Quiet
                   fled
                   her
                   mind
                   .
                
                 
                   Despair
                   ,
                   and
                   Rage
                   ,
                   and
                   Love
                   ,
                   divide
                   her
                   heart
                   ;
                
                 
                   Despair
                   and
                   Rage
                   had
                   some
                   ,
                   but
                   Love
                   the
                   greater
                   part
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   thus
                   she
                   said
                   within
                   her
                   secret
                   Mind
                   :
                
                 
                   What
                   shall
                   I
                   do
                   ,
                   what
                   Succour
                   can
                   I
                   find
                   !
                
                 
                   Become
                   a
                   Supplyant
                   to
                   
                   Hyarba's
                   Pride
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   take
                   my
                   turn
                   ,
                   to
                   Court
                   and
                   be
                   deny'd
                   !
                
                 
                   Shall
                   I
                   with
                   this
                   ungrateful
                   Trojan
                   go
                   ,
                
                 
                   Forsake
                   an
                   Empire
                   ,
                   and
                   attend
                   a
                   Foe
                   ?
                
                 
                   Himself
                   I
                   refug'd
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Train
                   reliev'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   T
                   is
                   true
                   ;
                   but
                   am
                   I
                   sure
                   to
                   be
                   receiv'd
                   ?
                
                 
                   An
                   Exile
                   follows
                   whom
                   a
                   Queen
                   reliev'd
                   !
                
                 
                   Can
                   Gratitude
                   in
                   Trojan
                   Souls
                   have
                   place
                   !
                
                 
                   Laomedon
                   still
                   lives
                   in
                   all
                   his
                   Race
                   !
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   shall
                   I
                   seek
                   alone
                   the
                   Churlish
                   Crew
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   with
                   my
                   Fleet
                   their
                   flying
                   Sails
                   pursue
                   ?
                
                 
                   What
                   force
                   have
                   I
                   but
                   those
                   ,
                   whom
                   scarce
                   before
                
                 
                   I
                   drew
                   reluctant
                   from
                   their
                   Native
                   Shore
                   ?
                
                 
                   Will
                   they
                   again
                   Embark
                   at
                   my
                   desire
                   ,
                
                 
                   Once
                   more
                   sustain
                   the
                   Seas
                   ,
                   and
                   quit
                   their
                   second
                   Tyre
                   ?
                
                 
                   Rather
                   with
                   Steel
                   thy
                   guilty
                   Breast
                   invade
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   take
                   the
                   Fortune
                   thou
                   thy self
                   hast
                   made
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Your
                   pity
                   ,
                   Sister
                   ,
                   first
                   seduc'd
                   my
                   Mind
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   seconded
                   too
                   well
                   ,
                   what
                   I
                   design'd
                   .
                
                 
                   These
                   dear-bought
                   Pleasures
                   had
                   I
                   never
                   known
                   ,
                
                 
                   Had
                   I
                   continu'd
                   free
                   ,
                   and
                   still
                   my
                   own
                   ;
                
                 
                   Avoiding
                   Love
                   ;
                   I
                   had
                   not
                   found
                   Despair
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   shar'd
                   with
                   Salvage
                   Beasts
                   the
                   Common
                   Air.
                
                 
                   Like
                   them
                   a
                   lonely
                   life
                   I
                   might
                   have
                   led
                   ,
                
                 
                   Not
                   mourn'd
                   the
                   Living
                   ,
                   nor
                   disturb'd
                   the
                   Dead
                   .
                
                 
                   These
                   Thoughts
                   she
                   brooded
                   in
                   her
                   anxious
                   Breast
                   ;
                
                 
                   On
                   Boord
                   ,
                   the
                   Trojan
                   found
                   more
                   easie
                   rest
                   .
                
                 
                   Resolv'd
                   to
                   sail
                   ,
                   in
                   Sleep
                   he
                   pass'd
                   the
                   Night
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   order'd
                   all
                   things
                   for
                   his
                   early
                   flight
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   To
                   whom
                   once
                   more
                   the
                   winged
                   God
                   appears
                   ;
                
                 
                   His
                   former
                   Youthful
                   Meen
                   and
                   Shape
                   he
                   wears
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   this
                   new
                   alarm
                   invades
                   his
                   Ears
                   .
                
                 
                   Sleep'st
                   thou
                   ,
                   O
                   Goddess
                   born
                   !
                   and
                   can'st
                   thou
                   drown
                
                 
                   Thy
                   needful
                   Cares
                   ,
                   so
                   near
                   a
                   Hostile
                   Town
                   ?
                
                 
                   Beset
                   with
                   Foes
                   ;
                   nor
                   hear'st
                   the
                   Western
                   Gales
                
                 
                   Invite
                   thy
                   passage
                   ,
                   and
                   Inspire
                   thy
                   sails
                   ?
                
                 
                   She
                   harbours
                   in
                   her
                   Heart
                   a
                   furious
                   hate
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   thou
                   shalt
                   find
                   the
                   dire
                   Effects
                   too
                   late
                   ;
                
                 
                   Fix'd
                   on
                   Revenge
                   ,
                   and
                   Obstinate
                   to
                   die
                   :
                
                 
                   Haste
                   swiftly
                   hence
                   ,
                   while
                   thou
                   hast
                   pow'r
                   to
                   fly
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Sea
                   with
                   Ships
                   will
                   soon
                   be
                   cover'd
                   o're
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   blazing
                   Firebrands
                   kindle
                   all
                   the
                   Shore
                   .
                
                 
                   Prevent
                   her
                   rage
                   ,
                   while
                   Night
                   obscures
                   the
                   Skies
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   sail
                   before
                   the
                   purple
                   Morn
                   arise
                   .
                
                 
                   Who
                   knows
                   what
                   Hazards
                   thy
                   Delay
                   may
                   bring
                   ?
                
                 
                   Woman
                   's
                   a
                   various
                   and
                   a
                   changeful
                   Thing
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   Hermes
                   in
                   the
                   Dream
                   ;
                   then
                   took
                   his
                   flight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Aloft
                   in
                   Air
                   unseen
                   ;
                   and
                   mix'd
                   with
                   Night
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Twice
                   warn'd
                   by
                   the
                   Coelestial
                   Messenger
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   pious
                   Pious
                   arose
                   with
                   hasty
                   fear
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Then
                   rowz'd
                   his
                   drowsie
                   Train
                   without
                   delay
                   ,
                
                 
                   Haste
                   to
                   your
                   banks
                   ;
                   your
                   crooked
                   Anchors
                   weigh
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   spread
                   your
                   flying
                   Sails
                   ,
                   and
                   stand
                   to
                   Sea.
                
                 
                   A
                   God
                   commands
                   ;
                   he
                   stood
                   before
                   my
                   sight
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   urg'd
                   us
                   once
                   again
                   to
                   speedy
                   flight
                   .
                
                 
                   O
                   sacred
                   Pow'r
                   ,
                   what
                   Pow'r
                   so
                   e're
                   thou
                   art
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   thy
                   bless'd
                   Orders
                   I
                   resign
                   my
                   heart
                   :
                
                 
                   Lead
                   thou
                   the
                   way
                   ;
                   protect
                   thy
                   Trojan
                   Bands
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   prosper
                   the
                   Design
                   thy
                   Will
                   Commands
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   said
                   ,
                   and
                   drawing
                   forth
                   his
                   flaming
                   Sword
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   thund'ring
                   Arm
                   divides
                   the
                   many
                   twisted
                   Cord
                   :
                
                 
                   An
                   emulating
                   Zeal
                   inspires
                   his
                   Train
                   ;
                
                 
                   They
                   run
                   ,
                   they
                   snatch
                   ;
                   they
                   rush
                   into
                   the
                   main
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   headlong
                   haste
                   they
                   leave
                   the
                   desert
                   Shores
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   brush
                   the
                   liquid
                   Seas
                   with
                   lab'ring
                   Oars
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Aurora
                   now
                   had
                   left
                   her
                   Saffron
                   Bed
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   beams
                   of
                   early
                   Light
                   the
                   Heav'ns
                   o'respread
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   from
                   a
                   Tow'r
                   the
                   Queen
                   ,
                   with
                   wakeful
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Saw
                   Day
                   point
                   upward
                   from
                   the
                   rosie
                   Skies
                   :
                
                 
                   She
                   look'd
                   to
                   Seaward
                   ,
                   but
                   the
                   Sea
                   was
                   void
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   scarce
                   in
                   ken
                   the
                   sailing
                   Ships
                   descry'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Stung
                   with
                   despight
                   ,
                   and
                   furious
                   with
                   despair
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   struck
                   her
                   trembling
                   Breast
                   ,
                   and
                   tore
                   her
                   Hair.
                
                 
                   And
                   shall
                   th'
                   ungrateful
                   Traytor
                   go
                   ,
                   she
                   said
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Land
                   forsaken
                   ,
                   and
                   my
                   Love
                   betray'd
                   ?
                
                 
                   Shall
                   we
                   not
                   Arm
                   ,
                   not
                   rush
                   from
                   ev'ry
                   Street
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   follow
                   ,
                   sink
                   ,
                   and
                   burn
                   his
                   perjur'd
                   Fleet
                   ?
                
                 
                   Haste
                   ,
                   haul
                   my
                   Gallies
                   out
                   ,
                   pursue
                   the
                   Foe
                   :
                
                 
                   Bring
                   flaming
                   Brands
                   ,
                   set
                   sail
                   ,
                   and
                   swiftly
                   row
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   have
                   I
                   said
                   ?
                   where
                   am
                   I
                   ?
                   Fury
                   turns
                
                 
                   My
                   Brain
                   ;
                   and
                   my
                   distemper'd
                   Bosom
                   burns
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   when
                   I
                   gave
                   my
                   Person
                   and
                   my
                   Throne
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   Hate
                   ,
                   this
                   Rage
                   ,
                   had
                   been
                   more
                   timely
                   shown
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   See
                   now
                   the
                   promis'd
                   Faith
                   ,
                   the
                   vaunted
                   Name
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Pious
                   Man
                   ,
                   who
                   ,
                   rushing
                   through
                   the
                   Flame
                   ,
                
                 
                   Preserv'd
                   his
                   Gods
                   ;
                   and
                   to
                   the
                   Phrygian
                   Shore
                
                 
                   The
                   Burthen
                   of
                   his
                   feeble
                   Father
                   bore
                   !
                
                 
                   I
                   shou'd
                   have
                   torn
                   him
                   piecemeal
                   ;
                   strow'd
                   in
                   Floods
                
                 
                   His
                   scatter'd
                   Limbs
                   ,
                   or
                   left
                   expos'd
                   in
                   Woods
                   :
                
                 
                   Destroy'd
                   his
                   Friends
                   and
                   Son
                   ;
                   and
                   from
                   the
                   Fire
                
                 
                   Have
                   set
                   the
                   reeking
                   Boy
                   before
                   the
                   Sire
                   .
                
                 
                   Events
                   are
                   doubtful
                   ,
                   which
                   on
                   Battels
                   wait
                   ;
                
                 
                   Yet
                   where
                   's
                   the
                   doubt
                   ,
                   to
                   Souls
                   secure
                   of
                   Fate
                   !
                
                 
                   My
                   Tyrians
                   ,
                   at
                   their
                   injur'd
                   Queen's
                   Command
                   ,
                
                 
                   Had
                   toss'd
                   their
                   Fires
                   amid
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Band
                   :
                
                 
                   At
                   once
                   extinguish'd
                   all
                   the
                   faithless
                   Name
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   I
                   my self
                   ,
                   in
                   vengeance
                   of
                   my
                   Shame
                   ,
                
                 
                   Had
                   fall'n
                   upon
                   the
                   Pile
                   to
                   mend
                   the
                   Fun'ral
                   Flame
                   .
                
                 
                   Thou
                   Sun
                   ,
                   who
                   view'st
                   at
                   once
                   the
                   World
                   below
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thou
                   Juno
                   ,
                   Guardian
                   of
                   the
                   Nuptial
                   Vow
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thou
                   Hecat
                   ,
                   hearken
                   from
                   thy
                   dark
                   abodes
                   ;
                
                 
                   Ye
                   Furies
                   ,
                   Fiends
                   ,
                   and
                   violated
                   Gods
                   ,
                
                 
                   All
                   Pow'rs
                   invok'd
                   with
                   
                   Dido's
                   dying
                   breath
                   ,
                
                 
                   Attend
                   her
                   Curses
                   ,
                   and
                   avenge
                   her
                   death
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   so
                   the
                   Fates
                   ordain
                   ,
                   and
                   Jove
                   commands
                   ,
                
                 
                   Th'
                   ungrateful
                   Wretch
                   should
                   find
                   the
                   Latian
                   Lands
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   let
                   a
                   Race
                   untam'd
                   ,
                   and
                   haughty
                   Foes
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   peaceful
                   Entrance
                   with
                   dire
                   Arms
                   oppose
                   ;
                
                 
                   Oppress'd
                   with
                   Numbers
                   in
                   th'
                   unequal
                   Field
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Men
                   discourag'd
                   ,
                   and
                   himself
                   expell'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Let
                   him
                   for
                   Succour
                   sue
                   from
                   place
                   to
                   place
                   ,
                
                 
                   Torn
                   from
                   his
                   Subjects
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Son's
                   embrace
                   :
                
                 
                   First
                   let
                   him
                   see
                   his
                   Friends
                   in
                   Battel
                   slain
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   their
                   untimely
                   Fate
                   lament
                   in
                   vain
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   when
                   ,
                   at
                   length
                   ,
                   the
                   cruell
                   War
                   shall
                   cease
                   ;
                
                 
                   On
                   hard
                   Conditions
                   may
                   he
                   buy
                   his
                   Peace
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Nor
                   let
                   him
                   then
                   enjoy
                   supreme
                   Command
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   fall
                   untimely
                   ,
                   by
                   some
                   hostile
                   Hand
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   lye
                   unbury'd
                   on
                   the
                   barren
                   Sand.
                
                 
                   These
                   are
                   my
                   Pray'rs
                   ,
                   and
                   this
                   my
                   dying
                   Will
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   you
                   my
                   Tyrians
                   ev'ry
                   Curse
                   fulfill
                   .
                
                 
                   Perpetual
                   Hate
                   ,
                   and
                   mortal
                   Wars
                   proclaim
                   ,
                
                 
                   Against
                   the
                   Prince
                   ,
                   the
                   People
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Name
                   .
                
                 
                   These
                   grateful
                   Off'rings
                   on
                   my
                   Grave
                   bestow
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   League
                   ,
                   nor
                   Love
                   ,
                   the
                   jarring
                   Nations
                   know
                   :
                
                 
                   Now
                   ,
                   and
                   from
                   hence
                   in
                   ev'ry
                   future
                   Age
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   Rage
                   excites
                   your
                   Arms
                   ,
                   and
                   Strength
                   supplies
                   the
                   Rage
                   :
                
                 
                   Rise
                   some
                   Avenger
                   of
                   our
                   Lybian
                   Blood
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Fire
                   and
                   Sword
                   pursue
                   the
                   perjur'd
                   Brood
                   :
                
                 
                   Our
                   Arms
                   ,
                   our
                   Seas
                   ,
                   our
                   Shores
                   ,
                   oppos'd
                   to
                   theirs
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   same
                   hate
                   descend
                   on
                   all
                   our
                   Heirs
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   This
                   said
                   ,
                   within
                   her
                   anxious
                   Mind
                   she
                   weighs
                
                 
                   The
                   Means
                   of
                   cutting
                   short
                   her
                   odious
                   Days
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   to
                   
                   Sicheus's
                   Nurse
                   ,
                   she
                   briefly
                   said
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   For
                   when
                   she
                   left
                   her
                   Country
                   ,
                   hers
                   was
                   dead
                   )
                
                 
                   Go
                   Barcè
                   ,
                   call
                   my
                   Sister
                   ;
                   let
                   her
                   Care
                
                 
                   The
                   solemn
                   Rites
                   of
                   Sacrifice
                   prepare
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Sheep
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   th'
                   attoneing
                   Off'rings
                   bring
                   ;
                
                 
                   Sprinkling
                   her
                   Body
                   from
                   the
                   Crystal
                   Spring
                
                 
                   With
                   living
                   Drops
                   :
                   then
                   let
                   her
                   come
                   ,
                   and
                   thou
                
                 
                   With
                   sacred
                   Fillets
                   ,
                   bind
                   thy
                   hoary
                   Brow.
                
                 
                   Thus
                   will
                   I
                   pay
                   my
                   Vows
                   ,
                   to
                   
                     Stygian
                     Jove
                  
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   end
                   the
                   Cares
                   of
                   my
                   disastrous
                   Love.
                
                 
                   Then
                   cast
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Image
                   on
                   the
                   Fire
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   as
                   that
                   burns
                   ,
                   my
                   Passion
                   shall
                   expire
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Nurse
                   moves
                   onward
                   ,
                   with
                   officious
                   Care
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   the
                   speed
                   her
                   aged
                   Limbs
                   can
                   bear
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   furious
                   Dido
                   ,
                   with
                   dark
                   Thoughts
                   involv'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shook
                   at
                   the
                   mighty
                   Mischief
                   she
                   resolv'd
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   With
                   livid
                   Spots
                   distinguish'd
                   was
                   her
                   Face
                   ,
                
                 
                   Red
                   were
                   her
                   rowling
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   and
                   discompos'd
                   her
                   Pace
                   :
                
                 
                   Ghastly
                   she
                   gaz'd
                   ,
                   with
                   Pain
                   she
                   drew
                   her
                   Breath
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Nature
                   shiver'd
                   at
                   approaching
                   Death
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   swiftly
                   to
                   the
                   fatal
                   place
                   she
                   pass'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   mounts
                   the
                   Fun'ral
                   Pile
                   ,
                   with
                   furious
                   haste
                   .
                
                 
                   Unsheaths
                   the
                   Sword
                   the
                   Trojan
                   left
                   behind
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   Not
                   for
                   so
                   dire
                   an
                   Enterprise
                   design'd
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                   But
                   when
                   she
                   view'd
                   the
                   Garments
                   loosely
                   spred
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   once
                   he
                   wore
                   ,
                   and
                   saw
                   the
                   conscious
                   Bed
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   paus'd
                   ,
                   and
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   Sigh
                   ,
                   the
                   Robes
                   embrac'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   on
                   the
                   Couch
                   her
                   trembling
                   Body
                   cast
                   ,
                
                 
                   Repress'd
                   the
                   ready
                   Tears
                   ,
                   and
                   spoke
                   her
                   last
                   .
                
                 
                   Dear
                   Pledges
                   of
                   my
                   Love
                   ,
                   while
                   Heav'n
                   so
                   pleas'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Receive
                   a
                   Soul
                   ,
                   of
                   Mortal
                   Anguish
                   eas'd
                   :
                
                 
                   My
                   fatal
                   Course
                   is
                   finish'd
                   ;
                   and
                   I
                   go
                
                 
                   A
                   glorious
                   Name
                   ,
                   among
                   the
                   Ghosts
                   below
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   lofty
                   City
                   by
                   my
                   Hands
                   is
                   rais'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Pygmalion
                   punish'd
                   ,
                   and
                   my
                   Lord
                   appeas'd
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   cou'd
                   my
                   Fortune
                   have
                   afforded
                   more
                   ,
                
                 
                   Had
                   the
                   false
                   Trojan
                   never
                   touch'd
                   my
                   Shore
                   !
                
                 
                   Then
                   kiss'd
                   the
                   Couch
                   ;
                   and
                   must
                   I
                   die
                   ,
                   she
                   said
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   unreveng'd
                   ;
                   't
                   is
                   doubly
                   to
                   be
                   dead
                   !
                
                 
                   Yet
                   ev'n
                   this
                   Death
                   with
                   Pleasure
                   I
                   receive
                   ;
                
                 
                   On
                   any
                   Terms
                   ,
                   't
                   is
                   better
                   than
                   to
                   live
                   .
                
                 
                   These
                   Flames
                   ,
                   from
                   far
                   ,
                   may
                   the
                   false
                   Trojan
                   view
                   ;
                
                 
                   These
                   boding
                   Omens
                   his
                   base
                   flight
                   pursue
                   .
                
                 
                   She
                   said
                   ,
                   and
                   struck
                   :
                   Deep
                   enter'd
                   in
                   her
                   side
                
                 
                   The
                   piercing
                   Steel
                   ,
                   with
                   reeking
                   Purple
                   dy'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Clog'd
                   in
                   the
                   Wound
                   the
                   cruel
                   Weapon
                   stands
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   spouting
                   Blood
                   came
                   streaming
                   on
                   her
                   Hands
                   .
                
                 
                   Her
                   sad
                   Attendants
                   saw
                   the
                   deadly
                   Stroke
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   loud
                   Cries
                   the
                   sounding
                   Palace
                   shook
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Distracted
                   from
                   the
                   fatal
                   sight
                   they
                   fled
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   thro
                   the
                   Town
                   the
                   dismal
                   Rumor
                   spread
                   .
                
                 
                   First
                   from
                   the
                   frighted
                   Court
                   ,
                   the
                   Yell
                   began
                   ,
                
                 
                   Redoubled
                   thence
                   from
                   House
                   to
                   House
                   it
                   ran
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   groans
                   of
                   Men
                   ,
                   with
                   Shrieks
                   ,
                   Laments
                   ,
                   and
                   Cries
                
                 
                   Of
                   mixing
                   Women
                   ,
                   mount
                   the
                   vaulted
                   Skies
                   .
                
                 
                   Not
                   less
                   the
                   Clamour
                   ,
                   than
                   if
                   ancient
                   Tyre
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   the
                   new
                   Carthage
                   ,
                   set
                   by
                   Foes
                   on
                   Fire
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   rowling
                   Ruin
                   ,
                   with
                   their
                   lov'd
                   Abodes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Involv'd
                   the
                   blazing
                   Temples
                   of
                   their
                   Gods.
                
                 
                   Her
                   Sister
                   hears
                   ,
                   and
                   ,
                   furious
                   with
                   Despair
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   beats
                   her
                   Breast
                   ,
                   and
                   rends
                   her
                   yellow
                   Hair
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   calling
                   on
                   
                   Eliza's
                   Name
                   aloud
                   ,
                
                 
                   Runs
                   breathless
                   to
                   the
                   Place
                   ,
                   and
                   breaks
                   the
                   Crowd
                   .
                
                 
                   Was
                   all
                   that
                   Pomp
                   of
                   Woe
                   for
                   this
                   prepar'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   These
                   Fires
                   ,
                   this
                   Fun'ral
                   Pile
                   ,
                   these
                   Altars
                   rear'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Was
                   all
                   this
                   Train
                   of
                   Plots
                   contriv'd
                   ,
                   said
                   she
                   ,
                
                 
                   All
                   only
                   to
                   deceive
                   unhappy
                   me
                   ?
                
                 
                   Which
                   is
                   the
                   worst
                   ,
                   didst
                   thou
                   in
                   Death
                   pretend
                
                 
                   To
                   scorn
                   thy
                   Sister
                   ,
                   or
                   delude
                   thy
                   Friend
                   !
                
                 
                   Thy
                   summon'd
                   Sister
                   ,
                   and
                   thy
                   Friend
                   had
                   come
                   :
                
                 
                   One
                   Sword
                   had
                   serv'd
                   us
                   both
                   ,
                   one
                   common
                   Tomb.
                
                 
                   Was
                   I
                   to
                   raise
                   the
                   Pile
                   ,
                   the
                   Pow'rs
                   invoke
                   ,
                
                 
                   Not
                   to
                   be
                   present
                   at
                   the
                   fatal
                   Stroke
                   ?
                
                 
                   At
                   once
                   thou
                   hast
                   destroy'd
                   thy self
                   and
                   me
                   ;
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Town
                   ,
                   thy
                   Senate
                   ,
                   and
                   thy
                   Colony
                   !
                
                 
                   Bring
                   Water
                   ,
                   bathe
                   the
                   Wound
                   ;
                   while
                   I
                   in
                   death
                
                 
                   Lay
                   close
                   my
                   Lips
                   to
                   hers
                   ;
                   and
                   catch
                   the
                   flying
                   Breath
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   said
                   ,
                   she
                   mounts
                   the
                   Pile
                   with
                   eager
                   haste
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   her
                   Arms
                   the
                   gasping
                   Queen
                   embrac'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Her
                   Temples
                   chaf'd
                   ;
                   and
                   her
                   own
                   Garments
                   tore
                
                 
                   To
                   stanch
                   the
                   streaming
                   Blood
                   ,
                   and
                   cleanse
                   the
                   Gore
                   .
                
                 
                   Thrice
                   Dido
                   try'd
                   to
                   raise
                   her
                   drooping
                   Head
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   fainting
                   thrice
                   ,
                   fell
                   grov'ling
                   on
                   the
                   Bed.
                
                 
                 
                   Thrice
                   op'd
                   her
                   heavy
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   and
                   sought
                   the
                   Light
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   having
                   found
                   it
                   ,
                   sicken'd
                   at
                   the
                   sight
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   clos'd
                   her
                   Lids
                   at
                   last
                   ,
                   in
                   endless
                   Night
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   Juno
                   ,
                   grieving
                   that
                   she
                   shou'd
                   sustain
                
                 
                   A
                   Death
                   so
                   ling'ring
                   ,
                   and
                   so
                   full
                   of
                   Pain
                   ;
                
                 
                   Sent
                   Iris
                   down
                   ,
                   to
                   free
                   her
                   from
                   the
                   Strife
                
                 
                   Of
                   lab'ring
                   Nature
                   ,
                   and
                   dissolve
                   her
                   Life
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   since
                   she
                   dy'd
                   ,
                   not
                   doom'd
                   by
                   Heav'ns
                   Decree
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   her
                   own
                   Crime
                   ;
                   but
                   Human
                   Casualty
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   rage
                   of
                   Love
                   ,
                   that
                   plung'd
                   her
                   in
                   Despair
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Sisters
                   had
                   not
                   cut
                   the
                   topmost
                   Hair
                   ;
                
                 
                   Which
                   Proserpine
                   ,
                   and
                   they
                   can
                   only
                   know
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   made
                   her
                   sacred
                   to
                   the
                   Shades
                   below
                   .
                
                 
                   Downward
                   the
                   various
                   Goodess
                   took
                   her
                   flight
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   drew
                   a
                   thousand
                   Colours
                   from
                   the
                   Light
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   stood
                   above
                   the
                   dying
                   Lover's
                   Head
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   said
                   ,
                   I
                   thus
                   devote
                   thee
                   to
                   the
                   dead
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   Off'ring
                   to
                   the
                   Infernal
                   Gods
                   I
                   bear
                   :
                
                 
                   Thus
                   while
                   she
                   spoke
                   ,
                   she
                   cut
                   the
                   fatal
                   Hair
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   strugling
                   Soul
                   was
                   loos'd
                   ;
                   and
                   Life
                   dissolv'd
                   in
                   Air.
                   
                
              
               
            
             
               
               
               
                 The
                 Fifth
                 Book
                 of
                 the
                 Aeneis
                 .
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Argument
                   .
                
                 
                   Aeneas
                   
                     setting
                     sail
                     from
                  
                   Africk
                   ,
                   
                     is
                     driven
                     by
                     a
                     Storm
                     on
                     the
                     Coasts
                     of
                  
                   Sicily
                   :
                   
                     Where
                     he
                     is
                     hospitably
                     receiv'd
                     by
                     his
                     friend
                  
                   Acestes
                   ,
                   
                     King
                     of
                     part
                     of
                     the
                     Island
                     ,
                     and
                     born
                     of
                  
                   Trojan
                   
                     Parentage
                     .
                     He
                     applies
                     himself
                     to
                     celebrate
                     the
                     Memory
                     of
                     his
                     Father
                     with
                     Divine
                     Honours
                     :
                     And
                     accordingly
                     institutes
                     Funeral
                     Games
                     ,
                     and
                     appoints
                     Prizes
                     for
                     those
                     who
                     shou'd
                     conquer
                     in
                     them
                     .
                     While
                     the
                     Ceremonies
                     were
                     performing
                     ,
                  
                   Juno
                   sends
                   Iris
                   
                     to
                     perswade
                     the
                  
                   Trojan
                   
                     Women
                     to
                     burn
                     the
                     Ships
                     ,
                     who
                     upon
                     her
                     instigation
                     set
                     fire
                     to
                     them
                     ,
                     which
                     burnt
                     four
                     ,
                     and
                     would
                     have
                     consum'd
                     the
                     rest
                     ,
                     had
                     not
                  
                   Jupiter
                   
                     by
                     a
                     miraculous
                     Shower
                     extinguish'd
                     it
                     .
                     Upon
                     this
                  
                   Aeneas
                   
                     by
                     the
                     advice
                     of
                     one
                     of
                     his
                     Generals
                     ,
                     and
                     a
                     Vision
                     of
                     his
                     Father
                     ,
                     builds
                     a
                     City
                     for
                     the
                     Women
                     ,
                     Old
                     Men
                     ,
                     and
                     others
                     ,
                     who
                     were
                     either
                     unfit
                     for
                     War
                     ,
                     or
                     weary
                     of
                     the
                     Voyage
                     ,
                     and
                     sails
                     for
                  
                   Italy
                   :
                   Venus
                   
                     procures
                     of
                  
                   Neptune
                   
                     a
                     safe
                     Voyage
                     for
                     him
                     and
                     all
                     his
                     Men
                     ,
                     excepting
                     only
                     his
                     Pilot
                  
                   Palinurus
                   ,
                   
                     who
                     was
                     unfortunately
                     lost
                  
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     the
                     most
                     Illustrious
                     Prince
                     Charles
                     Duke
                     of
                     S
                     t
                     Albans
                     Master
                     Falconer
                     to
                     his
                     Ma
                     ty
                     .
                     and
                     Captaine
                     of
                     y
                     e
                     Hon
                     ble
                     .
                     Band
                     of
                     Gen
                     t
                     Pensioners
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     5.
                     l.
                     2.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                   MEan
                   time
                   the
                   Trojan
                   cuts
                   his
                   wat'ry
                   way
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fix'd
                   on
                   his
                   Voyage
                   ,
                   thro
                   the
                   curling
                   Sea
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   casting
                   back
                   his
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   with
                   dire
                   Amaze
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sees
                   on
                   the
                   Punic
                   Shore
                   the
                   mounting
                   Blaze
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Cause
                   unknown
                   ;
                   yet
                   his
                   presaging
                   Mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Fate
                   of
                   Dido
                   from
                   the
                   Fire
                   divin'd
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   knew
                   the
                   stormy
                   Souls
                   of
                   Woman-kind
                   :
                
                 
                   What
                   secret
                   Springs
                   their
                   eager
                   Passions
                   move
                   ,
                
                 
                   How
                   capable
                   of
                   Death
                   for
                   injur'd
                   Love.
                
                 
                   Dire
                   Auguries
                   from
                   hence
                   the
                   Trojans
                   draw
                   ;
                
                 
                   'Till
                   neither
                   Fires
                   ,
                   nor
                   shining
                   Shores
                   they
                   saw
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   Seas
                   and
                   Skies
                   ,
                   their
                   Prospect
                   only
                   bound
                   ;
                
                 
                   An
                   empty
                   space
                   above
                   ,
                   a
                   floating
                   Field
                   around
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   soon
                   the
                   Heav'ns
                   with
                   shadows
                   were
                   o'respread
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   swelling
                   Cloud
                   hung
                   hov'ring
                   o're
                   their
                   Head
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Livid
                   it
                   look'd
                   ,
                   (
                   the
                   threatning
                   of
                   a
                   Storm
                   ;
                   )
                
                 
                   Then
                   Night
                   and
                   Horror
                   Ocean's
                   Face
                   deform
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Pilot
                   ,
                   Palinurus
                   ,
                   cry'd
                   aloud
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   Gusts
                   of
                   Weather
                   from
                   that
                   gath'ring
                   Cloud
                
                 
                   My
                   Thoughts
                   presage
                   ;
                   e're
                   yet
                   the
                   Tempest
                   roars
                   ,
                
                 
                   Stand
                   to
                   your
                   Tackle
                   ,
                   Mates
                   ,
                   and
                   stretch
                   your
                   Oars
                   ;
                
                 
                   Contract
                   your
                   swelling
                   Sails
                   ,
                   and
                   luff
                   to
                   Wind
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   frighted
                   Crew
                   perform
                   the
                   Task
                   assign'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   to
                   his
                   fearless
                   Chief
                   ,
                   not
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   said
                   he
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tho
                   Jove
                   himself
                   shou'd
                   promise
                   Italy
                   ,
                
                 
                   Can
                   stem
                   the
                   Torrent
                   of
                   this
                   raging
                   Sea.
                
                 
                   Mark
                   how
                   the
                   shifting
                   Winds
                   from
                   West
                   arise
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   what
                   collected
                   Night
                   involves
                   the
                   Skies
                   !
                
                 
                   Nor
                   can
                   our
                   shaken
                   Vessels
                   live
                   at
                   Sea
                   ,
                
                 
                   Much
                   less
                   against
                   the
                   Tempest
                   force
                   their
                   way
                   ;
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   Fate
                   diverts
                   our
                   Course
                   ;
                   and
                   Fate
                   we
                   must
                   obey
                   .
                
                 
                   Not
                   far
                   from
                   hence
                   ,
                   if
                   I
                   observ'd
                   aright
                
                 
                   The
                   southing
                   of
                   the
                   Stars
                   ,
                   and
                   Polar
                   Light
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sicilia
                   lies
                   ;
                   whose
                   hospitable
                   Shores
                
                 
                   In
                   safety
                   we
                   may
                   reach
                   with
                   strugling
                   Oars
                   .
                
                 
                   Aeneas
                   then
                   reply'd
                   ,
                   too
                   sure
                   I
                   find
                   ,
                
                 
                   We
                   strive
                   in
                   vain
                   against
                   the
                   Seas
                   ,
                   and
                   Wind
                   :
                
                 
                   Now
                   shift
                   your
                   Sails
                   :
                   What
                   place
                   can
                   please
                   me
                   more
                
                 
                   Than
                   what
                   you
                   promise
                   ,
                   the
                   Sicilian
                   Shore
                   ;
                
                 
                   Whose
                   hallow'd
                   Earth
                   Anchises
                   Bones
                   contains
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   where
                   a
                   Prince
                   of
                   Trojan
                   Lineage
                   reigns
                   ?
                
                 
                   The
                   Course
                   resolv'd
                   ,
                   before
                   the
                   Western
                   Wind
                
                 
                   They
                   scud
                   amain
                   ;
                   and
                   make
                   the
                   Port
                   assign'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Mean
                   time
                   Acestes
                   ,
                   from
                   a
                   lofty
                   Stand
                   ,
                
                 
                   Beheld
                   the
                   Fleet
                   descending
                   on
                   the
                   Land
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   not
                   unmindful
                   of
                   his
                   ancient
                   Race
                   ,
                
                 
                   Down
                   from
                   the
                   Cliff
                   he
                   ran
                   with
                   eager
                   Pace
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   held
                   the
                   Heroe
                   in
                   a
                   strict
                   Embrace
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Of
                   a
                   rough
                   Lybian
                   Bear
                   the
                   Spoils
                   he
                   wore
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   either
                   Hand
                   a
                   pointed
                   Jav'lin
                   bore
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   Mother
                   was
                   a
                   Dame
                   of
                   Dardan
                   Blood
                   ;
                
                 
                   His
                   Sire
                   Crinisus
                   ,
                   a
                   Sicilian
                   Flood
                   ;
                
                 
                   He
                   welcomes
                   his
                   returning
                   Friends
                   ashore
                
                 
                   With
                   plenteous
                   Country
                   Cates
                   ;
                   and
                   homely
                   Store
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Now
                   ,
                   when
                   the
                   following
                   Morn
                   had
                   chas'd
                   away
                
                 
                   The
                   flying
                   Stars
                   ,
                   and
                   light
                   restor'd
                   the
                   Day
                   ,
                
                 
                   Aeneas
                   call'd
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Troops
                   around
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   thus
                   bespoke
                   them
                   from
                   a
                   rising
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                   Off-spring
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   Divine
                   Dardanian
                   Race
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Sun
                   revolving
                   thro'
                   th'
                   Etherial
                   Space
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   shining
                   Circle
                   of
                   the
                   Year
                   has
                   fill'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Since
                   first
                   this
                   Isle
                   my
                   Father's
                   Ashes
                   held
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   the
                   rising
                   Day
                   renews
                   the
                   Year
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   A
                   Day
                   for
                   ever
                   sad
                   ,
                   for
                   ever
                   dear
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                   This
                   wou'd
                   I
                   celebrate
                   with
                   Annual
                   Games
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Gifts
                   on
                   Altars
                   pil'd
                   ,
                   and
                   holy
                   Flames
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tho
                   banish'd
                   to
                   
                   Getulia's
                   barren
                   Sands
                   ,
                
                 
                   Caught
                   on
                   the
                   Grecian
                   Seas
                   ,
                   or
                   hostile
                   Lands
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   since
                   this
                   happy
                   Storm
                   our
                   Fleet
                   has
                   driv'n
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   Not
                   ,
                   as
                   I
                   deem
                   ,
                   without
                   the
                   Will
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                   Upon
                   these
                   friendly
                   Shores
                   ,
                   and
                   flow'ry
                   Plains
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   hide
                   Anchises
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   blest
                   Remains
                   ;
                
                 
                   Let
                   us
                   with
                   Joy
                   perform
                   his
                   Honours
                   due
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   pray
                   for
                   prosp'rous
                   Winds
                   ,
                   our
                   Voyage
                   to
                   renew
                   .
                
                 
                   Pray
                   ,
                   that
                   in
                   Towns
                   ,
                   and
                   Temples
                   of
                   our
                   own
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Name
                   of
                   great
                   Anchises
                   may
                   be
                   known
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   yearly
                   Games
                   may
                   spread
                   the
                   Gods
                   renown
                   .
                
                 
                   Our
                   Sports
                   ,
                   Acestes
                   of
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Race
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   royal
                   Gifts
                   ,
                   ordain'd
                   ,
                   is
                   pleas'd
                   to
                   grace
                   :
                
                 
                   Two
                   Steers
                   on
                   ev'ry
                   Ship
                   the
                   King
                   bestows
                   ;
                
                 
                   His
                   Gods
                   and
                   ours
                   ,
                   shall
                   share
                   your
                   equal
                   Vows
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Besides
                   ,
                   if
                   nine
                   days
                   hence
                   ,
                   the
                   rosy
                   Morn
                
                 
                   Shall
                   with
                   unclouded
                   Light
                   the
                   Skies
                   adorn
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   Day
                   with
                   solemn
                   Sports
                   I
                   mean
                   to
                   grace
                   ;
                
                 
                   Light
                   Gallies
                   on
                   the
                   Seas
                   ,
                   shall
                   run
                   a
                   wat'ry
                   Race
                   .
                
                 
                   Some
                   shall
                   in
                   Swiftness
                   for
                   the
                   Goal
                   contend
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   others
                   try
                   the
                   twanging
                   Bow
                   to
                   bend
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   strong
                   with
                   Iron
                   Gauntlets
                   arm'd
                   shall
                   stand
                   ,
                
                 
                   Oppos'd
                   in
                   Combat
                   on
                   the
                   yellow
                   Sand.
                
                 
                   Let
                   all
                   be
                   present
                   at
                   the
                   Games
                   prepar'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   joyful
                   Victors
                   wait
                   the
                   Just
                   Reward
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   now
                   assist
                   the
                   Rites
                   ,
                   with
                   Garlands
                   crown'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   He
                   said
                   ,
                   and
                   first
                   his
                   Brows
                   with
                   Myrtle
                   bound
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   Helymus
                   ,
                   by
                   his
                   Example
                   led
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   old
                   Acestes
                   ,
                   each
                   adorn'd
                   his
                   Head
                   ;
                
                 
                   Thus
                   ,
                   young
                   Ascanius
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   sprightly
                   Grace
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Temples
                   ty'd
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Race
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Aeneas
                   then
                   advanc'd
                   amidst
                   the
                   Train
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   thousands
                   follow'd
                   thro'
                   the
                   fruitful
                   Plain
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   great
                   Anchises
                   Tomb
                   :
                   Which
                   when
                   he
                   found
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   pour'd
                   to
                   Bacchus
                   ,
                   on
                   the
                   hallow'd
                   Ground
                   ,
                
                 
                   Two
                   Bowls
                   of
                   sparkling
                   Wine
                   ,
                   of
                   Milk
                   two
                   more
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   two
                   from
                   offer'd
                   Bulls
                   of
                   Purple
                   Gore
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   Roses
                   then
                   the
                   Sepulchre
                   he
                   strow'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   thus
                   ,
                   his
                   Father's
                   Ghost
                   bespoke
                   aloud
                   .
                
                 
                   Hail
                   ,
                   O
                   ye
                   Holy
                   Manes
                   ;
                   hail
                   again
                
                 
                   Paternal
                   Ashes
                   ,
                   now
                   review'd
                   in
                   vain
                   !
                
                 
                   The
                   Gods
                   permitted
                   not
                   ,
                   that
                   you
                   ,
                   with
                   me
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shou'd
                   reach
                   the
                   promis'd
                   Shores
                   of
                   Italy
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   
                   Tiber's
                   Flood
                   ,
                   what
                   Flood
                   so
                   e're
                   it
                   be
                   .
                
                 
                   Scarce
                   had
                   he
                   finish'd
                   ,
                   when
                   ,
                   with
                   speckled
                   Pride
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Serpent
                   from
                   the
                   Tomb
                   began
                   to
                   glide
                   ;
                
                 
                   His
                   hugy
                   Bulk
                   on
                   sev'n
                   high
                   Volumes
                   roll'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Blue
                   was
                   his
                   breadth
                   of
                   Back
                   ,
                   but
                   streak'd
                   with
                   scaly
                   Gold
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Thus
                   riding
                   on
                   his
                   Curls
                   ,
                   he
                   seem'd
                   to
                   pass
                
                 
                   A
                   rowling
                   Fire
                   along
                   ;
                   and
                   singe
                   the
                   Grass
                   .
                
                 
                   More
                   various
                   Colours
                   thro'
                   his
                   Body
                   run
                   ,
                
                 
                   Than
                   Iris
                   when
                   her
                   Bow
                   imbibes
                   the
                   Sun
                   ;
                
                 
                   Betwixt
                   the
                   rising
                   Altars
                   ,
                   and
                   around
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   sacred
                   Monster
                   shot
                   along
                   the
                   Ground
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   harmless
                   play
                   amidst
                   the
                   Bowls
                   he
                   pass'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   his
                   lolling
                   Tongue
                   assay'd
                   the
                   Taste
                   :
                
                 
                   Thus
                   fed
                   with
                   Holy
                   Food
                   ,
                   the
                   wond'rous
                   Guest
                
                 
                   Within
                   the
                   hollow
                   Tomb
                   retir'd
                   to
                   rest
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Pious
                   Prince
                   ,
                   surpri●'d
                   at
                   what
                   he
                   view'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Fun'ral
                   Honours
                   with
                   more
                   Zeal
                   renew'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Doubtful
                   if
                   this
                   the
                   Place's
                   Genius
                   were
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   Guardian
                   of
                   his
                   Father's
                   Sepulchre
                   .
                
                 
                   Five
                   Sheep
                   ,
                   according
                   to
                   the
                   Rites
                   ,
                   he
                   slew
                   ;
                
                 
                   As
                   many
                   Swine
                   ,
                   and
                   Steers
                   of
                   sable
                   Hue
                   ;
                
                 
                   New
                   gen'rous
                   Wine
                   he
                   from
                   the
                   Goblets
                   pour'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   call'd
                   his
                   Fathers
                   Ghost
                   ,
                   from
                   Hell
                   restor'd
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   glad
                   Attendants
                   in
                   long
                   Order
                   come
                   ,
                
                 
                   Off'ring
                   their
                   Gifts
                   at
                   great
                   Anchises
                   Tomb
                   :
                
                 
                   Some
                   add
                   more
                   Oxen
                   ,
                   some
                   divide
                   the
                   Spoil
                   ,
                
                 
                   Some
                   place
                   the
                   Chargers
                   on
                   the
                   grassy
                   Soil
                   ;
                
                 
                   Some
                   blow
                   the
                   Fires
                   and
                   offer'd
                   Entrails
                   broil
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Now
                   came
                   the
                   Day
                   desir'd
                   ;
                   the
                   Skies
                   were
                   bright
                
                 
                   With
                   rosy
                   Lustre
                   of
                   the
                   rising
                   Light
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   bord'ring
                   People
                   ,
                   rowz'd
                   by
                   sounding
                   Fame
                
                 
                   Of
                   Trojan
                   Feasts
                   ,
                   and
                   great
                   Acestes
                   Name
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   crowded
                   Shore
                   with
                   Acclamations
                   fill
                   ,
                
                 
                   Part
                   to
                   behold
                   ,
                   and
                   part
                   to
                   prove
                   their
                   Skill
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   first
                   the
                   Gifts
                   in
                   Publick
                   view
                   they
                   place
                   ,
                
                 
                   Green
                   Lawrel
                   Wreaths
                   ,
                   and
                   Palm
                   ,
                   (
                   the
                   Victors
                   grace
                   :
                   )
                
                 
                   Within
                   the
                   Circle
                   ,
                   Arms
                   and
                   Tripods
                   lye
                   ;
                
                 
                   Ingotts
                   of
                   Gold
                   ,
                   and
                   Silver
                   ,
                   heap'd
                   on
                   high
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Vests
                   embroider'd
                   of
                   the
                   Tyrian
                   dye
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Trumpet
                   's
                   clangor
                   then
                   the
                   Feast
                   proclaims
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   prepare
                   for
                   their
                   appointed
                   Games
                   .
                
                 
                   Four
                   Gallies
                   first
                   ,
                   which
                   equal
                   Rowers
                   bear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Advancing
                   ,
                   in
                   the
                   wat'ry
                   Lists
                   appear
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   speedy
                   Dolphin
                   ,
                   that
                   out-strips
                   the
                   Wind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Bore
                   Mnestheus
                   ,
                   Author
                   of
                   the
                   Memmian
                   kind
                   :
                
                 
                   Gyas
                   ,
                   the
                   vast
                   
                   Chymaera's
                   Bulk
                   commands
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   rising
                   like
                   a
                   tow'ring
                   City
                   stands
                   :
                
                 
                   Three
                   Trojans
                   tug
                   at
                   ev'ry
                   lab'ring
                   Oar
                   ;
                
                 
                   Three
                   Banks
                   in
                   three
                   degrees
                   the
                   Sailors
                   bore
                   ;
                
                 
                   Beneath
                   their
                   sturdy
                   Stroaks
                   the
                   Billows
                   roar
                   .
                
                 
                   Sergesthus
                   ,
                   who
                   began
                   the
                   Sergian
                   Race
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   the
                   great
                   Centaur
                   took
                   the
                   leading
                   Place
                   :
                
                 
                   Cloanthus
                   on
                   the
                   Sea-green
                   Scylla
                   stood
                   ;
                
                 
                   From
                   whom
                   Cluentius
                   draws
                   his
                   Trojan
                   Blood.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Far
                   in
                   the
                   Sea
                   ,
                   against
                   the
                   foaming
                   Shoar
                   ,
                
                 
                   There
                   stands
                   a
                   Rock
                   ;
                   the
                   raging
                   Billows
                   roar
                
                 
                   Above
                   his
                   Head
                   in
                   Storms
                   ;
                   but
                   when
                   't
                   is
                   clear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Uncurl
                   their
                   ridgy
                   Backs
                   ,
                   and
                   at
                   his
                   Foot
                   appear
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   Peace
                   below
                   the
                   gentle
                   Waters
                   run
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Cormorants
                   above
                   ,
                   lye
                   basking
                   in
                   the
                   Sun.
                
                 
                   On
                   this
                   the
                   Heroe
                   fix'd
                   an
                   Oak
                   in
                   sight
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   mark
                   to
                   guide
                   the
                   Mariners
                   aright
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   bear
                   with
                   this
                   ,
                   the
                   Seamen
                   stretch
                   their
                   Oars
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   round
                   the
                   Rock
                   they
                   steer
                   ,
                   and
                   seek
                   the
                   former
                   Shoars
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Lots
                   decide
                   their
                   place
                   ;
                   above
                   the
                   rest
                   ,
                
                 
                   Each
                   Leader
                   shining
                   in
                   his
                   Tyrian
                   Vest
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   common
                   Crew
                   ,
                   with
                   Wreaths
                   of
                   Poplar
                   Boughs
                   .
                
                 
                   Their
                   Temples
                   crown
                   ,
                   and
                   shade
                   their
                   sweaty
                   Brows
                   .
                
                 
                   Besmear'd
                   with
                   Oil
                   ,
                   their
                   naked
                   Shoulders
                   shine
                   ;
                
                 
                   All
                   take
                   their
                   Seats
                   ,
                   and
                   wait
                   the
                   sounding
                   sign
                   .
                
                 
                   They
                   gripe
                   their
                   Oars
                   ,
                   and
                   ev'ry
                   panting
                   Breast
                
                 
                   Is
                   rais'd
                   by
                   turns
                   with
                   Hope
                   ,
                   by
                   turns
                   with
                   Fear
                   depress'd
                   .
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     the
                     Right
                     Hon
                     ble
                     :
                     Arthur
                     Herbert
                     Earle
                     of
                     Torrington
                     &
                     Baron
                     of
                     Torbay
                  
                   
                     AE
                     5
                     l
                     :
                     160
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                 
                   The
                   clangor
                   of
                   the
                   Trumpet
                   gives
                   the
                   Sign
                   ;
                
                 
                   At
                   once
                   they
                   start
                   ,
                   advancing
                   in
                   a
                   Line
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   shouts
                   the
                   Sailors
                   rend
                   the
                   starry
                   Skys
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lash'd
                   with
                   their
                   Oars
                   ,
                   the
                   smoaky
                   Billows
                   rise
                   ;
                
                 
                   Sparkles
                   the
                   briny
                   Main
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   vex'd
                   Ocean
                   fries
                   .
                
                 
                   Exact
                   in
                   time
                   ,
                   with
                   equal
                   Strokes
                   they
                   row
                   ;
                
                 
                   At
                   once
                   the
                   brushing
                   Oars
                   ,
                   and
                   brazen
                   prow
                
                 
                   Dash
                   up
                   the
                   sandy
                   Waves
                   ,
                   and
                   ope
                   the
                   Depths
                   below
                   .
                
                 
                   Not
                   fiery
                   Coursers
                   ,
                   in
                   a
                   Chariot
                   Race
                   ,
                
                 
                   Invade
                   the
                   Field
                   with
                   half
                   so
                   swift
                   a
                   Pace
                   .
                
                 
                   Not
                   the
                   fierce
                   Driver
                   with
                   more
                   Fury
                   lends
                
                 
                   The
                   sounding
                   Lash
                   ;
                   and
                   ,
                   e're
                   the
                   Stroke
                   descends
                   ,
                
                 
                   Low
                   to
                   the
                   Wheels
                   his
                   pliant
                   Body
                   bends
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   partial
                   Crowd
                   their
                   Hopes
                   and
                   Fears
                   divide
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   aid
                   ,
                   with
                   eager
                   shouts
                   ,
                   the
                   favour'd
                   Side
                   .
                
                 
                   Cries
                   ,
                   Murmurs
                   ,
                   Clamours
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   mixing
                   Sound
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   Woods
                   to
                   Woods
                   ,
                   from
                   Hills
                   to
                   Hills
                   rebound
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Amidst
                   the
                   loud
                   Applauses
                   of
                   the
                   Shore
                   ,
                
                 
                   Gyas
                   outstrip'd
                   the
                   rest
                   ,
                   and
                   sprung
                   before
                   ;
                
                 
                   Cloanthus
                   ,
                   better
                   mann'd
                   ,
                   pursu'd
                   him
                   fast
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   his
                   o're-masted
                   Gally
                   check'd
                   his
                   Haste
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Centaur
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Dolphin
                   ,
                   brush
                   the
                   brine
                
                 
                   With
                   equal
                   Oars
                   ,
                   advancing
                   in
                   a
                   Line
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   the
                   mighty
                   Centaur
                   seems
                   to
                   lead
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   the
                   speedy
                   Dolphin
                   gets
                   a
                   head
                   :
                
                 
                   Now
                   Board
                   to
                   Board
                   the
                   rival
                   Vessels
                   row
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Billows
                   lave
                   the
                   Skies
                   ,
                   and
                   Ocean
                   groans
                   below
                   .
                
                 
                   They
                   reach'd
                   the
                   Mark
                   ;
                   proud
                   Gyas
                   and
                   his
                   Train
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   Triumph
                   rode
                   the
                   Victors
                   of
                   the
                   Main
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   steering
                   round
                   ,
                   he
                   charg'd
                   his
                   Pilot
                   stand
                
                 
                   More
                   close
                   to
                   Shore
                   ,
                   and
                   skim
                   along
                   the
                   Sand.
                
                 
                   Let
                   others
                   bear
                   to
                   Sea.
                   Menaetes
                   heard
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   secret
                   shelves
                   too
                   cautiously
                   he
                   fear'd
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   fearing
                   ,
                   sought
                   the
                   Deep
                   ;
                   and
                   still
                   aloof
                   he
                   steer'd
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   With
                   louder
                   Cries
                   the
                   Captain
                   call'd
                   again
                   ;
                
                 
                   Bear
                   to
                   the
                   rocky
                   Shore
                   ,
                   and
                   shun
                   the
                   Main
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   spoke
                   ,
                   and
                   speaking
                   at
                   his
                   stern
                   he
                   saw
                
                 
                   The
                   bold
                   Cloanthus
                   near
                   the
                   Shelvings
                   draw
                   ;
                
                 
                   Betwixt
                   the
                   mark
                   and
                   him
                   the
                   Scylla
                   stood
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   a
                   closer
                   Compass
                   plow'd
                   the
                   Flood
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   pass'd
                   the
                   Mark
                   ;
                   and
                   wheeling
                   got
                   before
                   ;
                
                 
                   Gyas
                   blasphem'd
                   the
                   Gods
                   ,
                   devoutly
                   swore
                   ,
                
                 
                   Cry'd
                   out
                   for
                   Anger
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Hair
                   he
                   tore
                   .
                
                 
                   Mindless
                   of
                   others
                   Lives
                   ,
                   (
                   so
                   high
                   was
                   grown
                
                 
                   His
                   rising
                   Rage
                   ,
                   )
                   and
                   careless
                   of
                   his
                   own
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   trembling
                   Dotard
                   to
                   the
                   Deck
                   he
                   drew
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   hoisted
                   up
                   ,
                   and
                   over-board
                   he
                   threw
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   done
                   he
                   seiz'd
                   the
                   Helm
                   ;
                   his
                   Fellows
                   cheer'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Turn'd
                   short
                   upon
                   the
                   Shelfs
                   ,
                   and
                   madly
                   steer'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Hardly
                   his
                   Head
                   ,
                   the
                   plunging
                   Pilot
                   rears
                   ,
                
                 
                   Clog'd
                   with
                   his
                   Cloaths
                   ,
                   and
                   cumber'd
                   with
                   his
                   Years
                   :
                
                 
                   Now
                   dropping
                   wet
                   ,
                   he
                   climbs
                   the
                   Cliff
                   with
                   Pain
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Crowd
                   that
                   saw
                   him
                   fall
                   ,
                   and
                   float
                   again
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shout
                   from
                   the
                   distant
                   Shore
                   ;
                   and
                   loudly
                   laught
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   see
                   his
                   heaving
                   Breast
                   disgorge
                   the
                   briny
                   Draught
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   following
                   Centaur
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Dolphin's
                   Crew
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   vanish'd
                   hopes
                   of
                   Victory
                   renew
                   :
                
                 
                   While
                   Gyas
                   lags
                   ,
                   they
                   kindle
                   in
                   the
                   Race
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   reach
                   the
                   Mark
                   ;
                   Sergesthus
                   takes
                   the
                   place
                   :
                
                 
                   Mnestheus
                   pursues
                   ;
                   and
                   while
                   around
                   they
                   wind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Comes
                   up
                   ,
                   not
                   half
                   his
                   Gally's
                   length
                   behind
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   on
                   the
                   Deck
                   amidst
                   his
                   Mates
                   appear'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   thus
                   their
                   drooping
                   Courages
                   he
                   cheer'd
                   .
                
                 
                   My
                   Friends
                   ,
                   and
                   
                   Hector's
                   Followers
                   heretofore
                   ;
                
                 
                   Exert
                   your
                   Vigour
                   ,
                   tug
                   the
                   lab'ring
                   Oar
                   ;
                
                 
                   Stretch
                   to
                   your
                   Stroaks
                   ,
                   my
                   still
                   unconquer'd
                   Crew
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whom
                   from
                   the
                   flaming
                   Walls
                   of
                   Troy
                   I
                   drew
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   In
                   this
                   ,
                   our
                   common
                   Int'rest
                   ,
                   let
                   me
                   find
                
                 
                   That
                   strength
                   of
                   Hand
                   ,
                   that
                   courage
                   of
                   the
                   Mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   when
                   you
                   stem'd
                   the
                   strong
                   Malaean
                   Flood
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   o're
                   the
                   Syrtes
                   broken
                   Billows
                   row'd
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   seek
                   not
                   now
                   the
                   foremost
                   Palm
                   to
                   gain
                   ;
                
                 
                   Tho
                   yet
                   —
                   But
                   ah
                   ,
                   that
                   haughty
                   Wish
                   is
                   vain
                   !
                
                 
                   Let
                   those
                   enjoy
                   it
                   whom
                   the
                   Gods
                   ordain
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   to
                   be
                   last
                   ,
                   the
                   Lags
                   of
                   all
                   the
                   Race
                   ,
                
                 
                   Redeem
                   your selves
                   and
                   me
                   from
                   that
                   Disgrace
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   one
                   and
                   all
                   ,
                   they
                   tug
                   amain
                   ;
                   they
                   row
                
                 
                   At
                   the
                   full
                   stretch
                   ,
                   and
                   shake
                   the
                   Brazen
                   Prow
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Sea
                   beneath
                   'em
                   sinks
                   ;
                   their
                   lab'ring
                   sides
                
                 
                   Are
                   swell'd
                   ,
                   and
                   Sweat
                   runs
                   gutt'ring
                   down
                   in
                   Tides
                   .
                
                 
                   Chance
                   aids
                   their
                   daring
                   with
                   unhop'd
                   Success
                   ;
                
                 
                   Sergesthus
                   ,
                   eager
                   with
                   his
                   Beak
                   ,
                   to
                   press
                
                 
                   Betwixt
                   the
                   Rival
                   Gally
                   and
                   the
                   Rock
                   ;
                
                 
                   Shuts
                   up
                   th'
                   unwieldy
                   Centaur
                   in
                   the
                   Lock
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Vessel
                   struck
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   the
                   dreadful
                   shock
                
                 
                   Her
                   Oars
                   she
                   shiver'd
                   ,
                   and
                   her
                   Head
                   she
                   broke
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   trembling
                   Rowers
                   from
                   their
                   Banks
                   arise
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   anxious
                   for
                   themselves
                   renounce
                   the
                   Prize
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   Iron
                   Poles
                   they
                   heave
                   her
                   off
                   the
                   Shores
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   gather
                   ,
                   from
                   the
                   Sea
                   ,
                   their
                   floating
                   Oars
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Crew
                   of
                   Mnestheus
                   ,
                   with
                   elated
                   Minds
                   ,
                
                 
                   Urge
                   their
                   Success
                   ,
                   and
                   call
                   the
                   willing
                   Winds
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   ply
                   their
                   Oars
                   ,
                   and
                   cut
                   their
                   liquid
                   way
                   ;
                
                 
                   In
                   larger
                   Compass
                   on
                   the
                   roomy
                   Sea.
                
                 
                   As
                   when
                   the
                   Dove
                   her
                   Rocky
                   Hold
                   forsakes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Rowz'd
                   in
                   a
                   Fright
                   ,
                   her
                   sounding
                   Wings
                   she
                   shakes
                
                 
                   The
                   Cavern
                   rings
                   with
                   clatt'ring
                   ;
                   out
                   she
                   flies
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   leaves
                   her
                   Callow
                   Care
                   ,
                   and
                   cleaves
                   the
                   Skies
                   ;
                
                 
                   At
                   first
                   she
                   flutters
                   ;
                   but
                   at
                   length
                   she
                   springs
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   smoother
                   flight
                   ,
                   and
                   shoots
                   upon
                   her
                   Wings
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   So
                   Mnestheus
                   in
                   the
                   Dolphin
                   cuts
                   the
                   Sea
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   flying
                   with
                   a
                   force
                   ,
                   that
                   force
                   assists
                   his
                   Way
                   .
                
                 
                   Sergesthus
                   in
                   the
                   Centaur
                   soon
                   he
                   pass'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Wedg'd
                   in
                   the
                   Rocky
                   Sholes
                   ,
                   and
                   sticking
                   fast
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   vain
                   the
                   Victor
                   he
                   with
                   Cries
                   implores
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   practices
                   to
                   row
                   with
                   shatter'd
                   Oars
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   Mnestheus
                   bears
                   with
                   Gyas
                   ,
                   and
                   out-flies
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Ship
                   without
                   a
                   Pilot
                   yields
                   the
                   Prize
                   .
                
                 
                   Unvanquish'd
                   Scylla
                   now
                   alone
                   remains
                   ;
                
                 
                   Her
                   he
                   pursues
                   ;
                   and
                   all
                   his
                   vigour
                   strains
                   .
                
                 
                   Shouts
                   from
                   the
                   fav'ring
                   Multitude
                   arise
                   ,
                
                 
                   Applauding
                   Echo
                   to
                   the
                   Shouts
                   replies
                   ;
                
                 
                   Shouts
                   ,
                   Wishes
                   ,
                   and
                   Applause
                   run
                   ratling
                   through
                   the
                   Skies
                   .
                
                 
                   These
                   Clamours
                   with
                   disdain
                   the
                   Scylla
                   heard
                   ;
                
                 
                   Much
                   grudg'd
                   the
                   Praise
                   ,
                   but
                   more
                   the
                   rob'd
                   Reward
                   :
                
                 
                   Resolv'd
                   to
                   hold
                   their
                   own
                   ,
                   they
                   mend
                   their
                   pace
                   ;
                
                 
                   All
                   obstinate
                   to
                   dye
                   ,
                   or
                   gain
                   the
                   Race
                   .
                
                 
                   Rais'd
                   with
                   Success
                   ,
                   the
                   Dolphin
                   swistly
                   ran
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   For
                   they
                   can
                   Conquer
                   who
                   believe
                   they
                   can
                   :
                   )
                
                 
                   Both
                   urge
                   their
                   Oars
                   ,
                   and
                   Fortune
                   both
                   supplies
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   both
                   ,
                   perhaps
                   had
                   shar'd
                   an
                   equal
                   Prize
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   to
                   the
                   Seas
                   Cloanthus
                   holds
                   his
                   Hands
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Succour
                   from
                   the
                   Watry
                   Pow'rs
                   Demands
                   :
                
                 
                   Gods
                   of
                   the
                   liquid
                   Realms
                   ,
                   on
                   which
                   I
                   row
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   giv'n
                   by
                   you
                   ,
                   the
                   Lawrel
                   bind
                   my
                   Brow
                   ,
                
                 
                   Assist
                   to
                   make
                   me
                   guilty
                   of
                   my
                   Vow
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   Snow-white
                   Bull
                   shall
                   on
                   your
                   Shore
                   be
                   slain
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   offer'd
                   Entrails
                   cast
                   into
                   the
                   Main
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   ruddy
                   Wine
                   from
                   Golden
                   Goblets
                   thrown
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   grateful
                   Gift
                   and
                   my
                   Return
                   shall
                   own
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Quire
                   of
                   Nymphs
                   ,
                   and
                   Phorcus
                   from
                   below
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Virgin
                   Panopea
                   ,
                   heard
                   his
                   Vow
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   old
                   Portunus
                   ,
                   with
                   his
                   breadth
                   of
                   Hand
                   ,
                
                 
                   Push'd
                   on
                   ,
                   and
                   sped
                   the
                   Gally
                   to
                   the
                   Land.
                
                 
                 
                   Swift
                   as
                   a
                   Shaft
                   ,
                   or
                   winged
                   Wind
                   ,
                   she
                   flies
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   darting
                   to
                   the
                   Port
                   ,
                   obtains
                   the
                   Prize
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Herald
                   summons
                   all
                   ,
                   and
                   then
                   proclaims
                
                 
                   Cloanthus
                   Conqu'ror
                   of
                   the
                   Naval
                   Games
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Prince
                   with
                   Lawrel
                   crowns
                   the
                   Victor's
                   Head
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   three
                   fat
                   Steers
                   are
                   to
                   his
                   Vessel
                   led
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Ships
                   Reward
                   :
                   with
                   gen'rous
                   Wine
                   beside
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Sums
                   of
                   Silver
                   ,
                   which
                   the
                   Crew
                   divide
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Leaders
                   are
                   distinguish'd
                   from
                   the
                   rest
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Victor
                   honour'd
                   with
                   a
                   nobler
                   Vest
                   :
                
                 
                   Where
                   Gold
                   and
                   Purple
                   strive
                   in
                   equal
                   Rows
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Needle-work
                   its
                   happy
                   Cost
                   bestows
                   .
                
                 
                   There
                   ,
                   Ganymede
                   is
                   wrought
                   with
                   living
                   Art
                   ,
                
                 
                   Chasing
                   thro'
                   
                   Ida's
                   Groves
                   the
                   trembling
                   Hart
                   :
                
                 
                   Breathless
                   he
                   seems
                   ,
                   yet
                   eager
                   to
                   pursue
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   from
                   aloft
                   ,
                   descends
                   in
                   open
                   view
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Bird
                   of
                   Jove
                   ;
                   and
                   sowsing
                   on
                   his
                   Prey
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   crooked
                   Tallons
                   bears
                   the
                   Boy
                   away
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   vain
                   ,
                   with
                   lifted
                   Hands
                   ,
                   and
                   gazing
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Guards
                   behold
                   him
                   soaring
                   thro'
                   the
                   Skies
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Dogs
                   pursue
                   his
                   Flight
                   ,
                   with
                   imitated
                   Cries
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Mnestheus
                   the
                   second
                   Victor
                   was
                   declar'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   summon'd
                   there
                   ,
                   the
                   second
                   Prize
                   he
                   shar'd
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   Coat
                   of
                   Mail
                   ,
                   which
                   brave
                   Demoleus
                   bore
                   ;
                
                 
                   More
                   brave
                   Aeneas
                   from
                   his
                   Shoulders
                   tore
                   ;
                
                 
                   In
                   single
                   Combat
                   on
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Shore
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   was
                   ordain'd
                   for
                   Mnestheus
                   to
                   possess
                   ;
                
                 
                   In
                   War
                   for
                   his
                   Defence
                   ;
                   for
                   Ornament
                   in
                   Peace
                   .
                
                 
                   Rich
                   was
                   the
                   Gift
                   ,
                   and
                   glorious
                   to
                   behold
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   yet
                   so
                   pond'rous
                   with
                   its
                   Plates
                   of
                   Gold
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   scarce
                   two
                   Servants
                   cou'd
                   the
                   Weight
                   sustain
                   ;
                
                 
                   Yet
                   ,
                   loaded
                   thus
                   ,
                   Demoleus
                   o're
                   the
                   Plain
                
                 
                   Pursu'd
                   ,
                   and
                   lightly
                   seiz'd
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Train
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Third
                   succeeding
                   to
                   the
                   last
                   Reward
                   ,
                
                 
                   Two
                   goodly
                   Bowls
                   of
                   Massy
                   Silver
                   shar'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   Figures
                   prominent
                   ,
                   and
                   richly
                   wrought
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   two
                   Brass
                   Caldrons
                   from
                   Dodona
                   brought
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Thus
                   ,
                   all
                   rewarded
                   by
                   the
                   Heroe's
                   hands
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   conqu'ring
                   Temples
                   bound
                   with
                   Purple
                   Bands
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   Sergesthus
                   ,
                   clearing
                   from
                   the
                   Rock
                   ,
                
                 
                   Brought
                   back
                   his
                   Gally
                   shatter'd
                   with
                   the
                   shock
                   .
                
                 
                   Forlorn
                   she
                   look'd
                   ,
                   without
                   an
                   aiding
                   Oar
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   howted
                   ,
                   by
                   the
                   Vulgar
                   ,
                   made
                   to
                   Shoar
                   .
                
                 
                   As
                   when
                   a
                   Snake
                   ,
                   surpris'd
                   upon
                   the
                   Road
                   ,
                
                 
                   Is
                   crush'd
                   athwart
                   her
                   Body
                   by
                   the
                   load
                
                 
                   Of
                   heavy
                   Wheels
                   ;
                   or
                   with
                   a
                   Mortal
                   Wound
                
                 
                   Her
                   Belly
                   bruis'd
                   ,
                   and
                   trodden
                   to
                   the
                   Ground
                   :
                
                 
                   In
                   vain
                   ,
                   with
                   loosen'd
                   curls
                   ,
                   she
                   crawls
                   along
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   fierce
                   above
                   ,
                   she
                   brandishes
                   her
                   Tongue
                   :
                
                 
                   Glares
                   with
                   her
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   and
                   bristles
                   with
                   her
                   Scales
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   groveling
                   in
                   the
                   Dust
                   ,
                   her
                   parts
                   unsound
                   she
                   trails
                   .
                
                 
                   So
                   slowly
                   to
                   the
                   Port
                   the
                   Centaur
                   tends
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   what
                   she
                   wants
                   in
                   Oars
                   ,
                   with
                   Sails
                   amends
                   :
                
                 
                   Yet
                   ,
                   for
                   his
                   Gally
                   sav'd
                   ,
                   the
                   grateful
                   Prince
                   ,
                
                 
                   Is
                   pleas'd
                   th'
                   unhappy
                   Chief
                   to
                   recompence
                   .
                
                 
                   Pholoe
                   ,
                   the
                   Cretan
                   Slave
                   ,
                   rewards
                   his
                   Care
                   ,
                
                 
                   Beauteous
                   her self
                   ,
                   with
                   lovely
                   Twins
                   ,
                   as
                   fair
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   From
                   thence
                   his
                   way
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Heroe
                   bent
                   ,
                
                 
                   Into
                   the
                   neighb'ring
                   Plain
                   ,
                   with
                   Mountains
                   pent
                   ;
                
                 
                   Whose
                   sides
                   were
                   shaded
                   with
                   surrounding
                   Wood
                   :
                
                 
                   Full
                   in
                   the
                   midst
                   of
                   this
                   fair
                   Vally
                   stood
                
                 
                   A
                   Native
                   Theatre
                   ,
                   which
                   rising
                   flow
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   just
                   degrees
                   ,
                   o're-look'd
                   the
                   Ground
                   below
                   .
                
                 
                   High
                   on
                   a
                   Sylvan
                   Throne
                   the
                   Leader
                   sate
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   num'rous
                   Train
                   attend
                   in
                   Solemn
                   State
                   ;
                
                 
                   Here
                   those
                   ,
                   that
                   in
                   the
                   rapid
                   Course
                   delight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Desire
                   of
                   Honour
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Prize
                   invite
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Rival
                   Runners
                   ,
                   without
                   Order
                   stand
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Trojans
                   ,
                   mix'd
                   with
                   the
                   Sicilian
                   Band.
                
                 
                   First
                   Nisus
                   ,
                   with
                   Euryalus
                   ,
                   appears
                   ,
                
                 
                   Euryalus
                   a
                   Boy
                   of
                   blooming
                   Years
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   sprightly
                   Grace
                   ,
                   and
                   equal
                   Beauty
                   crown'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Nisus
                   ,
                   for
                   Friendship
                   to
                   the
                   Youth
                   ,
                   renown'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Diores
                   ,
                   next
                   ,
                   of
                   
                   Priam's
                   Royal
                   Race
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   Salius
                   ,
                   join'd
                   with
                   Patron
                   took
                   their
                   Place
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   Patron
                   in
                   Arcadia
                   had
                   his
                   Birth
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Salius
                   his
                   ,
                   from
                   Acarnanian
                   Earth
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   two
                   Sicilian
                   Youths
                   ,
                   the
                   Names
                   of
                   these
                
                 
                   Swift
                   Helymus
                   ,
                   and
                   lovely
                   Panopes
                   :
                
                 
                   Both
                   jolly
                   Huntsmen
                   ,
                   both
                   in
                   Forests
                   bred
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   owning
                   old
                   Acestes
                   for
                   their
                   Head.
                
                 
                   With
                   sev'ral
                   others
                   of
                   Ignobler
                   Name
                   ;
                
                 
                   Whom
                   Time
                   has
                   not
                   deliver'd
                   o're
                   to
                   Fame
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   To
                   these
                   the
                   Heroe
                   thus
                   his
                   Thoughts
                   explain'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   Words
                   ,
                   which
                   gen'ral
                   Approbation
                   gain'd
                   .
                
                 
                   One
                   common
                   Largess
                   is
                   for
                   all
                   design'd
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Vanquish'd
                   and
                   the
                   Victor
                   shall
                   be
                   join'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Two
                   Darts
                   of
                   polish'd
                   Steel
                   ,
                   and
                   Gnosian
                   Wood
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Silver'd
                   studded
                   Ax
                   alike
                   bestow'd
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   foremost
                   three
                   have
                   Olive
                   Wreaths
                   decreed
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   first
                   of
                   these
                   obtains
                   a
                   stately
                   Steed
                
                 
                   Adorn'd
                   with
                   Trappings
                   ;
                   and
                   the
                   next
                   in
                   Fame
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Quiver
                   of
                   an
                   Amazonian
                   Dame
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   feather'd
                   Thracian
                   Arrows
                   well
                   supply'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Golden
                   Belt
                   shall
                   gird
                   his
                   Manly
                   side
                   ;
                
                 
                   Which
                   with
                   a
                   sparkling
                   Diamond
                   shall
                   be
                   ty'd
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   third
                   this
                   Grecian
                   Helmet
                   shall
                   content
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   said
                   ;
                   to
                   their
                   appointed
                   Base
                   they
                   went
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   beating
                   Hearts
                   th'
                   expected
                   Sign
                   receive
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   starting
                   all
                   at
                   once
                   ,
                   the
                   Barrier
                   leave
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Spread
                   out
                   ,
                   as
                   on
                   the
                   winged
                   Winds
                   ,
                   they
                   flew
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   seiz'd
                   the
                   distant
                   Goal
                   with
                   greedy
                   view
                   .
                
                 
                   Shot
                   from
                   the
                   Crowd
                   ,
                   swift
                   Nisus
                   all
                   o're-pass'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Storms
                   ,
                   nor
                   Thunder
                   ,
                   equal
                   half
                   his
                   haste
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   next
                   ,
                   but
                   tho'
                   the
                   next
                   ,
                   yet
                   far
                   dis-join'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Came
                   Salius
                   ,
                   and
                   Euryalus
                   behind
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   Helymus
                   ,
                   whom
                   young
                   Diores
                   ply'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Step
                   after
                   step
                   ,
                   and
                   almost
                   side
                   by
                   side
                   :
                
                 
                   His
                   Shoulders
                   pressing
                   ,
                   and
                   in
                   longer
                   Space
                   ,
                
                 
                   Had
                   won
                   ,
                   or
                   left
                   at
                   least
                   a
                   dubious
                   Race
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Now
                   spent
                   ,
                   the
                   Goal
                   they
                   almost
                   reach
                   at
                   last
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   eager
                   Nisus
                   ,
                   hapless
                   in
                   his
                   haste
                   ,
                
                 
                   Slip'd
                   first
                   ,
                   and
                   slipping
                   ,
                   fell
                   upon
                   the
                   Plain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Soak'd
                   with
                   the
                   Blood
                   of
                   Oxen
                   ,
                   newly
                   slain
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   careless
                   Victor
                   had
                   not
                   mark'd
                   his
                   way
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   treading
                   where
                   the
                   treach'rous
                   Puddle
                   lay
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Heels
                   flew
                   up
                   ;
                   and
                   on
                   the
                   grassy
                   Floor
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   fell
                   ,
                   besmear'd
                   with
                   Filth
                   ,
                   and
                   Holy
                   Gore
                   .
                
                 
                   Not
                   mindless
                   then
                   ,
                   Euryalus
                   ,
                   of
                   thee
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   of
                   the
                   Sacred
                   Bonds
                   of
                   Amity
                   ;
                
                 
                   He
                   strove
                   th'
                   immediate
                   Rival's
                   hope
                   to
                   cross
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   caught
                   the
                   Foot
                   of
                   Salius
                   as
                   he
                   rose
                   :
                
                 
                   So
                   Salius
                   lay
                   extended
                   on
                   the
                   Plain
                   ;
                
                 
                   Euryalus
                   springs
                   out
                   ,
                   the
                   Prize
                   to
                   gain
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   leaves
                   the
                   Crowd
                   ;
                   applauding
                   Peals
                   attend
                
                 
                   The
                   Victor
                   to
                   the
                   Goal
                   ,
                   who
                   vanquish'd
                   by
                   his
                   Friend
                   .
                
                 
                   Next
                   Helymus
                   ,
                   and
                   then
                   Diores
                   came
                   ;
                
                 
                   By
                   two
                   Misfortunes
                   made
                   the
                   third
                   in
                   Fame
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   Salius
                   enters
                   ;
                   and
                   ,
                   exclaiming
                   loud
                
                 
                   For
                   Justice
                   ,
                   deafens
                   ,
                   and
                   disturbs
                   the
                   Crowd
                   :
                
                 
                   Urges
                   his
                   Cause
                   may
                   in
                   the
                   Court
                   be
                   heard
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   pleads
                   the
                   Prize
                   is
                   wrongfully
                   conferr'd
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   Favour
                   for
                   Euryalus
                   appears
                   ;
                
                 
                   His
                   blooming
                   Beauty
                   ,
                   with
                   his
                   tender
                   Tears
                   ,
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     Anthony
                     Hammond
                     of
                     Somersham
                     in
                     the
                     County
                     of
                     Huntingdon
                     Esqr.
                  
                   
                     AE
                     5.
                     l
                     :
                     425.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                 
                   Had
                   brib'd
                   the
                   Judges
                   to
                   protect
                   his
                   Claim
                   ;
                
                 
                   Besides
                   Diores
                   does
                   as
                   loud
                   exclaim
                   :
                
                 
                   Who
                   vainly
                   reaches
                   at
                   the
                   last
                   Reward
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   the
                   first
                   Palm
                   on
                   Salius
                   be
                   conferr'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   thus
                   the
                   Prince
                   ;
                   let
                   no
                   Disputes
                   arise
                   :
                
                 
                   Where
                   Fortune
                   plac'd
                   it
                   ,
                   I
                   award
                   the
                   Prize
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   Fortune's
                   Errors
                   give
                   me
                   leave
                   to
                   mend
                   ,
                
                 
                   At
                   least
                   to
                   pity
                   my
                   deserving
                   Friend
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   said
                   ,
                   and
                   from
                   among
                   the
                   Spoils
                   ,
                   he
                   draws
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   Pond'rous
                   with
                   shaggy
                   Main
                   ,
                   and
                   Golden
                   Paws
                   )
                
                 
                   A
                   Lyon's
                   Hide
                   ;
                   to
                   Salius
                   this
                   he
                   gives
                   :
                
                 
                   Nisus
                   ,
                   with
                   Envy
                   sees
                   the
                   Gift
                   ,
                   and
                   grieves
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   such
                   Rewards
                   to
                   vanquish'd
                   Men
                   are
                   due
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   said
                   ,
                   and
                   Falling
                   is
                   to
                   rise
                   by
                   you
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   Prize
                   may
                   Nisus
                   from
                   your
                   Bounty
                   claim
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   merited
                   the
                   first
                   Rewards
                   and
                   Fame
                   ?
                
                 
                   In
                   falling
                   ,
                   both
                   an
                   equal
                   Fortune
                   try'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Wou'd
                   Fortune
                   for
                   my
                   Fall
                   so
                   well
                   provide
                   !
                
                 
                   With
                   this
                   he
                   pointed
                   to
                   his
                   Face
                   ,
                   and
                   show'd
                
                 
                   His
                   Hands
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   his
                   Habit
                   smear'd
                   with
                   Blood.
                
                 
                   Th'
                   indulgent
                   Father
                   of
                   the
                   People
                   smil'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   caus'd
                   to
                   be
                   produc'd
                   an
                   ample
                   Shield
                   ;
                
                 
                   Of
                   wond'rous
                   Art
                   by
                   Didymaon
                   wrought
                   ,
                
                 
                   Long
                   since
                   from
                   
                   Neptune's
                   Bars
                   in
                   Triumph
                   brought
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   giv'n
                   to
                   Nisus
                   ;
                   he
                   divides
                   the
                   rest
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   equal
                   Justice
                   ,
                   in
                   his
                   Gifts
                   ,
                   express'd
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Race
                   thus
                   ended
                   ,
                   and
                   Rewards
                   bestow'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Once
                   more
                   the
                   Prince
                   bespeaks
                   th'
                   attentive
                   Crowd
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   there
                   be
                   here
                   ,
                   whose
                   dauntless
                   Courage
                   dare
                
                 
                   In
                   Gauntlet
                   fight
                   ,
                   with
                   Limbs
                   and
                   Body
                   bare
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Opposite
                   sustain
                   in
                   open
                   view
                   ,
                
                 
                   Stand
                   forth
                   the
                   Champion
                   ;
                   and
                   the
                   Games
                   renew
                   .
                
                 
                   Two
                   Prizes
                   I
                   propose
                   ,
                   and
                   thus
                   divide
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Bull
                   with
                   gilded
                   Horns
                   ,
                   and
                   Fillets
                   ty'd
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Shall
                   be
                   the
                   Portion
                   of
                   the
                   conqu'ring
                   Chief
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   Sword
                   and
                   Helm
                   shall
                   chear
                   the
                   Loser's
                   Grief
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   haughty
                   Dares
                   in
                   the
                   Lists
                   appears
                   ;
                
                 
                   Stalking
                   he
                   strides
                   ,
                   his
                   Head
                   erected
                   bears
                   :
                
                 
                   His
                   nervous
                   Arms
                   the
                   weighty
                   Gauntlet
                   weild
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   loud
                   Applauses
                   echo
                   thro'
                   the
                   Field
                   .
                
                 
                   Dares
                   alone
                   ,
                   in
                   Combat
                   us'd
                   to
                   stand
                
                 
                   The
                   match
                   of
                   mighty
                   Paris
                   hand
                   to
                   hand
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   same
                   ,
                   at
                   
                   Hector's
                   Fun'rals
                   undertook
                
                 
                   Gygantick
                   Butes
                   ,
                   of
                   th'
                   Amician
                   Stock
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   by
                   the
                   Stroak
                   of
                   his
                   resistless
                   Hand
                   ,
                
                 
                   Stretch'd
                   the
                   vast
                   Bulk
                   upon
                   the
                   yellow
                   Sand.
                
                 
                   Such
                   Dares
                   was
                   ;
                   and
                   such
                   he
                   strod
                   along
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   drew
                   the
                   Wonder
                   of
                   the
                   gazing
                   Throng
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   brawny
                   Back
                   ,
                   and
                   ample
                   Breast
                   he
                   shows
                   ;
                
                 
                   His
                   lifted
                   Arms
                   around
                   his
                   Head
                   he
                   throws
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   deals
                   ,
                   in
                   whistling
                   Air
                   ,
                   his
                   empty
                   Blows
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   Match
                   is
                   sought
                   ;
                   but
                   thro'
                   the
                   trembling
                   Band
                   ,
                
                 
                   Not
                   one
                   dares
                   answer
                   to
                   the
                   proud
                   Demand
                   .
                
                 
                   Presuming
                   of
                   his
                   Force
                   ,
                   with
                   sparkling
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Already
                   he
                   devours
                   the
                   promis'd
                   Prize
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   claims
                   the
                   Bull
                   with
                   awless
                   Insolence
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   having
                   seiz'd
                   his
                   Horns
                   ,
                   accosts
                   the
                   Prince
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   none
                   my
                   matchless
                   Valour
                   dares
                   oppose
                   ,
                
                 
                   How
                   long
                   shall
                   Dares
                   wait
                   his
                   dastard
                   Foes
                   ?
                
                 
                   Permit
                   me
                   ,
                   Chief
                   ,
                   permit
                   without
                   Delay
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   lead
                   this
                   uncontended
                   Gift
                   away
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Crowd
                   assents
                   ;
                   and
                   ,
                   with
                   redoubled
                   Cries
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   the
                   proud
                   Challenger
                   demands
                   the
                   Prize
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Acestes
                   ,
                   fir'd
                   with
                   just
                   Disdain
                   ,
                   to
                   see
                
                 
                   The
                   Palm
                   usurp'd
                   without
                   a
                   Victory
                   ;
                
                 
                   Reproch'd
                   Entellus
                   thus
                   ,
                   who
                   sate
                   beside
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   heard
                   ,
                   and
                   saw
                   unmov'd
                   ,
                   the
                   
                   Trojan's
                   Pride
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Once
                   ,
                   but
                   in
                   vain
                   ,
                   a
                   Champion
                   of
                   Renown
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   tamely
                   can
                   you
                   bear
                   the
                   ravish'd
                   Crown
                   ?
                
                 
                   A
                   Prize
                   in
                   triumph
                   born
                   before
                   your
                   sight
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   shun
                   for
                   fear
                   the
                   danger
                   of
                   the
                   Fight
                   ?
                
                 
                   Where
                   is
                   our
                   Eryx
                   now
                   ,
                   the
                   boasted
                   Name
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   God
                   who
                   taught
                   your
                   thund'ring
                   Arm
                   the
                   Game
                   ;
                
                 
                   Where
                   now
                   your
                   baffled
                   Honour
                   ,
                   where
                   the
                   Spoil
                
                 
                   That
                   fill'd
                   your
                   House
                   ,
                   and
                   Fame
                   that
                   fill'd
                   our
                   Isle
                   ?
                
                 
                   Entellus
                   ,
                   thus
                   :
                   My
                   Soul
                   is
                   still
                   the
                   same
                   ,
                
                 
                   Unmov'd
                   with
                   Fear
                   ,
                   and
                   mov'd
                   with
                   Martial
                   Fame
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   my
                   chill
                   Blood
                   is
                   curdled
                   in
                   my
                   Veins
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   scarce
                   the
                   Shadow
                   of
                   a
                   Man
                   remains
                   .
                
                 
                   Oh
                   ,
                   cou'd
                   I
                   turn
                   to
                   that
                   fair
                   Prime
                   again
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   Prime
                   ,
                   of
                   which
                   this
                   Boaster
                   is
                   so
                   vain
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Brave
                   who
                   this
                   decrepid
                   Age
                   defies
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shou'd
                   feel
                   my
                   force
                   ,
                   without
                   the
                   promis'd
                   Prize
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   said
                   ,
                   and
                   rising
                   at
                   the
                   word
                   ,
                   he
                   threw
                
                 
                   Two
                   pond'rous
                   Gauntlets
                   down
                   ,
                   in
                   open
                   view
                   :
                
                 
                   Gauntlets
                   ,
                   which
                   Eryx
                   wont
                   in
                   Fight
                   to
                   wield
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   sheath
                   his
                   hands
                   with
                   in
                   the
                   listed
                   field
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   Fear
                   and
                   Wonder
                   seiz'd
                   ,
                   the
                   Crowd
                   beholds
                
                 
                   The
                   Gloves
                   of
                   Death
                   ,
                   with
                   sev'n
                   distinguish'd
                   folds
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   tough
                   Bull
                   Hides
                   ;
                   the
                   space
                   within
                   is
                   spread
                
                 
                   With
                   Iron
                   ,
                   or
                   with
                   loads
                   of
                   heavy
                   Lead
                   .
                
                 
                   Dares
                   himself
                   was
                   daunted
                   at
                   the
                   sight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Renounc'd
                   his
                   Challenge
                   ,
                   and
                   refus'd
                   to
                   fight
                   .
                
                 
                   Astonish'd
                   at
                   their
                   weight
                   the
                   Heroe
                   stands
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   poiz'd
                   the
                   pond'rous
                   Engins
                   in
                   his
                   hands
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   had
                   your
                   wonder
                   ,
                   said
                   Entellus
                   ,
                   been
                   ,
                
                 
                   Had
                   you
                   the
                   Gauntlets
                   of
                   Alcides
                   seen
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   view'd
                   the
                   stern
                   debate
                   on
                   this
                   unhappy
                   Green
                   !
                
                 
                   These
                   which
                   I
                   bear
                   ,
                   your
                   Brother
                   Eryx
                   bore
                   ,
                
                 
                   Still
                   mark'd
                   with
                   batter'd
                   Brains
                   ,
                   and
                   mingled
                   Gore
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   With
                   these
                   he
                   long
                   sustain'd
                   th'
                   Herculean
                   Arm
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   these
                   I
                   weilded
                   while
                   my
                   Blood
                   was
                   warm
                   :
                
                 
                   This
                   languish'd
                   Frame
                   ,
                   while
                   better
                   Spirits
                   fed
                   ,
                
                 
                   E're
                   Age
                   unstrung
                   my
                   Nerves
                   ,
                   or
                   Time
                   o'resnow'd
                   my
                   Head.
                
                 
                   But
                   if
                   the
                   Challenger
                   these
                   Arms
                   refuse
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   cannot
                   wield
                   their
                   weight
                   ,
                   or
                   dare
                   not
                   use
                   ;
                
                 
                   If
                   great
                   Aeneas
                   ,
                   and
                   Acestes
                   joyn
                
                 
                   In
                   his
                   Request
                   ,
                   these
                   Gauntlets
                   I
                   resign
                   :
                
                 
                   Let
                   us
                   with
                   equal
                   Arms
                   perform
                   the
                   Fight
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   let
                   him
                   leave
                   to
                   Fear
                   ,
                   since
                   I
                   resign
                   my
                   Right
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   said
                   ,
                   Entellus
                   for
                   the
                   Strife
                   prepares
                   ;
                
                 
                   Strip'd
                   of
                   his
                   quilted
                   Coat
                   ,
                   his
                   Body
                   bares
                   :
                
                 
                   Compos'd
                   of
                   mighty
                   Bones
                   and
                   Brawn
                   ,
                   he
                   stands
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   goodly
                   tow'ring
                   Obj●ct
                   on
                   the
                   Sands
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   just
                   Aeneas
                   equal
                   Arms
                   supply'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   round
                   their
                   Shoulders
                   to
                   their
                   Wrists
                   they
                   ty'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Both
                   on
                   the
                   tiptoe
                   stand
                   ,
                   at
                   full
                   extent
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   Arms
                   aloft
                   ,
                   their
                   Bodies
                   inly
                   bent
                   ;
                
                 
                   Their
                   Heads
                   from
                   aiming
                   Blows
                   they
                   bear
                   a
                   far
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   clashing
                   Gauntlets
                   then
                   provoke
                   the
                   War.
                
                 
                   One
                   on
                   his
                   Youth
                   and
                   pliant
                   Limbs
                   relies
                   ;
                
                 
                   One
                   on
                   his
                   Sinews
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Gyant
                   size
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   last
                   is
                   stiff
                   with
                   Age
                   ,
                   his
                   Motion
                   slow
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   heaves
                   for
                   Breath
                   ,
                   he
                   staggers
                   to
                   and
                   fro
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Clouds
                   of
                   issuing
                   Smoak
                   his
                   Nostrils
                   loudly
                   blow
                   .
                
                 
                   Yet
                   equal
                   in
                   Success
                   ,
                   they
                   ward
                   ,
                   they
                   strike
                   ;
                
                 
                   Their
                   ways
                   are
                   diff'rent
                   ,
                   but
                   their
                   Art
                   alike
                   .
                
                 
                   Before
                   ,
                   behind
                   ,
                   the
                   blows
                   are
                   dealt
                   ;
                   around
                
                 
                   Their
                   hollow
                   sides
                   the
                   ratling
                   Thumps
                   resound
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   Storm
                   of
                   Strokes
                   ,
                   well
                   meant
                   ,
                   with
                   fury
                   flies
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   errs
                   about
                   their
                   Temples
                   ,
                   Ears
                   ,
                   and
                   Eyes
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   always
                   errs
                   ;
                   for
                   oft
                   the
                   Gauntlet
                   draws
                
                 
                   A
                   sweeping
                   stroke
                   ,
                   along
                   the
                   crackling
                   Jaws
                   .
                
              
               
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     Henry
                     S
                     t
                     John
                     of
                     Lydiard
                     Tregoz
                     
                       Esq
                       r
                    
                     .
                  
                   
                     AE
                     5.
                     l
                     :
                     590.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Heavy
                   with
                   Age
                   ,
                   Entellus
                   stands
                   his
                   Ground
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   with
                   his
                   warping
                   Body
                   wards
                   the
                   Wound
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   Hand
                   ,
                   and
                   watchful
                   Eye
                   keep
                   even
                   pace
                   ;
                
                 
                   While
                   Dares
                   traverses
                   ,
                   and
                   shifts
                   his
                   place
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   like
                   a
                   Captain
                   ,
                   who
                   beleaguers
                   round
                   ,
                
                 
                   Some
                   strong
                   built
                   Castle
                   ,
                   on
                   a
                   rising
                   Ground
                   ,
                
                 
                   Views
                   all
                   th'
                   approaches
                   with
                   observing
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   ,
                   and
                   that
                   other
                   part
                   ,
                   in
                   vain
                   he
                   tries
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   more
                   on
                   Industry
                   ,
                   than
                   Force
                   relies
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   Hands
                   on
                   high
                   ,
                   Entellus
                   threats
                   the
                   Foe
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   Dares
                   watch'd
                   the
                   Motion
                   from
                   below
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   slip'd
                   aside
                   ,
                   and
                   shun'd
                   the
                   long
                   descending
                   Blow
                   .
                
                 
                   Entellus
                   wasts
                   his
                   Forces
                   on
                   the
                   Wind
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   thus
                   deluded
                   of
                   the
                   Stroke
                   design'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Headlong
                   ,
                   and
                   heavy
                   fell
                   :
                   his
                   ample
                   Breast
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   weighty
                   Limbs
                   ,
                   his
                   ancient
                   Mother
                   press'd
                   .
                
                 
                   So
                   falls
                   a
                   hollow
                   Pine
                   ,
                   that
                   long
                   had
                   stood
                
                 
                   On
                   
                   Ida's
                   height
                   ,
                   or
                   Erymanthus
                   Wood
                   ,
                
                 
                   Torn
                   from
                   the
                   Roots
                   :
                   the
                   diff'ring
                   Nations
                   rise
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Shouts
                   ,
                   and
                   mingl'd
                   Murmurs
                   ,
                   rend
                   the
                   Skies
                   .
                
                 
                   Acestes
                   runs
                   ,
                   with
                   eager
                   haste
                   ,
                   to
                   raise
                
                 
                   The
                   fall'n
                   Companion
                   of
                   his
                   youthful
                   Days
                   :
                
                 
                   Dauntless
                   he
                   rose
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   the
                   Fight
                   return'd
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   shame
                   his
                   glowing
                   Cheeks
                   ,
                   his
                   Eyes
                   with
                   fury
                   burn'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Disdain
                   ,
                   and
                   conscious
                   Virtue
                   fir'd
                   his
                   Breast
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   redoubled
                   Force
                   his
                   Foe
                   he
                   press'd
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   lays
                   on
                   load
                   with
                   either
                   Hand
                   ,
                   amain
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   headlong
                   drives
                   the
                   Trojan
                   o're
                   the
                   Plain
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   stops
                   ,
                   nor
                   stays
                   ;
                   nor
                   rest
                   ,
                   nor
                   Breath
                   allows
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   Storms
                   of
                   Strokes
                   descend
                   about
                   his
                   Brows
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   ratling
                   Tempest
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   Hail
                   of
                   Blows
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   now
                   the
                   Prince
                   ,
                   who
                   saw
                   the
                   wild
                   Increase
                
                 
                   Of
                   Wounds
                   ,
                   commands
                   the
                   Combatants
                   to
                   cease
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   bounds
                   Entellus
                   Wrath
                   ,
                   and
                   bids
                   the
                   Peace
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   First
                   to
                   the
                   Trojan
                   spent
                   with
                   Toil
                   he
                   came
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   sooth'd
                   his
                   Sorrow
                   for
                   the
                   suffer'd
                   Shame
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   Fury
                   seiz'd
                   my
                   Friend
                   ,
                   the
                   Gods
                   ,
                   said
                   he
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   him
                   propitious
                   ,
                   and
                   averse
                   to
                   thee
                   ,
                
                 
                   Have
                   giv'n
                   his
                   Arm
                   superior
                   Force
                   to
                   thine
                   ;
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   Madness
                   to
                   contend
                   with
                   Strength
                   Divine
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Gauntlet
                   Fight
                   thus
                   ended
                   ,
                   from
                   the
                   Shore
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   faithful
                   Friends
                   unhappy
                   Dares
                   bore
                   :
                
                 
                   His
                   Mouth
                   and
                   Nostrils
                   ,
                   pour'd
                   a
                   Purple
                   Flood
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   pounded
                   Teeth
                   ,
                   came
                   rushing
                   with
                   his
                   Blood.
                
                 
                   Faintly
                   he
                   stagger'd
                   thro
                   the
                   hissing
                   Throng
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   hung
                   his
                   Head
                   ,
                   and
                   trail'd
                   his
                   Legs
                   along
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Sword
                   and
                   Casque
                   ,
                   are
                   carry'd
                   by
                   his
                   Train
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   with
                   his
                   Foe
                   the
                   Palm
                   and
                   Ox
                   remain
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Champion
                   ,
                   then
                   ,
                   before
                   Aeneas
                   came
                   ,
                
                 
                   Proud
                   of
                   his
                   Prize
                   ;
                   but
                   prouder
                   of
                   his
                   Fame
                   ;
                
                 
                   O
                   Goddess-born
                   ,
                   and
                   you
                   Dardanian
                   Host
                   ,
                
                 
                   Mark
                   with
                   Attention
                   ,
                   and
                   forgive
                   my
                   Boast
                   :
                
                 
                   Learn
                   what
                   I
                   was
                   ,
                   by
                   what
                   remains
                   ;
                   and
                   know
                
                 
                   From
                   what
                   impending
                   Fate
                   ,
                   you
                   sav'd
                   my
                   Foe
                   .
                
                 
                   Sternly
                   he
                   spoke
                   ;
                   and
                   then
                   confronts
                   the
                   Bull
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   on
                   his
                   ample
                   Forehead
                   ,
                   aiming
                   full
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   deadly
                   Stroke
                   descending
                   ,
                   pierc'd
                   the
                   Skull
                   .
                
                 
                   Down
                   drops
                   the
                   Beast
                   ;
                   nor
                   needs
                   a
                   second
                   Wound
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   sprawls
                   in
                   pangs
                   of
                   Death
                   ;
                   and
                   spurns
                   the
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   thus
                   :
                   In
                   Dares
                   stead
                   I
                   offer
                   this
                   ;
                
                 
                   Eryx
                   ,
                   accept
                   a
                   nobler
                   Sacrifice
                   :
                
                 
                   Take
                   the
                   last
                   Gift
                   my
                   wither'd
                   Arms
                   can
                   yield
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Gauntlets
                   I
                   resign
                   ;
                   and
                   here
                   renounce
                   the
                   Field
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   This
                   done
                   ,
                   Aeneas
                   orders
                   ,
                   for
                   the
                   close
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   strife
                   of
                   Archers
                   ,
                   with
                   contending
                   Bows
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Mast
                   ,
                   Sergesthus
                   shatter'd
                   Gally
                   bore
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   his
                   own
                   Hands
                   ,
                   he
                   raises
                   on
                   the
                   Shore
                   .
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     Stephen
                     Waller
                     D
                     r
                     :
                     of
                     Laws
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     5.
                     l.
                     645.
                     
                  
                
              
               
               
               
                 A
                 flutt'ring
                 Dove
                 upon
                 the
                 Top
                 they
                 tye
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 living
                 Mark
                 ,
                 at
                 which
                 their
                 Arrows
                 fly
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 rival
                 Archers
                 in
                 a
                 Line
                 advance
                 ;
              
               
                 Their
                 turn
                 of
                 Shooting
                 to
                 receive
                 from
                 Chance
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 Helmet
                 holds
                 their
                 Names
                 :
                 The
                 Lots
                 are
                 drawn
                 ,
              
               
                 On
                 the
                 first
                 Scroll
                 was
                 read
                 Hippocoon
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 People
                 shout
                 ;
                 upon
                 the
                 next
                 was
                 found
              
               
                 Young
                 Mnestheus
                 ,
                 late
                 with
                 Naval
                 Honours
                 crownd
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 third
                 contain'd
                 
                 Eurytion's
                 Noble
                 Name
                 ,
              
               
                 Thy
                 Brother
                 ,
                 Pandarus
                 ,
                 and
                 next
                 in
                 Fame
                 :
              
               
                 Whom
                 Pallas
                 urg'd
                 the
                 Treaty
                 to
                 confound
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 send
                 among
                 the
                 Greeks
                 a
                 feather'd
                 Wound
                 .
              
               
                 Acestes
                 in
                 the
                 bottom
                 ,
                 last
                 remain'd
                 ;
              
               
                 Whom
                 not
                 his
                 Age
                 from
                 Youthful
                 Sports
                 restrain'd
                 .
              
               
                 Soon
                 ,
                 all
                 with
                 Vigour
                 bend
                 their
                 trusty
                 Bows
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 from
                 the
                 Quiver
                 each
                 his
                 Arrow
                 chose
                 ,
              
               
                 
                 Hippocoon's
                 was
                 the
                 first
                 :
                 with
                 forceful
                 sway
              
               
                 It
                 flew
                 ,
                 and
                 ,
                 whizzing
                 ,
                 cut
                 the
                 liquid
                 way
                 :
              
               
                 Fix'd
                 in
                 the
                 Mast
                 the
                 feather'd
                 Weapon
                 stands
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 fearful
                 Pidgeon
                 flutters
                 in
                 her
                 Bands
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 the
                 Tree
                 trembled
                 :
                 and
                 the
                 shouting
                 Cries
              
               
                 Of
                 the
                 pleas'd
                 People
                 ,
                 rend
                 the
                 vaulted
                 Skies
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 Mnestheus
                 to
                 the
                 head
                 his
                 Arrow
                 drove
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 lifted
                 Eyes
                 ;
                 and
                 took
                 his
                 Aim
                 above
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 made
                 a
                 glancing
                 Shot
                 ,
                 and
                 miss'd
                 the
                 Dove
                 .
              
               
                 Yet
                 miss'd
                 so
                 narrow
                 ,
                 that
                 he
                 cut
                 the
                 Cord
              
               
                 Which
                 fasten'd
                 ,
                 by
                 the
                 Foot
                 ,
                 the
                 flitting
                 Bird.
              
               
                 The
                 Captive
                 thus
                 releas'd
                 ,
                 away
                 she
                 flies
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 beats
                 with
                 clapping
                 Wings
                 ,
                 the
                 yielding
                 Skies
                 .
              
               
                 His
                 Bow
                 already
                 bent
                 ,
                 Eurytion
                 stood
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 having
                 first
                 invok'd
                 his
                 Brother
                 God
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 winged
                 Shaft
                 with
                 eager
                 haste
                 he
                 sped
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 fatal
                 Message
                 reach'd
                 her
                 as
                 she
                 fled
                 :
              
               
               
                 She
                 leaves
                 her
                 Life
                 aloft
                 ,
                 she
                 strikes
                 the
                 Ground
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 renders
                 back
                 the
                 Weapon
                 in
                 the
                 Wound
                 .
              
               
                 Acestes
                 grudging
                 at
                 his
                 Lot
                 ,
                 remains
                 ,
              
               
                 Without
                 a
                 Prize
                 to
                 gratifie
                 his
                 Pains
                 .
              
               
                 Yet
                 shooting
                 upward
                 ,
                 sends
                 his
                 Shaft
                 ,
                 to
                 show
              
               
                 An
                 Archer's
                 Art
                 ,
                 and
                 boast
                 his
                 twanging
                 Bow.
              
               
                 The
                 pointed
                 Arrow
                 gave
                 a
                 dire
                 Portent
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 latter
                 Augures
                 judge
                 from
                 this
                 Event
                 .
              
               
                 Chaf'd
                 by
                 the
                 speed
                 ,
                 it
                 fir'd
                 ;
                 and
                 as
                 it
                 flew
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 Trail
                 of
                 following
                 Flames
                 ,
                 ascending
                 drew
                 :
              
               
                 Kindling
                 they
                 mount
                 ;
                 and
                 mark
                 the
                 shiny
                 Way
                 :
              
               
                 Across
                 the
                 Skies
                 as
                 falling
                 Meteors
                 play
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 vanish
                 into
                 Wind
                 ;
                 or
                 in
                 a
                 Blaze
                 decay
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Trojans
                 and
                 Sicilians
                 wildly
                 stare
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 trembling
                 ,
                 turn
                 their
                 Wonder
                 into
                 Pray'r
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Dardan
                 Prince
                 put
                 on
                 a
                 smiling
                 Face
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 strain'd
                 Acestes
                 with
                 a
                 close
                 Embrace
                 :
              
               
                 Then
                 hon'ring
                 him
                 with
                 Gifts
                 above
                 the
                 rest
                 ,
              
               
                 Turn'd
                 the
                 bad
                 Omen
                 ,
                 nor
                 his
                 Fears
                 confess'd
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Gods
                 ,
                 said
                 he
                 ,
                 this
                 Miracle
                 have
                 wrought
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 order'd
                 you
                 the
                 Prize
                 without
                 the
                 Lot.
              
               
                 Accept
                 this
                 Goblet
                 rough
                 with
                 figur'd
                 Gold
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 
                   Thracian
                   Cisseus
                
                 gave
                 my
                 Sire
                 of
                 old
                 :
              
               
                 This
                 Pledge
                 of
                 ancient
                 Amity
                 receive
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 to
                 my
                 second
                 Sire
                 I
                 justly
                 give
                 .
              
               
                 He
                 said
                 ,
                 and
                 with
                 the
                 Trumpets
                 chearsul
                 sound
                 ,
              
               
                 Proclaim'd
                 him
                 Victor
                 ,
                 and
                 with
                 Lawrel
                 crown'd
                 .
              
               
                 Nor
                 good
                 Eurytion
                 envy'd
                 him
                 the
                 Prize
                 ;
              
               
                 Tho'
                 he
                 transfix'd
                 the
                 Pidgeon
                 in
                 the
                 Skies
                 .
              
               
                 Who
                 cut
                 the
                 Line
                 ,
                 with
                 second
                 Gifts
                 was
                 grac'd
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 third
                 was
                 his
                 ,
                 whose
                 Arrow
                 pierc'd
                 the
                 Mast
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Chief
                 ,
                 before
                 the
                 Games
                 were
                 wholly
                 done
                 ,
              
               
                 Call'd
                 Periphantes
                 ,
                 Tutor
                 to
                 his
                 Son
                 ;
              
               
               
                 And
                 whisper'd
                 thus
                 ;
                 with
                 speed
                 Ascanius
                 find
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 if
                 his
                 Childish
                 Troop
                 be
                 ready
                 join'd
                 ;
              
               
                 On
                 Hors●-back
                 let
                 him
                 grace
                 his
                 Grandsire's
                 Day
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 lead
                 his
                 Equals
                 arm'd
                 ,
                 in
                 just
                 Array
                 .
              
               
                 He
                 said
                 ,
                 and
                 calling
                 out
                 ,
                 the
                 Cirque
                 he
                 clears
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Crowd
                 withdrawn
                 ,
                 an
                 open
                 Plain
                 appears
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 now
                 the
                 Noble
                 Youths
                 ,
                 of
                 Form
                 Divine
                 ,
              
               
                 Advance
                 before
                 their
                 Fathers
                 ,
                 in
                 a
                 Line
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 Riders
                 grace
                 the
                 Steeds
                 ;
                 the
                 Steeds
                 with
                 Glory
                 shine
                 .
              
               
                 Thus
                 marching
                 on
                 ,
                 in
                 Military
                 Pride
                 ,
              
               
                 Shouts
                 of
                 Applause
                 resound
                 from
                 side
                 to
                 fide
                 .
              
               
                 Their
                 Casques
                 ,
                 adorn'd
                 with
                 Lawrel
                 Wreaths
                 ,
                 they
                 wear
                 .
              
               
                 Each
                 brandishing
                 aloft
                 a
                 Cornel
                 Spear
                 .
              
               
                 Some
                 at
                 their
                 Backs
                 their
                 guilded
                 Quivers
                 bore
                 ;
              
               
                 Their
                 Chains
                 of
                 burnish'd
                 Gold
                 hung
                 down
                 before
                 .
              
               
                 Three
                 graceful
                 Troops
                 they
                 form'd
                 upon
                 the
                 Green
                 ;
              
               
                 Three
                 graceful
                 Leaders
                 at
                 their
                 Head
                 were
                 seen
                 ;
              
               
                 Twelve
                 follow'd
                 ev'ry
                 Chief
                 ,
                 and
                 left
                 a
                 Space
                 between
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 first
                 young
                 Priam
                 led
                 ;
                 a
                 lovely
                 Boy
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 Grandsire
                 was
                 th'
                 unhappy
                 King
                 of
                 Troy
                 :
              
               
                 His
                 Race
                 in
                 after
                 times
                 was
                 known
                 to
                 Fame
                 ,
              
               
                 New
                 Honours
                 adding
                 to
                 the
                 Latian
                 Name
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 well
                 the
                 Royal
                 Boy
                 his
                 Thracian
                 Steed
                 became
                 .
              
               
                 White
                 were
                 the
                 Fetlocks
                 of
                 his
                 Feet
                 before
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 on
                 his
                 Front
                 a
                 snowy
                 Star
                 he
                 bore
                 :
              
               
                 Then
                 beauteous
                 Atys
                 ,
                 with
                 Iulus
                 bred
                 ,
              
               
                 Of
                 equal
                 Age
                 ,
                 the
                 second
                 Squadron
                 led
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 last
                 in
                 Order
                 ,
                 but
                 the
                 first
                 in
                 place
                 ,
              
               
                 First
                 in
                 the
                 lovely
                 Features
                 of
                 his
                 Face
                 ;
              
               
                 Rode
                 fair
                 Ascanius
                 on
                 a
                 fiery
                 Steed
                 ,
              
               
                 Queen
                 
                 Dido's
                 Gift
                 ,
                 and
                 of
                 the
                 Tyrian
                 breed
                 .
              
               
                 Sure
                 Coursers
                 for
                 the
                 rest
                 the
                 King
                 ordains
                 ;
              
               
                 With
                 Golden
                 Bitts
                 adorn'd
                 ,
                 and
                 Purple
                 Reins
                 .
              
               
                 
                 
                   The
                   pleas'd
                   Spectators
                   peals
                   of
                   Shouts
                   renew
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   the
                   Parents
                   in
                   the
                   Children
                   view
                   :
                
                 
                   Their
                   Make
                   ,
                   their
                   Motions
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   sprightly
                   Grace
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Hopes
                   and
                   Fears
                   alternate
                   in
                   their
                   Face
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Th'
                   unfledg'd
                   Commanders
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   Martial
                   Train
                   ,
                
                 
                   First
                   make
                   the
                   Circuit
                   of
                   the
                   sandy
                   Plain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Around
                   their
                   Sires
                   :
                   And
                   at
                   th'
                   appointed
                   Sign
                   ,
                
                 
                   Drawn
                   up
                   in
                   beauteous
                   Order
                   form
                   a
                   Line
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   second
                   Signal
                   sounds
                   ;
                   the
                   Troop
                   divides
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   three
                   distinguish'd
                   parts
                   ,
                   with
                   three
                   distinguish'd
                   Guides
                   .
                
                 
                   Again
                   they
                   close
                   ,
                   and
                   once
                   again
                   dis-join
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   Troop
                   to
                   Troop
                   oppos'd
                   ,
                   and
                   Line
                   to
                   Line
                   .
                
                 
                   They
                   meet
                   ,
                   they
                   wheel
                   ,
                   they
                   throw
                   their
                   Darts
                   afar
                
                 
                   With
                   harmless
                   Rage
                   ,
                   and
                   well
                   dissembled
                   War.
                
                 
                   Then
                   in
                   a
                   round
                   the
                   mingl'd
                   Bodies
                   run
                   ;
                
                 
                   Flying
                   they
                   follow
                   ,
                   and
                   pursuing
                   shun
                   .
                
                 
                   Broken
                   they
                   break
                   ,
                   and
                   rallying
                   ,
                   they
                   renew
                
                 
                   In
                   other
                   Forms
                   the
                   Military
                   shew
                   .
                
                 
                   At
                   last
                   ,
                   in
                   order
                   ,
                   undiscern'd
                   they
                   join
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   march
                   together
                   ,
                   in
                   a
                   friendly
                   Line
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   as
                   the
                   Cretan
                   Labyrinth
                   of
                   old
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   wand'ring
                   Ways
                   ,
                   and
                   many
                   a
                   winding
                   fold
                   ,
                
                 
                   Involv'd
                   the
                   weary
                   Feet
                   ,
                   without
                   redress
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   a
                   round
                   Error
                   ,
                   which
                   deny'd
                   recess
                   ;
                
                 
                   So
                   fought
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Boys
                   in
                   warlike
                   Play
                   ,
                
                 
                   Turn'd
                   ,
                   and
                   return'd
                   ,
                   and
                   still
                   a
                   diff'rent
                   way
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   Dolphins
                   ,
                   in
                   the
                   Deep
                   ,
                   each
                   other
                   chase
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   Circles
                   ,
                   when
                   they
                   swim
                   around
                   the
                   wat'ry
                   Race
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   Game
                   ,
                   these
                   Carousels
                   Ascanius
                   taught
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   building
                   Alba
                   ,
                   to
                   the
                   Latins
                   brought
                   .
                
                 
                   Shew'd
                   what
                   he
                   learn'd
                   :
                   The
                   Latin
                   Sires
                   impart
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   their
                   succeeding
                   Sons
                   ,
                   the
                   graceful
                   Art
                   :
                
                 
                   From
                   these
                   Imperial
                   Rome
                   receiv'd
                   the
                   Game
                   ;
                
                 
                   Which
                   Troy
                   ,
                   the
                   Youths
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Troop
                   ,
                   they
                   name
                   .
                
              
               
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     y
                     e
                     most
                     Illustrious
                     Prince
                     William
                     Duke
                     of
                     Glocester
                     &
                     ct
                     .
                  
                   
                     AE
                     5.
                     l.
                     7●●
                     .
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Thus
                   far
                   the
                   sacred
                   Sports
                   they
                   celebrate
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   Fortune
                   soon
                   resum'd
                   her
                   ancient
                   hate
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   while
                   they
                   pay
                   the
                   dead
                   his
                   Annual
                   dues
                   ,
                
                 
                   Those
                   envy'd
                   Rites
                   
                     Saturnian
                     Juno
                  
                   views
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   sends
                   the
                   Goddess
                   of
                   the
                   various
                   bow
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   try
                   new
                   Methods
                   of
                   Revenge
                   below
                   :
                
                 
                   Supplies
                   the
                   Winds
                   to
                   wing
                   her
                   Airy
                   way
                   ;
                
                 
                   Where
                   in
                   the
                   Port
                   secure
                   the
                   Navy
                   lay
                   .
                
                 
                   Swiftly
                   fair
                   Iris
                   down
                   her
                   Arch
                   descends
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   undiscern'd
                   her
                   fatal
                   Voyage
                   ends
                   .
                
                 
                   She
                   saw
                   the
                   gath'ring
                   Crowd
                   ;
                   and
                   gliding
                   thence
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   desart
                   Shore
                   ,
                   and
                   Fleet
                   without
                   defence
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Trojan
                   Matrons
                   on
                   the
                   Sands
                   alone
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Sighs
                   and
                   Tears
                   ,
                   Anchises
                   death
                   bemoan
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   turning
                   to
                   the
                   Sea
                   their
                   weeping
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   pity
                   to
                   themselves
                   ,
                   renews
                   their
                   Cries
                   .
                
                 
                   Alas
                   !
                   said
                   one
                   ,
                   what
                   Oceans
                   yet
                   remain
                
                 
                   For
                   us
                   to
                   sail
                   ;
                   what
                   Labours
                   to
                   sustain
                   !
                
                 
                   All
                   take
                   the
                   Word
                   ;
                   and
                   with
                   a
                   gen'ral
                   groan
                   ,
                
                 
                   Implore
                   the
                   Gods
                   for
                   Peace
                   ;
                   and
                   Places
                   of
                   their
                   own
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Goddess
                   ,
                   great
                   in
                   Mischief
                   ,
                   views
                   their
                   pains
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   a
                   Woman's
                   Form
                   her
                   heav'nly
                   Limbs
                   restrains
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   Face
                   and
                   Shape
                   ,
                   old
                   Beroe
                   she
                   became
                   ,
                
                 
                   Doriclus
                   Wife
                   ,
                   a
                   venerable
                   Dame
                   ;
                
                 
                   Once
                   bless'd
                   with
                   Riches
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   Mother's
                   Name
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   chang'd
                   ,
                   amidst
                   the
                   crying
                   Crow'd
                   she
                   ran
                   ,
                
                 
                   Mix'd
                   with
                   the
                   Matrons
                   ,
                   and
                   these
                   words
                   began
                   .
                
                 
                   O
                   wretched
                   we
                   ,
                   whom
                   not
                   the
                   Grecian
                   Pow'r
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Flames
                   destroy'd
                   ,
                   in
                   
                   Troy's
                   unhappy
                   hour
                   !
                
                 
                   O
                   wretched
                   we
                   ,
                   reserv'd
                   by
                   Cruel
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Beyond
                   the
                   Ruins
                   of
                   the
                   sinking
                   State
                   !
                
                 
                   Now
                   sev'n
                   revolving
                   Years
                   are
                   wholly
                   run
                   ,
                
                 
                   Since
                   this
                   improsp'rous
                   Voyage
                   we
                   begun
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Since
                   toss'd
                   from
                   Shores
                   to
                   Shores
                   ,
                   from
                   Lands
                   to
                   Lands
                   ,
                
                 
                   Inhospitable
                   Rocks
                   and
                   barren
                   Sands
                   ;
                
                 
                   Wand'ring
                   in
                   Exile
                   ,
                   through
                   the
                   stormy
                   Sea
                   ,
                
                 
                   We
                   search
                   in
                   vain
                   for
                   flying
                   Italy
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   Cast
                   by
                   Fortune
                   on
                   this
                   kindred
                   Land
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   shou'd
                   our
                   Rest
                   ,
                   and
                   rising
                   Walls
                   withstand
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   hinder
                   here
                   to
                   fix
                   our
                   banish'd
                   Band
                   ?
                
                 
                   O
                   ,
                   Country
                   lost
                   ,
                   and
                   Gods
                   redeem'd
                   in
                   vain
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   still
                   in
                   endless
                   Exile
                   we
                   remain
                   !
                
                 
                   Shall
                   we
                   no
                   more
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Walls
                   renew
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   Streams
                   of
                   some
                   dissembl'd
                   Simois
                   view
                   !
                
                 
                   Haste
                   ,
                   joyn
                   with
                   me
                   ,
                   th'
                   unhappy
                   Fleet
                   consume
                   :
                
                 
                   Cassandra
                   bids
                   ,
                   and
                   I
                   declare
                   her
                   doom
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   sleep
                   I
                   saw
                   her
                   ;
                   she
                   supply'd
                   my
                   hands
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   For
                   this
                   I
                   more
                   than
                   dreamt
                   )
                   with
                   flaming
                   Brands
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   these
                   ,
                   said
                   she
                   ,
                   these
                   wand'ring
                   Ships
                   destroy
                   ;
                
                 
                   These
                   are
                   your
                   fatal
                   Seats
                   ,
                   and
                   this
                   your
                   Troy.
                
                 
                   Time
                   calls
                   you
                   now
                   ,
                   the
                   precious
                   Hour
                   employ
                   .
                
                 
                   Slack
                   not
                   the
                   good
                   Presage
                   ,
                   while
                   Heav'n
                   inspires
                
                 
                   Our
                   Minds
                   to
                   dare
                   ,
                   and
                   gives
                   the
                   ready
                   Fires
                   .
                
                 
                   See
                   
                   Neptune's
                   Altars
                   minister
                   their
                   Brands
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   God
                   is
                   pleas'd
                   ;
                   the
                   God
                   supplies
                   our
                   hands
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   from
                   the
                   Pile
                   ,
                   a
                   flaming
                   Firr
                   she
                   drew
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   toss'd
                   in
                   Air
                   ,
                   amidst
                   the
                   Gallies
                   threw
                   .
                
                 
                   Wrap'd
                   in
                   a
                   maze
                   ,
                   the
                   Matrons
                   wildly
                   stare
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   Pyrgo
                   ,
                   reverenc'd
                   for
                   her
                   hoary
                   Hair
                   ,
                
                 
                   Pyrgo
                   ,
                   the
                   Nurse
                   of
                   
                   Priam's
                   num'rous
                   Race
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   Beroe
                   this
                   ,
                   tho
                   she
                   belies
                   her
                   Face
                   :
                
                 
                   What
                   Terrours
                   from
                   her
                   frowning
                   Front
                   arise
                   ;
                
                 
                   Behold
                   a
                   Goddess
                   in
                   her
                   ardent
                   Eyes
                   !
                
                 
                   What
                   Rays
                   around
                   her
                   heav'nly
                   Face
                   are
                   seen
                   ,
                
                 
                   Mark
                   her
                   Majestick
                   Voice
                   ,
                   and
                   more
                   than
                   mortal
                   Meen
                   !
                
                 
                   Beroe
                   but
                   now
                   I
                   left
                   ;
                   whom
                   pin'd
                   with
                   pain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   Age
                   and
                   Anguish
                   from
                   these
                   Rites
                   detain
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   She
                   said
                   ;
                   the
                   Matrons
                   ,
                   seiz'd
                   with
                   new
                   Amaze
                   ,
                
                 
                   Rowl
                   their
                   malignant
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   and
                   on
                   the
                   Navy
                   gaze
                   .
                
                 
                   They
                   fear
                   ,
                   and
                   hope
                   ,
                   and
                   neither
                   part
                   obey
                   :
                
                 
                   They
                   hope
                   the
                   fated
                   Land
                   ,
                   but
                   fear
                   the
                   fatal
                   Way
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Goddess
                   ,
                   having
                   done
                   her
                   Task
                   below
                   ,
                
                 
                   Mounts
                   up
                   on
                   equal
                   Wings
                   ,
                   and
                   bends
                   her
                   painted
                   Bow.
                
                 
                   Struck
                   with
                   the
                   sight
                   ,
                   and
                   feiz'd
                   with
                   Rage
                   Divine
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Matrons
                   prosecute
                   their
                   mad
                   Design
                   :
                
                 
                   They
                   shriek
                   aloud
                   ,
                   they
                   snatch
                   ,
                   with
                   Impious
                   Hands
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   food
                   of
                   Altars
                   ,
                   Firs
                   ,
                   and
                   flaming
                   Brands
                   .
                
                 
                   Green
                   Leaves
                   ,
                   and
                   Saplings
                   ,
                   mingled
                   in
                   their
                   haste
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   smoaking
                   Torches
                   on
                   the
                   Ships
                   they
                   cast
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Flame
                   ,
                   unstop'd
                   at
                   first
                   ,
                   more
                   Fury
                   gains
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Vulcan
                   rides
                   at
                   large
                   with
                   loosen'd
                   Reins
                   :
                
                 
                   Triumphant
                   to
                   the
                   painted
                   Sterns
                   he
                   soars
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   seizes
                   in
                   his
                   way
                   ,
                   the
                   Banks
                   ,
                   and
                   crackling
                   Oars
                   .
                
                 
                   Eumelus
                   was
                   the
                   first
                   ,
                   the
                   News
                   to
                   bear
                   ,
                
                 
                   While
                   yet
                   they
                   crowd
                   the
                   Rural
                   Theatre
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   what
                   they
                   hear
                   ,
                   is
                   witness'd
                   by
                   their
                   Eyes
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   storm
                   of
                   Sparkles
                   ,
                   and
                   of
                   Flames
                   arise
                   .
                
                 
                   Ascanius
                   took
                   th'
                   Alarm
                   ,
                   while
                   yet
                   he
                   led
                
                 
                   His
                   early
                   Warriors
                   on
                   his
                   prancing
                   Steed
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   spurring
                   on
                   ,
                   his
                   Equals
                   soon
                   o'repass'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   cou'd
                   his
                   frighted
                   Friends
                   reclaim
                   his
                   haste
                   .
                
                 
                   Soon
                   as
                   the
                   Royal
                   Youth
                   appear'd
                   in
                   view
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   sent
                   his
                   Voice
                   before
                   him
                   as
                   he
                   flew
                   ;
                
                 
                   What
                   Madness
                   moves
                   you
                   ,
                   Matrons
                   ,
                   to
                   destroy
                
                 
                   The
                   last
                   Remainders
                   of
                   unhappy
                   Troy
                   !
                
                 
                   Not
                   hostile
                   Fleets
                   ,
                   but
                   your
                   own
                   hopes
                   you
                   burn
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   on
                   your
                   Friends
                   ,
                   your
                   fatal
                   Fury
                   turn
                   .
                
                 
                   Behold
                   your
                   own
                   Ascanius
                   :
                   while
                   he
                   said
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   drew
                   his
                   glitt'ring
                   Helmet
                   from
                   his
                   Head
                   ;
                
                 
                   In
                   which
                   the
                   Youths
                   to
                   sportful
                   Arms
                   he
                   led
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   By
                   this
                   ,
                   Aeneas
                   and
                   his
                   Train
                   appear
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   the
                   Women
                   ,
                   seiz'd
                   with
                   Shame
                   and
                   Fear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Dispers'd
                   ,
                   to
                   Woods
                   and
                   Caverns
                   take
                   their
                   Flight
                   ;
                
                 
                   Abhor
                   their
                   Actions
                   ,
                   and
                   avoid
                   the
                   Light
                   :
                
                 
                   Their
                   Friends
                   acknowledge
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   Error
                   find
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   shake
                   the
                   Goddess
                   from
                   their
                   alter'd
                   Mind
                   .
                
                 
                   Not
                   so
                   the
                   raging
                   Fires
                   their
                   Fury
                   cease
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   lurking
                   in
                   the
                   Seams
                   ,
                   with
                   seeming
                   Peace
                   ,
                
                 
                   Work
                   on
                   their
                   way
                   ,
                   amid
                   the
                   smouldring
                   Tow
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sure
                   in
                   Destruction
                   ,
                   but
                   in
                   Motion
                   slow
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   silent
                   Plague
                   ,
                   thro'
                   the
                   green
                   Timber
                   eats
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   vomits
                   out
                   a
                   tardy
                   Flame
                   ,
                   by
                   fits
                   .
                
                 
                   Down
                   to
                   the
                   Keels
                   ,
                   and
                   upward
                   to
                   the
                   Sails
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Fire
                   descends
                   ,
                   or
                   mounts
                   ;
                   but
                   still
                   prevails
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Buckets
                   pour'd
                   ,
                   nor
                   strength
                   of
                   Human
                   Hand
                   ,
                
                 
                   Can
                   the
                   victorious
                   Element
                   withstand
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Pious
                   Heroe
                   rends
                   his
                   Robe
                   ,
                   and
                   throws
                
                 
                   To
                   Heav'n
                   his
                   Hands
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   his
                   Hands
                   his
                   Vows
                   .
                
                 
                   O
                   Jove
                   ,
                   he
                   cry'd
                   ,
                   if
                   Pray'rs
                   can
                   yet
                   have
                   place
                   ;
                
                 
                   If
                   thou
                   abhorr'st
                   not
                   all
                   the
                   Dardan
                   Race
                   ;
                
                 
                   If
                   any
                   spark
                   of
                   Pity
                   still
                   remain
                   ;
                
                 
                   If
                   Gods
                   are
                   Gods
                   ,
                   and
                   not
                   invok'd
                   in
                   vain
                   ;
                
                 
                   Yet
                   spare
                   the
                   Relicks
                   of
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Train
                   .
                
                 
                   Yet
                   from
                   the
                   Flames
                   our
                   burning
                   Vessels
                   free
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   let
                   thy
                   Fury
                   fall
                   alone
                   on
                   me
                   .
                
                 
                   At
                   this
                   devoted
                   Head
                   thy
                   Thunder
                   throw
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   send
                   the
                   willing
                   Sacrifice
                   below
                   .
                
                 
                   Scarce
                   had
                   he
                   said
                   ,
                   when
                   Southern
                   Storms
                   arise
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   Pole
                   to
                   Pole
                   ,
                   the
                   forky
                   Lightning
                   flies
                   ;
                
                 
                   Loud
                   ratling
                   shakes
                   the
                   Mountains
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Plain
                   :
                
                 
                   Heav'n
                   bellies
                   downward
                   ,
                   and
                   descends
                   in
                   Rain
                   .
                
                 
                   Whole
                   Sheets
                   of
                   Water
                   from
                   the
                   Clouds
                   are
                   sent
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   hissing
                   thro'
                   the
                   Planks
                   ,
                   the
                   Flames
                   prevent
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   stop
                   the
                   fiery
                   Pest
                   :
                   Four
                   Ships
                   alone
                
                 
                   Burn
                   to
                   the
                   wast
                   ;
                   and
                   for
                   the
                   Fleet
                   attone
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   doubtful
                   thoughts
                   the
                   Hero's
                   Heart
                   divide
                   ;
                
                 
                   If
                   he
                   should
                   still
                   in
                   Sicily
                   reside
                   ,
                
                 
                   Forgetful
                   of
                   his
                   Fates
                   ;
                   or
                   tempt
                   the
                   Main
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   hope
                   the
                   promis'd
                   Italy
                   to
                   gain
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   Nautes
                   ,
                   old
                   ,
                   and
                   wise
                   ,
                   to
                   whom
                   alone
                
                 
                   The
                   Will
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   by
                   Pallas
                   was
                   fore-shown
                   ;
                
                 
                   Vers'd
                   in
                   Portents
                   ,
                   experienc'd
                   and
                   inspir'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   tell
                   Events
                   ,
                   and
                   what
                   the
                   Fates
                   requir'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Thus
                   while
                   he
                   stood
                   ,
                   to
                   neither
                   part
                   inclin'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   chearful
                   Words
                   reliev'd
                   his
                   lab'ring
                   Mind
                   .
                
                 
                   O
                   Goddess-born
                   ,
                   resign'd
                   in
                   ev'ry
                   state
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Patience
                   bear
                   ,
                   with
                   Prudence
                   push
                   your
                   Fate
                   .
                
                 
                   By
                   suff'ring
                   well
                   ,
                   our
                   Fortune
                   we
                   subdue
                   ;
                
                 
                   Fly
                   when
                   she
                   frowns
                   ,
                   and
                   when
                   she
                   calls
                   pursue
                   .
                
                 
                   Your
                   Friend
                   Acestes
                   is
                   of
                   Trojan
                   Kind
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   him
                   disclose
                   the
                   Secrets
                   of
                   your
                   Mind
                   :
                
                 
                   Trust
                   in
                   his
                   Hands
                   your
                   old
                   and
                   useless
                   Train
                   ,
                
                 
                   Too
                   num'rous
                   for
                   the
                   Ships
                   which
                   yet
                   remain
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   feeble
                   ,
                   old
                   ,
                   indulgent
                   of
                   their
                   Ease
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Dames
                   who
                   dread
                   the
                   Dangers
                   of
                   the
                   Seas
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   all
                   the
                   dastard
                   Crew
                   ,
                   who
                   dare
                   not
                   stand
                
                 
                   The
                   shock
                   of
                   Battel
                   with
                   your
                   Foes
                   by
                   Land
                   ;
                
                 
                   Here
                   you
                   may
                   build
                   a
                   common
                   Town
                   for
                   all
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   from
                   Acestes
                   name
                   ,
                   Acesta
                   call
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Reasons
                   ,
                   with
                   his
                   Friend's
                   Experience
                   join'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Encourag'd
                   much
                   ,
                   but
                   more
                   disturb'd
                   his
                   Mind
                   .
                
                 
                   'T
                   was
                   dead
                   of
                   Night
                   ;
                   when
                   to
                   his
                   slumb'ring
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Father's
                   Shade
                   descended
                   from
                   the
                   Skies
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   thus
                   he
                   spoke
                   :
                   O
                   more
                   than
                   vital
                   Breath
                
                 
                   Lov'd
                   while
                   I
                   liv'd
                   ,
                   and
                   dear
                   ev'n
                   after
                   Death
                   ;
                
                 
                   O
                   Son
                   ,
                   in
                   various
                   Toils
                   and
                   Troubles
                   tost
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   King
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   employs
                   my
                   careful
                   Ghost
                
                 
                 
                   On
                   his
                   Commands
                   ;
                   the
                   God
                   who
                   sav'd
                   from
                   Fire
                
                 
                   Your
                   flaming
                   Fleet
                   ,
                   and
                   heard
                   your
                   just
                   desire
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Wholsom
                   Counsel
                   of
                   your
                   Friend
                   receive
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   here
                   ,
                   the
                   Coward
                   Train
                   ,
                   and
                   Women
                   leave
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   chosen
                   Youth
                   ,
                   and
                   those
                   who
                   nobly
                   dare
                   ,
                
                 
                   Transport
                   ;
                   to
                   tempt
                   the
                   Dangers
                   of
                   the
                   War.
                
                 
                   The
                   stern
                   Italians
                   will
                   their
                   Courage
                   try
                   ;
                
                 
                   Rough
                   are
                   their
                   Manners
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   Minds
                   are
                   high
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   first
                   to
                   
                   Pluto's
                   Palace
                   you
                   shall
                   go
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   seek
                   my
                   Shade
                   among
                   the
                   blest
                   below
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   not
                   with
                   impious
                   Ghosts
                   my
                   Soul
                   remains
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   suffers
                   ,
                   with
                   the
                   Damn'd
                   ,
                   perpetual
                   Pains
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   breaths
                   the
                   living
                   Air
                   of
                   soft
                   Elysian
                   Plains
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   chast
                   Sybilla
                   shall
                   your
                   steps
                   convey
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Blood
                   of
                   offer'd
                   Victims
                   free
                   the
                   way
                   .
                
                 
                   There
                   shall
                   you
                   know
                   what
                   Realms
                   the
                   Gods
                   assign
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   learn
                   the
                   Fates
                   and
                   Fortunes
                   of
                   your
                   Line
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   now
                   ,
                   farewel
                   ;
                   I
                   vanish
                   with
                   the
                   Night
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   feel
                   the
                   blast
                   of
                   Heav'ns
                   approaching
                   Light
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   said
                   ,
                   and
                   mix'd
                   with
                   Shades
                   ,
                   and
                   took
                   his
                   airy
                   flight
                   .
                
                 
                   Whether
                   so
                   fast
                   ,
                   the
                   filial
                   Duty
                   cry'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   why
                   ,
                   ah
                   why
                   ,
                   the
                   wish'd
                   Embrace
                   deny'd
                   !
                
                 
                   He
                   said
                   ,
                   and
                   rose
                   :
                   as
                   holy
                   Zeal
                   inspires
                
                 
                   He
                   rakes
                   hot
                   Embers
                   ,
                   and
                   renews
                   the
                   Fires
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   Country
                   Gods
                   and
                   Vesta
                   ,
                   then
                   adores
                
                 
                   With
                   Cakes
                   and
                   Incense
                   ;
                   and
                   their
                   Aid
                   implores
                   .
                
                 
                   Next
                   ,
                   for
                   his
                   Friends
                   ,
                   and
                   Royal
                   Host
                   he
                   sent
                   ,
                
                 
                   Reveal'd
                   his
                   Vision
                   and
                   the
                   Gods
                   intent
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   his
                   own
                   Purpose
                   :
                   All
                   ,
                   without
                   delay
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Will
                   of
                   Jove
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Desires
                   obey
                   .
                
                 
                   They
                   list
                   with
                   Women
                   each
                   degenerate
                   Name
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   dares
                   not
                   hazard
                   Life
                   ,
                   for
                   future
                   Fame
                   .
                
                 
                   These
                   they
                   cashier
                   ;
                   the
                   brave
                   remaining
                   few
                   ,
                
                 
                   Oars
                   ,
                   Banks
                   ,
                   and
                   Cables
                   half
                   consum'd
                   renew
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Prince
                   designs
                   a
                   City
                   with
                   the
                   Plough
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Lots
                   their
                   sev'ral
                   Tenements
                   allow
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   part
                   is
                   nam'd
                   from
                   Ilium
                   ,
                   that
                   from
                   Troy
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   new
                   King
                   ascends
                   the
                   Throme
                   with
                   Joy.
                
                 
                   A
                   chosen
                   Senate
                   from
                   the
                   People
                   draws
                   ;
                
                 
                   Appoints
                   the
                   Judges
                   ,
                   and
                   ordains
                   the
                   Laws
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   on
                   the
                   top
                   of
                   Eryx
                   ,
                   they
                   begin
                
                 
                   To
                   raise
                   a
                   Temple
                   to
                   the
                   Paphian
                   Queen
                   :
                
                 
                   Anchises
                   ,
                   last
                   ,
                   is
                   honour'd
                   as
                   a
                   God
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Priest
                   is
                   added
                   ,
                   annual
                   Gifts
                   bestow'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Groves
                   are
                   planted
                   round
                   his
                   blest
                   Abode
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nine
                   days
                   they
                   pass
                   in
                   Feasts
                   ,
                   their
                   Temples
                   crown'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   fumes
                   of
                   Incense
                   in
                   the
                   Fanes
                   abound
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   from
                   the
                   South
                   arose
                   a
                   gēntle
                   Breeze
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   curl'd
                   the
                   smoothness
                   of
                   the
                   glassy
                   Seas
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   rising
                   Winds
                   ,
                   a
                   ruffling
                   Gale
                   afford
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   call
                   the
                   merry
                   Marriners
                   aboard
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Now
                   loud
                   Laments
                   along
                   the
                   Shores
                   resound
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   parting
                   Friends
                   in
                   close
                   Embraces
                   bound
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   trembling
                   Women
                   ,
                   the
                   degenerate
                   Train
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   shun'd
                   the
                   frightful
                   dangers
                   of
                   the
                   Main
                   ;
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   those
                   desire
                   to
                   fail
                   ,
                   and
                   take
                   their
                   share
                
                 
                   Of
                   the
                   rough
                   Passage
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   promis'd
                   War.
                
                 
                   Whom
                   Good
                   Aeneas
                   chears
                   ;
                   and
                   recommends
                
                 
                   To
                   their
                   new
                   Master's
                   Care
                   ,
                   his
                   fearful
                   Friends
                   .
                
                 
                   On
                   Eryx
                   Altars
                   three
                   sat
                   Calves
                   he
                   lays
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   Lamb
                   new
                   fall'n
                   to
                   the
                   stormy
                   Seas
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   flips
                   his
                   Haulsers
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Anchors
                   weighs
                   .
                
                 
                   High
                   on
                   the
                   Deck
                   ,
                   the
                   Godlike
                   Heroe
                   stands
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   Olive
                   crown'd
                   ;
                   a
                   Charger
                   in
                   his
                   Hands
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   cast
                   the
                   reeking
                   Entrails
                   in
                   the
                   brine
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   pour'd
                   the
                   Sacrifice
                   of
                   Purple
                   Wine
                   .
                
                 
                   Fresh
                   Gales
                   arise
                   ,
                   with
                   equal
                   Strokes
                   they
                   vye
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   brush
                   the
                   buxom
                   Seas
                   ,
                   and
                   o're
                   the
                   Billows
                   fly
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Mean
                   time
                   the
                   Mother-Goddess
                   ,
                   full
                   of
                   Fears
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   Neptune
                   thus
                   address'd
                   ,
                   with
                   tender
                   Tears
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Pride
                   of
                   
                   Jove's
                   Imperious
                   Queen
                   ,
                   the
                   Rage
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   malice
                   which
                   no
                   Suff'rings
                   can
                   asswage
                   ,
                
                 
                   Compel
                   me
                   to
                   these
                   Pray'rs
                   :
                   Since
                   neither
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Time
                   ,
                   nor
                   Pity
                   ,
                   can
                   remove
                   her
                   hate
                   .
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   Jove
                   is
                   thwarted
                   by
                   his
                   haughty
                   Wife
                   ;
                
                 
                   Still
                   vanquish'd
                   ,
                   yet
                   she
                   still
                   renews
                   the
                   Strife
                   .
                
                 
                   As
                   if
                   't
                   were
                   little
                   to
                   consume
                   the
                   Town
                
                 
                   Which
                   aw'd
                   the
                   World
                   ;
                   and
                   wore
                   th'
                   Imperial
                   Crown
                   :
                
                 
                   She
                   prosecutes
                   the
                   Ghost
                   of
                   Troy
                   with
                   Pains
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   gnaws
                   ,
                   ev'n
                   to
                   the
                   Bones
                   ,
                   the
                   last
                   Remains
                   .
                
                 
                   Let
                   her
                   the
                   Causes
                   of
                   her
                   Hatred
                   tell
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   you
                   can
                   witness
                   its
                   Effects
                   too
                   well
                   .
                
                 
                   You
                   saw
                   the
                   Storm
                   she
                   rais'd
                   on
                   Lybian
                   Floods
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   mix'd
                   the
                   mounting
                   Billows
                   with
                   the
                   Clouds
                   .
                
                 
                   When
                   ,
                   bribing
                   Eolus
                   ,
                   she
                   shook
                   the
                   Main
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   mov'd
                   Rebellion
                   in
                   your
                   wat'ry
                   Reign
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   Fury
                   she
                   possess'd
                   the
                   Dardan
                   Dames
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   burn
                   their
                   Fleet
                   with
                   execrable
                   Flames
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   forc'd
                   Aeneas
                   ,
                   when
                   his
                   Ships
                   were
                   lost
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   leave
                   his
                   Foll'wers
                   on
                   a
                   Foreign
                   Coast
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   what
                   remains
                   ,
                   your
                   Godhead
                   I
                   implore
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   trust
                   my
                   Son
                   to
                   your
                   protecting
                   Pow'r
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   neither
                   
                   Jove's
                   ,
                   nor
                   Fate
                   's
                   decree
                   withstand
                   ,
                
                 
                   Secure
                   his
                   Passage
                   to
                   the
                   Latian
                   Land.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   thus
                   the
                   mighty
                   Ruler
                   of
                   the
                   Main
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   may
                   not
                   Venus
                   hope
                   ,
                   from
                   
                   Neptune's
                   Reign
                   ?
                
                 
                   My
                   Kingdom
                   claims
                   your
                   Birth
                   :
                   my
                   late
                   Defence
                
                 
                   Of
                   your
                   indanger'd
                   Fleet
                   ,
                   may
                   claim
                   your
                   Confidence
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   less
                   by
                   Land
                   than
                   Sea
                   ,
                   my
                   Deeds
                   declare
                   ,
                
                 
                   How
                   much
                   your
                   lov'd
                   Aeneas
                   is
                   my
                   Care.
                
                 
                   Thee
                   Xanthus
                   ,
                   and
                   thee
                   Simois
                   I
                   attest
                   :
                
                 
                   Your
                   Trojan
                   Troops
                   ,
                   when
                   proud
                   Achilles
                   press'd
                   ,
                
              
               
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     Edmond
                     Waller
                     of
                     Beacons
                     Field
                     in
                     the
                     County
                     of
                     Bucks
                     
                       Esq
                    
                  
                   
                     AE
                     5.
                     l.
                     1075
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   And
                   drove
                   before
                   him
                   headlong
                   on
                   the
                   Plain
                
                 
                   And
                   dash'd
                   against
                   the
                   Walls
                   the
                   trembling
                   T●●●●
                
                 
                   When
                   Floods
                   were
                   fill'd
                   with
                   bodies
                   of
                   the
                   slain
                   .
                
                 
                   When
                   Crimson
                   Xanthus
                   ,
                   doubtful
                   of
                   his
                   way
                   ,
                
                 
                   Stood
                   up
                   on
                   ridges
                   to
                   behold
                   the
                   Sea
                   ;
                
                 
                   New
                   heaps
                   came
                   tumbling
                   in
                   ,
                   and
                   choak'd
                   his
                   way
                   :
                
                 
                   When
                   your
                   Aeneas
                   fought
                   ,
                   but
                   fought
                   with
                   odds
                
                 
                   Of
                   Force
                   unequal
                   ,
                   and
                   unequal
                   Gods
                   ;
                
                 
                   I
                   spread
                   a
                   Cloud
                   before
                   the
                   Victor's
                   sight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sustain'd
                   the
                   vanquish'd
                   ,
                   and
                   secur'd
                   his
                   flight
                   .
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   then
                   secur'd
                   him
                   ,
                   when
                   I
                   sought
                   with
                   joy
                
                 
                   The
                   vow'd
                   destruction
                   of
                   ungrateful
                   Troy.
                
                 
                   My
                   Will
                   's
                   the
                   same
                   :
                   Fair
                   Goddess
                   fear
                   no
                   more
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   Fleet
                   shall
                   safely
                   gain
                   the
                   Latian
                   Shore
                   :
                
                 
                   Their
                   lives
                   are
                   giv'n
                   ;
                   one
                   destin'd
                   Head
                   alone
                
                 
                   Shall
                   perish
                   ,
                   and
                   for
                   Multitudes
                   attone
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   having
                   arm'd
                   with
                   Hopes
                   her
                   anxious
                   Mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   finny
                   Team
                   
                     Saturnian
                     Neptune
                  
                   join'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   adds
                   the
                   foamy
                   Bridle
                   to
                   their
                   Jaws
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   to
                   the
                   loosen'd
                   Reins
                   permits
                   the
                   Laws
                   .
                
                 
                   High
                   on
                   the
                   Waves
                   his
                   Azure
                   Car
                   he
                   guides
                   ,
                
                 
                   Its
                   Axles
                   thunder
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Sea
                   subsides
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   smooth
                   Ocean
                   rowls
                   her
                   silent
                   Tides
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Tempests
                   fly
                   before
                   their
                   Father's
                   face
                   ,
                
                 
                   Trains
                   of
                   inferiour
                   Gods
                   his
                   Triumph
                   grace
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Monster
                   Whales
                   before
                   their
                   Master
                   play
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Quires
                   of
                   Tritons
                   crowd
                   the
                   wat'ry
                   way
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Martial'd
                   Pow'rs
                   ,
                   in
                   equal
                   Troops
                   divide
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   right
                   and
                   left
                   :
                   the
                   Gods
                   his
                   better
                   side
                
                 
                   Inclose
                   ,
                   and
                   on
                   the
                   worse
                   the
                   Nymphs
                   and
                   Nereids
                   ride
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Now
                   smiling
                   Hope
                   ,
                   with
                   sweet
                   Vicissitude
                   ,
                
                 
                   Within
                   the
                   Hero's
                   Mind
                   ,
                   his
                   Joys
                   renew'd
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   calls
                   to
                   raise
                   the
                   Masts
                   ,
                   the
                   Sheats
                   display
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Chearful
                   Crew
                   with
                   diligence
                   obey
                   ;
                
                 
                   They
                   scud
                   before
                   the
                   Wind
                   ,
                   and
                   sail
                   in
                   open
                   Sea.
                
                 
                 
                   A
                   Head
                   of
                   all
                   the
                   Master
                   Pilot
                   steers
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   as
                   he
                   leads
                   ,
                   the
                   following
                   Navy
                   veers
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Steeds
                   of
                   Night
                   had
                   travell'd
                   half
                   the
                   Sky
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   drowzy
                   Rowers
                   on
                   their
                   Benches
                   lye
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   the
                   soft
                   God
                   of
                   Sleep
                   ,
                   with
                   easie
                   flight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Descends
                   ,
                   and
                   draws
                   behind
                   a
                   trail
                   of
                   Light.
                
                 
                   Thou
                   Palinurus
                   art
                   his
                   destin'd
                   Prey
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   thee
                   alone
                   he
                   takes
                   his
                   fatal
                   way
                   .
                
                 
                   Dire
                   Dreams
                   to
                   thee
                   ,
                   and
                   Iron
                   Sleep
                   he
                   bears
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   lighting
                   on
                   thy
                   Prow
                   ,
                   the
                   Form
                   of
                   Phorbas
                   wears
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   thus
                   the
                   Traytor
                   God
                   began
                   his
                   Tale
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Winds
                   ,
                   my
                   Friend
                   ,
                   inspire
                   a
                   pleasing
                   gale
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Ships
                   ,
                   without
                   thy
                   Care
                   ,
                   securely
                   sail
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   steal
                   an
                   hour
                   of
                   sweet
                   Repose
                   ;
                   and
                   I
                
                 
                   Will
                   take
                   the
                   Rudder
                   ,
                   and
                   thy
                   room
                   supply
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   whom
                   the
                   yauning
                   Pilot
                   ,
                   half
                   asleep
                   ;
                
                 
                   Me
                   dost
                   thou
                   bid
                   to
                   trust
                   the
                   treach'rous
                   Deep
                   !
                
                 
                   The
                   Harlot-smiles
                   of
                   her
                   dissembling
                   Face
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   to
                   her
                   Faith
                   commit
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Race
                   ?
                
                 
                   Shall
                   I
                   believe
                   the
                   Syren
                   South
                   again
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   oft
                   betray'd
                   ,
                   not
                   know
                   the
                   Monster
                   Main
                   ?
                
                 
                   He
                   said
                   ,
                   his
                   fasten'd
                   hands
                   the
                   Rudder
                   keep
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   fix'd
                   on
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   his
                   Eyes
                   repel
                   invading
                   Sleep
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   God
                   was
                   wroth
                   ,
                   and
                   at
                   his
                   Temples
                   threw
                
                 
                   A
                   Branch
                   in
                   Lethe
                   dip'd
                   ,
                   and
                   drunk
                   with
                   Stygian
                   Dew
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Pilot
                   ,
                   vanquish'd
                   by
                   the
                   Pow'r
                   Divine
                   ,
                
                 
                   Soon
                   clos'd
                   his
                   swimming
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   and
                   lay
                   supine
                   .
                
                 
                   Scarce
                   were
                   his
                   Limbs
                   extended
                   at
                   their
                   length
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   God
                   ,
                   insulting
                   with
                   superiour
                   Strength
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fell
                   heavy
                   on
                   him
                   ,
                   plung'd
                   him
                   in
                   the
                   Sea
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   with
                   the
                   Stern
                   ,
                   the
                   Rudder
                   tore
                   away
                   .
                
                 
                   Headlong
                   he
                   fell
                   ,
                   and
                   strugling
                   in
                   the
                   Main
                   ,
                
                 
                   Cry'd
                   out
                   for
                   helping
                   hands
                   ,
                   but
                   cry'd
                   in
                   vain
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Victor
                   Daemon
                   mounts
                   obscure
                   in
                   Air
                   ;
                
                 
                   While
                   the
                   Ship
                   sails
                   without
                   the
                   Pilot's
                   care
                   .
                
                 
                   On
                   
                   Neptune's
                   Faith
                   the
                   floating
                   Fleet
                   relies
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   what
                   the
                   Man
                   forsook
                   ,
                   the
                   God
                   supplies
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   o're
                   the
                   dang'rous
                   Deep
                   secure
                   the
                   Navy
                   flies
                   .
                
                 
                   Glides
                   by
                   the
                   Syren's
                   Cliffs
                   ,
                   a
                   shelfy
                   Coast
                   ,
                
                 
                   Long
                   infamous
                   for
                   Ships
                   ,
                   and
                   Sailors
                   lost
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   white
                   with
                   Bones
                   :
                   Th'
                   impetuous
                   Ocean
                   roars
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Rocks
                   rebellow
                   from
                   the
                   sounding
                   Shores.
                
                 
                   The
                   watchful
                   Heroe
                   felt
                   the
                   knocks
                   ;
                   and
                   found
                
                 
                   The
                   tossing
                   Vessel
                   sail'd
                   on
                   shoaly
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                   Sure
                   of
                   his
                   Pilot's
                   loss
                   ,
                   he
                   takes
                   himself
                
                 
                   The
                   Helm
                   ,
                   and
                   steers
                   aloof
                   ,
                   and
                   shuns
                   the
                   Shelf
                   .
                
                 
                   Inly
                   he
                   griev'd
                   ;
                   and
                   groaning
                   from
                   his
                   Breast
                   ,
                
                 
                   Deplor'd
                   his
                   Death
                   ;
                   and
                   thus
                   his
                   Pain
                   express'd
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   Faith
                   repos'd
                   on
                   Seas
                   ,
                   and
                   on
                   the
                   flatt'ring
                   Sky
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thy
                   naked
                   Corps
                   is
                   doom'd
                   ,
                   on
                   Shores
                   unknown
                   to
                   lye
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 The
                 Sixth
                 Book
                 of
                 the
                 Aeneis
                 .
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Argument
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     The
                     Sibyl
                     foretels
                  
                   Aeneas
                   
                     the
                     Adventures
                     he
                     should
                     meet
                     with
                     in
                  
                   Italy
                   .
                   
                     She
                     attends
                     him
                     to
                     Hell
                     ;
                     describing
                     to
                     him
                     the
                     various
                     Scenes
                     of
                     that
                     Place
                     ,
                     and
                     conducting
                     him
                     to
                     his
                     Father
                  
                   Anchises
                   .
                   
                     Who
                     instructs
                     him
                     in
                     those
                     sublime
                     Mysteries
                     of
                     the
                     Soul
                     of
                     the
                     World
                     ,
                     and
                     the
                     Transmigration
                     :
                     And
                     shews
                     him
                     that
                     glorious
                     Race
                     of
                     Heroes
                     ,
                     which
                     was
                     to
                     descend
                     from
                     him
                     ,
                     and
                     his
                     Posterity
                     .
                  
                
              
               
                 
                   HE
                   said
                   ,
                   and
                   wept
                   :
                   Then
                   spread
                   his
                   Sails
                   before
                
                 
                   The
                   Winds
                   ,
                   and
                   reach'd
                   at
                   length
                   the
                   Cuman
                   Shore
                   :
                
                 
                   Their
                   Anchors
                   drop'd
                   ,
                   his
                   Crew
                   the
                   Vessels
                   moor
                   .
                
                 
                   They
                   turn
                   their
                   Heads
                   to
                   Sea
                   ;
                   their
                   Sterns
                   to
                   Land
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   greet
                   with
                   greedy
                   Joy
                   th'
                   Italian
                   Strand
                   .
                
                 
                   Some
                   strike
                   from
                   clashing
                   Flints
                   their
                   fiery
                   Seed
                   ;
                
                 
                   Some
                   gather
                   Sticks
                   ,
                   the
                   kindled
                   Flames
                   to
                   feed
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   search
                   for
                   hollow
                   Trees
                   ,
                   and
                   fell
                   the
                   Woods
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   trace
                   thro
                   Valleys
                   the
                   discover'd
                   Floods
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   ,
                   while
                   their
                   sev'ral
                   Charges
                   they
                   fulfil
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Pious
                   Prince
                   ascends
                   the
                   sacred
                   Hill
                
                 
                   Where
                   Phoebus
                   is
                   ador'd
                   ;
                   and
                   seeks
                   the
                   Shade
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   hides
                   from
                   sight
                   ,
                   his
                   venerable
                   Maid
                   .
                
                 
                   Deep
                   in
                   a
                   Cave
                   the
                   Sibyl
                   makes
                   abode
                   ;
                
                 
                   Thence
                   full
                   of
                   Fate
                   returns
                   ,
                   and
                   of
                   the
                   God.
                
                 
                   Thro
                   
                   Trivia's
                   Grove
                   they
                   walk
                   ;
                   and
                   now
                   behold
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   enter
                   now
                   ,
                   the
                   Temple
                   roof'd
                   with
                   Gold.
                
                 
                   When
                   Dedalus
                   ,
                   to
                   shun
                   the
                   Cretan
                   Shore
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   heavy
                   Limbs
                   on
                   jointed
                   Pinions
                   bore
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   The
                   first
                   who
                   sail'd
                   in
                   Air
                   ,
                   )
                   't
                   is
                   sung
                   by
                   Fame
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   the
                   Cumaean
                   Coast
                   at
                   length
                   he
                   came
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   here
                   alighting
                   ,
                   built
                   this
                   costly
                   Frame
                   .
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     y
                     e
                     Right
                     Hon
                     ble
                     Basil
                     Earle
                     of
                     Denbigh
                     Vis-count
                     Fielding
                     Baron
                     Newenham
                     Padox
                     &
                     S
                     t
                     Lis
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     6.
                     l.
                     ●
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                 
                   Inscrib'd
                   to
                   Phoebus
                   ,
                   here
                   he
                   hung
                   on
                   high
                
                 
                   The
                   steerage
                   of
                   his
                   Wings
                   ,
                   that
                   cut
                   the
                   Sky
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   o're
                   the
                   lofty
                   Gate
                   his
                   Art
                   emboss'd
                
                 
                   Androgeos
                   Death
                   ,
                   and
                   Off'rings
                   to
                   his
                   Ghost
                   .
                
                 
                   Sev'n
                   Youths
                   from
                   Athens
                   yearly
                   sent
                   ,
                   to
                   meet
                
                 
                   The
                   Fate
                   appointed
                   by
                   revengeful
                   Creet
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   next
                   to
                   these
                   the
                   dreadful
                   Urn
                   was
                   plac'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   which
                   the
                   destin'd
                   Name
                   by
                   Lots
                   were
                   cast
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   mournful
                   Parents
                   stand
                   around
                   in
                   Tears
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   rising
                   Creet
                   against
                   their
                   Shore
                   appears
                   .
                
                 
                   There
                   too
                   ,
                   in
                   living
                   Sculpture
                   ,
                   might
                   be
                   seen
                
                 
                   The
                   mad
                   Affection
                   of
                   the
                   Cretan
                   Queen
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   how
                   she
                   cheats
                   her
                   bellowing
                   Lover's
                   Eye
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   rushing
                   leap
                   ,
                   the
                   doubtful
                   Progeny
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   lower
                   part
                   a
                   Beast
                   ,
                   a
                   Man
                   above
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Monument
                   of
                   their
                   polluted
                   Love.
                
                 
                   Nor
                   far
                   from
                   thence
                   he
                   grav'd
                   the
                   wond'rous
                   Maze
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   thousand
                   Doors
                   ,
                   a
                   thousand
                   winding
                   Ways
                   ;
                
                 
                   Here
                   dwells
                   the
                   Monster
                   ,
                   hid
                   from
                   Human
                   View
                   ,
                
                 
                   Not
                   to
                   be
                   found
                   ,
                   but
                   by
                   the
                   faithful
                   Clue
                   :
                
                 
                   'Till
                   the
                   kind
                   Artist
                   ,
                   mov'd
                   with
                   Pious
                   Grief
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lent
                   to
                   the
                   loving
                   Maid
                   this
                   last
                   Relief
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   those
                   erring
                   Paths
                   describ'd
                   so
                   well
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   Theseus
                   conquer'd
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Monster
                   fell
                   .
                
                 
                   Here
                   hapless
                   Icarus
                   had
                   found
                   his
                   part
                   ;
                
                 
                   Had
                   not
                   the
                   Father's
                   Grief
                   restrain'd
                   his
                   Art.
                
                 
                   He
                   twice
                   essay'd
                   to
                   cast
                   his
                   Son
                   in
                   Gold
                   ;
                
                 
                   Twice
                   from
                   his
                   Hands
                   he
                   drop'd
                   the
                   forming
                   Mould
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   All
                   this
                   with
                   wond'ring
                   Eyes
                   Aeneas
                   view'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Each
                   varying
                   Object
                   his
                   Delight
                   renew'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Prepar'd
                   to
                   read
                   the
                   rest
                   ,
                   Achates
                   came
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   by
                   his
                   side
                   the
                   mad
                   divining
                   Dame
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Priestess
                   of
                   the
                   God
                   ,
                   Deiphobe
                   her
                   Name
                   .
                
                 
                 
                 
                 
                 
                 
                   Time
                   suffers
                   not
                   ,
                   she
                   said
                   ,
                   to
                   feed
                   your
                   Eyes
                
                 
                   With
                   empty
                   Pleasures
                   :
                   haste
                   the
                   Sacrifice
                   .
                
                 
                   Sev'n
                   Bullocks
                   yet
                   unyok'd
                   ,
                   for
                   Phoebus
                   chuse
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   for
                   Diana
                   sev'n
                   unspotted
                   Ewes
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   said
                   ,
                   the
                   Servants
                   urge
                   the
                   Sacred
                   Rites
                   ;
                
                 
                   While
                   to
                   the
                   Temple
                   she
                   the
                   Prince
                   invites
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   spacious
                   Cave
                   ,
                   within
                   its
                   farmost
                   part
                   ,
                
                 
                   Was
                   hew'd
                   and
                   fashion'd
                   by
                   laborious
                   Art.
                
                 
                   Thro'
                   the
                   Hills
                   hollow
                   sides
                   :
                   Before
                   the
                   place
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   hundred
                   Doors
                   a
                   hundred
                   Entries
                   grace
                   :
                
                 
                   As
                   many
                   Voices
                   issue
                   ;
                   and
                   the
                   sound
                
                 
                   Of
                   Sibyl's
                   Words
                   as
                   many
                   times
                   rebound
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   to
                   the
                   Mouth
                   they
                   come
                   :
                   Aloud
                   she
                   cries
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   is
                   the
                   time
                   ,
                   enquire
                   your
                   Destinies
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   comes
                   ,
                   behold
                   the
                   God!
                   Thus
                   while
                   she
                   said
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   And
                   shiv'ring
                   at
                   the
                   sacred
                   Entry
                   staid
                   )
                
                 
                   Her
                   Colour
                   chang'd
                   ,
                   her
                   Face
                   was
                   not
                   the
                   same
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   hollow
                   Groans
                   from
                   her
                   deep
                   Spirit
                   came
                   .
                
                 
                   Her
                   Hair
                   stood
                   up
                   ;
                   convulsive
                   Rage
                   possess'd
                
                 
                   Her
                   trembling
                   Limbs
                   ,
                   and
                   heav'd
                   her
                   lab'ring
                   Breast
                   .
                
                 
                   Greater
                   than
                   Human
                   Kind
                   she
                   seem'd
                   to
                   look
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   an
                   Accent
                   ,
                   more
                   than
                   Mortal
                   ,
                   spoke
                   .
                
                 
                   Her
                   staring
                   Eyes
                   with
                   sparling
                   Fury
                   rowl
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   all
                   the
                   God
                   came
                   rushing
                   on
                   her
                   Soul.
                
                 
                   Swiftly
                   she
                   turn'd
                   ,
                   and
                   foaming
                   as
                   she
                   spoke
                   ,
                
                 
                   Why
                   this
                   Delay
                   ,
                   she
                   cry'd
                   ;
                   the
                   Pow'rs
                   invoke
                   .
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Pray'rs
                   alone
                   can
                   open
                   this
                   abode
                   ,
                
                 
                   Else
                   vain
                   are
                   my
                   Demands
                   ,
                   and
                   dumb
                   the
                   God.
                
                 
                   She
                   said
                   no
                   more
                   :
                   The
                   trembling
                   Trojans
                   hear
                   ;
                
                 
                   O're-spread
                   with
                   a
                   damp
                   Sweat
                   ,
                   and
                   holy
                   Fear
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Prince
                   himself
                   ,
                   with
                   awful
                   Dread
                   possess'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Vows
                   to
                   great
                   Apollo
                   thus
                   address'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Indulgent
                   God
                   ,
                   propitious
                   Pow'r
                   to
                   Troy
                   ,
                
                 
                   Swift
                   to
                   relieve
                   ,
                   unwilling
                   to
                   destroy
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   Directed
                   by
                   whose
                   Hand
                   ,
                   the
                   Dardan
                   Dart
                
                 
                   Pierc'd
                   the
                   proud
                   
                   Grecian's
                   only
                   Mortal
                   part
                   :
                
                 
                   Thus
                   far
                   ,
                   by
                   Fates
                   Decrees
                   ,
                   and
                   thy
                   Commands
                   ,
                
                 
                   Through
                   ambient
                   Seas
                   ,
                   and
                   thro'
                   devouring
                   Sands
                   ,
                
                 
                   Our
                   exil'd
                   Crew
                   has
                   sought
                   th'
                   Ausonian
                   Ground
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   ,
                   at
                   length
                   ,
                   the
                   flying
                   Coast
                   is
                   found
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   far
                   the
                   Fate
                   of
                   Troy
                   ,
                   from
                   place
                   to
                   place
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Fury
                   has
                   pursu'd
                   her
                   wand'ring
                   Race
                   :
                
                 
                   Here
                   cease
                   ye
                   Pow'rs
                   ,
                   and
                   let
                   your
                   Vengeance
                   end
                   ,
                
                 
                   Troy
                   is
                   no
                   more
                   ,
                   and
                   can
                   no
                   more
                   offend
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   thou
                   ,
                   O
                   sacred
                   Maid
                   ,
                   inspir'd
                   to
                   see
                
                 
                   Th'
                   Event
                   of
                   things
                   in
                   dark
                   Futurity
                   ;
                
                 
                   Give
                   me
                   ,
                   what
                   Heav'n
                   has
                   promis'd
                   to
                   my
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   conquer
                   and
                   command
                   the
                   Latian
                   State
                   :
                
                 
                   To
                   fix
                   my
                   wand'ring
                   Gods
                   ;
                   and
                   find
                   a
                   place
                
                 
                   For
                   the
                   long
                   Exiles
                   of
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Race
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   shall
                   my
                   grateful
                   Hands
                   a
                   Temple
                   rear
                
                 
                   To
                   the
                   twin
                   Gods
                   ,
                   with
                   Vows
                   and
                   solemn
                   Pray'r
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Annual
                   Rites
                   ,
                   and
                   Festivals
                   ,
                   and
                   Games
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shall
                   be
                   perform'd
                   to
                   their
                   auspicious
                   Names
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   shalt
                   thou
                   want
                   thy
                   Honours
                   in
                   my
                   Land
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   there
                   thy
                   faithful
                   Oracles
                   shall
                   stand
                   ,
                
                 
                   Preserv'd
                   in
                   Shrines
                   :
                   and
                   ev'ry
                   Sacred
                   Lay
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   ,
                   by
                   thy
                   Mouth
                   ,
                   Apollo
                   shall
                   convey
                   .
                
                 
                   All
                   shall
                   be
                   treasur'd
                   ,
                   by
                   a
                   chosen
                   Train
                
                 
                   Of
                   holy
                   Priests
                   ,
                   and
                   ever
                   shall
                   remain
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   ,
                   oh
                   !
                   commit
                   not
                   thy
                   prophetick
                   Mind
                
                 
                   To
                   flitting
                   Leaves
                   ,
                   the
                   sport
                   of
                   ev'ry
                   Wind
                   :
                
                 
                   Lest
                   they
                   disperse
                   in
                   Air
                   our
                   empty
                   Fate
                   :
                
                 
                   Write
                   not
                   ,
                   but
                   ,
                   what
                   the
                   Pow'rs
                   ordain
                   ,
                   relate
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Strugling
                   in
                   vain
                   ,
                   impatient
                   of
                   her
                   Load
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   lab'ring
                   underneath
                   the
                   pond'rous
                   God
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   more
                   she
                   strove
                   to
                   shake
                   him
                   from
                   her
                   Breast
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   more
                   ,
                   and
                   far
                   superior
                   Force
                   he
                   press'd
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Commands
                   his
                   Entrance
                   ,
                   and
                   without
                   Controul
                   ,
                
                 
                   Usurps
                   her
                   Organs
                   ,
                   and
                   inspires
                   her
                   Soul.
                
                 
                   Now
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   furious
                   Blast
                   ,
                   the
                   hundred
                   Doors
                
                 
                   Ope
                   of
                   themselves
                   ;
                   a
                   rushing
                   Wirlwind
                   roars
                
                 
                   Within
                   the
                   Cave
                   ;
                   and
                   Sibyl's
                   Voice
                   restores
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Escap'd
                   the
                   Dangers
                   of
                   the
                   wat'ry
                   Reign
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   more
                   ,
                   and
                   greater
                   Ills
                   ,
                   by
                   Land
                   remain
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Coast
                   so
                   long
                   desir'd
                   ,
                   (
                   nor
                   doubt
                   th'
                   Event
                   )
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Troops
                   shall
                   reach
                   ,
                   but
                   having
                   reach'd
                   ,
                   repent
                   .
                
                 
                   Wars
                   ,
                   horrid
                   Wars
                   I
                   view
                   ;
                   a
                   field
                   of
                   Blood
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Tyber
                   rolling
                   with
                   a
                   Purple
                   Flood
                   .
                
                 
                   Simois
                   nor
                   Xanthus
                   shall
                   be
                   wanting
                   there
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   new
                   Achilles
                   shall
                   in
                   Arms
                   appear
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   he
                   ,
                   too
                   ,
                   Goddess-born
                   :
                   fierce
                   
                   Juno's
                   Hate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Added
                   to
                   hostile
                   Force
                   ,
                   shall
                   urge
                   thy
                   Fate
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   what
                   strange
                   Nations
                   shalt
                   not
                   thou
                   resort
                   ,
                
                 
                   Driv'n
                   to
                   sollicite
                   Aid
                   at
                   ev'ry
                   Court
                   !
                
                 
                   The
                   Cause
                   the
                   same
                   which
                   Ilium
                   once
                   oppress'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   foreign
                   Mistress
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   foreign
                   Guest
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   thou
                   ,
                   secure
                   of
                   Soul
                   ,
                   unbent
                   with
                   Woes
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   more
                   thy
                   Fortune
                   frowns
                   ,
                   the
                   more
                   oppose
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   dawnings
                   of
                   thy
                   Safety
                   ,
                   shall
                   be
                   shown
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   whence
                   thou
                   least
                   shalt
                   hope
                   ,
                   a
                   Grecian
                   Town
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Thus
                   ,
                   from
                   the
                   dark
                   Recess
                   ,
                   the
                   Sibyl
                   spoke
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   resisting
                   Air
                   the
                   Thunder
                   broke
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Cave
                   rebellow'd
                   ;
                   and
                   the
                   Temple
                   shook
                   .
                
                 
                   Th'
                   ambiguous
                   God
                   ,
                   who
                   rul'd
                   her
                   lab'ring
                   Breast
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   these
                   mysterious
                   Words
                   his
                   Mind
                   exprest
                   :
                
                 
                   Some
                   Truths
                   reveal'd
                   ,
                   in
                   Terms
                   involv'd
                   the
                   rest
                   .
                
                 
                   At
                   length
                   her
                   Fury
                   fell
                   ;
                   her
                   foaming
                   ceas'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   ebbing
                   in
                   her
                   Soul
                   ,
                   the
                   God
                   decreas'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   thus
                   the
                   Chief
                   :
                   no
                   Terror
                   to
                   my
                   view
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   frightful
                   Face
                   of
                   Danger
                   can
                   be
                   new
                   .
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     S
                     r
                     Fleetwood
                     Sheppard
                     Knight
                     ,
                     Gent
                     :
                     Vsher
                     of
                     y
                     e
                     Black
                     Rod
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     ●
                     l.
                     150.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                 
                   Inur'd
                   to
                   suffer
                   ,
                   and
                   resolv'd
                   to
                   dare
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Fates
                   ,
                   without
                   my
                   Pow'r
                   ,
                   shall
                   be
                   without
                   my
                   Care.
                
                 
                   This
                   let
                   me
                   crave
                   ,
                   since
                   near
                   your
                   Grove
                   the
                   Road
                
                 
                   To
                   Hell
                   lies
                   open
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   dark
                   Abode
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   Acheron
                   surrounds
                   ,
                   th'
                   innavigable
                   Flood
                   :
                
                 
                   Conduct
                   me
                   thro'
                   the
                   Regions
                   void
                   of
                   Light
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   lead
                   me
                   longing
                   to
                   my
                   Father's
                   sight
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   him
                   ,
                   a
                   thousand
                   Dangers
                   I
                   have
                   sought
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   rushing
                   where
                   the
                   thickest
                   Grecians
                   fought
                   ,
                
                 
                   Safe
                   on
                   my
                   Back
                   the
                   sacred
                   Burthen
                   brought
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   ,
                   for
                   my
                   sake
                   ,
                   the
                   raging
                   Ocean
                   try'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Wrath
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   ;
                   my
                   still
                   auspicious
                   Guide
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   bore
                   beyond
                   the
                   strength
                   decrepid
                   Age
                   supply'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Oft
                   since
                   he
                   breath'd
                   his
                   last
                   ,
                   in
                   dead
                   of
                   Night
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   reverend
                   Image
                   stood
                   before
                   my
                   sight
                   ;
                
                 
                   Enjoin'd
                   to
                   seek
                   below
                   ,
                   his
                   holy
                   Shade
                   ;
                
                 
                   Conducted
                   there
                   ,
                   by
                   your
                   unerring
                   aid
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   you
                   ,
                   if
                   pious
                   Minds
                   by
                   Pray'rs
                   are
                   won
                   ,
                
                 
                   Oblige
                   the
                   Father
                   ,
                   and
                   protect
                   the
                   Son.
                
                 
                   Yours
                   is
                   the
                   Pow'r
                   ;
                   nor
                   Proserpine
                   in
                   vain
                
                 
                   Has
                   made
                   you
                   Priestess
                   of
                   her
                   nightly
                   Reign
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   Orpheus
                   ,
                   arm'd
                   with
                   his
                   enchanting
                   Lyre
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   ruthless
                   King
                   with
                   Pity
                   could
                   inspire
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   from
                   the
                   Shades
                   below
                   redeem
                   his
                   Wife
                   :
                
                 
                   If
                   Pollux
                   ,
                   off'ring
                   his
                   alternate
                   Life
                   ,
                
                 
                   Cou'd
                   free
                   his
                   Brother
                   ;
                   and
                   can
                   daily
                   go
                
                 
                   By
                   turns
                   aloft
                   ,
                   by
                   turns
                   descend
                   below
                   :
                
                 
                   Why
                   name
                   I
                   Theseus
                   ,
                   or
                   his
                   greater
                   Friend
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   trod
                   the
                   downward
                   Path
                   ,
                   and
                   upward
                   cou'd
                   ascend
                   !
                
                 
                   Not
                   less
                   than
                   theirs
                   ,
                   from
                   Jove
                   my
                   Lineage
                   came
                   :
                
                 
                   My
                   Mother
                   greater
                   ,
                   my
                   Descent
                   the
                   same
                   .
                
                 
                   So
                   pray'd
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Prince
                   ;
                   and
                   while
                   he
                   pray'd
                
                 
                   His
                   Hand
                   upon
                   the
                   holy
                   Altar
                   laid
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Then
                   thus
                   reply'd
                   the
                   Prophetess
                   Divine
                   :
                
                 
                   O
                   Goddess
                   born
                   !
                   of
                   Great
                   Anchises
                   Line
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Gates
                   of
                   Hell
                   are
                   open
                   Night
                   and
                   day
                   ;
                
                 
                   Smooth
                   the
                   Descent
                   ,
                   and
                   easie
                   is
                   the
                   Way
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   ,
                   to
                   return
                   ,
                   and
                   view
                   the
                   chearful
                   Skies
                   ;
                
                 
                   In
                   this
                   the
                   Task
                   ,
                   and
                   mighty
                   Labour
                   lies
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   few
                   great
                   Jupiter
                   imparts
                   this
                   Grace
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   those
                   of
                   shining
                   Worth
                   ,
                   and
                   Heav'nly
                   Race
                   .
                
                 
                   Betwixt
                   those
                   Regions
                   ,
                   and
                   our
                   upper
                   Light
                   ,
                
                 
                   Deep
                   Forrests
                   ,
                   and
                   impenetrable
                   Night
                
                 
                   Possess
                   the
                   middle
                   space
                   :
                   Th'
                   Infernal
                   Bounds
                
                 
                   Cocytus
                   ,
                   with
                   his
                   sable
                   Waves
                   ,
                   surrounds
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   if
                   so
                   dire
                   a
                   Love
                   your
                   Soul
                   invades
                   ;
                
                 
                   As
                   twice
                   below
                   to
                   view
                   the
                   trembling
                   Shades
                   ;
                
                 
                   If
                   you
                   so
                   hard
                   a
                   Toil
                   will
                   undertake
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   twice
                   to
                   pass
                   th'
                   innavigable
                   Lake
                   ;
                
                 
                   Receive
                   my
                   Counsel
                   .
                   In
                   the
                   Neighb'ring
                   Grove
                
                 
                   There
                   stands
                   a
                   Tree
                   ;
                   the
                   Queen
                   of
                   
                     Stygian
                     Jove
                  
                
                 
                   Claims
                   it
                   her
                   own
                   ;
                   thick
                   Woods
                   ,
                   and
                   gloomy
                   Night
                   ,
                
                 
                   Conceal
                   the
                   happy
                   Plant
                   from
                   Humane
                   sight
                   .
                
                 
                   One
                   Bough
                   it
                   bears
                   ;
                   but
                   ,
                   wond'rous
                   to
                   behold
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   ductile
                   Rind
                   ,
                   and
                   Leaves
                   ,
                   of
                   Radiant
                   Gold
                   :
                
                 
                   This
                   ,
                   from
                   the
                   vulgar
                   Branches
                   must
                   be
                   torn
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   to
                   fair
                   Proserpine
                   ,
                   the
                   Present
                   born
                   :
                
                 
                   E're
                   leave
                   be
                   giv'n
                   to
                   tempt
                   the
                   neather
                   Skies
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   first
                   thus
                   rent
                   ,
                   a
                   second
                   will
                   arise
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   same
                   Metal
                   the
                   same
                   room
                   supplies
                   .
                
                 
                   Look
                   round
                   the
                   Wood
                   ,
                   with
                   lifted
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   to
                   see
                
                 
                   The
                   lurking
                   Gold
                   upon
                   the
                   fatal
                   Tree
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   rend
                   it
                   off
                   ,
                   as
                   holy
                   Rites
                   command
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   willing
                   Metal
                   will
                   obey
                   thy
                   hand
                   ,
                
                 
                   Following
                   with
                   ease
                   ,
                   if
                   ,
                   favour'd
                   by
                   thy
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thou
                   art
                   foredoom'd
                   to
                   view
                   the
                   Stygian
                   State
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   If
                   not
                   ,
                   no
                   labour
                   can
                   the
                   Tree
                   constrain
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   strength
                   of
                   stubborn
                   Arms
                   ,
                   and
                   Steel
                   are
                   vain
                   .
                
                 
                   Besides
                   ,
                   you
                   know
                   not
                   ,
                   while
                   you
                   here
                   attend
                
                 
                   Th'
                   unworthy
                   Fate
                   of
                   your
                   unhappy
                   Friend
                   :
                
                 
                   Breathless
                   he
                   lies
                   :
                   And
                   his
                   unbury'd
                   Ghost
                   ,
                
                 
                   Depriv'd
                   of
                   Fun'ral
                   Rites
                   ,
                   pollutes
                   your
                   Host
                   .
                
                 
                   Pay
                   first
                   his
                   Pious
                   Dues
                   :
                   And
                   for
                   the
                   dead
                   ,
                
                 
                   Two
                   sable
                   Sheep
                   around
                   his
                   Herse
                   be
                   led
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   living
                   Turfs
                   upon
                   his
                   Body
                   lay
                   ;
                
                 
                   This
                   done
                   ,
                   securely
                   take
                   the
                   destin'd
                   Way
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   find
                   the
                   Regions
                   destitute
                   of
                   Day
                   .
                
                 
                   She
                   said
                   :
                   and
                   held
                   her
                   Peace
                   .
                   Aeneas
                   went
                
                 
                   Sad
                   from
                   the
                   Cave
                   ,
                   and
                   full
                   of
                   Discontent
                   ;
                
                 
                   Unknowing
                   whom
                   the
                   sacred
                   Sibyl
                   meant
                   .
                
                 
                   Achates
                   ,
                   the
                   Companion
                   of
                   his
                   Breast
                   ,
                
                 
                   Goes
                   grieving
                   by
                   his
                   side
                   ;
                   with
                   equal
                   Cares
                   oppress'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Walking
                   ,
                   they
                   talk'd
                   ,
                   and
                   fruitlesly
                   divin'd
                
                 
                   What
                   Friend
                   ,
                   the
                   Priestess
                   by
                   those
                   Words
                   design'd
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   soon
                   they
                   found
                   an
                   Object
                   to
                   deplore
                   ;
                
                 
                   Misenus
                   lay
                   extended
                   on
                   the
                   Shore
                   .
                
                 
                   Son
                   to
                   the
                   God
                   of
                   Winds
                   ;
                   none
                   so
                   renown'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Warrior
                   Trumpet
                   in
                   the
                   Field
                   to
                   sound
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   breathing
                   Brass
                   to
                   kindle
                   fierce
                   Alarms
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   rouze
                   to
                   dare
                   their
                   Fate
                   ,
                   in
                   honourable
                   Arms.
                
                 
                   He
                   serv'd
                   great
                   Hector
                   ;
                   and
                   was
                   ever
                   near
                   ;
                
                 
                   Not
                   with
                   his
                   Trumpet
                   only
                   ,
                   but
                   his
                   Spear
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   ,
                   by
                   Pelides
                   Arms
                   ,
                   when
                   Hector
                   fell
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   chose
                   Aeneas
                   ,
                   and
                   he
                   chose
                   as
                   well
                   .
                
                 
                   Swoln
                   with
                   Applause
                   ,
                   and
                   aiming
                   still
                   at
                   more
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   now
                   provokes
                   the
                   Sea
                   Gods
                   from
                   the
                   Shore
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   Envy
                   Triton
                   heard
                   the
                   Martial
                   sound
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   bold
                   Champion
                   ,
                   for
                   his
                   Challenge
                   ,
                   drown'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   cast
                   his
                   mangled
                   Carcass
                   on
                   the
                   Strand
                   ▪
                
                 
                   The
                   gazing
                   Crowd
                   around
                   the
                   Body
                   stand
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   All
                   weep
                   ,
                   but
                   most
                   Aeneas
                   mourns
                   his
                   Fate
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   hastens
                   to
                   perform
                   the
                   Funeral
                   state
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   Altar-wise
                   ,
                   a
                   stately
                   Pile
                   they
                   rear
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Basis
                   broad
                   below
                   ,
                   and
                   top
                   advanc'd
                   in
                   Air.
                
                 
                   An
                   ancient
                   Wood
                   ,
                   fit
                   for
                   the
                   Work
                   design'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   The
                   shady
                   Covert
                   of
                   the
                   Salvage
                   Kind
                   )
                
                 
                   The
                   Trojans
                   found
                   :
                   The
                   sounding
                   Axe
                   is
                   ply'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Firs
                   ,
                   Pines
                   ,
                   and
                   Pitch-Trees
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   tow'ring
                   Pride
                
                 
                   Of
                   Forest
                   Ashes
                   ,
                   feel
                   the
                   fatal
                   Stroke
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   piercing
                   Wedges
                   cleave
                   the
                   stubborn
                   Oak
                   .
                
                 
                   Huge
                   Trunks
                   of
                   Trees
                   ,
                   fell'd
                   from
                   the
                   steepy
                   Crown
                
                 
                   Of
                   the
                   bare
                   Mountains
                   ,
                   rowl
                   with
                   Ruin
                   down
                   .
                
                 
                   Arm'd
                   like
                   the
                   rest
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Prince
                   appears
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   by
                   his
                   pious
                   Labour
                   ,
                   urges
                   theirs
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   while
                   he
                   wrought
                   ,
                   revolving
                   in
                   his
                   Mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   ways
                   to
                   compass
                   what
                   his
                   Wish
                   design'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   cast
                   his
                   Eyes
                   upon
                   the
                   gloomy
                   Grove
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   then
                   with
                   Vows
                   implor'd
                   the
                   Queen
                   of
                   Love.
                
                 
                   O
                   may
                   thy
                   Pow'r
                   ,
                   propitious
                   still
                   to
                   me
                   ,
                
                 
                   Conduct
                   my
                   steps
                   to
                   find
                   the
                   fatal
                   Tree
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   this
                   deep
                   Forest
                   ;
                   since
                   the
                   Sibyl's
                   Breath
                
                 
                   Foretold
                   ,
                   alas
                   !
                   too
                   true
                   ,
                   Misenus
                   Death
                   .
                
                 
                   Scarce
                   had
                   he
                   said
                   ,
                   when
                   full
                   before
                   his
                   sight
                
                 
                   Two
                   Doves
                   ,
                   descending
                   from
                   their
                   Airy
                   Flight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Secure
                   upon
                   the
                   grassy
                   Plain
                   alight
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   knew
                   his
                   Mother's
                   Birds
                   :
                   and
                   thus
                   he
                   pray'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Be
                   you
                   my
                   Guides
                   ,
                   with
                   your
                   auspicious
                   Aid
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   lead
                   my
                   Footsteps
                   ,
                   'till
                   the
                   Branch
                   be
                   found
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whose
                   glittering
                   Shadow
                   guilds
                   the
                   sacred
                   Ground
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   thou
                   ,
                   great
                   Parent
                   !
                   with
                   Coelestial
                   Care
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   this
                   Distress
                   ,
                   be
                   present
                   to
                   my
                   Pray'r
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   having
                   said
                   ,
                   he
                   stop'd
                   :
                   With
                   watchful
                   sight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Observing
                   still
                   the
                   motions
                   of
                   their
                   Flight
                   .
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     S
                     r
                     :
                     Tho
                     :
                     Dyke
                     of
                     Horeham
                     in
                     y
                     e
                     County
                     of
                     Sussex
                     Bar
                     t
                     :
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     6.
                     l.
                     280
                  
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     M
                     rs
                     :
                     Anne
                     Baynard
                     Daughter
                     of
                     Dr.
                     Edn
                     d
                     :
                     Baynard
                     of
                     the
                     Family
                     of
                     Leckham
                     in
                     y
                     e
                     County
                     of
                     Wilts
                  
                   
                     AE
                     6.
                     l
                     31●
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   What
                   course
                   they
                   took
                   ,
                   what
                   happy
                   Signs
                   they
                   shew
                   .
                
                 
                   They
                   fed
                   ,
                   and
                   flutt'ring
                   by
                   degrees
                   ,
                   withdrew
                
                 
                   Still
                   farther
                   from
                   the
                   Place
                   ;
                   but
                   still
                   in
                   view
                   .
                
                 
                   Hopping
                   ,
                   and
                   flying
                   ,
                   thus
                   they
                   led
                   him
                   on
                
                 
                   To
                   the
                   slow
                   Lake
                   ;
                   whose
                   baleful
                   Stench
                   to
                   shun
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   wing'd
                   their
                   Flight
                   aloft
                   ;
                   then
                   ,
                   stooping
                   low
                   ,
                
                 
                   Perch'd
                   on
                   the
                   double
                   Tree
                   ,
                   that
                   bears
                   the
                   golden
                   Bough
                   .
                
                 
                   Thro'
                   the
                   green
                   Leafs
                   the
                   glitt'ring
                   Shadows
                   glow
                   ;
                
                 
                   As
                   on
                   the
                   sacred
                   Oak
                   ,
                   the
                   wintry
                   Misleto
                   :
                
                 
                   Where
                   the
                   proud
                   Mother
                   views
                   her
                   precious
                   Brood
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   happier
                   Branches
                   ,
                   which
                   she
                   never
                   sow'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Such
                   was
                   the
                   glitt'ring
                   ;
                   such
                   the
                   ruddy
                   Rind
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   dancing
                   Leaves
                   ,
                   that
                   wanton'd
                   in
                   the
                   Wind.
                
                 
                   He
                   seiz'd
                   the
                   shining
                   Bough
                   with
                   griping
                   hold
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   rent
                   away
                   ,
                   with
                   ease
                   ,
                   the
                   ling'ring
                   Gold.
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   to
                   the
                   Sibyl's
                   Palace
                   bore
                   the
                   Prize
                   .
                
                 
                   Mean
                   time
                   ,
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Troops
                   ,
                   with
                   weeping
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   dead
                   Misenus
                   pay
                   his
                   Obsequies
                   .
                
                 
                   First
                   ,
                   from
                   the
                   Ground
                   ,
                   a
                   lofty
                   Pile
                   they
                   rear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   Pitch-trees
                   ,
                   Oaks
                   ,
                   and
                   Pines
                   ,
                   and
                   unctuous
                   Firr
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Fabrick's
                   Front
                   with
                   Cypress
                   Twigs
                   they
                   strew
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   stick
                   the
                   sides
                   with
                   Boughs
                   of
                   baleful
                   Yeugh
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   topmost
                   part
                   ,
                   his
                   glitt'ring
                   Arms
                   adorn
                   ;
                
                 
                   Warm
                   Waters
                   ,
                   then
                   ,
                   in
                   brazen
                   Caldrons
                   born
                   ,
                
                 
                   Are
                   pour'd
                   to
                   wash
                   his
                   Body
                   ,
                   Joint
                   by
                   Joint
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   fragrant
                   Oils
                   the
                   stiffen'd
                   Limbs
                   anoint
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   Groans
                   and
                   Cries
                   Misenus
                   they
                   deplore
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   on
                   a
                   Bier
                   ,
                   with
                   Purple
                   cover'd
                   o're
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   breathless
                   Body
                   ,
                   thus
                   bewail'd
                   ,
                   they
                   lay
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   fire
                   the
                   Pile
                   ,
                   their
                   Faces
                   turn'd
                   away
                   :
                
                 
                   (
                   Such
                   reverend
                   Rites
                   their
                   Fathers
                   us'd
                   to
                   pay
                   .
                   )
                
                 
                   Pure
                   Oyl
                   ,
                   and
                   Incense
                   ,
                   on
                   the
                   Fire
                   they
                   throw
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   Fat
                   of
                   Victims
                   ,
                   which
                   his
                   Friends
                   bestow
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   These
                   Gifts
                   ,
                   the
                   greedy
                   Flames
                   to
                   Dust
                   devour
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   on
                   the
                   living
                   Coals
                   ,
                   red
                   Wine
                   they
                   pour
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   last
                   ,
                   the
                   Relicks
                   by
                   themselves
                   dispose
                   ;
                
                 
                   Which
                   in
                   a
                   brazen
                   Urn
                   the
                   Priests
                   inclose
                   .
                
                 
                   Old
                   Chorineus
                   compass'd
                   thrice
                   the
                   Crew
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   dip'd
                   an
                   Olive
                   Branch
                   in
                   holy
                   Dew
                   ;
                
                 
                   Which
                   thrice
                   he
                   sprinkl'd
                   round
                   ;
                   and
                   thrice
                   aloud
                
                 
                   Invok'd
                   the
                   dead
                   ,
                   and
                   then
                   dismiss'd
                   the
                   Crowd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   good
                   Aeneas
                   order'd
                   on
                   the
                   Shore
                
                 
                   A
                   stately
                   Tomb
                   ;
                   whose
                   top
                   a
                   Trumpet
                   bore
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   Souldier's
                   Fauchion
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   Sea-man's
                   Oar.
                
                 
                   Thus
                   was
                   his
                   Friend
                   interr'd
                   :
                   And
                   deathless
                   Fame
                
                 
                   Still
                   to
                   the
                   lofty
                   Cape
                   consigns
                   his
                   Name
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   These
                   Rites
                   perform'd
                   ,
                   the
                   Prince
                   ,
                   without
                   delay
                   ,
                
                 
                   Hastes
                   to
                   the
                   neather
                   World
                   ,
                   his
                   destin'd
                   Way
                   .
                
                 
                   Deep
                   was
                   the
                   Cave
                   ;
                   and
                   downward
                   as
                   it
                   went
                
                 
                   From
                   the
                   wide
                   Mouth
                   ,
                   a
                   rocky
                   rough
                   Descent
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   here
                   th'
                   access
                   a
                   gloomy
                   Grove
                   defends
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   there
                   th'
                   unnavigable
                   Lake
                   extends
                   .
                
                 
                   O're
                   whose
                   unhappy
                   Waters
                   ,
                   void
                   of
                   Light
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   Bird
                   presumes
                   to
                   steer
                   his
                   Airy
                   Flight
                   ;
                
                 
                   Such
                   deadly
                   Stenches
                   from
                   the
                   depth
                   arise
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   steaming
                   Sulphur
                   ,
                   that
                   infects
                   the
                   Skies
                   .
                
                 
                   From
                   hence
                   the
                   Grecian
                   Bards
                   their
                   Legends
                   make
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   give
                   the
                   name
                   Avernus
                   to
                   the
                   Lake
                   .
                
                 
                   Four
                   sable
                   Bullocks
                   ,
                   in
                   the
                   Yoke
                   untaught
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   Sacrifice
                   the
                   pious
                   Heroe
                   brought
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Priestess
                   pours
                   the
                   Wine
                   betwixt
                   their
                   Horns
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   cuts
                   the
                   curling
                   Hair
                   ;
                   that
                   first
                   Oblation
                   burns
                   .
                
                 
                   Invoking
                   Hecate
                   hither
                   to
                   repair
                   ;
                
                 
                   (
                   A
                   pow'rful
                   Name
                   in
                   Hell
                   ,
                   and
                   upper
                   Air.
                   )
                
                 
                   The
                   sacred
                   Priests
                   with
                   ready
                   Knives
                   bereave
                
                 
                   The
                   Beasts
                   of
                   Life
                   ;
                   and
                   in
                   full
                   Bowls
                   receive
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   streaming
                   Blood
                   :
                   A
                   Lamb
                   to
                   Hell
                   and
                   Night
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   The
                   sable
                   Wool
                   without
                   a
                   streak
                   of
                   white
                   )
                
                 
                   Aeneas
                   offers
                   :
                   And
                   ,
                   by
                   Fates
                   decree
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   barren
                   Heifar
                   ,
                   Proserpine
                   to
                   thee
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   Holocausts
                   he
                   
                   Pluto's
                   Altar
                   fills
                   :
                
                 
                   Sev'n
                   brawny
                   Bulls
                   with
                   his
                   own
                   Hand
                   he
                   kills
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   on
                   the
                   broiling
                   Entrails
                   Oyl
                   he
                   pours
                   ;
                
                 
                   Which
                   ,
                   ointed
                   thus
                   ,
                   the
                   raging
                   Flame
                   devours
                   .
                
                 
                   Late
                   ,
                   the
                   Nocturnal
                   Sacrifice
                   begun
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   ended
                   ,
                   'till
                   the
                   next
                   returning
                   Sun.
                
                 
                   Then
                   Earth
                   began
                   to
                   bellow
                   ,
                   Trees
                   to
                   dance
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   howling
                   Dogs
                   in
                   glimm'ring
                   Light
                   advance
                   ;
                
                 
                   E're
                   Hecate
                   came
                   :
                   Far
                   hence
                   be
                   Souls
                   prophane
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Sibyl
                   cry'd
                   ,
                   and
                   from
                   the
                   Grove
                   abstain
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   ,
                   Trojan
                   ,
                   take
                   the
                   way
                   thy
                   Fates
                   afford
                   :
                
                 
                   Assume
                   thy
                   Courage
                   ,
                   and
                   unsheath
                   thy
                   Sword.
                
                 
                   She
                   said
                   ,
                   and
                   pass'd
                   along
                   the
                   gloomy
                   Space
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Prince
                   pursu'd
                   her
                   Steps
                   with
                   equal
                   pace
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Ye
                   Realms
                   ,
                   yet
                   unreveal'd
                   to
                   human
                   sight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ye
                   Gods
                   ,
                   who
                   rule
                   the
                   Regions
                   of
                   the
                   Night
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ye
                   gliding
                   Ghosts
                   ,
                   permit
                   me
                   to
                   relate
                
                 
                   The
                   mystick
                   Wonders
                   of
                   your
                   silent
                   State.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Obscure
                   they
                   went
                   thro
                   dreery
                   Shades
                   ,
                   that
                   led
                
                 
                   Along
                   the
                   waste
                   Dominions
                   of
                   the
                   dead
                   :
                
                 
                   Thus
                   wander
                   Travellers
                   in
                   Woods
                   by
                   Night
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   the
                   Moon
                   's
                   doubtful
                   ,
                   and
                   malignant
                   Light
                   :
                
                 
                   When
                   Jove
                   in
                   dusky
                   Clouds
                   involves
                   the
                   Skies
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   faint
                   Crescent
                   shoots
                   by
                   fits
                   before
                   their
                   Eyes
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Just
                   in
                   the
                   Gate
                   ,
                   and
                   in
                   the
                   Jaws
                   of
                   Hell
                   ,
                
                 
                   Revengeful
                   Cares
                   ,
                   and
                   sullen
                   Sorrows
                   dwell
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   pale
                   Diseases
                   ,
                   and
                   repining
                   Age
                   ;
                
                 
                   Want
                   ,
                   Fear
                   ,
                   and
                   Famine's
                   unresisted
                   rage
                   .
                
                 
                   Here
                   Toils
                   ,
                   and
                   Death
                   ,
                   and
                   Death's
                   half-brother
                   ,
                   Sleep
                   ,
                
                 
                   Forms
                   terrible
                   to
                   view
                   ,
                   their
                   Centry
                   keep
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   With
                   anxious
                   Pleasures
                   of
                   a
                   guilty
                   Mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Deep
                   Frauds
                   before
                   ,
                   and
                   open
                   Force
                   behind
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Furies
                   Iron
                   Beds
                   ,
                   and
                   Strife
                   that
                   shakes
                
                 
                   Her
                   hissing
                   Tresses
                   ,
                   and
                   unfolds
                   her
                   Snakes
                   .
                
                 
                   Full
                   in
                   the
                   midst
                   of
                   this
                   infernal
                   Road
                   ,
                
                 
                   An
                   Elm
                   displays
                   her
                   dusky
                   Arms
                   abroad
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   God
                   of
                   Sleep
                   there
                   hides
                   his
                   heavy
                   Head
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   empty
                   Dreams
                   on
                   ev'ry
                   Leaf
                   are
                   spread
                   .
                
                 
                   Of
                   various
                   Forms
                   unnumber'd
                   Specters
                   more
                   ;
                
                 
                   Centaurs
                   ,
                   and
                   double
                   Shapes
                   ,
                   besiege
                   the
                   Door
                   :
                
                 
                   Before
                   the
                   Passage
                   horrid
                   Hydra
                   stands
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Briareus
                   with
                   all
                   his
                   hundred
                   Hands
                   :
                
                 
                   
                     Gorgons
                     ,
                     Geryon
                  
                   with
                   his
                   triple
                   Frame
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   vain
                   Chimaera
                   vomits
                   empty
                   Flame
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Chief
                   unsheath'd
                   his
                   shining
                   Steel
                   ,
                   prepar'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tho
                   seiz'd
                   with
                   sudden
                   Fear
                   ,
                   to
                   force
                   the
                   Guard.
                
                 
                   Off'ring
                   his
                   brandish'd
                   Weapon
                   at
                   their
                   Face
                   ;
                
                 
                   Had
                   not
                   the
                   Sibyl
                   stop'd
                   his
                   eager
                   Pace
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   told
                   him
                   what
                   those
                   empty
                   Fantomes
                   were
                   ;
                
                 
                   Forms
                   without
                   Bodies
                   ,
                   and
                   impassive
                   Air.
                
                 
                   Hence
                   to
                   deep
                   Acheron
                   they
                   take
                   their
                   way
                   ;
                
                 
                   Whose
                   troubled
                   Eddies
                   ,
                   thick
                   with
                   Ooze
                   and
                   Clay
                   ,
                
                 
                   Are
                   whirl'd
                   aloft
                   ,
                   and
                   in
                   Cocytus
                   lost
                   :
                
                 
                   There
                   Charon
                   stands
                   ,
                   who
                   rules
                   the
                   dreary
                   Coast
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   sordid
                   God
                   ;
                   down
                   from
                   his
                   hoary
                   Chin
                
                 
                   A
                   length
                   of
                   Beard
                   descends
                   ;
                   uncomb'd
                   ,
                   unclean
                   :
                
                 
                   His
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   like
                   hollow
                   Furnaces
                   on
                   Fire
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   Girdle
                   ,
                   foul
                   with
                   grease
                   ,
                   binds
                   his
                   obscene
                   Attire
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   spreads
                   his
                   Canvas
                   ,
                   with
                   his
                   Pole
                   he
                   steers
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Freights
                   of
                   flitting
                   Ghosts
                   in
                   his
                   thin
                   Bottom
                   beats
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   look'd
                   in
                   Years
                   ;
                   yet
                   in
                   his
                   Years
                   were
                   seen
                
                 
                   A
                   youthful
                   Vigour
                   ,
                   and
                   Autumnal
                   green
                   .
                
                 
                   An
                   Airy
                   Crowd
                   came
                   rushing
                   where
                   he
                   stood
                   ;
                
                 
                   Which
                   fill'd
                   the
                   Margin
                   of
                   the
                   fatal
                   Flood
                   .
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     John
                     Lenknor
                     Esq
                     r
                     :
                     of
                     West
                     Deane
                     in
                     the
                     County
                     of
                     Sussex
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     6.
                     l
                     :
                     390
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                 
                   Husbands
                   and
                   Wives
                   ,
                   Boys
                   and
                   unmarry'd
                   Maids
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   mighty
                   Heroes
                   more
                   Majestick
                   Shades
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   Youths
                   ,
                   intomb'd
                   before
                   their
                   Fathers
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   hollow
                   Groans
                   ,
                   and
                   Shrieks
                   ,
                   and
                   feeble
                   Cries
                   :
                
                 
                   Thick
                   as
                   the
                   Leaves
                   in
                   Autumn
                   strow
                   the
                   Woods
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   Fowls
                   ,
                   by
                   Winter
                   forc'd
                   ,
                   forsake
                   the
                   Floods
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   wing
                   their
                   hasty
                   flight
                   to
                   happier
                   Lands
                   :
                
                 
                   Such
                   ,
                   and
                   so
                   thick
                   ,
                   the
                   shiv'ring
                   Army
                   stands
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   press
                   for
                   passage
                   with
                   extended
                   hands
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Now
                   these
                   ,
                   now
                   those
                   ,
                   the
                   surly
                   Boatman
                   bore
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   rest
                   he
                   drove
                   to
                   distance
                   from
                   the
                   Shore
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Heroe
                   ,
                   who
                   beheld
                   with
                   wond'ring
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Tumult
                   mix'd
                   with
                   Shrieks
                   ,
                   Laments
                   ,
                   and
                   Cries
                   ;
                
                 
                   Ask'd
                   of
                   his
                   Guide
                   ,
                   what
                   the
                   rude
                   Concourse
                   meant
                   ?
                
                 
                   Why
                   to
                   the
                   Shore
                   the
                   thronging
                   People
                   bent
                   ?
                
                 
                   What
                   Forms
                   of
                   Law
                   ,
                   among
                   the
                   Ghosts
                   were
                   us'd
                   ?
                
                 
                   Why
                   some
                   were
                   ferry'd
                   o're
                   ,
                   and
                   some
                   refus'd
                   ?
                
              
               
                 
                   Son
                   of
                   Anchises
                   ,
                   Offspring
                   of
                   the
                   Gods
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Sibyl
                   said
                   ;
                   you
                   see
                   the
                   Stygian
                   Floods
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Sacred
                   Stream
                   ,
                   which
                   Heav'n's
                   Imperial
                   State
                
                 
                   Attests
                   in
                   Oaths
                   ,
                   and
                   fears
                   to
                   violate
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Ghosts
                   rejected
                   ,
                   are
                   th'
                   unhappy
                   Crew
                
                 
                   Depriv'd
                   of
                   Sepulchers
                   ▪
                   and
                   Fun'ral
                   due
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Boatman
                   Charon
                   ;
                   those
                   ,
                   the
                   bury'd
                   host
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   Ferries
                   over
                   to
                   the
                   Farther
                   Coast
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   dares
                   his
                   Transport
                   Vessel
                   cross
                   the
                   Waves
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   such
                   whose
                   Bones
                   are
                   not
                   compos'd
                   in
                   Graves
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   hundred
                   years
                   they
                   wander
                   on
                   the
                   Shore
                   ,
                
                 
                   At
                   length
                   ,
                   their
                   Pennance
                   done
                   ,
                   are
                   wafted
                   o're
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Trojan
                   Chief
                   his
                   forward
                   pace
                   repress'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Revolving
                   anxious
                   Thoughts
                   within
                   his
                   Breast
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   saw
                   his
                   Friends
                   ,
                   who
                   whelm'd
                   beneath
                   the
                   Waves
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   Fun'ral
                   Honours
                   claim'd
                   ,
                   and
                   ask'd
                   their
                   quiet
                   Graves
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   lost
                   Leucaspis
                   in
                   the
                   Crowd
                   he
                   knew
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   brave
                   Leader
                   of
                   the
                   Lycian
                   Crew
                   :
                
                 
                   Whom
                   ,
                   on
                   the
                   Tyrrhene
                   Seas
                   ,
                   the
                   Tempests
                   met
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Sailors
                   master'd
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Ship
                   o'reset
                   .
                
                 
                   Amidst
                   the
                   Spirits
                   Palinurus
                   press'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Yet
                   fresh
                   from
                   life
                   ;
                   a
                   new
                   admitted
                   Guest
                   .
                
                 
                   Who
                   ,
                   while
                   he
                   steering
                   view'd
                   the
                   Stars
                   ,
                   and
                   bore
                
                 
                   His
                   Course
                   from
                   Affrick
                   ,
                   to
                   the
                   Latian
                   Shore
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fell
                   headlong
                   down
                   .
                   The
                   Trojan
                   fix'd
                   his
                   view
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   scarcely
                   through
                   the
                   gloom
                   the
                   sullen
                   Shadow
                   knew
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   thus
                   the
                   Prince
                   .
                   What
                   envious
                   Pow'r
                   ,
                   O
                   Friend
                   ,
                
                 
                   Brought
                   your
                   lov'd
                   life
                   to
                   this
                   disastrous
                   end
                   ?
                
                 
                   For
                   Phoebus
                   ,
                   ever
                   true
                   in
                   all
                   he
                   said
                   ,
                
                 
                   Has
                   ,
                   in
                   your
                   fate
                   alone
                   ,
                   my
                   Faith
                   betray'd
                   ?
                
                 
                   The
                   God
                   foretold
                   you
                   shou'd
                   not
                   die
                   ,
                   before
                
                 
                   You
                   reach'd
                   ,
                   secure
                   from
                   Seas
                   ,
                   th'
                   Italian
                   Shore
                   ?
                
                 
                   Is
                   this
                   th'
                   unerring
                   Pow'r
                   ?
                   The
                   Ghost
                   reply'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Phoebus
                   flatter'd
                   ,
                   nor
                   his
                   Answers
                   ly'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   envious
                   Gods
                   have
                   sent
                   me
                   to
                   the
                   Deep
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   while
                   the
                   Stars
                   ,
                   and
                   course
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   I
                   keep
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   weary'd
                   Eyes
                   were
                   seiz'd
                   with
                   fatal
                   sleep
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   fell
                   ;
                   and
                   with
                   my
                   weight
                   ,
                   the
                   Helm
                   constrain'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Was
                   drawn
                   along
                   ,
                   which
                   yet
                   my
                   gripe
                   retain'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   by
                   the
                   Winds
                   ,
                   and
                   raging
                   Waves
                   ,
                   I
                   swear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   Safety
                   ,
                   more
                   than
                   mine
                   ,
                   was
                   then
                   my
                   Care
                   :
                
                 
                   Lest
                   ,
                   of
                   the
                   Guide
                   bereft
                   ,
                   the
                   Rudder
                   lost
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   Ship
                   shou'd
                   run
                   against
                   the
                   the
                   rocky
                   Coast
                   .
                
                 
                   Three
                   blust'ring
                   Nights
                   ,
                   born
                   by
                   the
                   Southern
                   blast
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   floated
                   ;
                   and
                   discover'd
                   Land
                   at
                   last
                   :
                
                 
                   High
                   on
                   a
                   Mounting
                   Wave
                   ,
                   my
                   head
                   I
                   bore
                   :
                
                 
                   Forcing
                   my
                   Strength
                   ,
                   and
                   gath'ring
                   to
                   the
                   Shore
                   :
                
                 
                   Panting
                   ,
                   but
                   but
                   past
                   the
                   danger
                   ,
                   now
                   I
                   seiz'd
                
                 
                   The
                   Craggy
                   Cliffs
                   ,
                   and
                   my
                   tyr'd
                   Members
                   eas'd
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   While
                   ,
                   cumber'd
                   with
                   my
                   dropping
                   Cloaths
                   ,
                   I
                   lay
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   cruel
                   Nation
                   ,
                   covetous
                   of
                   Prey
                   ,
                
                 
                   Stain'd
                   with
                   my
                   Blood
                   th'
                   unhospitable
                   Coast
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   ,
                   by
                   Winds
                   and
                   Waves
                   ,
                   my
                   lifeless
                   Limbs
                   are
                   tost
                   .
                
                 
                   Which
                   O
                   avert
                   ,
                   by
                   yon
                   Etherial
                   Light
                
                 
                   Which
                   I
                   have
                   lost
                   ,
                   for
                   this
                   eternal
                   Night
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   if
                   by
                   dearer
                   tyes
                   you
                   may
                   be
                   won
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   your
                   dead
                   Sire
                   ,
                   and
                   by
                   your
                   living
                   Son
                   ,
                
                 
                   Redeem
                   from
                   this
                   Reproach
                   ,
                   my
                   wand'ring
                   Ghost
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   with
                   your
                   Navy
                   seek
                   the
                   Velin
                   Coast
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   a
                   peaceful
                   Grave
                   my
                   Corps
                   compose
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   ,
                   if
                   a
                   nearer
                   way
                   your
                   Mother
                   shows
                   ,
                
                 
                   Without
                   whose
                   Aid
                   ,
                   you
                   durst
                   not
                   undertake
                
                 
                   This
                   frightful
                   Passage
                   o're
                   the
                   Stygian
                   Lake
                   ;
                
                 
                   Lend
                   to
                   this
                   Wretch
                   your
                   Hand
                   ,
                   and
                   waft
                   him
                   o're
                
                 
                   To
                   the
                   sweet
                   Banks
                   of
                   yon
                   forbidden
                   Shore
                   .
                
                 
                   Scarce
                   had
                   he
                   said
                   ,
                   the
                   Prophetess
                   began
                   ;
                
                 
                   What
                   Hopes
                   delude
                   thee
                   ,
                   miserable
                   Man
                   ?
                
                 
                   Think'st
                   thou
                   thus
                   unintomb'd
                   to
                   cross
                   the
                   Floods
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   view
                   the
                   Furies
                   ,
                   and
                   Infernal
                   Gods
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   visit
                   ,
                   without
                   leave
                   ,
                   the
                   dark
                   abodes
                   ?
                
                 
                   Attend
                   the
                   term
                   of
                   long
                   revolving
                   Years
                   :
                
                 
                   Fate
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   dooming
                   Gods
                   ,
                   are
                   deaf
                   to
                   Tears
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   Comfort
                   of
                   thy
                   dire
                   Misfortune
                   take
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Wrath
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   inflicted
                   for
                   thy
                   sake
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Vengeance
                   shall
                   pursue
                   th'
                   inhumane
                   Coast
                   .
                
                 
                   Till
                   they
                   propitiate
                   thy
                   offended
                   Ghost
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   raise
                   a
                   Tomb
                   ,
                   with
                   Vows
                   ,
                   and
                   solemn
                   Pray'r
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Palinurus
                   name
                   the
                   Place
                   shall
                   bear
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   calm'd
                   his
                   Cares
                   :
                   sooth'd
                   with
                   his
                   future
                   Fame
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   pleas'd
                   to
                   hear
                   his
                   propagated
                   Name
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Now
                   nearer
                   to
                   the
                   Stygian
                   Lake
                   they
                   draw
                   :
                
                 
                   Whom
                   from
                   the
                   Shore
                   ,
                   the
                   surly
                   Boatman
                   saw
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Observ'd
                   their
                   Passage
                   thro'
                   the
                   shady
                   Wood
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   mark'd
                   their
                   near
                   Approaches
                   to
                   the
                   Flood
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   thus
                   he
                   call'd
                   aloud
                   ,
                   inflam'd
                   with
                   Wrath
                   ;
                
                 
                   Mortal
                   ,
                   what
                   e're
                   ,
                   who
                   this
                   forbidden
                   Path
                
                 
                   In
                   Arms
                   presum'st
                   to
                   tread
                   ,
                   I
                   charge
                   thee
                   stand
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   tell
                   thy
                   Name
                   ,
                   and
                   Buis'ness
                   in
                   the
                   Land.
                
                 
                   Know
                   this
                   ,
                   the
                   Realm
                   of
                   Night
                   ;
                   the
                   Stygian
                   Shore
                   :
                
                 
                   My
                   Boat
                   conveys
                   no
                   living
                   Bodies
                   o're
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   was
                   I
                   pleas'd
                   great
                   Theseus
                   once
                   to
                   bear
                   ;
                
                 
                   Who
                   forc'd
                   a
                   Passage
                   with
                   his
                   pointed
                   Spear
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   strong
                   Alcides
                   ,
                   Men
                   of
                   mighty
                   Fame
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   from
                   th'
                   immortal
                   Gods
                   their
                   Lineage
                   came
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   Fetters
                   one
                   the
                   barking
                   Porter
                   ty'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   took
                   him
                   trembling
                   from
                   his
                   Sov'raign's
                   side
                   :
                
                 
                   Two
                   sought
                   by
                   Force
                   to
                   seize
                   his
                   beauteous
                   Bride
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   whom
                   the
                   Sibyl
                   thus
                   ,
                   compose
                   thy
                   Mind
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Frauds
                   are
                   here
                   contriv'd
                   ,
                   nor
                   Force
                   design'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Still
                   may
                   the
                   Dog
                   the
                   wand'ring
                   Troops
                   constrain
                
                 
                   Of
                   Airy
                   Ghosts
                   ;
                   and
                   vex
                   the
                   guilty
                   Train
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   her
                   grisly
                   Lord
                   his
                   lovely
                   Queen
                   remain
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Trojan
                   Chief
                   ,
                   whose
                   Lineage
                   is
                   from
                   Jove
                   ,
                
                 
                   Much
                   fam'd
                   for
                   Arms
                   ,
                   and
                   more
                   for
                   filial
                   Love
                   ,
                
                 
                   Is
                   sent
                   to
                   seek
                   his
                   Sire
                   ,
                   in
                   your
                   Elisian
                   Grove
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   neither
                   Piety
                   ,
                   nor
                   Heav'n's
                   Command
                   ,
                
                 
                   Can
                   gain
                   his
                   Passage
                   to
                   the
                   Stygian
                   Strand
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   fatal
                   Present
                   shall
                   prevail
                   ,
                   at
                   least
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   shew'd
                   the
                   shining
                   Bough
                   ,
                   conceal'd
                   within
                   her
                   Vest
                   .
                
                 
                   No
                   more
                   was
                   needful
                   :
                   for
                   the
                   gloomy
                   God
                
                 
                   Stood
                   mute
                   with
                   Awe
                   ,
                   to
                   see
                   the
                   Golden
                   Rod
                   :
                
                 
                   Admir'd
                   the
                   destin'd
                   Off'ring
                   to
                   his
                   Queen
                   ;
                
                 
                   (
                   A
                   venerable
                   Gift
                   so
                   rarely
                   seen
                   )
                
                 
                   His
                   Fury
                   thus
                   appeas'd
                   ,
                   he
                   puts
                   to
                   Land
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Ghosts
                   forsake
                   their
                   Seats
                   ,
                   at
                   his
                   Command
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   He
                   clears
                   the
                   Deck
                   ,
                   receives
                   the
                   mighty
                   Freight
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   leaky
                   Vessel
                   groans
                   beneath
                   the
                   weight
                   .
                
                 
                   Slowly
                   he
                   sails
                   ;
                   and
                   scarcely
                   stems
                   the
                   Tides
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   pressing
                   Water
                   pours
                   within
                   her
                   sides
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   Passengers
                   at
                   length
                   are
                   wafted
                   o're
                   ;
                
                 
                   Expos'd
                   in
                   muddy
                   Weeds
                   ,
                   upon
                   the
                   miry
                   Shore
                   .
                
                 
                   No
                   sooner
                   landed
                   ,
                   in
                   his
                   Den
                   they
                   found
                
                 
                   The
                   triple
                   Porter
                   of
                   the
                   Stygian
                   Sound
                   :
                
                 
                   Grim
                   Cerberus
                   ;
                   who
                   soon
                   began
                   to
                   rear
                
                 
                   His
                   crested
                   Snakes
                   ,
                   and
                   arm'd
                   his
                   bristling
                   Hair.
                
                 
                   The
                   prudent
                   Sibyl
                   had
                   before
                   prepar'd
                
                 
                   A
                   Sop
                   ,
                   in
                   Honey
                   steep'd
                   ,
                   to
                   charm
                   the
                   Guard.
                
                 
                   Which
                   ,
                   mix'd
                   with
                   pow'rful
                   Drugs
                   ,
                   she
                   cast
                   before
                
                 
                   His
                   greedy
                   grinning
                   Jaws
                   ,
                   just
                   op'd
                   to
                   roar
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   three
                   enormous
                   Mouths
                   he
                   gapes
                   ;
                   and
                   streight
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Hunger
                   prest
                   ,
                   devours
                   the
                   pleasing
                   Bait.
                
                 
                   Long
                   draughts
                   of
                   Sleep
                   his
                   monstrous
                   Limbs
                   enslave
                   ;
                
                 
                   He
                   reels
                   ,
                   and
                   falling
                   ,
                   fills
                   the
                   spacious
                   Cave
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Keeper
                   charm'd
                   ,
                   the
                   Chief
                   without
                   Delay
                
                 
                   Pass'd
                   on
                   ,
                   and
                   took
                   th'
                   irremeable
                   way
                   .
                
                 
                   Before
                   the
                   Gates
                   ,
                   the
                   Cries
                   of
                   Babes
                   new
                   born
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whom
                   Fate
                   had
                   from
                   their
                   tender
                   Mothers
                   torn
                   ,
                
                 
                   Assault
                   his
                   Ears
                   :
                   Then
                   those
                   ,
                   whom
                   Form
                   of
                   Laws
                
                 
                   Condemn'd
                   to
                   die
                   ,
                   when
                   Traitors
                   judg'd
                   their
                   Cause
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   want
                   they
                   Lots
                   ,
                   nor
                   Judges
                   to
                   review
                
                 
                   The
                   wrongful
                   Sentence
                   ,
                   and
                   award
                   a
                   new
                   .
                
                 
                   Minos
                   ,
                   the
                   strict
                   Inquisitor
                   ,
                   appears
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Lives
                   and
                   Crimes
                   ,
                   with
                   his
                   Assessors
                   ,
                   hears
                   .
                
                 
                   Round
                   ,
                   in
                   his
                   Urn
                   ,
                   the
                   blended
                   Balls
                   he
                   rowls
                   ;
                
                 
                   Absolves
                   the
                   Just
                   ,
                   and
                   dooms
                   the
                   Guilty
                   Souls
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   next
                   in
                   Place
                   ,
                   and
                   Punishment
                   ,
                   are
                   they
                
                 
                   Who
                   prodigally
                   throw
                   their
                   Souls
                   away
                   .
                
                 
                   Fools
                   ,
                   who
                   repining
                   at
                   their
                   wretched
                   State
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   loathing
                   anxious
                   life
                   ,
                   suborn'd
                   their
                   Fate
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   With
                   late
                   Repentance
                   ,
                   now
                   they
                   wou'd
                   retrieve
                
                 
                   The
                   Bodies
                   they
                   forsook
                   ,
                   and
                   wish
                   to
                   live
                   .
                
                 
                   Their
                   Pains
                   and
                   Poverty
                   desire
                   to
                   bear
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   view
                   the
                   Light
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   and
                   breath
                   the
                   vital
                   Air
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   Fate
                   forbids
                   ;
                   the
                   Stygian
                   Floods
                   oppose
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   with
                   nine
                   circling
                   Streams
                   ,
                   the
                   captive
                   Souls
                   inclose
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Not
                   far
                   from
                   thence
                   ,
                   the
                   mournful
                   Fields
                   appear
                   ;
                
                 
                   So
                   call'd
                   from
                   Lovers
                   that
                   inhabit
                   there
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Souls
                   ,
                   whom
                   that
                   unhappy
                   Flame
                   invades
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   secret
                   Solitude
                   ,
                   and
                   Myrtle
                   Shades
                   ,
                
                 
                   Make
                   endless
                   Moans
                   ,
                   and
                   pining
                   with
                   Desire
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lament
                   too
                   late
                   ,
                   their
                   unextinguish'd
                   Fire
                   .
                
                 
                   Here
                   
                     Procris
                     ,
                     Eryphile
                  
                   here
                   ,
                   he
                   found
                
                 
                   Baring
                   her
                   Breast
                   ,
                   yet
                   bleeding
                   with
                   the
                   Wound
                
                 
                   Made
                   by
                   her
                   Son.
                   He
                   saw
                   Pasiphae
                   there
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   
                   Phaedra's
                   Ghost
                   ,
                   a
                   foul
                   incestuous
                   pair
                   ;
                
                 
                   Chast
                   Laodamia
                   ,
                   with
                   Evadne
                   ,
                   moves
                   :
                
                 
                   Unhappy
                   both
                   ;
                   but
                   loyal
                   in
                   their
                   Loves
                   .
                
                 
                   Caeneus
                   ,
                   a
                   Woman
                   once
                   ,
                   and
                   once
                   a
                   Man
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   ending
                   in
                   the
                   Sex
                   she
                   first
                   began
                   .
                
                 
                   Not
                   far
                   from
                   these
                   
                     Phoenician
                     Dido
                  
                   stood
                   ;
                
                 
                   Fresh
                   from
                   her
                   Wound
                   ,
                   her
                   Bosom
                   bath'd
                   in
                   Blood.
                
                 
                   Whom
                   ,
                   when
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Heroe
                   hardly
                   knew
                   ,
                
                 
                   Obscure
                   in
                   Shades
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   a
                   doubtful
                   view
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   Doubtful
                   as
                   he
                   who
                   sees
                   thro'
                   dusky
                   Night
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   thinks
                   he
                   sees
                   the
                   Moon
                   's
                   uncertain
                   Light
                   :
                   )
                
                 
                   With
                   Tears
                   he
                   first
                   approach'd
                   the
                   sullen
                   Shade
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   as
                   his
                   Love
                   inspir'd
                   him
                   ,
                   thus
                   he
                   said
                   .
                
                 
                   Unhappy
                   Queen
                   !
                   then
                   is
                   the
                   common
                   breath
                
                 
                   Of
                   Rumour
                   true
                   ,
                   in
                   your
                   reported
                   Death
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   I
                   ,
                   alas
                   ,
                   the
                   Cause
                   !
                   by
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   I
                   vow
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   the
                   Pow'rs
                   that
                   rule
                   the
                   Realms
                   below
                   ,
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     John
                     Pulteney
                     of
                     the
                     Parish
                     of
                     S
                     t
                     :
                     James's
                     Westminster
                     
                       Esq.
                       
                    
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     6.
                     l.
                     615
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                 
                   Unwilling
                   I
                   forsook
                   your
                   friendly
                   State
                   :
                
                 
                   Commanded
                   by
                   the
                   Gods
                   ,
                   and
                   forc'd
                   by
                   Fate
                   .
                
                 
                   Those
                   Gods
                   ,
                   that
                   Fate
                   ,
                   whose
                   unresisted
                   Might
                
                 
                   Have
                   sent
                   me
                   to
                   these
                   Regions
                   ,
                   void
                   of
                   Light
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thro'
                   the
                   vast
                   Empire
                   of
                   eternal
                   Night
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   dar'd
                   I
                   to
                   presume
                   ,
                   that
                   ,
                   press'd
                   with
                   Grief
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Flight
                   should
                   urge
                   you
                   to
                   this
                   dire
                   Relief
                   .
                
                 
                   Stay
                   ,
                   stay
                   your
                   Steps
                   ,
                   and
                   listen
                   to
                   my
                   Vows
                   :
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   the
                   last
                   Interview
                   that
                   Fate
                   allows
                   !
                
                 
                   In
                   vain
                   he
                   thus
                   attempts
                   her
                   Mind
                   to
                   move
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Tears
                   ,
                   and
                   Pray'rs
                   ,
                   and
                   late
                   repenting
                   Love.
                
                 
                   Disdainfully
                   she
                   look'd
                   ;
                   then
                   turning
                   round
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   fix'd
                   her
                   Eyes
                   unmov'd
                   upon
                   the
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   what
                   he
                   says
                   ,
                   and
                   swears
                   ,
                   regards
                   no
                   more
                
                 
                   Than
                   the
                   deaf
                   Rocks
                   ,
                   when
                   the
                   loud
                   Billows
                   roar
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   whirl'd
                   away
                   ,
                   to
                   shun
                   his
                   hateful
                   sight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Hid
                   in
                   the
                   Forest
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Shades
                   of
                   Night
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   sought
                   Sicheus
                   ,
                   thro'
                   the
                   shady
                   Grove
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   answer'd
                   all
                   her
                   Cares
                   ,
                   and
                   equal'd
                   all
                   her
                   Love.
                
                 
                   Some
                   pious
                   Tears
                   the
                   pitying
                   Heroe
                   paid
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   follow'd
                   with
                   his
                   Eyes
                   the
                   flitting
                   Shade
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   took
                   the
                   forward
                   Way
                   ,
                   by
                   Fate
                   ordain'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   with
                   his
                   Guide
                   ,
                   the
                   farther
                   Fields
                   attain'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Where
                   ,
                   sever'd
                   from
                   the
                   rest
                   ,
                   the
                   Warrior
                   Souls
                   remain'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Tideus
                   he
                   met
                   ,
                   with
                   
                   Meleager's
                   Race
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Pride
                   of
                   Armies
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Souldier's
                   Grace
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   pale
                   Adrastus
                   with
                   his
                   ghastly
                   Face
                   .
                
                 
                   Of
                   Trojan
                   Chiefs
                   he
                   view'd
                   a
                   num'rous
                   Train
                   :
                
                 
                   All
                   much
                   lamented
                   ,
                   all
                   in
                   Battel
                   slain
                   .
                
                 
                   Glaucus
                   and
                   Medon
                   ,
                   high
                   above
                   the
                   rest
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                   Antenor's
                   Sons
                   ,
                   and
                   Ceres
                   sacred
                   Priest
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   proud
                   Ideus
                   ,
                   Priam's
                   Charioteer
                   ;
                
                 
                   Who
                   shakes
                   his
                   empty
                   Reins
                   ,
                   and
                   aims
                   his
                   Airy
                   Spear
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   gladsome
                   Ghosts
                   ,
                   in
                   circling
                   Troops
                   ,
                   attend
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   unweary'd
                   Eyes
                   behold
                   their
                   Friend
                   .
                
                 
                   Delight
                   to
                   hover
                   near
                   ;
                   and
                   long
                   to
                   know
                
                 
                   What
                   buis'ness
                   brought
                   him
                   to
                   the
                   Realms
                   below
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   Argive
                   Chiefs
                   ,
                   and
                   
                   Agamemnon's
                   Train
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   his
                   refulgent
                   Arms
                   flash'd
                   thro'
                   the
                   shady
                   Plain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fled
                   from
                   his
                   well
                   known
                   Face
                   ,
                   with
                   wonted
                   Fear
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   when
                   his
                   thund'ring
                   Sword
                   ,
                   and
                   pointed
                   Spear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Drove
                   headlong
                   to
                   their
                   Ships
                   ,
                   and
                   glean'd
                   the
                   routed
                   Reer
                   .
                
                 
                   They
                   rais'd
                   a
                   feeble
                   Cry
                   ,
                   with
                   trembling
                   Notes
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   the
                   weak
                   Voice
                   deceiv'd
                   their
                   gasping
                   Throats
                   .
                
                 
                   Here
                   
                   Priam's
                   Son
                   ,
                   Deiphobus
                   ,
                   he
                   found
                   :
                
                 
                   Whose
                   Face
                   and
                   Limbs
                   were
                   one
                   continu'd
                   Wound
                   .
                
                 
                   Dishonest
                   ,
                   with
                   lop'd
                   Arms
                   ,
                   the
                   Youth
                   appears
                   :
                
                 
                   Spoil'd
                   of
                   his
                   Nose
                   ,
                   and
                   shorten'd
                   of
                   his
                   Ears
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   scarcely
                   knew
                   him
                   ,
                   striving
                   to
                   disown
                
                 
                   His
                   blotted
                   Form
                   ,
                   and
                   blushing
                   to
                   be
                   known
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   therefore
                   first
                   began
                   .
                   O
                   
                   Teucer's
                   Race
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   durst
                   thy
                   faultless
                   Figure
                   thus
                   deface
                   ?
                
                 
                   What
                   heart
                   cou'd
                   wish
                   ,
                   what
                   hand
                   inflict
                   this
                   dire
                   Disgrace
                   ?
                
                 
                   T
                   was
                   fam'd
                   ,
                   that
                   in
                   our
                   last
                   and
                   fatal
                   Night
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   single
                   Prowess
                   long
                   sustain'd
                   the
                   Fight
                   :
                
                 
                   Till
                   tir'd
                   ,
                   not
                   forc'd
                   ,
                   a
                   glorious
                   Fate
                   you
                   chose
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   fell
                   upon
                   a
                   Heap
                   of
                   slaughter'd
                   Foes
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   in
                   remembrance
                   of
                   so
                   brave
                   a
                   Deed
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Tomb
                   ,
                   and
                   Fun'ral
                   Honours
                   I
                   decreed
                   :
                
                 
                   Thrice
                   call'd
                   your
                   Manes
                   ,
                   on
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Plains
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   place
                   your
                   Armour
                   ,
                   and
                   your
                   Name
                   retains
                   .
                
                 
                   Your
                   Body
                   too
                   I
                   sought
                   ;
                   and
                   had
                   I
                   found
                   ,
                
                 
                   Design'd
                   for
                   Burial
                   in
                   your
                   Native
                   Ground
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Ghost
                   reply'd
                   ,
                   your
                   Piety
                   has
                   paid
                
                 
                   All
                   needful
                   Rites
                   ,
                   to
                   rest
                   my
                   wand'ring
                   Shade
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   cruel
                   Fate
                   ,
                   and
                   my
                   more
                   cruel
                   Wife
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   Grecian
                   Swords
                   betray'd
                   my
                   sleeping
                   Life
                   .
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     Christopher
                     Knight
                     
                       Esq
                    
                     of
                     Chanton
                     in
                     Hantshire
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     6.
                     l.
                     675.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                 
                   These
                   are
                   the
                   Monuments
                   of
                   Helen's
                   Love
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Shame
                   I
                   bear
                   below
                   ,
                   the
                   Marks
                   I
                   bore
                   above
                   .
                
                 
                   You
                   know
                   in
                   what
                   deluding
                   Joys
                   we
                   past
                
                 
                   The
                   Night
                   ,
                   that
                   was
                   by
                   Heav'n
                   decreed
                   our
                   last
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   when
                   the
                   fatal
                   Horse
                   ,
                   descending
                   down
                   ,
                
                 
                   Pregnant
                   with
                   Arms
                   ,
                   o'rewhelm'd
                   th'
                   unhappy
                   Town
                   ;
                
                 
                   She
                   feign'd
                   Nocturnal
                   Orgyes
                   :
                   left
                   my
                   Bed
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   mix'd
                   with
                   Trojan
                   Dames
                   ,
                   the
                   Dances
                   led
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   waving
                   high
                   her
                   Torch
                   ,
                   the
                   Signal
                   made
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   rouz'd
                   the
                   Grecians
                   from
                   their
                   Ambuscade
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   Watching
                   overworn
                   ,
                   with
                   Cares
                   opprest
                   ,
                
                 
                   Unhappy
                   I
                   had
                   laid
                   me
                   down
                   to
                   rest
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   heavy
                   Sleep
                   my
                   weary
                   Limbs
                   possess'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Mean
                   time
                   my
                   worthy
                   Wife
                   ,
                   our
                   Arms
                   mislay'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   from
                   beneath
                   my
                   head
                   my
                   Sword
                   convey'd
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Door
                   unlatch'd
                   ;
                   and
                   with
                   repeated
                   calls
                   ,
                
                 
                   Invites
                   her
                   former
                   Lord
                   within
                   my
                   walls
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   in
                   her
                   Crime
                   her
                   confidence
                   she
                   plac'd
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   new
                   Treasons
                   wou'd
                   redeem
                   the
                   past
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   need
                   I
                   more
                   ,
                   into
                   the
                   Room
                   they
                   ran
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   meanly
                   murther'd
                   a
                   defenceless
                   Man.
                
                 
                   Ulysses
                   ,
                   basely
                   born
                   ,
                   first
                   led
                   the
                   way
                   :
                
                 
                   Avenging
                   Pow'rs
                   !
                   with
                   Justice
                   if
                   I
                   pray
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   Fortune
                   be
                   their
                   own
                   another
                   day
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   answer
                   you
                   ;
                   and
                   in
                   your
                   turn
                   relate
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   brought
                   you
                   ,
                   living
                   ,
                   to
                   the
                   Stygian
                   State
                   ?
                
                 
                   Driv'n
                   by
                   the
                   Winds
                   and
                   Errors
                   of
                   the
                   Sea
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   did
                   you
                   Heav'ns
                   Superior
                   Doom
                   obey
                   ?
                
                 
                   Or
                   tell
                   what
                   other
                   Chance
                   conducts
                   your
                   way
                   ?
                
                 
                   To
                   view
                   ,
                   with
                   Mortal
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   our
                   dark
                   Retreats
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tumults
                   and
                   Torments
                   of
                   th'
                   Infernal
                   Seats
                   ?
                
                 
                   While
                   thus
                   ,
                   in
                   talk
                   ,
                   the
                   flying
                   Hours
                   they
                   pass
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Sun
                   had
                   finish'd
                   more
                   than
                   half
                   his
                   Race
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   they
                   ,
                   perhaps
                   ,
                   in
                   Words
                   and
                   Tears
                   had
                   spent
                
                 
                   The
                   little
                   time
                   of
                   stay
                   ,
                   which
                   Heav'n
                   had
                   lent
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   thus
                   the
                   Sibyl
                   chides
                   their
                   long
                   delay
                   ;
                
                 
                   Night
                   rushes
                   down
                   ,
                   and
                   headlong
                   drives
                   the
                   Day
                   :
                
                 
                   T
                   is
                   here
                   ,
                   in
                   different
                   Paths
                   ,
                   the
                   way
                   divides
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   right
                   ,
                   to
                   
                   Pluto's
                   Golden
                   Palace
                   guides
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   left
                   to
                   that
                   unhappy
                   Region
                   tends
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   to
                   the
                   depth
                   of
                   Tartarus
                   descends
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Seat
                   of
                   Night
                   profound
                   ,
                   and
                   punish'd
                   Fiends
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   thus
                   Deiphobus
                   :
                   O
                   Sacred
                   Maid
                   !
                
                 
                   Forbear
                   to
                   chide
                   ;
                   and
                   be
                   your
                   Will
                   Obey'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Lo
                   to
                   the
                   secret
                   Shadows
                   I
                   retire
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   pay
                   my
                   Penance
                   'till
                   my
                   Years
                   expire
                   .
                
                 
                   Proceed
                   Auspicious
                   Prince
                   ,
                   with
                   Glory
                   Crownd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   born
                   to
                   better
                   Fates
                   than
                   I
                   have
                   found
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   said
                   ;
                   and
                   while
                   he
                   said
                   ,
                   his
                   Steps
                   he
                   turn'd
                
                 
                   To
                   Secret
                   Shadows
                   ;
                   and
                   in
                   silence
                   Mourn'd
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Heroe
                   ,
                   looking
                   on
                   the
                   left
                   ,
                   espy'd
                
                 
                   A
                   lofty
                   Tow'r
                   ,
                   and
                   strong
                   on
                   ev'ry
                   side
                
                 
                   With
                   treble
                   Walls
                   ,
                   which
                   Phlegethon
                   surrounds
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whose
                   fiery
                   Flood
                   the
                   burning
                   Empire
                   bounds
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   press'd
                   betwixt
                   the
                   Rocks
                   ,
                   the
                   bellowing
                   noise
                   resounds
                   .
                
                 
                   Wide
                   is
                   the
                   fronting
                   Gate
                   ,
                   and
                   rais'd
                   on
                   high
                
                 
                   With
                   Adamantine
                   Columns
                   ,
                   threats
                   the
                   Sky
                   .
                
                 
                   Vain
                   is
                   the
                   force
                   of
                   Man
                   ,
                   and
                   Heav'ns
                   as
                   van
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   crush
                   the
                   Pillars
                   which
                   the
                   Pile
                   sustain
                   .
                
                 
                   Sublime
                   on
                   these
                   a
                   Tow'r
                   of
                   Steel
                   is
                   rear'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   dire
                   Tisiphone
                   there
                   keeps
                   the
                   Ward
                   .
                
                 
                   Girt
                   in
                   her
                   sanguine
                   Gown
                   ,
                   by
                   Night
                   and
                   Day
                   ,
                
                 
                   Observant
                   of
                   the
                   Souls
                   that
                   pass
                   the
                   downward
                   way
                   :
                
                 
                   From
                   hence
                   are
                   heard
                   the
                   Groans
                   of
                   Ghosts
                   ,
                   the
                   pains
                
                 
                   Of
                   sounding
                   Lashes
                   ,
                   and
                   of
                   dragging
                   Chains
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Trojan
                   stood
                   astonish'd
                   at
                   their
                   Cries
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   ask'd
                   his
                   Guide
                   ,
                   from
                   whence
                   those
                   Yells
                   arise
                   ?
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   what
                   the
                   Crimes
                   and
                   what
                   the
                   Tortures
                   were
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   loud
                   Laments
                   that
                   rent
                   the
                   liquid
                   Air
                   ?
                
                 
                   She
                   thus
                   reply'd
                   :
                   The
                   chast
                   and
                   holy
                   Race
                   ,
                
                 
                   Are
                   all
                   forbidden
                   this
                   polluted
                   Place
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   Hecate
                   ,
                   when
                   she
                   gave
                   to
                   rule
                   the
                   Woods
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   led
                   me
                   trembling
                   thro'
                   these
                   dire
                   Abodes
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   taught
                   the
                   Tortures
                   of
                   th'
                   avenging
                   Gods.
                
                 
                   These
                   are
                   the
                   Realms
                   of
                   unrelenting
                   Fate
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   awful
                   Rhadamanthus
                   rules
                   the
                   State.
                
                 
                   He
                   hears
                   and
                   judges
                   each
                   committed
                   Crime
                   ;
                
                 
                   Enquires
                   into
                   the
                   Manner
                   ,
                   Place
                   ,
                   and
                   Time.
                
                 
                   The
                   conscious
                   Wretch
                   must
                   all
                   his
                   Acts
                   reveal
                   :
                
                 
                   Loath
                   to
                   confefs
                   ,
                   unable
                   to
                   conceal
                   :
                
                 
                   From
                   the
                   first
                   Moment
                   of
                   his
                   vital
                   Breath
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   his
                   last
                   Hour
                   of
                   unrepenting
                   Death
                   .
                
                 
                   Straight
                   ,
                   o're
                   the
                   guilty
                   Ghost
                   ,
                   the
                   Fury
                   shakes
                
                 
                   The
                   sounding
                   Whip
                   ,
                   and
                   brandishes
                   her
                   Snakes
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   pale
                   Sinner
                   ,
                   with
                   her
                   Sisters
                   ,
                   takes
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   of
                   it self
                   ,
                   unfolds
                   th'
                   Eternal
                   Door
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   dreadful
                   Sounds
                   the
                   brazen
                   Hinges
                   roar
                   .
                
                 
                   You
                   see
                   ,
                   before
                   the
                   Gate
                   ,
                   what
                   stalking
                   Ghost
                
                 
                   Commands
                   the
                   Guard
                   ,
                   what
                   Centries
                   keep
                   the
                   Post
                   :
                
                 
                   More
                   formidable
                   Hydra
                   stands
                   within
                   ;
                
                 
                   Whose
                   Jaws
                   with
                   Iron
                   Teeth
                   severely
                   grin
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   gaping
                   Gulph
                   ,
                   low
                   to
                   the
                   Centre
                   lies
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   twice
                   as
                   deep
                   as
                   Earth
                   is
                   distant
                   from
                   the
                   Skies
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Rivals
                   of
                   the
                   Gods
                   ,
                   the
                   Titan
                   Race
                   ,
                
                 
                   Here
                   sing'd
                   with
                   Lightning
                   ,
                   rowl
                   within
                   th'
                   unfathom'd
                   space
                   .
                
                 
                   Here
                   lye
                   th'
                   Alaean
                   Twins
                   ,
                   (
                   I
                   saw
                   them
                   both
                   )
                
                 
                   Enormous
                   Bodies
                   ,
                   of
                   Gigantick
                   Growth
                   ;
                
                 
                   Who
                   dar'd
                   in
                   Fight
                   the
                   Thund'rer
                   to
                   defy
                   ;
                
                 
                   Affect
                   his
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   and
                   force
                   him
                   from
                   the
                   Sky
                   .
                
                 
                   Salmoneus
                   ,
                   suff'ring
                   cruel
                   Pains
                   ,
                   I
                   found
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   emulating
                   Jove
                   ;
                   the
                   ratling
                   Sound
                
                 
                 
                   Of
                   Mimick
                   Thunder
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   glitt'ring
                   Blaze
                
                 
                   Of
                   pointed
                   Lightnings
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   forky
                   Rays
                   .
                
                 
                   Through
                   Elis
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Grecian
                   Towns
                   he
                   flew
                   :
                
                 
                   Th'
                   audacious
                   Wretch
                   four
                   fiery
                   Coursers
                   drew
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   wav'd
                   a
                   Torch
                   aloft
                   ,
                   and
                   ,
                   madly
                   vain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sought
                   Godlike
                   Worship
                   from
                   a
                   Servile
                   Train
                   .
                
                 
                   Ambitious
                   Fool
                   ,
                   with
                   horny
                   Hoofs
                   to
                   pass
                
                 
                   O're
                   hollow
                   Arches
                   ,
                   of
                   resounding
                   Brass
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   rival
                   Thunder
                   ,
                   in
                   its
                   rapid
                   Course
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   imitate
                   inimitable
                   Force
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   he
                   ,
                   the
                   King
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   obscure
                   on
                   high
                   ,
                
                 
                   Bar'd
                   his
                   red
                   Arm
                   ,
                   and
                   launching
                   from
                   the
                   Sky
                
                 
                   His
                   writhen
                   Bolt
                   ,
                   not
                   shaking
                   empty
                   Smoak
                   ,
                
                 
                   Down
                   to
                   the
                   deep
                   Abyss
                   the
                   flaming
                   Felon
                   strook
                   .
                
                 
                   There
                   Tityus
                   was
                   to
                   see
                   ;
                   who
                   took
                   his
                   Birth
                
                 
                   From
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   his
                   Nursing
                   from
                   the
                   foodful
                   Earth
                   .
                
                 
                   Here
                   his
                   Gygantic
                   Limbs
                   ,
                   with
                   large
                   Embrace
                   ,
                
                 
                   Infold
                   nine
                   Acres
                   of
                   Infernal
                   Space
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   rav'nous
                   Vulture
                   in
                   his
                   open'd
                   side
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   crooked
                   Beak
                   and
                   cruel
                   Tallons
                   try'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Still
                   for
                   the
                   growing
                   Liver
                   dig'd
                   his
                   Breast
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   growing
                   Liver
                   still
                   supply'd
                   the
                   Feast
                   .
                
                 
                   Still
                   are
                   his
                   Entrails
                   fruitful
                   to
                   their
                   Pains
                   :
                
                 
                   Th'
                   immortal
                   Hunger
                   lasts
                   ,
                   th'
                   immortal
                   Food
                   remains
                   .
                
                 
                   Ixion
                   and
                   Perithous
                   I
                   cou'd
                   name
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   more
                   Thessalian
                   Chiefs
                   of
                   mighty
                   Fame
                   .
                
                 
                   High
                   o're
                   their
                   Heads
                   a
                   mould'ring
                   Rock
                   is
                   plac'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   promises
                   a
                   fall
                   ;
                   and
                   shakes
                   at
                   ev'ry
                   Blast
                   .
                
                 
                   They
                   lye
                   below
                   ,
                   on
                   Golden
                   Beds
                   display'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   genial
                   Feasts
                   ,
                   with
                   Regal
                   Pomp
                   ,
                   are
                   made
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Queen
                   of
                   Furies
                   by
                   their
                   sides
                   is
                   set
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   snatches
                   from
                   their
                   Mouths
                   th'
                   untasted
                   Meat
                   .
                
                 
                   Which
                   ,
                   if
                   they
                   touch
                   ,
                   her
                   hissing
                   Snakes
                   she
                   rears
                   :
                
                 
                   Tossing
                   her
                   Torch
                   ,
                   and
                   thund'ring
                   in
                   their
                   Ears
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Then
                   they
                   ,
                   who
                   Brothers
                   better
                   Claim
                   disown
                   ,
                
                 
                   Expel
                   their
                   Parents
                   ,
                   and
                   usurp
                   the
                   Throne
                   ;
                
                 
                   Defraud
                   their
                   Clients
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   Lucre
                   sold
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sit
                   brooding
                   on
                   unprofitable
                   Gold
                   :
                
                 
                   Who
                   dare
                   not
                   give
                   ,
                   and
                   ev'n
                   refuse
                   to
                   lend
                
                 
                   To
                   their
                   poor
                   Kindred
                   ,
                   or
                   a
                   wanting
                   Friend
                   :
                
                 
                   Vast
                   is
                   the
                   Throng
                   of
                   these
                   ;
                   nor
                   less
                   the
                   Train
                
                 
                   Of
                   lustful
                   Youths
                   ,
                   for
                   foul
                   Adultry
                   slain
                   .
                
                 
                   Hosts
                   of
                   Deserters
                   ,
                   who
                   their
                   Honour
                   sold
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   basely
                   broke
                   their
                   Faith
                   for
                   Bribes
                   of
                   Gold
                   :
                
                 
                   All
                   these
                   within
                   the
                   Dungeon's
                   depth
                   remain
                   :
                
                 
                   Despairing
                   Pardon
                   ,
                   and
                   expecting
                   Pain
                   .
                
                 
                   Ask
                   not
                   what
                   Pains
                   ;
                   nor
                   farther
                   seek
                   to
                   know
                
                 
                   Their
                   Process
                   ,
                   or
                   the
                   Forms
                   of
                   Law
                   below
                   .
                
                 
                   Some
                   rowl
                   a
                   weighty
                   Stone
                   ;
                   some
                   laid
                   along
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   bound
                   with
                   burning
                   Wires
                   ,
                   on
                   Spokes
                   of
                   Wheels
                   are
                   hung
                   .
                
                 
                   Unhappy
                   Theseus
                   ,
                   doom'd
                   for
                   ever
                   there
                   ,
                
                 
                   Is
                   fix'd
                   by
                   Fate
                   on
                   his
                   Eternal
                   Chair
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   wretched
                   Phlegias
                   warns
                   the
                   World
                   with
                   Cries
                   ;
                
                 
                   (
                   Cou'd
                   Warning
                   make
                   the
                   World
                   more
                   just
                   or
                   wise
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                   Learn
                   Righteousness
                   ,
                   and
                   dread
                   th'
                   avenging
                   Deities
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   Tyrants
                   others
                   have
                   their
                   Country
                   sold
                   ,
                
                 
                   Imposing
                   Foreign
                   Lords
                   ,
                   for
                   Foreign
                   Gold
                   :
                
                 
                   Some
                   have
                   old
                   Laws
                   repeal'd
                   ,
                   new
                   Statutes
                   made
                   ;
                
                 
                   Not
                   as
                   the
                   People
                   pleas'd
                   ,
                   but
                   as
                   they
                   paid
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   Incest
                   some
                   their
                   Daughters
                   Bed
                   prophan'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   All
                   dar'd
                   the
                   worst
                   of
                   Ills
                   ,
                   and
                   what
                   they
                   dar'd
                   ,
                   attain'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Had
                   I
                   a
                   hundred
                   Mouths
                   ,
                   a
                   hundred
                   Tongues
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Throats
                   of
                   Brass
                   ,
                   inspir'd
                   with
                   Iron
                   Lungs
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   could
                   not
                   half
                   those
                   horrid
                   Crimes
                   repeat
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   half
                   the
                   Punishments
                   those
                   Crimes
                   have
                   met
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   let
                   us
                   haste
                   our
                   Voyage
                   to
                   pursue
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Walls
                   of
                   
                   Pluto's
                   Palace
                   are
                   in
                   view
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Gate
                   ,
                   and
                   Iron
                   Arch
                   above
                   it
                   ,
                   stands
                   :
                
                 
                   On
                   Anvils
                   labour'd
                   by
                   the
                   Cyclops
                   Hands
                   .
                
                 
                   Before
                   our
                   farther
                   way
                   the
                   Fates
                   allow
                   ,
                
                 
                   Here
                   must
                   we
                   fix
                   on
                   high
                   the
                   Golden
                   Bough
                   .
                
                 
                   She
                   said
                   ,
                   and
                   thro'
                   the
                   gloomy
                   Shades
                   they
                   past
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   chose
                   the
                   middle
                   Path
                   :
                   Arriv'd
                   at
                   last
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Prince
                   ,
                   with
                   living
                   Water
                   ,
                   sprinkl'd
                   o're
                
                 
                   His
                   Limbs
                   ,
                   and
                   Body
                   ;
                   then
                   approach'd
                   the
                   Door
                   .
                
                 
                   Possess'd
                   the
                   Porch
                   ,
                   and
                   on
                   the
                   Front
                   above
                
                 
                   He
                   fix'd
                   the
                   fatal
                   Bough
                   ,
                   requir'd
                   by
                   
                   Pluto's
                   Love.
                
                 
                   These
                   Holy
                   Rites
                   perform'd
                   ,
                   they
                   took
                   their
                   Way
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   long
                   extended
                   Plains
                   of
                   Pleasure
                   lay
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   verdant
                   Fields
                   with
                   those
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   may
                   vye
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   Aether
                   vested
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   Purple
                   Sky
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   blissful
                   Seats
                   of
                   Happy
                   Souls
                   below
                   :
                
                 
                   Stars
                   of
                   their
                   own
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   own
                   Suns
                   they
                   know
                   .
                
                 
                   Their
                   Airy
                   Limbs
                   in
                   Sports
                   they
                   exercise
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   on
                   the
                   Green
                   ,
                   contend
                   the
                   Wrestler's
                   Prize
                   .
                
                 
                   Some
                   ,
                   in
                   Heroick
                   Verse
                   ,
                   divinely
                   sing
                   ;
                
                 
                   Others
                   in
                   artful
                   Measures
                   lead
                   the
                   ring
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Thracian
                   Bard
                   ,
                   surrounded
                   by
                   the
                   rest
                   ,
                
                 
                   There
                   stands
                   conspicuous
                   in
                   his
                   flowing
                   Vest
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   flying
                   Fingers
                   ,
                   and
                   harmonious
                   Quill
                   ,
                
                 
                   Strike
                   sev'n
                   distinguish'd
                   Notes
                   ,
                   and
                   sev'n
                   at
                   once
                   they
                   fill
                   .
                
                 
                   Here
                   found
                   they
                   
                   Teucer's
                   old
                   Heroick
                   Race
                   ;
                
                 
                   Born
                   better
                   times
                   and
                   happier
                   Years
                   to
                   grace
                   .
                
                 
                   Assaracus
                   and
                   Ilus
                   here
                   enjoy
                
                 
                   Perpetual
                   Fame
                   ,
                   with
                   him
                   who
                   founded
                   Troy.
                
                 
                   The
                   Chief
                   beheld
                   their
                   Chariots
                   from
                   afar
                   ;
                
                 
                   Their
                   shining
                   Arms
                   ,
                   and
                   Coursers
                   train'd
                   to
                   War
                   :
                
                 
                   Their
                   Lances
                   fix'd
                   in
                   Earth
                   ,
                   their
                   Steeds
                   around
                   ,
                
                 
                   Free
                   from
                   their
                   Harness
                   ,
                   graze
                   the
                   flow'ry
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   love
                   of
                   Horses
                   which
                   they
                   had
                   ,
                   alive
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   care
                   of
                   Chariots
                   ,
                   after
                   Death
                   survive
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Some
                   chearful
                   Souls
                   ,
                   were
                   feasting
                   on
                   the
                   Plain
                   ;
                
                 
                   Some
                   did
                   the
                   Song
                   ,
                   and
                   some
                   the
                   Choir
                   maintain
                   .
                
                 
                   Beneath
                   a
                   Laurel
                   Shade
                   ,
                   where
                   mighty
                   Po
                
                 
                   Mounts
                   up
                   to
                   Woods
                   above
                   ,
                   and
                   hides
                   his
                   Head
                   below
                   .
                
                 
                   Here
                   Patriots
                   live
                   ,
                   who
                   ,
                   for
                   their
                   Countries
                   good
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   fighting
                   Fields
                   ,
                   were
                   prodigal
                   of
                   Blood
                   :
                
                 
                   Priests
                   of
                   unblemish'd
                   Lives
                   here
                   make
                   Abode
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Poets
                   worthy
                   their
                   inspiring
                   God
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   searching
                   Wits
                   ,
                   of
                   more
                   Mechanick
                   parts
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   grac'd
                   their
                   Age
                   with
                   new
                   invented
                   Arts.
                
                 
                   Those
                   who
                   ,
                   to
                   worth
                   ,
                   their
                   Bounty
                   did
                   extend
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   those
                   who
                   knew
                   that
                   Bounty
                   to
                   commend
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Heads
                   of
                   these
                   with
                   holy
                   Fillets
                   bound
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   their
                   Temples
                   were
                   with
                   Garlands
                   crown'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   To
                   these
                   the
                   Sibyl
                   thus
                   her
                   Speech
                   address'd
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   first
                   ,
                   to
                   him
                   surrounded
                   by
                   the
                   rest
                   ;
                
                 
                   Tow'ring
                   his
                   Height
                   ,
                   and
                   ample
                   was
                   his
                   Breast
                   ;
                
                 
                   Say
                   happy
                   Souls
                   ,
                   Divine
                   Musaeus
                   say
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   lives
                   Anchises
                   ,
                   and
                   where
                   lies
                   our
                   Way
                
                 
                   To
                   find
                   the
                   Heroe
                   ,
                   for
                   whose
                   only
                   sake
                
                 
                   We
                   sought
                   the
                   dark
                   Abodes
                   ,
                   and
                   cross'd
                   the
                   bitter
                   Lake
                   ?
                
                 
                   To
                   this
                   the
                   Sacred
                   Poet
                   thus
                   reply'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   In
                   no
                   fix'd
                   place
                   the
                   Happy
                   Souls
                   reside
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   Groves
                   we
                   live
                   ;
                   and
                   lye
                   on
                   mossy
                   Beds
                
                 
                   By
                   Crystal
                   Streams
                   ,
                   that
                   murmur
                   through
                   the
                   Meads
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   pass
                   yon
                   easie
                   Hill
                   ,
                   and
                   thence
                   descend
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Path
                   conducts
                   you
                   to
                   your
                   Journeys
                   end
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   said
                   ,
                   he
                   led
                   them
                   up
                   the
                   Mountains
                   brow
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   shews
                   them
                   all
                   the
                   shining
                   Fields
                   below
                   ;
                
                 
                   They
                   wind
                   the
                   Hill
                   ,
                   and
                   thro'
                   the
                   blissful
                   Meadows
                   go
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   old
                   Anchises
                   ,
                   in
                   a
                   flow'ry
                   Vale
                   ,
                
                 
                   Review'd
                   his
                   muster'd
                   Race
                   ;
                   and
                   took
                   the
                   Tale.
                
                 
                   Those
                   Happy
                   Spirits
                   ,
                   which
                   ordain'd
                   by
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   future
                   Beings
                   ,
                   and
                   new
                   Bodies
                   wait
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   With
                   studious
                   Thought
                   observ'd
                   th'
                   illustrious
                   Throng
                   ;
                
                 
                   In
                   Nature's
                   Order
                   as
                   they
                   pass'd
                   along
                   .
                
                 
                   Their
                   Names
                   ,
                   their
                   Fates
                   ,
                   their
                   Conduct
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   Care
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   peaceful
                   Senates
                   ,
                   and
                   successful
                   War.
                
                 
                   He
                   ,
                   when
                   Aeneas
                   on
                   the
                   Plain
                   appears
                   ,
                
                 
                   Meets
                   him
                   with
                   open
                   Arms
                   ,
                   and
                   falling
                   Tears
                   .
                
                 
                   Welcome
                   ,
                   he
                   said
                   ,
                   the
                   Gods
                   undoubted
                   Race
                   ,
                
                 
                   O
                   long
                   expected
                   to
                   my
                   dear
                   Embrace
                   ;
                
                 
                   Once
                   more
                   't
                   is
                   giv'n
                   me
                   to
                   behold
                   your
                   Face
                   !
                
                 
                   The
                   Love
                   ,
                   and
                   Pious
                   Duty
                   which
                   you
                   pay
                   ,
                
                 
                   Have
                   pass'd
                   the
                   Perils
                   of
                   so
                   hard
                   a
                   way
                   .
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   true
                   ,
                   computing
                   times
                   ,
                   I
                   now
                   believ'd
                
                 
                   The
                   happy
                   Day
                   approach'd
                   ;
                   nor
                   are
                   my
                   Hope
                   's
                   deceiv'd
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   length
                   of
                   Lands
                   ,
                   what
                   Oceans
                   have
                   you
                   pass'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   Storms
                   sustain'd
                   ,
                   and
                   on
                   what
                   Shores
                   been
                   cast
                   ?
                
                 
                   How
                   have
                   I
                   fear'd
                   your
                   Fate
                   !
                   But
                   fear'd
                   it
                   most
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   Love
                   assail'd
                   you
                   ,
                   on
                   the
                   Lybian
                   Coast
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   this
                   ,
                   the
                   Filial
                   Duty
                   thus
                   replies
                   ;
                
                 
                   Your
                   sacred
                   Ghost
                   ,
                   before
                   my
                   sleeping
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Appear'd
                   ;
                   and
                   often
                   urg'd
                   this
                   painful
                   Enterprise
                   .
                
                 
                   After
                   long
                   tossing
                   on
                   the
                   Tyrrhene
                   Sea
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Navy
                   rides
                   at
                   Anchor
                   in
                   the
                   Bay.
                
                 
                   But
                   reach
                   your
                   Hand
                   ,
                   oh
                   Parent
                   Shade
                   ,
                   nor
                   shun
                
                 
                   The
                   dear
                   Embraces
                   of
                   your
                   longing
                   Son
                   !
                
                 
                   He
                   said
                   ;
                   and
                   falling
                   Tears
                   his
                   Face
                   bedew
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   thrice
                   ,
                   around
                   his
                   Neck
                   ,
                   his
                   Arms
                   he
                   threw
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   thrice
                   the
                   flitting
                   Shadow
                   slip'd
                   away
                   ;
                
                 
                   Like
                   Winds
                   ,
                   or
                   empty
                   Dreams
                   that
                   fly
                   the
                   Day
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   in
                   a
                   secret
                   Vale
                   ,
                   the
                   Trojan
                   sees
                
                 
                   A
                   sep'rate
                   Grove
                   ,
                   thro'
                   which
                   a
                   gentle
                   Breeze
                
                 
                   Plays
                   with
                   a
                   passing
                   Breath
                   ,
                   and
                   whispers
                   thro'
                   the
                   Trees
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   just
                   before
                   the
                   Confines
                   of
                   the
                   Wood
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   gliding
                   Lethe
                   leads
                   her
                   silent
                   Flood
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   About
                   the
                   Boughs
                   an
                   Airy
                   Nation
                   flew
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thick
                   as
                   the
                   humming
                   Bees
                   ,
                   that
                   hunt
                   the
                   Golden
                   Dew
                   ;
                
                 
                   In
                   Summer's
                   heat
                   ,
                   on
                   tops
                   of
                   Lillies
                   feed
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   creep
                   within
                   their
                   Bells
                   ,
                   to
                   suck
                   the
                   balmy
                   Seed
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   winged
                   Army
                   roams
                   the
                   Fields
                   around
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Rivers
                   and
                   the
                   Rocks
                   remurmur
                   to
                   the
                   sound
                   .
                
                 
                   Aeneas
                   wond'ring
                   stood
                   :
                   Then
                   ask'd
                   the
                   Cause
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   to
                   the
                   Stream
                   the
                   Crowding
                   People
                   draws
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   thus
                   the
                   Sire
                   .
                   The
                   Souls
                   that
                   throng
                   the
                   Flood
                
                 
                   Are
                   those
                   ,
                   to
                   Whom
                   ,
                   by
                   Fate
                   ,
                   are
                   other
                   Bodies
                   ow'd
                   :
                
                 
                   In
                   
                   Lethe's
                   Lake
                   they
                   long
                   Oblivion
                   tast
                   ;
                
                 
                   Of
                   future
                   Life
                   secure
                   ,
                   forgetful
                   of
                   the
                   Past
                   .
                
                 
                   Long
                   has
                   my
                   Soul
                   desir'd
                   this
                   time
                   ,
                   and
                   place
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   set
                   before
                   your
                   sight
                   your
                   glorious
                   Race
                   .
                
                 
                   That
                   this
                   presaging
                   Joy
                   may
                   fire
                   your
                   Mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   seek
                   the
                   Shores
                   by
                   Destiny
                   design'd
                   .
                
                 
                   O
                   Father
                   ,
                   can
                   it
                   be
                   ,
                   that
                   Souls
                   sublime
                   ,
                
                 
                   Return
                   to
                   visit
                   our
                   Terrestrial
                   Clime
                   ?
                
                 
                   And
                   that
                   the
                   Gen'rous
                   Mind
                   ,
                   releas'd
                   by
                   Death
                   ,
                
                 
                   Can
                   Covet
                   lazy
                   Limbs
                   ,
                   and
                   Mortal
                   Breath
                   ?
                
                 
                   Anchises
                   then
                   ,
                   in
                   order
                   ,
                   thus
                   begun
                
                 
                   To
                   clear
                   those
                   Wonders
                   to
                   his
                   Godlike
                   Son.
                
                 
                   Know
                   first
                   ,
                   that
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   and
                   Earth's
                   compacted
                   Frame
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   flowing
                   Waters
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   starry
                   Flame
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   both
                   the
                   Radiant
                   Lights
                   ,
                   one
                   Common
                   Soul
                
                 
                   Inspires
                   ,
                   and
                   feeds
                   ,
                   and
                   animates
                   the
                   whole
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   Active
                   Mind
                   infus'd
                   through
                   all
                   the
                   Space
                   ,
                
                 
                   Unites
                   and
                   mingles
                   with
                   the
                   mighty
                   Mass
                   .
                
                 
                   Hence
                   Men
                   and
                   Beasts
                   the
                   Breath
                   of
                   Life
                   obtain
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Birds
                   of
                   Air
                   ,
                   and
                   Monsters
                   of
                   the
                   Main
                   .
                
                 
                   Th'
                   Etherial
                   Vigour
                   is
                   in
                   all
                   the
                   same
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   every
                   Soul
                   is
                   fill'd
                   with
                   equal
                   Flame
                   :
                
                 
                   As
                   much
                   as
                   Earthy
                   Limbs
                   ,
                   and
                   gross
                   allay
                
                 
                   Of
                   Mortal
                   Members
                   ,
                   subject
                   to
                   decay
                   ,
                
                 
                   Blunt
                   not
                   the
                   Beams
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   and
                   edge
                   of
                   Day
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   From
                   this
                   course
                   Mixture
                   of
                   Terrestial
                   parts
                   ,
                
                 
                   Desire
                   ,
                   and
                   Fear
                   ,
                   by
                   turns
                   possess
                   their
                   Hearts
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   Grief
                   ,
                   and
                   Joy
                   :
                   Nor
                   can
                   the
                   groveling
                   Mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   the
                   dark
                   Dungeon
                   of
                   the
                   Limbs
                   confin'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Assert
                   the
                   Native
                   Skies
                   ;
                   or
                   own
                   its
                   heav'nly
                   Kind
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Death
                   it self
                   can
                   wholly
                   wash
                   their
                   Stains
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   long
                   contracted
                   Filth
                   ,
                   ev'n
                   in
                   the
                   Soul
                   remains
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Reliques
                   of
                   inveterate
                   Vice
                   they
                   wear
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Spots
                   of
                   Sin
                   obscene
                   ,
                   in
                   ev'ry
                   Face
                   appear
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   this
                   are
                   various
                   Penances
                   enjoyn'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   some
                   are
                   hung
                   to
                   bleach
                   ,
                   upon
                   the
                   Wind
                   ;
                
                 
                   Some
                   plung'd
                   in
                   Waters
                   ,
                   others
                   purg'd
                   in
                   Fires
                   ,
                
                 
                   Till
                   all
                   the
                   Dregs
                   are
                   drain'd
                   :
                   and
                   all
                   the
                   Rust
                   expires
                   :
                
                 
                   All
                   have
                   their
                   Manes
                   ,
                   and
                   those
                   Manes
                   bear
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   few
                   ,
                   so
                   cleans'd
                   to
                   these
                   Abodes
                   repair
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   breath
                   ,
                   in
                   ample
                   Fields
                   ,
                   the
                   soft
                   Elysian
                   Air.
                
                 
                   Then
                   are
                   they
                   happy
                   ,
                   when
                   by
                   length
                   of
                   time
                
                 
                   The
                   Scurf
                   is
                   worn
                   away
                   ,
                   of
                   each
                   committed
                   Crime
                   .
                
                 
                   No
                   Speck
                   is
                   left
                   ,
                   of
                   their
                   habitual
                   Stains
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   the
                   pure
                   Aether
                   of
                   the
                   Soul
                   remains
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   ,
                   when
                   a
                   Thousand
                   rowling
                   Years
                   are
                   past
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   So
                   long
                   their
                   Punishments
                   and
                   Penance
                   last
                   ;
                   )
                
                 
                   Whole
                   Droves
                   of
                   Minds
                   are
                   ,
                   by
                   the
                   driving
                   God
                   ,
                
                 
                   Compell'd
                   to
                   drink
                   the
                   deep
                   Lethaean
                   Flood
                   :
                
                 
                   In
                   large
                   forgetful
                   draughts
                   to
                   steep
                   the
                   Cares
                
                 
                   Of
                   their
                   past
                   Labours
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   Irksom
                   Years
                   .
                
                 
                   That
                   ,
                   unrememb'ring
                   of
                   its
                   former
                   Pain
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Soul
                   may
                   suffer
                   mortal
                   Flesh
                   again
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   having
                   said
                   ;
                   the
                   Father
                   Spirit
                   ,
                   leads
                
                 
                   The
                   Priestess
                   and
                   his
                   Son
                   through
                   Swarms
                   of
                   Shades
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   takes
                   a
                   rising
                   Ground
                   ,
                   from
                   thence
                   to
                   see
                
                 
                   The
                   long
                   Procession
                   of
                   his
                   Progeny
                   .
                
                 
                   Survey
                   (
                   pursu'd
                   the
                   Sire
                   )
                   this
                   airy
                   Throng
                   ;
                
                 
                   As
                   ,
                   offer'd
                   to
                   thy
                   view
                   ,
                   they
                   pass
                   along
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   These
                   are
                   th'
                   Italian
                   Names
                   ,
                   which
                   Fate
                   will
                   join
                
                 
                   With
                   ours
                   ,
                   and
                   graff
                   upon
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Line
                   .
                
                 
                   Observe
                   the
                   Youth
                   who
                   first
                   appears
                   in
                   sight
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   holds
                   the
                   nearest
                   Station
                   to
                   the
                   Light
                   :
                
                 
                   Already
                   seems
                   to
                   snuff
                   the
                   vital
                   Air
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   leans
                   just
                   forward
                   ,
                   on
                   a
                   shining
                   Spear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Silvius
                   is
                   he
                   :
                   thy
                   last
                   begotten
                   Race
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   first
                   in
                   order
                   sent
                   ,
                   to
                   fill
                   thy
                   place
                   ,
                
                 
                   An
                   Alban
                   Name
                   ;
                   but
                   mix'd
                   with
                   Dardan
                   Blood
                   ;
                
                 
                   Born
                   in
                   the
                   Covert
                   of
                   a
                   shady
                   Wood
                   :
                
                 
                   Him
                   fair
                   Lavinia
                   ,
                   thy
                   surviving
                   Wife
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shall
                   breed
                   in
                   Groves
                   ,
                   to
                   lead
                   a
                   solitary
                   Life
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   Alba
                   he
                   shall
                   fix
                   his
                   Royal
                   Seat
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   born
                   a
                   King
                   ,
                   a
                   Race
                   of
                   Kings
                   beget
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   Procas
                   ,
                   Honour
                   of
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Name
                   ,
                
                 
                   Capys
                   ,
                   and
                   Numitor
                   ,
                   of
                   endless
                   Fame
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   second
                   Silvius
                   after
                   these
                   appears
                   ;
                
                 
                   
                     Silvius
                     Aeneas
                  
                   ,
                   for
                   thy
                   Name
                   he
                   bears
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   Arms
                   and
                   Justice
                   equally
                   renown'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Who
                   ,
                   late
                   restor'd
                   ,
                   in
                   Alba
                   shall
                   be
                   crown'd
                   .
                
                 
                   How
                   great
                   they
                   look
                   ,
                   how
                   vig'rously
                   they
                   wield
                
                 
                   Their
                   weighty
                   Lances
                   ,
                   and
                   sustain
                   the
                   Shield
                   !
                
                 
                   But
                   they
                   ,
                   who
                   crown'd
                   with
                   Oaken
                   Wreaths
                   appear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shall
                   Gabian
                   Walls
                   ,
                   and
                   strong
                   Fidena
                   rear
                   :
                
                 
                   
                     Nomentum
                     ,
                     Bola
                  
                   ,
                   with
                   Pometia
                   ,
                   found
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   raise
                   Colatian
                   Tow'rs
                   on
                   Rocky
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                   All
                   these
                   shall
                   then
                   be
                   Towns
                   of
                   mighty
                   Fame
                   ;
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   now
                   they
                   lye
                   obscure
                   ;
                   and
                   Lands
                   without
                   a
                   Name
                   .
                
                 
                   See
                   Romulus
                   the
                   great
                   ,
                   born
                   to
                   restore
                
                 
                   The
                   Crown
                   that
                   once
                   his
                   injur'd
                   Grandsire
                   wore
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   Prince
                   ,
                   a
                   Priestess
                   of
                   our
                   Blood
                   shall
                   bear
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   like
                   his
                   Sire
                   in
                   Arms
                   he
                   shall
                   appear
                   .
                
                 
                   Two
                   rising
                   Crests
                   his
                   Royal
                   Head
                   adorn
                   ;
                
                 
                   Born
                   from
                   a
                   God
                   ,
                   himself
                   to
                   Godhead
                   born
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   His
                   Sire
                   already
                   signs
                   him
                   for
                   the
                   Skies
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   marks
                   his
                   Seat
                   amidst
                   the
                   Deities
                   .
                
                 
                   Auspicious
                   Chief
                   !
                   thy
                   Race
                   in
                   times
                   to
                   come
                
                 
                   Shall
                   spread
                   the
                   Conquests
                   of
                   Imperial
                   Rome
                   .
                
                 
                   Rome
                   whose
                   ascending
                   Tow'rs
                   shall
                   Heav'n
                   invade
                   ;
                
                 
                   Involving
                   Earth
                   and
                   Ocean
                   in
                   her
                   Shade
                   .
                
                 
                   High
                   as
                   the
                   Mother
                   of
                   the
                   Gods
                   in
                   place
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   proud
                   ,
                   like
                   her
                   ,
                   of
                   an
                   Immortal
                   Race
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   when
                   in
                   Pomp
                   she
                   makes
                   the
                   Phrygian
                   round
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   Golden
                   Turrets
                   on
                   her
                   Temples
                   crown'd
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   hundred
                   Gods
                   her
                   sweeping
                   Train
                   supply
                   ;
                
                 
                   Her
                   Offspring
                   all
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   command
                   the
                   Sky
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   fix
                   your
                   Sight
                   ,
                   and
                   stand
                   intent
                   ,
                   to
                   see
                
                 
                   Your
                   Roman
                   Race
                   ,
                   and
                   Julian
                   Progeny
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   mighty
                   Caesar
                   waits
                   his
                   vital
                   Hour
                   ;
                
                 
                   Impatient
                   for
                   the
                   World
                   ,
                   and
                   grasps
                   his
                   promis'd
                   Pow'r
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   next
                   behold
                   the
                   Youth
                   of
                   Form
                   Divine
                   ,
                
                 
                   Caesar
                   himself
                   ,
                   exalted
                   in
                   his
                   Line
                   ;
                
                 
                   Augustus
                   ,
                   promis'd
                   oft
                   ,
                   and
                   long
                   foretold
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sent
                   to
                   the
                   Realm
                   that
                   Saturn
                   rul'd
                   of
                   old
                   ;
                
                 
                   Born
                   to
                   restore
                   a
                   better
                   Age
                   of
                   Gold.
                
                 
                   Affrick
                   ,
                   and
                   India
                   ,
                   shall
                   his
                   Pow'r
                   obey
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   shall
                   extend
                   his
                   propagated
                   Sway
                   ,
                
                 
                   Beyond
                   the
                   Solar
                   Year
                   ;
                   without
                   the
                   starry
                   Way
                   .
                
                 
                   Where
                   Atlas
                   turns
                   the
                   rowling
                   Heav'ns
                   around
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   his
                   broad
                   Shoulders
                   with
                   their
                   Lights
                   are
                   crown'd
                   .
                
                 
                   At
                   his
                   fore-seen
                   Approach
                   ,
                   already
                   quake
                
                 
                   The
                   Caspian
                   Kingdoms
                   ,
                   and
                   Maeotian
                   Lake
                   .
                
                 
                   Their
                   Seers
                   behold
                   the
                   Tempest
                   from
                   afar
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   threatning
                   Oracles
                   denounce
                   the
                   War.
                
                 
                   Nile
                   hears
                   him
                   knocking
                   at
                   his
                   sev'nfold
                   Gates
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   seeks
                   his
                   hidden
                   Spring
                   ,
                   and
                   fears
                   his
                   Nephew's
                   Fates
                   ▪
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Hercules
                   more
                   Lands
                   or
                   Labours
                   knew
                   ,
                
                 
                   Not
                   tho'
                   the
                   brazen-footed
                   Hind
                   he
                   slew
                   ;
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     Robert
                     Harley
                     of
                     Bramton
                     Castle
                     in
                     y
                     e
                     County
                     of
                     Hereford
                     
                       Esq
                    
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     6.
                     l.
                     1085.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                 
                   Freed
                   Erymanthus
                   from
                   the
                   foaming
                   Boar
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   dip'd
                   his
                   Arrows
                   in
                   Lernaean
                   Gore
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Bacchus
                   ,
                   turning
                   from
                   his
                   Indian
                   War
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   Tygers
                   drawn
                   triumphant
                   in
                   his
                   Car
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   Nisus
                   top
                   descending
                   on
                   the
                   Plains
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   curling
                   Vines
                   around
                   his
                   purple
                   Reins
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   doubt
                   we
                   yet
                   thro'
                   Dangers
                   to
                   pursue
                
                 
                   The
                   Paths
                   of
                   Honour
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   Crown
                   in
                   view
                   ?
                
                 
                   But
                   what
                   's
                   the
                   Man
                   ,
                   who
                   from
                   afar
                   appears
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Head
                   with
                   Olive
                   crown'd
                   ,
                   his
                   Hand
                   a
                   Censer
                   bears
                   ?
                
                 
                   His
                   hoary
                   Beard
                   ,
                   and
                   holy
                   Vestments
                   bring
                
                 
                   His
                   lost
                   Idea
                   back
                   :
                   I
                   know
                   the
                   Roman
                   King.
                
                 
                   He
                   shall
                   to
                   peaceful
                   Rome
                   new
                   Laws
                   ordain
                   :
                
                 
                   Call'd
                   from
                   his
                   mean
                   abode
                   ,
                   a
                   Scepter
                   to
                   sustain
                   .
                
                 
                   Him
                   ,
                   Tullus
                   next
                   in
                   Dignity
                   succeeds
                   ;
                
                 
                   An
                   active
                   Prince
                   ,
                   and
                   prone
                   to
                   Martial
                   Deeds
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   fighting
                   Fields
                   his
                   Troops
                   he
                   shall
                   prepare
                   ,
                
                 
                   Disus'd
                   to
                   Toils
                   ,
                   and
                   Triumphs
                   of
                   the
                   War.
                
                 
                   By
                   dint
                   of
                   Sword
                   his
                   Crown
                   he
                   shall
                   increase
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   scour
                   his
                   Armour
                   from
                   the
                   Rust
                   of
                   Peace
                   .
                
                 
                   Whom
                   Ancus
                   follows
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   fawning
                   Air
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   vain
                   within
                   ,
                   and
                   proudly
                   popular
                   .
                
                 
                   Next
                   view
                   the
                   Tarquin
                   Kings
                   :
                   Th'
                   avenging
                   Sword
                
                 
                   Of
                   Brutus
                   ,
                   justly
                   drawn
                   ,
                   and
                   Rome
                   restor'd
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   first
                   renews
                   the
                   Rods
                   ,
                   and
                   Axe
                   severe
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   gives
                   the
                   Consuls
                   Royal
                   Robes
                   to
                   wear
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   Sons
                   ,
                   who
                   seek
                   the
                   Tyrant
                   to
                   sustain
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   long
                   for
                   Arbitrary
                   Lords
                   again
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Ignominy
                   scourg'd
                   ,
                   in
                   open
                   sight
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   dooms
                   to
                   Death
                   deserv'd
                   ;
                   asserting
                   Publick
                   Right
                   .
                
                 
                   Unhappy
                   Man
                   ,
                   to
                   break
                   the
                   Pious
                   Laws
                
                 
                   Of
                   Nature
                   ,
                   pleading
                   in
                   his
                   Children's
                   Cause
                   !
                
                 
                   Howe're
                   the
                   doubtful
                   Fact
                   is
                   understood
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   Love
                   of
                   Honour
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Country's
                   good
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Consul
                   ,
                   not
                   the
                   Father
                   ,
                   sheds
                   the
                   Blood.
                
                 
                 
                   Behold
                   Torquatus
                   the
                   same
                   Track
                   pursue
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   next
                   ,
                   the
                   three
                   devoted
                   Decij
                   view
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Drusian
                   Line
                   ,
                   Camillus
                   loaded
                   home
                
                 
                   With
                   Standards
                   well
                   redeem'd
                   ,
                   and
                   foreign
                   Foes
                   o'recome
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Pair
                   you
                   see
                   in
                   equal
                   Armour
                   shine
                   ;
                
                 
                   (
                   Now
                   ,
                   Friends
                   below
                   ,
                   in
                   close
                   Embraces
                   join
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   when
                   they
                   leave
                   the
                   shady
                   Realms
                   of
                   Night
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   cloath'd
                   in
                   Bodies
                   ,
                   breath
                   your
                   upper
                   Light
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                   With
                   mortal
                   Hate
                   each
                   other
                   shall
                   pursue
                   :
                
                 
                   What
                   Wars
                   ,
                   what
                   Wounds
                   ,
                   what
                   Slaughter
                   shall
                   ensue
                   !
                
                 
                   From
                   Alpine
                   Heights
                   the
                   Father
                   first
                   descends
                   ;
                
                 
                   His
                   Daughter's
                   Husband
                   in
                   the
                   Plain
                   attends
                   :
                
                 
                   His
                   Daughter's
                   Husband
                   arms
                   his
                   Eastern
                   Friends
                   .
                
                 
                   Embrace
                   again
                   ,
                   my
                   Sons
                   ,
                   be
                   Foes
                   no
                   more
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   stain
                   your
                   Country
                   with
                   her
                   Childrens
                   Gore
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   thou
                   ,
                   the
                   first
                   ,
                   lay
                   down
                   thy
                   lawless
                   claim
                   ;
                
                 
                   Thou
                   ,
                   of
                   my
                   Blood
                   ,
                   who
                   bear'st
                   the
                   Julian
                   Name
                   .
                
                 
                   Another
                   comes
                   ,
                   who
                   shall
                   in
                   Triumph
                   ride
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   to
                   the
                   Capitol
                   his
                   Chariot
                   guide
                   ;
                
                 
                   From
                   conquer'd
                   Corinth
                   ,
                   rich
                   with
                   Grecian
                   Spoils
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   yet
                   another
                   ,
                   fam'd
                   for
                   Warlike
                   Toils
                   ,
                
                 
                   On
                   Argos
                   shall
                   impose
                   the
                   Roman
                   Laws
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   on
                   the
                   Greeks
                   ,
                   revenge
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Cause
                   :
                
                 
                   Shall
                   drag
                   in
                   Chains
                   their
                   Achillaean
                   Race
                   ;
                
                 
                   Shall
                   vindicate
                   his
                   Ancestors
                   Disgrace
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   Pallas
                   ,
                   for
                   her
                   violated
                   Place
                   .
                
                 
                   Great
                   Cato
                   there
                   ,
                   for
                   Gravity
                   renown'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   conqu'ring
                   Cossus
                   goes
                   with
                   Lawrels
                   crown'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Who
                   can
                   omit
                   the
                   Gracchi
                   ,
                   who
                   declare
                
                 
                   The
                   Scipio's
                   Worth
                   ,
                   those
                   Thunderbolts
                   of
                   War
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   double
                   Bane
                   of
                   Carthage
                   ?
                   Who
                   can
                   see
                   ,
                
                 
                   Without
                   esteem
                   for
                   virtuous
                   Poverty
                   ,
                
                 
                   Severe
                   Fabritius
                   ,
                   or
                   can
                   cease
                   t'
                   admire
                
                 
                   The
                   Ploughman
                   Consul
                   in
                   his
                   Course
                   Attire
                   !
                
                 
                 
                   Tir'd
                   as
                   I
                   am
                   ,
                   my
                   Praise
                   the
                   Fabij
                   claim
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   thou
                   great
                   Heroe
                   ,
                   greatest
                   of
                   thy
                   Name
                   ;
                
                 
                   Ordain'd
                   in
                   War
                   to
                   save
                   the
                   sinking
                   State
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   by
                   Delays
                   ,
                   to
                   put
                   a
                   stop
                   to
                   Fate
                   !
                
                 
                   Let
                   others
                   better
                   mold
                   the
                   running
                   Mass
                
                 
                   Of
                   Mettals
                   ,
                   and
                   inform
                   the
                   breathing
                   Brass
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   soften
                   into
                   Flesh
                   a
                   Marble
                   Face
                   :
                
                 
                   Plead
                   better
                   at
                   the
                   Bar
                   ;
                   describe
                   the
                   Skies
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   when
                   the
                   Stars
                   descend
                   ,
                   and
                   when
                   they
                   rise
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   ,
                   Rome
                   ,
                   't
                   is
                   thine
                   alone
                   ,
                   with
                   awful
                   sway
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   rule
                   Mankind
                   ;
                   and
                   make
                   the
                   World
                   obey
                   ;
                
                 
                   Disposing
                   Peace
                   ,
                   and
                   War
                   ,
                   thy
                   own
                   Majestick
                   Way
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   tame
                   the
                   Proud
                   ,
                   the
                   fetter'd
                   Slave
                   to
                   free
                   ;
                
                 
                   These
                   are
                   Imperial
                   Arts
                   ,
                   and
                   worthy
                   thee
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   paus'd
                   :
                   And
                   while
                   with
                   wond'ring
                   Eyes
                   they
                   view'd
                
                 
                   The
                   passing
                   Spirits
                   ,
                   thus
                   his
                   Speech
                   renew'd
                   .
                
                 
                   See
                   great
                   Marcellus
                   !
                   how
                   ,
                   untir'd
                   in
                   Toils
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   moves
                   with
                   Manly
                   grace
                   ,
                   how
                   rich
                   with
                   Regal
                   Spoils
                
                 
                   He
                   ,
                   when
                   his
                   Country
                   ,
                   (
                   threaten'd
                   with
                   Alarms
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                   Requires
                   his
                   Courage
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Conqu'ring
                   Arms
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shall
                   more
                   than
                   once
                   the
                   Punic
                   Bands
                   affright
                   :
                
                 
                   Shall
                   kill
                   the
                   Gaulish
                   King
                   in
                   single
                   Fight
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   to
                   the
                   Capitol
                   in
                   Triumph
                   move
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   third
                   Spoils
                   shall
                   grace
                   
                     Feretrian
                     Jove
                  
                   .
                
                 
                   Aeneas
                   ,
                   here
                   ,
                   beheld
                   of
                   Form
                   Divine
                
                 
                   A
                   Godlike
                   Youth
                   ,
                   in
                   glitt'ring
                   Armour
                   shine
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   great
                   Marcellus
                   keeping
                   equal
                   pace
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   gloomy
                   were
                   his
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   dejected
                   was
                   his
                   Face
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   saw
                   ,
                   and
                   ,
                   wond'ring
                   ,
                   ask'd
                   his
                   airy
                   Guide
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   ,
                   and
                   of
                   whence
                   was
                   he
                   ,
                   who
                   press'd
                   the
                   Hero's
                   side
                   ?
                
                 
                   His
                   Son
                   ,
                   or
                   one
                   of
                   his
                   Illustrious
                   Name
                   ,
                
                 
                   How
                   like
                   the
                   former
                   ,
                   and
                   almost
                   the
                   same
                   :
                
                 
                   Observe
                   the
                   Crowds
                   that
                   compass
                   him
                   around
                   ;
                
                 
                   All
                   gaze
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   admire
                   ,
                   and
                   raise
                   a
                   shouting
                   sound
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   But
                   hov'ring
                   Mists
                   around
                   his
                   Brows
                   are
                   spread
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Night
                   ,
                   with
                   sable
                   Shades
                   ,
                   involves
                   his
                   Head.
                
                 
                   Seek
                   not
                   to
                   know
                   (
                   the
                   Ghost
                   reply'd
                   with
                   Tears
                   )
                
                 
                   The
                   Sorrows
                   of
                   thy
                   Sons
                   ,
                   in
                   future
                   Years
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   Youth
                   (
                   the
                   blissful
                   Vision
                   of
                   a
                   day
                   )
                
                 
                   Shall
                   just
                   be
                   shown
                   on
                   Earth
                   ,
                   and
                   snatch'd
                   away
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Gods
                   too
                   high
                   had
                   rais'd
                   the
                   Roman
                   State
                   ;
                
                 
                   Were
                   but
                   their
                   Gifts
                   as
                   permanent
                   as
                   great
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   groans
                   of
                   Men
                   shall
                   fill
                   the
                   Martian
                   Field
                   !
                
                 
                   How
                   fierce
                   a
                   Blaze
                   his
                   flaming
                   Pile
                   shall
                   yield
                   !
                
                 
                   What
                   Fun'ral
                   Pomp
                   shall
                   floating
                   Tiber
                   see
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   ,
                   rising
                   from
                   his
                   Bed
                   ,
                   he
                   views
                   the
                   sad
                   Solemnity
                   !
                
                 
                   No
                   Youth
                   shall
                   equal
                   hopes
                   of
                   Glory
                   give
                   :
                
                 
                   No
                   Youth
                   afford
                   so
                   great
                   a
                   Cause
                   to
                   grieve
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Trojan
                   Honour
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Roman
                   Boast
                   ;
                
                 
                   Admir'd
                   when
                   living
                   ,
                   and
                   Ador'd
                   when
                   lost
                   !
                
                 
                   Mirror
                   of
                   ancient
                   Faith
                   in
                   early
                   Youth
                   !
                
                 
                   Undaunted
                   Worth
                   ,
                   Inviolable
                   Truth
                   !
                
                 
                   No
                   Foe
                   unpunish'd
                   in
                   the
                   fighting
                   Field
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shall
                   dare
                   thee
                   Foot
                   to
                   Foot
                   ,
                   with
                   Sword
                   and
                   Shield
                   .
                
                 
                   Much
                   less
                   ,
                   in
                   Arms
                   oppose
                   thy
                   matchless
                   Force
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   thy
                   sharp
                   Spurs
                   shall
                   urge
                   thy
                   foaming
                   Horse
                   .
                
                 
                   Ah
                   ,
                   cou'dst
                   thou
                   break
                   through
                   Fates
                   severe
                   Decree
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   new
                   Marcellus
                   shall
                   arise
                   in
                   thee
                   !
                
                 
                   Full
                   Canisters
                   of
                   fragrant
                   Lillies
                   bring
                   ,
                
                 
                   Mix'd
                   with
                   the
                   Purple
                   Roses
                   of
                   the
                   Spring
                   :
                
                 
                   Let
                   me
                   with
                   Fun'ral
                   Flow'rs
                   his
                   Body
                   strow
                   ;
                
                 
                   This
                   Gift
                   which
                   Parents
                   to
                   their
                   Children
                   owe
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   unavailing
                   Gift
                   ,
                   at
                   least
                   I
                   may
                   bestow
                   !
                
                 
                   Thus
                   having
                   said
                   ,
                   He
                   led
                   the
                   Heroe
                   round
                
                 
                   The
                   confines
                   of
                   the
                   blest
                   Elysian
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                   Which
                   ,
                   when
                   Anchises
                   to
                   his
                   Son
                   had
                   shown
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   fir'd
                   his
                   Mind
                   to
                   mount
                   the
                   promis'd
                   Throne
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   He
                   tells
                   the
                   future
                   Wars
                   ,
                   ordain'd
                   by
                   Fate
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Strength
                   and
                   Customs
                   of
                   the
                   Latian
                   State
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Prince
                   ,
                   and
                   People
                   :
                   And
                   fore-arms
                   his
                   Care
                
                 
                   With
                   Rules
                   ,
                   to
                   push
                   his
                   Fortune
                   ,
                   or
                   to
                   bear
                   .
                
                 
                   Two
                   Gates
                   the
                   silent
                   House
                   of
                   Sleep
                   adorn
                   ;
                
                 
                   Of
                   polish'd
                   Iv'ry
                   this
                   ,
                   that
                   of
                   transparent
                   Horn
                   :
                
                 
                   Of
                   various
                   things
                   discoursing
                   as
                   he
                   pass'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Anchises
                   hither
                   bends
                   his
                   Steps
                   at
                   last
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   through
                   the
                   Gate
                   of
                   Iv'ry
                   ,
                   he
                   dismiss'd
                
                 
                   His
                   valiant
                   Offspring
                   ,
                   and
                   Divining
                   Guest
                   .
                
                 
                   Streight
                   to
                   the
                   Ships
                   Aeneas
                   took
                   his
                   way
                   ;
                
                 
                   Embarqu'd
                   his
                   Men
                   ,
                   and
                   skim'd
                   along
                   the
                   Sea
                   :
                
                 
                   Still
                   Coasting
                   ,
                   till
                   he
                   gain'd
                   
                   Cajeta's
                   Bay.
                
                 
                   At
                   length
                   on
                   Oozy
                   ground
                   his
                   Gallies
                   moor
                   :
                
                 
                   Their
                   Heads
                   are
                   turn'd
                   to
                   Sea
                   ,
                   their
                   Sterns
                   to
                   Shoar
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 The
                 Seventh
                 Book
                 of
                 the
                 Aeneis
                 .
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Argument
                   .
                
                 
                   King
                   Latinus
                   entertains
                   Aeneas
                   ,
                   
                     and
                     promises
                     him
                     his
                     only
                     Daughter
                     ,
                  
                   Lavinia
                   ,
                   
                     the
                     Heiress
                     of
                     his
                     Crown
                  
                   .
                   Turnus
                   
                     being
                     in
                     Love
                     with
                     her
                     ,
                     favour'd
                     by
                     her
                     Mother
                     ,
                     and
                     stir'd
                     up
                     by
                  
                   Juno
                   ,
                   and
                   Alecto
                   ,
                   
                     breaks
                     the
                     Treaty
                     which
                     was
                     made
                     ,
                     and
                     engages
                     in
                     his
                     Quarrel
                     ,
                  
                   Mezentius
                   ,
                   Camilla
                   ,
                   Messapus
                   ,
                   
                     and
                     many
                     others
                     of
                     the
                     Neighbouring
                     Princes
                     ;
                     whose
                     Forces
                     and
                     the
                     Names
                     of
                     their
                     Commanders
                     are
                     here
                     particularly
                     related
                     .
                  
                
              
               
                 
                   AND
                   thou
                   ,
                   O
                   Matron
                   of
                   Immortal
                   Fame
                   !
                
                 
                   Here
                   Dying
                   ,
                   to
                   the
                   Shore
                   hast
                   left
                   thy
                   Name
                   :
                
                 
                   Cajeta
                   still
                   the
                   place
                   is
                   call'd
                   from
                   thee
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Nurse
                   of
                   great
                   Aeneas
                   Infancy
                   .
                
                 
                   Here
                   rest
                   thy
                   Bones
                   in
                   rich
                   
                   Hesperia's
                   Plains
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Name
                   (
                   't
                   is
                   all
                   a
                   Ghost
                   can
                   have
                   )
                   remains
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Now
                   ,
                   when
                   the
                   Prince
                   her
                   Fun'ral
                   Rites
                   had
                   paid
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   plough'd
                   the
                   Tyrrhene
                   Seas
                   with
                   Sails
                   display'd
                   .
                
                 
                   From
                   Land
                   a
                   gentle
                   Breeze
                   arose
                   by
                   Night
                   ,
                
                 
                   Serenely
                   shone
                   the
                   Stars
                   ,
                   the
                   Moon
                   was
                   bright
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   Sea
                   trembled
                   with
                   her
                   Silver
                   Light.
                
                 
                   Now
                   near
                   the
                   Shelves
                   of
                   
                   Circe's
                   Shores
                   they
                   run
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     (
                     Circe
                  
                   the
                   rich
                   ,
                   the
                   Daughter
                   of
                   the
                   Sun
                   )
                
                 
                   A
                   dang'rous
                   Coast
                   :
                   The
                   Goddess
                   wasts
                   her
                   Days
                
                 
                   In
                   joyous
                   Songs
                   ,
                   the
                   Rocks
                   resound
                   her
                   Lays
                   :
                
                 
                   In
                   spinning
                   ,
                   or
                   the
                   Loom
                   ,
                   she
                   spends
                   the
                   Night
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Cedar
                   Brands
                   supply
                   her
                   Father's
                   Light.
                
                 
                   From
                   hence
                   were
                   heard
                   ,
                   (
                   rebellowing
                   to
                   the
                   Main
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                   The
                   Roars
                   of
                   Lyons
                   that
                   refuse
                   the
                   Chain
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Grunts
                   of
                   Bristled
                   Boars
                   ,
                   and
                   Groans
                   of
                   Bears
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Herds
                   of
                   Howling
                   Wolves
                   that
                   stun
                   the
                   Sailors
                   Ears
                   .
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     the
                     Right
                     Hon
                     ble
                     Henry
                     Earle
                     of
                     Romney
                     Viscount
                     Sydney
                     of
                     Shippy
                     Baron
                     Milton
                     Master
                     Generall
                     of
                     the
                     Ordinance
                     L
                     d
                     Warden
                     of
                     the
                     Cinque
                     Ports
                     &
                     ct
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     7.
                     l
                     :
                     2.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                 
                   These
                   from
                   their
                   Caverns
                   ,
                   at
                   the
                   close
                   of
                   Night
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fill
                   the
                   sad
                   Isle
                   with
                   Horror
                   and
                   Affright
                   .
                
                 
                   Darkling
                   they
                   mourn
                   their
                   Fate
                   ,
                   whom
                   
                   Circe's
                   Pow'r
                
                 
                   (
                   That
                   watch'd
                   the
                   Moon
                   ,
                   and
                   Planetary
                   Hour
                   )
                
                 
                   With
                   Words
                   and
                   wicked
                   Herbs
                   ,
                   from
                   Human
                   Kind
                
                 
                   Had
                   alter'd
                   ,
                   and
                   in
                   Brutal
                   Shapes
                   confin'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Which
                   Monsters
                   ,
                   lest
                   the
                   Trojans
                   pious
                   Host
                
                 
                   Shou'd
                   bear
                   ,
                   or
                   touch
                   upon
                   th'
                   inchanted
                   Coast
                   ;
                
                 
                   Propitious
                   Neptune
                   steer'd
                   their
                   Course
                   by
                   Night
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   rising
                   Gales
                   ,
                   that
                   sped
                   their
                   happy
                   Flight
                   .
                
                 
                   Supply'd
                   with
                   these
                   ,
                   they
                   skim
                   the
                   sounding
                   Shore
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   hear
                   the
                   swelling
                   Surges
                   vainly
                   roar
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   when
                   the
                   rosie
                   Morn
                   began
                   to
                   rise
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   wav'd
                   her
                   Saffron
                   Streamer
                   thro'
                   the
                   Skies
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   Thetis
                   blush'd
                   in
                   Purple
                   ,
                   not
                   her
                   own
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   from
                   her
                   Face
                   the
                   breathing
                   Winds
                   were
                   blown
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   sudden
                   Silence
                   sate
                   upon
                   the
                   Sea
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   sweeping
                   Oars
                   ,
                   with
                   Strugling
                   ,
                   urge
                   their
                   Way
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Trojan
                   ,
                   from
                   the
                   Main
                   beheld
                   a
                   Wood
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   thick
                   with
                   Shades
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   brown
                   Horror
                   ,
                   stood
                   :
                
                 
                   Betwixt
                   the
                   Trees
                   the
                   Tyber
                   took
                   his
                   Course
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Whirlpools
                   dimpled
                   ;
                   and
                   with
                   downward
                   Force
                   .
                
                 
                   That
                   drove
                   the
                   Sand
                   along
                   ,
                   he
                   took
                   his
                   Way
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   rowl'd
                   his
                   yellow
                   Billows
                   to
                   the
                   Sea.
                
                 
                   About
                   him
                   ,
                   and
                   above
                   ,
                   and
                   round
                   the
                   Wood
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Birds
                   that
                   haunt
                   the
                   Borders
                   of
                   his
                   Flood
                   ;
                
                 
                   That
                   bath'd
                   within
                   ,
                   or
                   bask'd
                   upon
                   his
                   side
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   tuneful
                   Songs
                   their
                   narrow
                   Throats
                   apply'd
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Captain
                   gives
                   Command
                   ,
                   the
                   joyful
                   Train
                
                 
                   Glide
                   thro'
                   the
                   gloomy
                   Shade
                   ,
                   and
                   leave
                   the
                   Main
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Now
                   ,
                   Erato
                   ,
                   thy
                   Poet's
                   Mind
                   inspire
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   fill
                   his
                   Soul
                   with
                   thy
                   Coelestial
                   Fire
                   .
                
                 
                   Relate
                   what
                   Latium
                   was
                   ,
                   her
                   ancient
                   Kings
                   :
                
                 
                   Declare
                   the
                   past
                   ,
                   and
                   present
                   State
                   of
                   things
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   When
                   first
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Fleet
                   Ausonia
                   sought
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   how
                   the
                   Rivals
                   lov'd
                   ,
                   and
                   how
                   they
                   fought
                   .
                
                 
                   These
                   are
                   my
                   Theme
                   ,
                   and
                   how
                   the
                   War
                   began
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   how
                   concluded
                   by
                   the
                   Godlike
                   Man.
                
                 
                   For
                   I
                   shall
                   sing
                   of
                   Battels
                   ,
                   Blood
                   ,
                   and
                   Rage
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   Princes
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   People
                   did
                   engage
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   haughty
                   Souls
                   ,
                   that
                   mov'd
                   with
                   mutual
                   Hate
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   fighting
                   Fields
                   pursu'd
                   and
                   found
                   their
                   Fate
                   :
                
                 
                   That
                   rouz'd
                   the
                   Tyrrhene
                   Realm
                   with
                   loud
                   Alarms
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   peaceful
                   Italy
                   involv'd
                   in
                   Arms.
                
                 
                   A
                   larger
                   Scene
                   of
                   Action
                   is
                   display'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   rising
                   hence
                   ,
                   a
                   greater
                   Work
                   is
                   weigh'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Latinus
                   old
                   and
                   mild
                   ,
                   had
                   long
                   possess'd
                
                 
                   The
                   Latian
                   Scepter
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   People
                   bless'd
                   :
                
                 
                   His
                   Father
                   Faunus
                   :
                   a
                   Laurentian
                   Dame
                
                 
                   His
                   Mother
                   ,
                   fair
                   Marica
                   was
                   her
                   Name
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   Faunus
                   came
                   from
                   
                     Picus
                     ,
                     Picus
                  
                   drew
                
                 
                   His
                   Birth
                   from
                   Saturn
                   ,
                   if
                   Records
                   be
                   true
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   King
                   Latinus
                   ,
                   in
                   the
                   third
                   Degree
                   ,
                
                 
                   Had
                   Saturn
                   Author
                   of
                   his
                   Family
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   this
                   old
                   peaceful
                   Prince
                   ,
                   as
                   Heav'n
                   decreed
                   ,
                
                 
                   Was
                   bless'd
                   with
                   no
                   Male
                   Issue
                   to
                   succeed
                   :
                
                 
                   His
                   Sons
                   in
                   blooming
                   Youth
                   were
                   snatch'd
                   by
                   Fate
                   ;
                
                 
                   One
                   only
                   Daughter
                   heir'd
                   the
                   Royal
                   State.
                
                 
                   Fir'd
                   with
                   her
                   Love
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   Ambition
                   led
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   neighb'ring
                   Princes
                   court
                   her
                   nuptial
                   Bed.
                
                 
                   Among
                   the
                   Crowd
                   ,
                   but
                   far
                   above
                   the
                   rest
                   ,
                
                 
                   Young
                   Turnus
                   to
                   the
                   Beauteous
                   Maid
                   address'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Turnus
                   ,
                   for
                   great
                   Descent
                   ,
                   and
                   graceful
                   Meen
                   ,
                
                 
                   Was
                   first
                   ,
                   and
                   favour'd
                   by
                   the
                   Latian
                   Queen
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   him
                   she
                   strove
                   to
                   join
                   
                   Lavinia's
                   Hand
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   dire
                   Portents
                   the
                   purpos'd
                   Match
                   withstand
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Deep
                   in
                   the
                   Palace
                   ,
                   of
                   long
                   Growth
                   there
                   stood
                
                 
                   A
                   Lawrels
                   Trunk
                   ,
                   a
                   venerable
                   Wood
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   Where
                   Rites
                   Divine
                   were
                   paid
                   ;
                   whose
                   holy
                   Hair
                
                 
                   Was
                   kept
                   ,
                   and
                   cut
                   with
                   superstitious
                   Care.
                
                 
                   This
                   Plant
                   Latinus
                   ,
                   when
                   his
                   Town
                   he
                   wall'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   found
                   ,
                   and
                   from
                   the
                   Tree
                   Laurentum
                   call'd
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   last
                   in
                   Honour
                   of
                   his
                   new
                   Abode
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   vow'd
                   the
                   Lawrel
                   ,
                   to
                   the
                   Lawrel's
                   God.
                
                 
                   It
                   happen'd
                   once
                   ,
                   (
                   a
                   bodeing
                   Prodigy
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                   A
                   swarm
                   of
                   Bees
                   ,
                   that
                   cut
                   the
                   liquid
                   Sky
                   ,
                
                 
                   Unknown
                   from
                   whence
                   they
                   took
                   their
                   airy
                   flight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Upon
                   the
                   topmost
                   Branch
                   in
                   Clouds
                   alight
                   :
                
                 
                   There
                   ,
                   with
                   their
                   clasping
                   Feet
                   together
                   clung
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   a
                   long
                   Cluster
                   srom
                   the
                   Lawrel
                   hung
                   .
                
                 
                   An
                   ancient
                   Augur
                   prophesy'd
                   from
                   hence
                   :
                
                 
                   Behold
                   on
                   Latian
                   Shores
                   a
                   foreign
                   Prince
                   !
                
                 
                   From
                   the
                   same
                   parts
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   his
                   Navy
                   stands
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   the
                   same
                   parts
                   on
                   Earth
                   :
                   his
                   Army
                   lands
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Town
                   he
                   conquers
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Tow'r
                   commands
                   .
                
                 
                   Yet
                   more
                   ,
                   when
                   fair
                   Lavinia
                   fed
                   the
                   Fire
                
                 
                   Before
                   the
                   Gods
                   ,
                   and
                   stood
                   beside
                   her
                   Sire
                   ;
                
                 
                   Strange
                   to
                   relate
                   ,
                   the
                   Flames
                   ,
                   involv'd
                   in
                   Smoke
                
                 
                   Of
                   Incense
                   ,
                   from
                   the
                   sacred
                   Altar
                   broke
                   ;
                
                 
                   Caught
                   her
                   dishevell'd
                   Hair
                   ,
                   and
                   rich
                   Attire
                   ;
                
                 
                   Her
                   Crown
                   and
                   Jewels
                   crackled
                   in
                   the
                   Fire
                   :
                
                 
                   From
                   thence
                   the
                   fuming
                   Trail
                   began
                   to
                   spread
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   lambent
                   Glories
                   danc'd
                   about
                   her
                   Head.
                
                 
                   This
                   new
                   Portent
                   the
                   Seer
                   with
                   Wonder
                   views
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   pausing
                   ,
                   thus
                   his
                   Prophecy
                   renews
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Nymph
                   who
                   scatters
                   flaming
                   Fires
                   around
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shall
                   shine
                   with
                   Honour
                   ,
                   shall
                   herself
                   be
                   crown'd
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   ,
                   caus'd
                   by
                   her
                   irrevocable
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   War
                   shall
                   the
                   Country
                   waste
                   ,
                   and
                   change
                   the
                   State.
                
                 
                   Latinus
                   ,
                   frighted
                   with
                   this
                   dire
                   Ostent
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   Counsel
                   to
                   his
                   Father
                   Faunus
                   went
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   sought
                   the
                   Shades
                   renown'd
                   for
                   Prophecy
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   near
                   
                   Albunea's
                   sulph'rous
                   Fountain
                   lye
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   these
                   the
                   Latian
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Sabine
                   Land
                
                 
                   Fly
                   ,
                   when
                   distress'd
                   ,
                   and
                   thence
                   Relief
                   demand
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Priest
                   on
                   Skins
                   of
                   Off'rings
                   takes
                   his
                   Ease
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   nightly
                   Visions
                   in
                   his
                   Slumber
                   sees
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   swarm
                   of
                   thin
                   aerial
                   Shapes
                   appears
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   flutt'ring
                   round
                   his
                   Temples
                   ,
                   deafs
                   his
                   Ears
                   :
                
                 
                   These
                   he
                   consults
                   ,
                   the
                   future
                   Fates
                   to
                   know
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   Pow'rs
                   above
                   ,
                   and
                   from
                   the
                   Fiends
                   below
                   .
                
                 
                   Here
                   ,
                   for
                   the
                   Gods
                   advice
                   ,
                   Latinus
                   flies
                   ,
                
                 
                   Off'ring
                   a
                   hundred
                   Sheep
                   for
                   Sacrifice
                   :
                
                 
                   Their
                   wooly
                   Fleeces
                   ,
                   as
                   the
                   Rites
                   requir'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   laid
                   beneath
                   him
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   Rest
                   retir'd
                   .
                
                 
                   No
                   sooner
                   were
                   his
                   Eyes
                   in
                   Slumber
                   bound
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   ,
                   from
                   above
                   ,
                   a
                   more
                   than
                   Mortal
                   Sound
                
                 
                   Invades
                   his
                   Ears
                   ;
                   and
                   thus
                   the
                   Vision
                   spoke
                   :
                
                 
                   Seek
                   not
                   ,
                   my
                   Seed
                   ,
                   in
                   Latian
                   Bands
                   to
                   Yoke
                
                 
                   Our
                   fair
                   Lavinia
                   ,
                   nor
                   the
                   Gods
                   provoke
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   foreign
                   Son
                   upon
                   thy
                   Shore
                   descends
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whose
                   Martial
                   Fame
                   from
                   Pole
                   to
                   Pole
                   extends
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   Race
                   in
                   Arms
                   ,
                   and
                   Arts
                   of
                   Peace
                   renown'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Not
                   Latium
                   shall
                   contain
                   ,
                   nor
                   Europe
                   bound
                   :
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   theirs
                   what
                   e're
                   the
                   Sun
                   surveys
                   around
                   .
                
                 
                   These
                   Answers
                   in
                   the
                   silent
                   Night
                   receiv'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   King
                   himself
                   divulg'd
                   ,
                   the
                   Land
                   believ'd
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Fame
                   through
                   all
                   the
                   Neighb'ring
                   Nations
                   flew
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   now
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Navy
                   was
                   in
                   view
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Beneath
                   a
                   shady
                   Tree
                   the
                   Heroe
                   spread
                
                 
                   His
                   Table
                   on
                   the
                   Turf
                   ,
                   with
                   Cakes
                   of
                   Bread
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   with
                   his
                   Chiefs
                   ,
                   on
                   Forest
                   Fruits
                   he
                   fed
                   .
                
                 
                   They
                   sate
                   ,
                   and
                   (
                   not
                   without
                   the
                   God's
                   Command
                   )
                
                 
                   Their
                   homely
                   Fare
                   dispatch'd
                   ;
                   the
                   hungry
                   Band
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     Anthony
                     Henley
                     of
                     y
                     e
                     Grange
                     in
                     Hantshire
                     Esq
                     r
                     :
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     7
                     l.
                     152
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                 
                   Invade
                   their
                   Trenchers
                   next
                   ,
                   and
                   soon
                   devour
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   mend
                   the
                   scanty
                   Meal
                   ,
                   their
                   Cakes
                   of
                   Flow'r
                   .
                
                 
                   Ascanius
                   this
                   observ'd
                   ,
                   and
                   ,
                   smiling
                   ,
                   said
                   ,
                
                 
                   See
                   ,
                   we
                   devour
                   the
                   Plates
                   on
                   which
                   we
                   fed
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Speech
                   had
                   Omen
                   ,
                   that
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Race
                
                 
                   Shou'd
                   find
                   Repose
                   ,
                   and
                   this
                   the
                   Time
                   and
                   Place
                   .
                
                 
                   Aeneas
                   took
                   the
                   Word
                   ,
                   and
                   thus
                   replies
                   ;
                
                 
                   (
                   Confessing
                   Fate
                   with
                   Wonder
                   in
                   his
                   Eyes
                   )
                
                 
                   All
                   hail
                   ,
                   O
                   Earth
                   !
                   all
                   hail
                   my
                   household
                   Gods
                   ,
                
                 
                   Behold
                   the
                   destin'd
                   place
                   of
                   your
                   Abodes
                   !
                
                 
                   For
                   thus
                   Anchises
                   prophesy'd
                   of
                   old
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   this
                   our
                   fatal
                   place
                   of
                   Rest
                   foretold
                   .
                
                 
                   "
                   When
                   on
                   a
                   Foreign
                   Shore
                   ,
                   instead
                   of
                   Meat
                   ,
                
                 
                   "
                   By
                   Famine
                   forc'd
                   ,
                   your
                   Trenchers
                   you
                   shall
                   eat
                   ;
                
                 
                   "
                   Then
                   Ease
                   your
                   weary
                   Trojans
                   will
                   attend
                   :
                
                 
                   "
                   And
                   the
                   long
                   Labours
                   of
                   your
                   Voyage
                   end
                   .
                
                 
                   "
                   Remember
                   on
                   that
                   happy
                   Coast
                   to
                   build
                   :
                
                 
                   "
                   And
                   with
                   a
                   Trench
                   inclose
                   the
                   fruitful
                   Field
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   was
                   that
                   Famine
                   ,
                   this
                   the
                   fatal
                   place
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   ends
                   the
                   Wand'ring
                   of
                   our
                   exil'd
                   Race
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   on
                   to
                   Morrow's
                   Dawn
                   ,
                   your
                   Care
                   employ
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   search
                   the
                   Land
                   ,
                   and
                   where
                   the
                   Cities
                   lye
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   what
                   the
                   Men
                   ;
                   but
                   give
                   this
                   Day
                   to
                   Joy.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Now
                   pour
                   to
                   Jove
                   ,
                   and
                   after
                   Jove
                   is
                   blest
                   ,
                
                 
                   Call
                   great
                   Anchises
                   to
                   the
                   Genial
                   Feast
                   :
                
                 
                   Crown
                   high
                   the
                   Goblets
                   with
                   a
                   chearful
                   Draught
                   ;
                
                 
                   Enjoy
                   the
                   present
                   Hour
                   ,
                   adjourn
                   the
                   future
                   Thought
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Thus
                   having
                   said
                   ,
                   the
                   Heroe
                   bound
                   his
                   Brows
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   leafy
                   Branches
                   ,
                   then
                   perform'd
                   his
                   Vows
                   :
                
                 
                   Adoring
                   first
                   the
                   Genius
                   of
                   the
                   Place
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   Earth
                   ,
                   the
                   Mother
                   of
                   the
                   Heav'nly
                   Race
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Nymphs
                   ,
                   and
                   native
                   Godheads
                   yet
                   unknown
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Night
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   the
                   Stars
                   that
                   guild
                   her
                   sable
                   Throne
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   ancient
                   Cybel
                   ,
                   and
                   
                     Idaean
                     Jove
                  
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   last
                   his
                   Sire
                   below
                   ,
                   and
                   Mother
                   Queen
                   above
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   Heav'ns
                   high
                   Monarch
                   thundred
                   thrice
                   aloud
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   thrice
                   he
                   shook
                   aloft
                   ,
                   a
                   Golden
                   Cloud
                   .
                
                 
                   Soon
                   thro'
                   the
                   joyful
                   Camp
                   a
                   Rumor
                   flew
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   time
                   was
                   come
                   their
                   City
                   to
                   renew
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   ev'ry
                   Brow
                   with
                   chearful
                   Green
                   is
                   crown'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Feasts
                   are
                   doubl'd
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Bowls
                   go
                   round
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   When
                   next
                   the
                   rosie
                   Morn
                   disclos'd
                   the
                   Day
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Scouts
                   to
                   sev'ral
                   parts
                   divide
                   their
                   Way
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   learn
                   the
                   Natives
                   Names
                   ,
                   their
                   Towns
                   ,
                   explore
                
                 
                   The
                   Coasts
                   ,
                   and
                   Trendings
                   of
                   the
                   crooked
                   Shore
                   :
                
                 
                   Here
                   Tyber
                   flows
                   ,
                   and
                   here
                   Numicus
                   stands
                   ,
                
                 
                   Here
                   warlike
                   Latins
                   hold
                   the
                   happy
                   Lands
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Pious
                   Chief
                   ,
                   who
                   sought
                   by
                   peaceful
                   Ways
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   found
                   his
                   Empire
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Town
                   to
                   raise
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   hundred
                   Youths
                   from
                   all
                   his
                   Train
                   elects
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   to
                   the
                   Latian
                   Court
                   their
                   Course
                   directs
                   :
                
                 
                   (
                   The
                   spacious
                   Palace
                   where
                   their
                   Prince
                   resides
                   ;
                   )
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   their
                   heads
                   with
                   Wreaths
                   of
                   Olive
                   hides
                   .
                
                 
                   They
                   go
                   commission'd
                   to
                   require
                   a
                   Peace
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   carry
                   Presents
                   to
                   procure
                   Access
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   while
                   they
                   speed
                   their
                   Pace
                   ,
                   the
                   Prince
                   designs
                
                 
                   His
                   new
                   elected
                   Seat
                   ,
                   and
                   draws
                   the
                   Lines
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Trojans
                   round
                   the
                   place
                   a
                   Rampire
                   cast
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Palisades
                   about
                   the
                   Trenches
                   plac'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Mean
                   time
                   the
                   Train
                   ,
                   proceeding
                   on
                   their
                   way
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   far
                   the
                   Town
                   ,
                   and
                   lofty
                   Tow'rs
                   survey
                   :
                
                 
                   At
                   length
                   approach
                   the
                   Walls
                   :
                   without
                   the
                   Gate
                
                 
                   They
                   see
                   the
                   Boys
                   ,
                   and
                   Latian
                   Youth
                   debate
                
                 
                   The
                   Martial
                   Prizes
                   on
                   the
                   dusty
                   Plain
                   ;
                
                 
                   Some
                   drive
                   the
                   Cars
                   ,
                   and
                   some
                   the
                   Coursers
                   rein
                   :
                
                 
                   Some
                   bend
                   the
                   stubborn
                   Bow
                   for
                   Victory
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   some
                   with
                   Darts
                   their
                   active
                   Sinews
                   try
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   A
                   posting
                   Messenger
                   dispatch'd
                   from
                   hence
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   this
                   fair
                   Troop
                   advis'd
                   their
                   aged
                   Prince
                   ;
                
                 
                   That
                   foreign
                   Men
                   ,
                   of
                   mighty
                   Stature
                   ,
                   came
                   ;
                
                 
                   Uncouth
                   their
                   Habit
                   ,
                   and
                   unknown
                   their
                   Name
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   King
                   ordains
                   their
                   entrance
                   ,
                   and
                   ascends
                
                 
                   His
                   Regal
                   Seat
                   ,
                   surrounded
                   by
                   his
                   Friends
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Palace
                   built
                   by
                   Picus
                   ,
                   vast
                   and
                   Proud
                   ,
                
                 
                   Supported
                   by
                   a
                   hundred
                   Pillars
                   stood
                
                 
                   And
                   round
                   incompas'd
                   with
                   a
                   rising
                   Wood.
                
                 
                   The
                   Pile
                   o'relook'd
                   the
                   Town
                   ,
                   and
                   drew
                   the
                   sight
                   ;
                
                 
                   Surpriz'd
                   at
                   once
                   with
                   Reverence
                   and
                   Delight
                   .
                
                 
                   There
                   Kings
                   receiv'd
                   the
                   Marks
                   of
                   Sov'raign
                   Pow'r
                   :
                
                 
                   In
                   State
                   the
                   Monarchs
                   march'd
                   ,
                   the
                   Lictors
                   bore
                
                 
                   Their
                   Awful
                   Axes
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Rods
                   before
                   .
                
                 
                   Here
                   the
                   Tribunal
                   stood
                   ,
                   the
                   House
                   of
                   Pray'r
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   here
                   the
                   sacred
                   Senators
                   repair
                   :
                
                 
                   All
                   at
                   large
                   Tables
                   ,
                   in
                   long
                   order
                   set
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Ram
                   their
                   Off'ring
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   Ram
                   their
                   Meat
                   .
                
                 
                   Above
                   the
                   Portal
                   ,
                   Carv'd
                   in
                   Cedar
                   Wood
                   ,
                
                 
                   Plac'd
                   in
                   their
                   Ranks
                   ,
                   their
                   Godlike
                   Grandsires
                   stood
                   .
                
                 
                   Old
                   Saturn
                   ,
                   with
                   his
                   crooked
                   Scythe
                   ,
                   on
                   high
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Italus
                   ,
                   that
                   led
                   the
                   Colony
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   ancient
                   Janus
                   ,
                   with
                   his
                   double
                   Face
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Bunch
                   of
                   Keys
                   ,
                   the
                   Porter
                   of
                   the
                   place
                   .
                
                 
                   There
                   good
                   Sabinus
                   ,
                   planter
                   of
                   the
                   Vines
                   ,
                
                 
                   On
                   a
                   short
                   Pruning-hook
                   his
                   Head
                   reclines
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   studiously
                   surveys
                   his
                   gen'rous
                   Wines
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   Warlike
                   Kings
                   ,
                   who
                   for
                   their
                   Country
                   fought
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   honourable
                   Wounds
                   from
                   Battel
                   brought
                   .
                
                 
                   Around
                   the
                   Posts
                   hung
                   Helmets
                   ,
                   Darts
                   ,
                   and
                   Spears
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Captive
                   Chariots
                   ,
                   Axes
                   ,
                   Shields
                   ,
                   and
                   Bars
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   broken
                   Beaks
                   of
                   Ships
                   ,
                   the
                   Trophies
                   of
                   their
                   Wars
                   .
                
                 
                   Above
                   the
                   rest
                   ,
                   as
                   Chief
                   of
                   all
                   the
                   Band
                   ,
                
                 
                   Was
                   Picus
                   plac'd
                   ,
                   a
                   Buckler
                   in
                   his
                   hand
                   ;
                
                 
                   His
                   other
                   wav'd
                   a
                   long
                   divining
                   Wand
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Girt
                   in
                   his
                   Gabin
                   Gown
                   the
                   Heroe
                   sate
                   :
                
                 
                   Yet
                   could
                   not
                   with
                   his
                   Art
                   avoid
                   his
                   Fate
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   Circe
                   long
                   had
                   lov'd
                   the
                   Youth
                   in
                   vain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Till
                   Love
                   ,
                   refus'd
                   ,
                   converted
                   to
                   Disdain
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   mixing
                   pow'rful
                   Herbs
                   ,
                   with
                   Magic
                   Art
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   chang'd
                   his
                   Form
                   ,
                   who
                   cou'd
                   not
                   change
                   his
                   heart
                   .
                
                 
                   Constrain'd
                   him
                   in
                   a
                   Bird
                   ,
                   and
                   made
                   him
                   fly
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   party-colour'd
                   Plumes
                   ,
                   a
                   Chattring
                   Pye.
                
                 
                   On
                   this
                   high
                   Temple
                   ,
                   on
                   a
                   Chair
                   of
                   State
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Seat
                   of
                   Audience
                   ,
                   old
                   Latinus
                   sate
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   gave
                   admiffion
                   to
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Train
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   thus
                   ,
                   with
                   pleasing
                   accents
                   ,
                   he
                   b●gan
                   .
                
                 
                   Tell
                   me
                   ,
                   ye
                   Trojans
                   ,
                   for
                   that
                   Name
                   you
                   own
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   is
                   your
                   Course
                   upon
                   our
                   Coasts
                   unknown
                   ;
                
                 
                   Say
                   what
                   you
                   seek
                   ,
                   and
                   whither
                   were
                   you
                   bound
                   ?
                
                 
                   Were
                   you
                   by
                   stress
                   of
                   Weather
                   cast
                   a-ground
                   ?
                
                 
                   Such
                   dangers
                   as
                   on
                   Seas
                   are
                   often
                   seen
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   oft
                   befall
                   to
                   miserable
                   Men
                   ?
                
                 
                   Or
                   come
                   ,
                   your
                   Shipping
                   in
                   our
                   Ports
                   to
                   lay
                   ,
                
                 
                   Spent
                   and
                   disabl'd
                   in
                   so
                   long
                   a
                   way
                   ?
                
                 
                   Say
                   what
                   you
                   want
                   ,
                   the
                   Latians
                   you
                   shall
                   find
                
                 
                   Not
                   forc'd
                   to
                   Goodness
                   ,
                   but
                   by
                   Will
                   inclin'd
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   since
                   the
                   time
                   of
                   
                   Saturn's
                   holy
                   Reign
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Hospitable
                   Customs
                   we
                   retain
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   call
                   to
                   mind
                   ,
                   but
                   (
                   Time
                   the
                   Tale
                   has
                   worn
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                   Th'
                   Arunci
                   told
                   ;
                   that
                   Dardanus
                   ,
                   tho'
                   born
                
                 
                   On
                   Latian
                   Plains
                   ,
                   yet
                   sought
                   the
                   Phrygian
                   Shore
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   
                     Samothracia
                     ,
                     Samos
                  
                   call'd
                   before
                   :
                
                 
                   From
                   
                     Tuscan
                     Coritum
                  
                   he
                   claim'd
                   his
                   Birth
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   after
                   ,
                   when
                   exempt
                   from
                   Mortal
                   Earth
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   thence
                   ascended
                   to
                   his
                   kindred
                   Skies
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   God
                   ,
                   and
                   as
                   a
                   God
                   augments
                   their
                   Sacrifice
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   said
                   .
                   Ilioneus
                   made
                   this
                   Reply
                   ,
                
                 
                   O
                   King
                   ,
                   of
                   Faunus
                   Royal
                   Family
                   !
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     George
                     Stepney
                     Esqr.
                     His
                     Ma
                     ties
                     .
                     Envoy
                     Extra
                     ry
                     :
                     to
                     Severall
                     Princes
                     in
                     ,
                     Germany
                     and
                     one
                     of
                     the
                     Coincill
                     of
                     Trade
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     7.
                     l.
                     2●●
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                 
                   Nor
                   Wint'ry
                   Winds
                   to
                   Latium
                   forc'd
                   our
                   way
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   did
                   the
                   Stars
                   our
                   wand'ring
                   Course
                   betray
                   .
                
                 
                   Willing
                   we
                   sought
                   your
                   Shores
                   ,
                   and
                   hither
                   bound
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Port
                   so
                   long
                   desir'd
                   ,
                   at
                   length
                   we
                   found
                   .
                
                 
                   From
                   our
                   sweet
                   Homes
                   and
                   ancient
                   Realms
                   expell'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Great
                   as
                   the
                   greatest
                   that
                   the
                   Sun
                   beheld
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   God
                   began
                   our
                   Line
                   ,
                   who
                   rules
                   above
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   as
                   our
                   Race
                   ,
                   our
                   King
                   descends
                   from
                   Jove
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   hither
                   are
                   we
                   come
                   ,
                   by
                   his
                   Command
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   crave
                   Admission
                   in
                   your
                   happy
                   Land.
                
                 
                   How
                   dire
                   a
                   Tempest
                   ,
                   from
                   Mycenae
                   pour'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Our
                   Plains
                   ,
                   our
                   Temples
                   ,
                   and
                   our
                   Town
                   devour'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   What
                   was
                   the
                   Waste
                   of
                   War
                   ,
                   what
                   fierce
                   Alarms
                
                 
                   Shook
                   
                   Asia's
                   Crown
                   with
                   Europaean
                   Arms
                   ;
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   such
                   have
                   heard
                   ,
                   if
                   any
                   such
                   there
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whose
                   Earth
                   is
                   bounded
                   by
                   the
                   frozen
                   Sea
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   such
                   as
                   born
                   beneath
                   the
                   burning
                   Sky
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   sultry
                   Sun
                   betwixt
                   the
                   Tropicks
                   lye
                   .
                
                 
                   From
                   that
                   dire
                   Deluge
                   ,
                   through
                   the
                   wat'ry
                   Waste
                   ,
                
                 
                   Such
                   length
                   of
                   Years
                   ,
                   such
                   various
                   Perils
                   past
                   :
                
                 
                   At
                   last
                   escap'd
                   ,
                   to
                   Latium
                   we
                   repair
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   beg
                   what
                   you
                   without
                   your
                   Want
                   may
                   spare
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   common
                   Water
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   common
                   Air.
                
                 
                   Sheds
                   which
                   our selves
                   will
                   build
                   ,
                   and
                   mean
                   abodes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fit
                   to
                   receive
                   and
                   serve
                   our
                   banish'd
                   Gods.
                
                 
                   Nor
                   our
                   Admission
                   shall
                   your
                   Realm
                   disgrace
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   length
                   of
                   time
                   our
                   Gratitude
                   efface
                   .
                
                 
                   Besides
                   ,
                   what
                   endless
                   Honour
                   you
                   shall
                   gain
                
                 
                   To
                   save
                   and
                   shelter
                   
                   Troy's
                   unhappy
                   Train
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   ,
                   by
                   my
                   Sov'raign
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Fate
                   I
                   swear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Renown'd
                   for
                   Faith
                   in
                   Peace
                   ,
                   for
                   Force
                   in
                   War
                   ;
                
                 
                   Oft
                   our
                   Alliance
                   other
                   Lands
                   desir'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   what
                   we
                   seek
                   of
                   you
                   ,
                   of
                   us
                   requir'd
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Despise
                   not
                   then
                   ,
                   that
                   in
                   our
                   Hands
                   we
                   bear
                
                 
                   These
                   Holy
                   Boughs
                   ,
                   and
                   sue
                   with
                   Words
                   of
                   Pray'r
                   .
                
                 
                   Fate
                   and
                   the
                   Gods
                   ,
                   by
                   their
                   supreme
                   Command
                   ,
                
                 
                   Have
                   doom'd
                   our
                   Ships
                   to
                   seek
                   the
                   Latian
                   Land.
                
                 
                   To
                   these
                   abodes
                   our
                   Fleet
                   Apollo
                   sends
                   ;
                
                 
                   Here
                   Dardanus
                   was
                   born
                   ,
                   and
                   hither
                   tends
                   :
                
                 
                   Where
                   
                     Thuscan
                     Tyber
                  
                   rowls
                   with
                   rapid
                   Force
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   where
                   Numicus
                   opes
                   his
                   Holy
                   Source
                   .
                
                 
                   Besides
                   our
                   Prince
                   presents
                   ,
                   with
                   his
                   Request
                   ,
                
                 
                   Some
                   small
                   Remains
                   of
                   what
                   his
                   Sire
                   possess'd
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   Golden
                   Charger
                   ,
                   snatch'd
                   from
                   burning
                   Troy
                   ,
                
                 
                   Anchises
                   did
                   in
                   Sacrifice
                   employ
                   :
                
                 
                   This
                   Royal
                   Robe
                   ,
                   and
                   this
                   Tiara
                   wore
                
                 
                   Old
                   Priam
                   ,
                   and
                   this
                   Golden
                   Scepter
                   bore
                
                 
                   In
                   full
                   Assemblies
                   ,
                   and
                   in
                   solemn
                   Games
                   ;
                
                 
                   These
                   Purple
                   Vests
                   were
                   weav'd
                   by
                   Dardan
                   Dames
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Thus
                   while
                   he
                   spoke
                   ,
                   Latinus
                   rowld
                   around
                
                 
                   His
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   and
                   fix'd
                   a
                   while
                   upon
                   the
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                   Intent
                   he
                   seem'd
                   ,
                   and
                   anxious
                   in
                   his
                   Breast
                   ;
                
                 
                   Not
                   by
                   the
                   Scepter
                   mov'd
                   ,
                   or
                   Kingly
                   Vest
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   pond'ring
                   future
                   Things
                   of
                   wond'rous
                   Weight
                   ;
                
                 
                   Succession
                   ,
                   Empire
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Daughter's
                   Fate
                   :
                
                 
                   On
                   these
                   he
                   mus'd
                   within
                   his
                   thoughtful
                   Mind
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   then
                   revolv'd
                   what
                   Faunus
                   had
                   divin'd
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   was
                   the
                   Foreign
                   Prince
                   ,
                   by
                   Fate
                   decreed
                
                 
                   To
                   share
                   his
                   Scepter
                   ,
                   and
                   
                   Lavinia's
                   Bed
                   :
                
                 
                   This
                   was
                   the
                   Race
                   ,
                   that
                   sure
                   Portents
                   foreshew
                
                 
                   To
                   sway
                   the
                   World
                   ,
                   and
                   Land
                   and
                   Sea
                   subdue
                   .
                
                 
                   At
                   length
                   he
                   rais'd
                   his
                   chearful
                   Head
                   ,
                   and
                   spoke
                   ▪
                
                 
                   The
                   Pow'rs
                   ,
                   said
                   he
                   ,
                   the
                   Pow'rs
                   we
                   both
                   invoke
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   you
                   ,
                   and
                   yours
                   ,
                   and
                   mine
                   ,
                   propitious
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   firm
                   our
                   Purpose
                   with
                   their
                   Augury
                   .
                
                 
                   Have
                   what
                   you
                   ask
                   ;
                   your
                   Presents
                   I
                   receive
                   ,
                
                 
                   Land
                   where
                   ,
                   and
                   when
                   you
                   please
                   ,
                   with
                   ample
                   Leave
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Partake
                   and
                   use
                   my
                   Kingdom
                   as
                   your
                   own
                   ;
                
                 
                   All
                   shall
                   be
                   yours
                   ,
                   while
                   I
                   command
                   the
                   Crown
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   if
                   my
                   wish'd
                   Alliance
                   please
                   your
                   King
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tell
                   him
                   he
                   shou'd
                   not
                   send
                   the
                   Peace
                   ,
                   but
                   bring
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   let
                   him
                   not
                   a
                   Friend's
                   Embraces
                   fear
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Peace
                   is
                   made
                   when
                   I
                   behold
                   him
                   here
                   .
                
                 
                   Besides
                   this
                   Answer
                   ,
                   tell
                   my
                   Royal
                   Guest
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   add
                   to
                   his
                   Commands
                   ,
                   my
                   own
                   Request
                   :
                
                 
                   One
                   only
                   Daughter
                   heirs
                   my
                   Crown
                   and
                   State
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whom
                   ,
                   not
                   our
                   Oracles
                   ,
                   nor
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   nor
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   frequent
                   Prodigies
                   permit
                   to
                   join
                
                 
                   With
                   any
                   Native
                   of
                   th'
                   Ausonian
                   Line
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   foreign
                   Son-in-Law
                   shall
                   come
                   from
                   far
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   Such
                   is
                   our
                   Doom
                   )
                   a
                   Chief
                   renown'd
                   in
                   War
                   :
                
                 
                   Whose
                   Race
                   shall
                   bear
                   alost
                   the
                   Latian
                   Name
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   through
                   the
                   conquer'd
                   World
                   diffuse
                   our
                   Fame
                   .
                
                 
                   Himself
                   to
                   be
                   the
                   Man
                   the
                   Fates
                   require
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   firmly
                   judge
                   ,
                   and
                   what
                   I
                   judge
                   ,
                   desire
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   said
                   ,
                   and
                   then
                   on
                   each
                   bestow'd
                   a
                   Steed
                   ;
                
                 
                   Three
                   hundred
                   Horses
                   ,
                   in
                   high
                   Stables
                   f●d
                   ,
                
                 
                   Stood
                   ready
                   ,
                   shining
                   all
                   ,
                   and
                   smoothly
                   dress'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Of
                   these
                   he
                   chose
                   the
                   fairest
                   and
                   the
                   best
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   mount
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Troop
                   ;
                   at
                   his
                   Command
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Steeds
                   caparison'd
                   with
                   Purple
                   stand
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   Golden
                   Trappings
                   ,
                   glorious
                   to
                   behold
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   champ
                   betwixt
                   their
                   Teeth
                   the
                   foaming
                   Gold.
                
                 
                   Then
                   to
                   his
                   absent
                   Guest
                   the
                   King
                   decreed
                
                 
                   A
                   pair
                   of
                   Coursers
                   born
                   of
                   Heav'nly
                   Breed
                   :
                
                 
                   Who
                   from
                   their
                   Nostrils
                   breath'd
                   Etherial
                   Fire
                   ;
                
                 
                   Whom
                   Circe
                   stole
                   from
                   her
                   Coelestial
                   Sire
                   :
                
                 
                   By
                   substituting
                   Mares
                   ,
                   produc'd
                   on
                   Earth
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whose
                   Wombs
                   conceiv'd
                   a
                   more
                   than
                   Mortal
                   Birth
                   .
                
                 
                   These
                   draw
                   the
                   Chariot
                   which
                   Latinus
                   sends
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   rich
                   Present
                   to
                   the
                   Prince
                   commends
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Sublime
                   on
                   stately
                   Steeds
                   the
                   Trojans
                   born
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   their
                   expecting
                   Lord
                   with
                   Peace
                   return
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   jealous
                   Juno
                   ,
                   from
                   Pachynus
                   height
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   she
                   from
                   Argos
                   took
                   her
                   airy
                   Flight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Beheld
                   ,
                   with
                   envious
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   this
                   hateful
                   Sight
                   .
                
                 
                   She
                   saw
                   the
                   Trojan
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   joyful
                   Train
                
                 
                   Descend
                   upon
                   the
                   Shore
                   ,
                   desert
                   the
                   Main
                   ;
                
                 
                   Design
                   a
                   Town
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   unhop'd
                   Success
                
                 
                   Th'
                   Embassadors
                   return
                   with
                   promis'd
                   Peace
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   pierc'd
                   with
                   Pain
                   ,
                   she
                   shook
                   her
                   haughty
                   Head
                   ;
                
                 
                   Sigh'd
                   from
                   her
                   inward
                   Soul
                   ;
                   and
                   thus
                   she
                   said
                   .
                
                 
                   O
                   hated
                   Off-spring
                   of
                   my
                   Phrygian
                   Foes
                   !
                
                 
                   O
                   Fates
                   of
                   Troy
                   ,
                   which
                   
                   Juno's
                   Fates
                   oppose
                   !
                
                 
                   Cou'd
                   they
                   not
                   fall
                   unpity'd
                   ,
                   on
                   the
                   Plain
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   slain
                   revive
                   ,
                   and
                   taken
                   ,
                   scape
                   again
                   ?
                
                 
                   When
                   execrable
                   Troy
                   in
                   Ashes
                   lay
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thro'
                   Fires
                   ,
                   and
                   Swords
                   ,
                   and
                   Seas
                   ,
                   they
                   forc'd
                   their
                   Way
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   vanquish'd
                   Juno
                   must
                   in
                   vain
                   contend
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   Rage
                   disarm'd
                   ,
                   her
                   Empire
                   at
                   an
                   end
                   .
                
                 
                   Breathless
                   and
                   tir'd
                   ,
                   is
                   all
                   my
                   Fury
                   spent
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   does
                   my
                   glutted
                   Spleen
                   at
                   length
                   relent
                   ?
                
                 
                   As
                   if
                   't
                   were
                   little
                   from
                   their
                   Town
                   to
                   chase
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   thro'
                   the
                   Seas
                   pursu'd
                   their
                   exil'd
                   Race
                   :
                
                 
                   Ingag'd
                   the
                   Heavn's
                   ,
                   oppos'd
                   the
                   Stormy
                   Main
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   Billows
                   roar'd
                   ,
                   and
                   Tempests
                   rag'd
                   in
                   vain
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   have
                   my
                   
                   Scylla's
                   and
                   my
                   Sirtes
                   done
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   these
                   they
                   overpass
                   ,
                   and
                   those
                   they
                   shun
                   ?
                
                 
                   On
                   
                   Tyber's
                   Shores
                   they
                   land
                   ,
                   secure
                   of
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Triumphant
                   o're
                   the
                   Storms
                   and
                   
                   Juno's
                   Hate
                   .
                
                 
                   Mars
                   cou'd
                   in
                   mutual
                   Blood
                   the
                   Centaurs
                   bath
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Jove
                   himself
                   gave
                   way
                   to
                   
                   Cynthia's
                   Wrath
                   ;
                
                 
                   Who
                   sent
                   the
                   tusky
                   Boar
                   to
                   Calydon
                   :
                
                 
                   What
                   great
                   Offence
                   had
                   either
                   People
                   done
                   ?
                
                 
                 
                   But
                   I
                   ,
                   the
                   Confort
                   of
                   the
                   Thunderer
                   ,
                
                 
                   Have
                   wag'd
                   a
                   long
                   and
                   unsuccessful
                   War
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   various
                   Arts
                   and
                   Arms
                   in
                   vain
                   have
                   toil'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   by
                   a
                   Mortal
                   Man
                   at
                   length
                   am
                   foil'd
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   native
                   Pow'r
                   prevail
                   not
                   ,
                   shall
                   I
                   doubt
                
                 
                   To
                   seek
                   for
                   needful
                   Succour
                   from
                   without
                   :
                
                 
                   If
                   Jove
                   and
                   Heav'n
                   my
                   just
                   Desires
                   deny
                   ,
                
                 
                   Hell
                   shall
                   the
                   Pow'r
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   and
                   Jove
                   supply
                   .
                
                 
                   Grant
                   that
                   the
                   Fates
                   have
                   firm'd
                   ,
                   by
                   their
                   Decree
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Trojan
                   Race
                   to
                   reign
                   in
                   Italy
                   ;
                
                 
                   At
                   least
                   I
                   can
                   defer
                   the
                   Nuptial
                   Day
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   protracted
                   Wars
                   the
                   Peace
                   delay
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   Blood
                   the
                   dear
                   Alliance
                   shall
                   be
                   bought
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   both
                   the
                   People
                   to
                   Destruction
                   brought
                   .
                
                 
                   So
                   shall
                   the
                   Son-in-Law
                   ,
                   and
                   Father
                   join
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Ruin
                   ,
                   War
                   ,
                   and
                   Waste
                   of
                   either
                   Line
                   .
                
                 
                   O
                   fatal
                   Maid
                   !
                   thy
                   Marriage
                   is
                   endow'd
                
                 
                   With
                   
                     Phrygian
                     ,
                     Latian
                  
                   ,
                   and
                   Rutulian
                   Blood
                   !
                
                 
                   Bellona
                   leads
                   thee
                   to
                   thy
                   Lover's
                   Hand
                   ,
                
                 
                   Another
                   Queen
                   brings
                   forth
                   another
                   Brand
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   burn
                   with
                   foreign
                   Fires
                   her
                   native
                   Land
                   !
                
                 
                   A
                   second
                   Paris
                   ,
                   diff'ring
                   but
                   in
                   Name
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shall
                   fire
                   his
                   Country
                   with
                   a
                   second
                   Flame
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Thus
                   having
                   said
                   ,
                   she
                   sinks
                   beneath
                   the
                   Ground
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   furious
                   haste
                   ,
                   and
                   shoots
                   the
                   Stygian
                   Sound
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   rowze
                   Alecto
                   from
                   th'
                   Infernal
                   Seat
                
                 
                   Of
                   her
                   dire
                   Sisters
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   dark
                   Retreat
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   Fury
                   ,
                   fit
                   for
                   her
                   Intent
                   ,
                   she
                   chose
                   ;
                
                 
                   One
                   who
                   delights
                   in
                   Wars
                   ,
                   and
                   Human
                   Woes
                   .
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   Pluto
                   hates
                   his
                   own
                   mishapen
                   Race
                   :
                
                 
                   Her
                   Sister-Furies
                   fly
                   her
                   hideous
                   Face
                   :
                
                 
                   So
                   frightful
                   are
                   the
                   Forms
                   the
                   Monster
                   takes
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   fierce
                   the
                   Hissings
                   of
                   her
                   speckled
                   Snakes
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Her
                   Juno
                   finds
                   ,
                   and
                   thus
                   inflames
                   her
                   Spight
                   :
                
                 
                   O
                   Virgin
                   Daughter
                   of
                   Eternal
                   Night
                   ,
                
                 
                   Give
                   me
                   this
                   once
                   thy
                   Labour
                   ,
                   to
                   sustain
                
                 
                   My
                   Right
                   ,
                   and
                   execute
                   my
                   just
                   disdain
                   .
                
                 
                   Let
                   not
                   the
                   Trojans
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   feign'd
                   Pretence
                
                 
                   Of
                   proffer'd
                   Peace
                   ,
                   delude
                   the
                   Latian
                   Prince
                   :
                
                 
                   Expel
                   from
                   Italy
                   that
                   odious
                   Name
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   let
                   not
                   Juno
                   suffer
                   in
                   her
                   Fame
                   .
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   thine
                   to
                   ruin
                   Realms
                   ,
                   o'return
                   a
                   State
                   ,
                
                 
                   Betwixt
                   the
                   dearest
                   Friends
                   to
                   raise
                   Debate
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   kindle
                   kindred
                   Blood
                   to
                   mutual
                   Hate
                   .
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Hand
                   o're
                   Towns
                   the
                   fun'ral
                   Torch
                   displays
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   forms
                   a
                   thousand
                   Ills
                   ten
                   thousand
                   Ways
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   shake
                   from
                   out
                   thy
                   fruitful
                   Breast
                   ,
                   the
                   Seeds
                
                 
                   Of
                   Envy
                   ,
                   Discord
                   ,
                   and
                   of
                   Cruel
                   Deeds
                   :
                
                 
                   Confound
                   the
                   Peace
                   establish'd
                   ,
                   and
                   prepare
                
                 
                   Their
                   Souls
                   to
                   Hatred
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   Hands
                   to
                   War.
                
                 
                   Smear'd
                   as
                   she
                   was
                   with
                   black
                   Gorgonean
                   Blood
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Fury
                   sprang
                   above
                   the
                   Stygian
                   Flood
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   on
                   her
                   wicker
                   Wings
                   ,
                   sublime
                   through
                   Night
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   to
                   the
                   Latian
                   Palace
                   took
                   her
                   Flight
                   .
                
                 
                   There
                   sought
                   the
                   Queen's
                   Apartment
                   ,
                   stood
                   before
                
                 
                   The
                   peaceful
                   Threshold
                   ,
                   and
                   besieg'd
                   the
                   Door
                   .
                
                 
                   Restless
                   Amata
                   lay
                   ,
                   her
                   swelling
                   Breast
                
                 
                   Fir'd
                   with
                   Disdain
                   for
                   Turnus
                   dispossest
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   new
                   Nuptials
                   of
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Guest
                   .
                
                 
                   From
                   her
                   black
                   bloody
                   Locks
                   the
                   Fury
                   shakes
                
                 
                   Her
                   darling
                   Plague
                   ,
                   the
                   Fav'rite
                   of
                   her
                   Snakes
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   her
                   full
                   Force
                   she
                   threw
                   the
                   pois'nous
                   Dart
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   fix'd
                   it
                   deep
                   within
                   
                   Amata's
                   Heart
                   .
                
                 
                   That
                   thus
                   envenom'd
                   she
                   might
                   kindle
                   Rage
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   sacrifice
                   to
                   Strife
                   her
                   House
                   and
                   Husbands
                   Age.
                
                 
                   Unseen
                   ,
                   unfelt
                   ,
                   the
                   fiery
                   Serpent
                   skims
                
                 
                   Betwixt
                   her
                   Linnen
                   ,
                   and
                   her
                   naked
                   Limbs
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   His
                   baleful
                   Breath
                   inspiring
                   ,
                   as
                   he
                   glides
                   ,
                
                 
                   Now
                   like
                   a
                   Chain
                   around
                   her
                   Neck
                   he
                   rides
                   ;
                
                 
                   Now
                   like
                   a
                   Fillet
                   to
                   her
                   Head
                   repairs
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   his
                   Circling
                   Volumes
                   folds
                   her
                   Hairs
                   :
                
                 
                   At
                   first
                   the
                   silent
                   Venom
                   slid
                   with
                   ease
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   seiz'd
                   her
                   cooler
                   Senses
                   by
                   degrees
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   e're
                   th'
                   infected
                   Mass
                   was
                   fir'd
                   too
                   far
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   Plaintive
                   Accents
                   she
                   began
                   the
                   War
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   thus
                   bespoke
                   her
                   Husband
                   ;
                   Shall
                   ,
                   she
                   said
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   wandring
                   Prince
                   enjoy
                   
                   Lavinia's
                   Bed
                   ?
                
                 
                   If
                   Nature
                   plead
                   not
                   in
                   a
                   Parent
                   's
                   Heart
                   ,
                
                 
                   Pity
                   my
                   Tears
                   ,
                   and
                   pity
                   her
                   Desert
                   :
                
                 
                   I
                   know
                   ,
                   my
                   dearest
                   Lord
                   ,
                   the
                   time
                   will
                   come
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   wou'd
                   ,
                   in
                   vain
                   ,
                   reverse
                   your
                   Cruel
                   doom
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   faithless
                   Pirate
                   soon
                   will
                   set
                   to
                   Sea
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   bear
                   the
                   Royal
                   Virgin
                   far
                   away
                   !
                
                 
                   A
                   Guest
                   like
                   him
                   ,
                   a
                   Trojan
                   Guest
                   before
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   shew
                   of
                   friendship
                   ,
                   sought
                   the
                   Spartan
                   Shore
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   ravish'd
                   Helen
                   from
                   her
                   Husband
                   bore
                   .
                
                 
                   Think
                   on
                   a
                   King's
                   inviolable
                   Word
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   think
                   on
                   Turnus
                   ,
                   her
                   once
                   plighted
                   Lord
                   :
                
                 
                   To
                   this
                   false
                   Foreigner
                   you
                   give
                   your
                   Throne
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   wrong
                   a
                   Friend
                   ,
                   a
                   Kinsman
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   Son.
                
                 
                   Resume
                   your
                   ancient
                   Care
                   ;
                   and
                   if
                   the
                   God
                
                 
                   Your
                   Sire
                   ,
                   and
                   you
                   ,
                   resolve
                   on
                   Foreign
                   Blood
                   :
                
                 
                   Know
                   all
                   are
                   Foreign
                   ,
                   in
                   a
                   larger
                   Sense
                   ,
                
                 
                   Not
                   born
                   your
                   Subjects
                   ,
                   or
                   deriv'd
                   from
                   hence
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   if
                   the
                   Line
                   of
                   Turnus
                   you
                   retrace
                   ;
                
                 
                   He
                   springs
                   from
                   Inachus
                   of
                   Argive
                   Race
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   when
                   she
                   saw
                   her
                   Reasons
                   idly
                   spent
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   cou'd
                   not
                   move
                   him
                   from
                   his
                   fix'd
                   Intent
                   ;
                
                 
                   She
                   flew
                   to
                   rage
                   ;
                   for
                   now
                   the
                   Snake
                   possess'd
                
                 
                   Her
                   vital
                   parts
                   ,
                   and
                   poison'd
                   all
                   her
                   Breast
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                 
                 
                 
                 
                   She
                   raves
                   ,
                   she
                   runs
                   with
                   a
                   distracted
                   pace
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   fills
                   ,
                   with
                   horrid
                   howls
                   ,
                   the
                   public
                   Place
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   as
                   young
                   Striplings
                   whip
                   the
                   Top
                   for
                   sport
                   ,
                
                 
                   On
                   the
                   smooth
                   Pavement
                   of
                   an
                   empty
                   Court
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   wooden
                   Engine
                   flies
                   and
                   whirls
                   about
                   ,
                
                 
                   Admir'd
                   ,
                   with
                   Clamours
                   ,
                   of
                   the
                   Beardless
                   rout
                   ;
                
                 
                   They
                   lash
                   aloud
                   ,
                   each
                   other
                   they
                   provoke
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   lend
                   their
                   little
                   Souls
                   at
                   ev'ry
                   stroke
                   :
                
                 
                   Thus
                   fares
                   the
                   Queen
                   ,
                   and
                   thus
                   her
                   fury
                   blows
                
                 
                   Amidst
                   the
                   Crowd
                   ,
                   and
                   kindles
                   as
                   she
                   goes
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   yet
                   content
                   ,
                   she
                   strains
                   her
                   Malice
                   more
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   adds
                   new
                   Ills
                   to
                   those
                   contriv'd
                   before
                   :
                
                 
                   She
                   flies
                   the
                   Town
                   ,
                   and
                   ,
                   mixing
                   with
                   a
                   throng
                
                 
                   Of
                   madding
                   Matrons
                   ,
                   bears
                   the
                   Bride
                   along
                   :
                
                 
                   Wand'ring
                   through
                   Woods
                   and
                   Wilds
                   ,
                   and
                   devious
                   ways
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   these
                   Arts
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Match
                   delays
                   .
                
                 
                   She
                   feign'd
                   the
                   Rites
                   of
                   Bacchus
                   !
                   cry'd
                   aloud
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   to
                   the
                   Buxom
                   God
                   the
                   Virgin
                   vow'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Evoe
                   ,
                   O
                   Bacchus
                   thus
                   began
                   the
                   Song
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Evoe
                   !
                   answer'd
                   all
                   the
                   Female
                   Throng
                   :
                
                 
                   O
                   Virgin
                   !
                   worthy
                   thee
                   alone
                   ,
                   she
                   cry'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   O
                   worthy
                   thee
                   alone
                   ,
                   the
                   Crew
                   reply'd
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   thee
                   she
                   feeds
                   her
                   Hair
                   ,
                   she
                   leads
                   thy
                   Dance
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   thy
                   winding
                   Ivy
                   crowns
                   her
                   Lance.
                
                 
                   Like
                   fury
                   seiz'd
                   the
                   rest
                   ;
                   the
                   progress
                   known
                   ,
                
                 
                   All
                   seek
                   the
                   Mountains
                   ,
                   and
                   forsake
                   the
                   Town
                   :
                
                 
                   All
                   Clad
                   in
                   Skins
                   of
                   Beasts
                   the
                   Jav'lin
                   bear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Give
                   to
                   the
                   wanton
                   Winds
                   their
                   flowing
                   Hair
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   shrieks
                   and
                   showtings
                   rend
                   the
                   passive
                   Air.
                
                 
                   The
                   Queen
                   ,
                   her self
                   ,
                   inspir'd
                   with
                   Rage
                   Divine
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shook
                   high
                   above
                   her
                   head
                   a
                   flaming
                   Pine
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   rowl'd
                   her
                   haggar'd
                   Eyes
                   around
                   the
                   throng
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   sung
                   ,
                   in
                   Turnus
                   Name
                   ,
                   the
                   Nuptial
                   Song
                   :
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     Coll
                     l
                     :
                     Thomas
                     Farrington
                     of
                     the
                     Parish
                     of
                     S
                     t
                     :
                     James's
                     Westminster
                  
                   
                     AE
                     7.
                     l.
                     559
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                 
                   Io
                   ye
                   Latian
                   Dames
                   ,
                   if
                   any
                   here
                
                 
                   Hold
                   ,
                   your
                   unhappy
                   Queen
                   ,
                   Amata
                   ,
                   dear
                   ;
                
                 
                   If
                   there
                   be
                   here
                   ,
                   she
                   said
                   ,
                   who
                   dare
                   maintain
                
                 
                   My
                   Right
                   ,
                   nor
                   think
                   the
                   Name
                   of
                   Mother
                   vain
                   :
                
                 
                   Unbind
                   your
                   Fillets
                   ,
                   loose
                   your
                   flowing
                   Hair
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Orgies
                   ,
                   and
                   Nocturnal
                   Rites
                   prepare
                   .
                
                 
                   
                   Amata's
                   Breast
                   the
                   Fury
                   thus
                   invades
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   fires
                   with
                   Rage
                   ,
                   amid
                   the
                   Silvan
                   Shades
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   when
                   she
                   found
                   her
                   Venom
                   spread
                   so
                   far
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Royal
                   House
                   embroil'd
                   in
                   Civil
                   War
                   :
                
                 
                   Rais'd
                   on
                   her
                   dusky
                   Wings
                   she
                   cleaves
                   the
                   Skies
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   seeks
                   the
                   Palace
                   where
                   young
                   Turnus
                   lies
                   ▪
                
                 
                   His
                   Town
                   ,
                   as
                   Fame
                   reports
                   ,
                   was
                   built
                   of
                   old
                
                 
                   By
                   Danae
                   ,
                   pregnant
                   with
                   Almighty
                   Gold
                   :
                
                 
                   Who
                   fled
                   her
                   Father's
                   Rage
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   a
                   Train
                
                 
                   Of
                   following
                   Argives
                   ,
                   thro'
                   the
                   stormy
                   Main
                   ,
                
                 
                   Driv'n
                   by
                   the
                   Southern
                   Blasts
                   ,
                   was
                   fated
                   here
                   to
                   reign
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   'T
                   was
                   Ardua
                   once
                   ,
                   now
                   
                   Ardea's
                   Name
                   it
                   bears
                   :
                
                 
                   Once
                   a
                   fair
                   City
                   ,
                   now
                   consum'd
                   with
                   Years
                   .
                
                 
                   Here
                   in
                   his
                   lofty
                   Palace
                   Turnus
                   lay
                   ,
                
                 
                   Betwixt
                   the
                   Confines
                   of
                   the
                   Night
                   and
                   Day
                   ,
                
                 
                   Secure
                   in
                   Sleep
                   :
                   The
                   Fury
                   laid
                   aside
                
                 
                   Her
                   Looks
                   and
                   Limbs
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   new
                   methods
                   try'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   foulness
                   of
                   th'
                   insernal
                   Form
                   to
                   hide
                   .
                
                 
                   Prop'd
                   on
                   a
                   Staff
                   ,
                   she
                   takes
                   a
                   trembling
                   Meen
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   Face
                   is
                   furrow'd
                   ,
                   and
                   her
                   Front
                   obscene
                   :
                
                 
                   Deep
                   dinted
                   Wrinckles
                   on
                   her
                   Cheek
                   she
                   draws
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sunk
                   are
                   her
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   and
                   toothless
                   are
                   her
                   Jaws
                   :
                
                 
                   Her
                   hoary
                   Hair
                   with
                   holy
                   Fillets
                   bound
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   Temples
                   with
                   an
                   Olive
                   Wreath
                   are
                   crown'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Old
                   Chalibe
                   ,
                   who
                   kept
                   the
                   sacred
                   Fane
                
                 
                   Of
                   Juno
                   ,
                   now
                   she
                   seem'd
                   ,
                   and
                   thus
                   began
                   ,
                
                 
                   Appearng
                   in
                   a
                   Dream
                   ,
                   to
                   rouze
                   the
                   careless
                   Man.
                
                 
                 
                   Shall
                   Turnus
                   then
                   such
                   endless
                   Toil
                   sustain
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   fighting
                   Fields
                   ,
                   and
                   conquer
                   Towns
                   in
                   vain
                   :
                
                 
                   Win
                   ,
                   for
                   a
                   Trojan
                   Head
                   to
                   wear
                   the
                   Prize
                   ,
                
                 
                   Usurp
                   thy
                   Crown
                   ,
                   enjoy
                   thy
                   Victories
                   ?
                
                 
                   The
                   Bride
                   and
                   Scepter
                   which
                   thy
                   Blood
                   has
                   bought
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   King
                   transfers
                   ,
                   and
                   Foreign
                   Heirs
                   are
                   sought
                   :
                
                 
                   Go
                   now
                   ,
                   deluded
                   Man
                   ,
                   and
                   seek
                   again
                
                 
                   New
                   Toils
                   ,
                   new
                   Dangers
                   on
                   the
                   dusty
                   Plain
                   .
                
                 
                   Repel
                   the
                   Tuscan
                   Foes
                   ,
                   their
                   City
                   seize
                   ,
                
                 
                   Protect
                   the
                   Latians
                   in
                   luxurious
                   Ease
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   Dream
                   all-pow'rful
                   Juno
                   sends
                   ,
                   I
                   bear
                
                 
                   Her
                   mighty
                   Mandates
                   ,
                   and
                   her
                   Words
                   you
                   hear
                   .
                
                 
                   Haste
                   ,
                   arm
                   your
                   Ardeans
                   ,
                   issue
                   to
                   the
                   Plain
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Fate
                   to
                   friend
                   ,
                   assault
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Train
                   :
                
                 
                   Their
                   thoughtless
                   Chiefs
                   ,
                   their
                   painted
                   Ships
                   that
                   lye
                
                 
                   In
                   
                   Tyber's
                   Mouth
                   ,
                   with
                   Fire
                   and
                   Sword
                   destroy
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Latian
                   King
                   ,
                   unless
                   he
                   shall
                   submit
                   ,
                
                 
                   Own
                   his
                   old
                   Promise
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   new
                   forget
                   ;
                
                 
                   Let
                   him
                   ,
                   in
                   Arms
                   ,
                   the
                   Pow'r
                   of
                   Turnus
                   prove
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   learn
                   to
                   fear
                   whom
                   he
                   disdains
                   to
                   Love.
                
                 
                   For
                   such
                   is
                   Heav'ns
                   Command
                   .
                   The
                   youthful
                   Prince
                
                 
                   With
                   Scorn
                   reply'd
                   ,
                   and
                   made
                   this
                   bold
                   Defence
                   .
                
                 
                   You
                   tell
                   me
                   ,
                   Mother
                   ,
                   what
                   I
                   knew
                   before
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Phrygian
                   Fleet
                   is
                   landed
                   on
                   the
                   Shore
                   :
                
                 
                   I
                   neither
                   fear
                   ,
                   nor
                   will
                   provoke
                   the
                   War
                   ;
                
                 
                   My
                   Fate
                   is
                   
                   Juno's
                   most
                   peculiar
                   Care.
                
                 
                   But
                   Time
                   has
                   made
                   you
                   dote
                   ,
                   and
                   vainly
                   tell
                
                 
                   Of
                   Arms
                   imagin'd
                   ,
                   in
                   your
                   lonely
                   Cell
                   :
                
                 
                   Go
                   ,
                   be
                   the
                   Temple
                   and
                   the
                   Gods
                   your
                   Care
                   ,
                
                 
                   Permit
                   to
                   Men
                   the
                   Thought
                   of
                   Peace
                   and
                   War.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   These
                   haughty
                   Words
                   
                   Alecto's
                   Rage
                   provoke
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   frighted
                   Turnus
                   trembled
                   as
                   she
                   spoke
                   .
                
                 
                   Her
                   Eyes
                   grow
                   stiffen'd
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   Sulphur
                   burn
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   hideous
                   Looks
                   ,
                   and
                   hellish
                   Form
                   return
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Her
                   curling
                   Snakes
                   ,
                   with
                   Hissings
                   fill
                   the
                   Place
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   open
                   all
                   the
                   Furies
                   of
                   her
                   Face
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   darting
                   Fire
                   from
                   her
                   malignant
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   cast
                   him
                   backward
                   as
                   he
                   strove
                   to
                   rise
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   ling'ring
                   ,
                   sought
                   to
                   frame
                   some
                   new
                   Replies
                   .
                
                 
                   High
                   on
                   her
                   Head
                   she
                   rears
                   two
                   twisted
                   Snakes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   Chains
                   she
                   rattles
                   ,
                   and
                   her
                   Whip
                   she
                   shakes
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   churning
                   bloody
                   Foam
                   ,
                   thus
                   loudly
                   speaks
                   .
                
                 
                   Behold
                   whom
                   Time
                   has
                   made
                   to
                   dote
                   ,
                   and
                   tell
                
                 
                   Of
                   Arms
                   ,
                   imagin'd
                   in
                   her
                   lonely
                   Cell
                   :
                
                 
                   Behold
                   the
                   Fates
                   Infernal
                   Minister
                   ;
                
                 
                   War
                   ,
                   Death
                   ,
                   Destruction
                   ,
                   in
                   my
                   Hand
                   I
                   bear
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Thus
                   having
                   said
                   ,
                   her
                   smould'ring
                   Torch
                   impress'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   her
                   full
                   Force
                   ,
                   she
                   plung'd
                   into
                   his
                   Breast
                   .
                
                 
                   Aghast
                   he
                   wak'd
                   ,
                   and
                   ,
                   starting
                   from
                   his
                   Bed
                   ,
                
                 
                   Cold
                   Sweat
                   ,
                   in
                   clammy
                   Drops
                   ,
                   his
                   Limbs
                   o'respread
                   .
                
                 
                   Arms
                   ,
                   Arms
                   ,
                   he
                   cries
                   ,
                   my
                   Sword
                   and
                   Shield
                   prepare
                   ;
                
                 
                   He
                   breaths
                   Defiance
                   ,
                   Blood
                   ,
                   and
                   Mortal
                   War.
                
                 
                   So
                   when
                   with
                   crackling
                   Flames
                   a
                   Cauldron
                   fries
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   bubling
                   Waters
                   from
                   the
                   Bottom
                   rise
                   :
                
                 
                   Above
                   the
                   Brims
                   they
                   force
                   their
                   fiery
                   way
                   ;
                
                 
                   Black
                   Vapours
                   climb
                   aloft
                   ,
                   and
                   cloud
                   the
                   Day
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Peace
                   polluted
                   thus
                   ,
                   a
                   chosen
                   Band
                
                 
                   He
                   first
                   commissions
                   to
                   the
                   Latian
                   Land
                   ;
                
                 
                   In
                   threatning
                   Embassy
                   :
                   Then
                   rais'd
                   the
                   rest
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   meet
                   in
                   Arms
                   th'
                   intruding
                   Trojan
                   Guest
                   :
                
                 
                   To
                   force
                   the
                   Foes
                   from
                   the
                   Lavinian
                   Shore
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   
                   Italy's
                   indanger'd
                   Peace
                   restore
                   .
                
                 
                   Himself
                   alone
                   ,
                   an
                   equal
                   Match
                   he
                   boasts
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   fight
                   the
                   Phrygian
                   and
                   Ausonian
                   Hoasts
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Gods
                   invok'd
                   ,
                   the
                   Rutuli
                   prepare
                
                 
                   Their
                   Arms
                   ,
                   and
                   warm
                   each
                   other
                   to
                   the
                   War.
                
                 
                   His
                   Beauty
                   these
                   ,
                   and
                   those
                   his
                   blooming
                   Age
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   rest
                   his
                   House
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   own
                   Fame
                   ingage
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   While
                   Turnus
                   urges
                   thus
                   his
                   Enterprise
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Stygian
                   Fury
                   to
                   the
                   Trojans
                   flies
                   :
                
                 
                   New
                   Frauds
                   invents
                   ,
                   and
                   takes
                   a
                   steepy
                   Stand
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   overlooks
                   the
                   Vale
                   with
                   wide
                   Command
                   ;
                
                 
                   Where
                   fair
                   Ascanius
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   youthful
                   Train
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Horns
                   and
                   Hounds
                   a
                   hunting
                   Match
                   ordain
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   pitch
                   their
                   Toils
                   around
                   the
                   shady
                   Plain
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Fury
                   fires
                   the
                   Pack
                   ;
                   they
                   snuff
                   ,
                   they
                   vent
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   fill
                   their
                   hungry
                   Nostrils
                   with
                   the
                   Scent
                   .
                
                 
                   'T
                   was
                   of
                   a
                   well
                   grown
                   Stag
                   ,
                   whose
                   Antlers
                   rise
                
                 
                   High
                   o're
                   his
                   Front
                   ,
                   his
                   Beams
                   invade
                   the
                   Skies
                   :
                
                 
                   From
                   this
                   light
                   Cause
                   ,
                   th'
                   Infernal
                   Maid
                   prepares
                
                 
                   The
                   Country
                   Churls
                   to
                   Mischief
                   ,
                   Hate
                   ,
                   and
                   Wars
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   stately
                   Beast
                   ,
                   the
                   Two
                   Tyrrheidae
                   bred
                   ,
                
                 
                   Snatch'd
                   from
                   his
                   Dam
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   tame
                   Youngling
                   fed
                   .
                
                 
                   Their
                   Father
                   Tyrrheus
                   did
                   his
                   Fodder
                   bring
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tyrrheus
                   ,
                   chief
                   Ranger
                   to
                   the
                   Latian
                   King
                   :
                
                 
                   Their
                   Sister
                   Silvia
                   cherish'd
                   with
                   her
                   Care
                
                 
                   The
                   little
                   Wanton
                   ,
                   and
                   did
                   Wreaths
                   prepare
                
                 
                   To
                   hang
                   his
                   budding
                   Horns
                   :
                   with
                   Ribbons
                   ty'd
                
                 
                   His
                   tender
                   Neck
                   ,
                   and
                   comb'd
                   his
                   silken
                   Hide
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   bath'd
                   his
                   Body
                   .
                   Patient
                   of
                   Command
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   time
                   he
                   grew
                   ,
                   and
                   growing
                   us'd
                   to
                   Hand
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   waited
                   at
                   his
                   Master's
                   Board
                   for
                   Food
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   sought
                   his
                   salvage
                   Kindred
                   in
                   the
                   Wood
                   :
                
                 
                   Where
                   grazing
                   all
                   the
                   Day
                   ,
                   at
                   Night
                   he
                   came
                
                 
                   To
                   his
                   known
                   Lodgings
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Country
                   Dame.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   This
                   household
                   Beast
                   ,
                   that
                   us'd
                   the
                   Woodland
                   Grounds
                   ,
                
                 
                   Was
                   view'd
                   at
                   first
                   by
                   the
                   young
                   Hero's
                   Hounds
                   ;
                
                 
                   As
                   down
                   the
                   Stream
                   he
                   swam
                   ,
                   to
                   seek
                   Retreat
                
                 
                   In
                   the
                   cool
                   Waters
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   quench
                   his
                   Heat
                   .
                
                 
                   Ascanius
                   young
                   ,
                   and
                   eager
                   of
                   his
                   Game
                   ,
                
                 
                   Soon
                   bent
                   his
                   Bow
                   ,
                   uncertain
                   in
                   his
                   Aim
                   :
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     y
                     e
                     Right
                     Hon
                     ble
                     :
                     y
                     e
                     Lady
                     Mary
                     Sackvile
                     daughter
                     to
                     Charles
                     Earle
                     of
                     Dorset
                     &
                     Middlesex
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     7.
                     l.
                     675.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                 
                   But
                   the
                   dire
                   Fiend
                   the
                   fatal
                   Arrow
                   guides
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   pierc'd
                   his
                   Bowels
                   thro'
                   his
                   panting
                   sides
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   bleeding
                   Creature
                   issues
                   from
                   the
                   Floods
                   ,
                
                 
                   Possess'd
                   with
                   Fear
                   ,
                   and
                   seeks
                   his
                   known
                   abodes
                   ;
                
                 
                   His
                   old
                   familiar
                   Hearth
                   ,
                   and
                   household
                   Gods.
                
                 
                   He
                   falls
                   ,
                   he
                   fills
                   the
                   House
                   with
                   heavy
                   Groans
                   ,
                
                 
                   Implores
                   their
                   Pity
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Pain
                   bemoans
                   .
                
                 
                   Young
                   Silvia
                   beats
                   her
                   Breast
                   ,
                   and
                   cries
                   aloud
                
                 
                   For
                   Succour
                   ,
                   from
                   the
                   clownish
                   Neighbourhood
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Churls
                   assemble
                   ;
                   for
                   the
                   Fiend
                   ,
                   who
                   lay
                
                 
                   In
                   the
                   close
                   Woody
                   Covert
                   ,
                   urg'd
                   their
                   way
                   .
                
                 
                   One
                   with
                   a
                   Brand
                   ,
                   yet
                   burning
                   from
                   the
                   Flame
                   ;
                
                 
                   Arm'd
                   with
                   a
                   knotty
                   Club
                   ,
                   another
                   came
                   :
                
                 
                   What
                   e're
                   they
                   catch
                   or
                   find
                   ,
                   without
                   their
                   Care
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   Fury
                   makes
                   an
                   Instrument
                   of
                   War.
                
                 
                   Tyrrheus
                   ,
                   the
                   Foster-Father
                   of
                   the
                   Beast
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   clench'd
                   a
                   Hatchet
                   in
                   his
                   horny
                   Fist
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   held
                   his
                   Hand
                   from
                   the
                   descending
                   Stroke
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   left
                   his
                   Wedge
                   within
                   the
                   cloven
                   Oak
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   whet
                   their
                   Courage
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   Rage
                   provoke
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   the
                   Goddess
                   ,
                   exercis'd
                   in
                   Ill
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   watch'd
                   an
                   Hour
                   to
                   work
                   her
                   impious
                   Will
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ascends
                   the
                   Roof
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   her
                   crooked
                   Horn
                   ,
                
                 
                   Such
                   as
                   was
                   then
                   by
                   Latian
                   Shepherds
                   born
                   ,
                
                 
                   Adds
                   all
                   her
                   Breath
                   ,
                   the
                   Rocks
                   and
                   Woods
                   around
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Mountains
                   ,
                   tremble
                   at
                   th'
                   infernal
                   Sound
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Sacred
                   Lake
                   of
                   Trivia
                   from
                   afar
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Veline
                   Fountains
                   ,
                   and
                   sulphureous
                   Nar
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shake
                   at
                   the
                   baleful
                   Blast
                   ,
                   the
                   Signal
                   of
                   the
                   War.
                
                 
                   Young
                   Mothers
                   wildly
                   stare
                   ,
                   with
                   Fear
                   possess'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   strain
                   their
                   helpless
                   Infants
                   to
                   their
                   Breast
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Clowns
                   ,
                   a
                   boist'rous
                   ,
                   rude
                   ,
                   ungovern'd
                   Crew
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   furious
                   haste
                   to
                   the
                   loud
                   Summons
                   flew
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Pow'rs
                   of
                   Troy
                   then
                   issuing
                   on
                   the
                   Plain
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   fresh
                   Recruits
                   their
                   youthful
                   Chief
                   sustain
                   :
                
                 
                   Not
                   theirs
                   a
                   raw
                   and
                   unexperienc'd
                   Train
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   a
                   firm
                   Body
                   of
                   embattel'd
                   Men.
                
                 
                   At
                   first
                   ,
                   while
                   Fortune
                   favour'd
                   neither
                   side
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Fight
                   with
                   Clubs
                   and
                   burning
                   Brands
                   was
                   try'd
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   now
                   ,
                   both
                   Parties
                   reinfor'd
                   ,
                   the
                   Fields
                
                 
                   Are
                   bright
                   with
                   flaming
                   Swords
                   and
                   brazen
                   Shields
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   shining
                   Harvest
                   either
                   Host
                   displays
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   shoots
                   against
                   the
                   Sun
                   with
                   equal
                   Rays
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Thus
                   when
                   a
                   black-brow'd
                   Gust
                   begins
                   to
                   rise
                   ,
                
                 
                   White
                   Foam
                   at
                   first
                   on
                   the
                   curl'd
                   Ocean
                   fries
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   roars
                   the
                   Main
                   ,
                   the
                   Billows
                   mount
                   the
                   Skies
                   :
                
                 
                   'Till
                   by
                   the
                   Fury
                   of
                   the
                   Storm
                   full
                   blown
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   muddy
                   Bottom
                   o're
                   the
                   Clouds
                   is
                   thrown
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   First
                   Almon
                   falls
                   ,
                   old
                   Tyrrheus
                   eldest
                   Care
                   ,
                
                 
                   Pierc'd
                   with
                   an
                   Arrow
                   from
                   the
                   distant
                   War
                   :
                
                 
                   Fix'd
                   in
                   his
                   Throat
                   the
                   flying
                   Weapon
                   stood
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   stop'd
                   his
                   Breath
                   ,
                   and
                   drank
                   his
                   vital
                   Blood.
                
                 
                   Huge
                   Heaps
                   of
                   slain
                   above
                   the
                   Body
                   rise
                   ;
                
                 
                   Among
                   the
                   rest
                   ,
                   the
                   rich
                   Galesus
                   lyes
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   good
                   old
                   Man
                   ,
                   while
                   Peace
                   he
                   preach'd
                   in
                   vain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Amidst
                   the
                   Madness
                   of
                   th'
                   unruly
                   Train
                   .
                
                 
                   Five
                   Heards
                   ,
                   five
                   bleating
                   Flocks
                   his
                   Pastures
                   fill'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Lands
                   a
                   hundred
                   Yoke
                   of
                   Oxen
                   till'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   ,
                   while
                   in
                   equal
                   Scales
                   their
                   Fortune
                   stood
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Fury
                   bath'd
                   them
                   in
                   each
                   others
                   Blood.
                
                 
                   Then
                   having
                   fix'd
                   the
                   Fight
                   ,
                   exulting
                   flies
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   bears
                   fulfill'd
                   her
                   Promise
                   to
                   the
                   Skies
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   Juno
                   thus
                   she
                   speaks
                   ;
                   Behold
                   ,
                   't
                   is
                   done
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Blood
                   already
                   drawn
                   ,
                   the
                   War
                   begun
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Discord
                   is
                   compleat
                   ,
                   nor
                   can
                   they
                   cease
                
                 
                   The
                   dire
                   Debate
                   ,
                   nor
                   you
                   command
                   the
                   Peace
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Now
                   since
                   the
                   Latian
                   and
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Brood
                
                 
                   Have
                   tasted
                   Vengeance
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Sweets
                   of
                   Blood
                   ;
                
                 
                   Speak
                   ,
                   and
                   my
                   Pow'r
                   shall
                   add
                   this
                   Office
                   more
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Neighb'ring
                   Nations
                   of
                   th'
                   Ausonian
                   Shore
                
                 
                   Shall
                   hear
                   the
                   dreadful
                   Rumour
                   ,
                   from
                   afar
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   arm'd
                   Invasion
                   ,
                   and
                   embrace
                   the
                   War.
                
                 
                   Then
                   Juno
                   thus
                   ;
                   The
                   grateful
                   Work
                   is
                   done
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Seeds
                   of
                   Discord
                   sow'd
                   ,
                   the
                   War
                   begun
                   :
                
                 
                   Frauds
                   ,
                   Fears
                   ,
                   and
                   Fury
                   have
                   possess'd
                   the
                   State
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   fix'd
                   the
                   Causes
                   of
                   a
                   lasting
                   Hate
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   bloody
                   Hymen
                   shall
                   th'
                   Alliance
                   join
                
                 
                   Betwixt
                   the
                   Trojan
                   and
                   Ausonian
                   Line
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   thou
                   with
                   Speed
                   to
                   Night
                   and
                   Hell
                   repair
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   not
                   the
                   Gods
                   ,
                   nor
                   angry
                   Jove
                   will
                   bear
                
                 
                   Thy
                   lawless
                   wand'ring
                   walks
                   ,
                   in
                   upper
                   Air.
                
                 
                   Leave
                   what
                   remains
                   to
                   me
                   .
                   Saturnia
                   said
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   sullen
                   Fiend
                   her
                   sounding
                   Wings
                   display'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Unwilling
                   left
                   the
                   Light
                   ,
                   and
                   sought
                   the
                   neather
                   Shade
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   In
                   midst
                   of
                   Italy
                   ,
                   well
                   known
                   to
                   Fame
                   ,
                
                 
                   There
                   lies
                   a
                   Lake
                   ,
                   Amsanctus
                   is
                   the
                   Name
                   ,
                
                 
                   Below
                   the
                   lofty
                   Mounts
                   :
                   On
                   either
                   side
                
                 
                   Thick
                   Forrests
                   ,
                   the
                   forbidden
                   Entrance
                   hide
                   :
                
                 
                   Full
                   in
                   the
                   Centre
                   of
                   the
                   sacred
                   Wood
                
                 
                   An
                   Arm
                   arises
                   of
                   the
                   Stygian
                   Flood
                   ;
                
                 
                   Which
                   ,
                   breaking
                   from
                   beneath
                   with
                   bellowing
                   sound
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whirls
                   the
                   black
                   Waves
                   and
                   rattling
                   Stones
                   around
                   .
                
                 
                   Here
                   Pluto
                   pants
                   for
                   Breath
                   from
                   out
                   his
                   Cell
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   opens
                   wide
                   the
                   grinning
                   Jaws
                   of
                   Hell.
                
                 
                   To
                   this
                   Infernal
                   Lake
                   the
                   Fury
                   flies
                   ;
                
                 
                   Here
                   hides
                   her
                   hated
                   Head
                   ,
                   and
                   frees
                   the
                   lab'ring
                   Skies
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     Saturnian
                     Juna
                  
                   now
                   ,
                   with
                   double
                   Care
                   ,
                
                 
                   Attends
                   the
                   fatal
                   Process
                   of
                   the
                   War.
                
                 
                   The
                   Clowns
                   return'd
                   ,
                   from
                   Battel
                   bear
                   the
                   slain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Implore
                   the
                   Gods
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   their
                   King
                   complain
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Corps
                   of
                   Almon
                   and
                   the
                   rest
                   are
                   shown
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shrieks
                   ,
                   Clamours
                   ,
                   Murmurs
                   fill
                   the
                   frighted
                   Town
                   .
                
                 
                   Ambitious
                   Turnus
                   in
                   the
                   Press
                   appears
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   aggravating
                   Crimes
                   ,
                   augments
                   their
                   Fears
                   :
                
                 
                   Proclaims
                   his
                   Private
                   Injuries
                   aloud
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Solemn
                   Promise
                   made
                   ,
                   and
                   disavow'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   foreign
                   Son
                   is
                   sought
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   mix'd
                   Mungril
                   Brood
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   they
                   ,
                   whose
                   Mothers
                   ,
                   frantick
                   with
                   their
                   Fear
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   Woods
                   and
                   Wilds
                   the
                   Flags
                   of
                   Bacchus
                   bear
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   lead
                   his
                   Dances
                   with
                   dishevell'd
                   hair
                   ,
                
                 
                   Increase
                   the
                   Clamour
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   War
                   demand
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   Such
                   was
                   
                   Amata's
                   Interest
                   in
                   the
                   Land
                   )
                
                 
                   Against
                   the
                   Public
                   Sanctions
                   of
                   the
                   Peace
                   ,
                
                 
                   Against
                   all
                   Omens
                   of
                   their
                   ill
                   Success
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   Fates
                   averse
                   ,
                   the
                   Rout
                   in
                   Arms
                   resort
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   Force
                   their
                   Monarch
                   ,
                   and
                   insult
                   the
                   Court.
                
                 
                   But
                   like
                   a
                   Rock
                   unmov'd
                   ,
                   a
                   Rock
                   that
                   braves
                
                 
                   The
                   rageing
                   Tempest
                   and
                   the
                   rising
                   Waves
                   ,
                
                 
                   Prop'd
                   on
                   himself
                   he
                   stands
                   :
                   His
                   solid
                   sides
                
                 
                   Wash
                   off
                   the
                   Sea-weeds
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   sounding
                   Tides
                   :
                
                 
                   So
                   stood
                   the
                   Pious
                   Prince
                   unmov'd
                   :
                   and
                   long
                
                 
                   Sustain'd
                   the
                   madness
                   of
                   the
                   noisie
                   Throng
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   when
                   he
                   found
                   that
                   Juno's
                   Pow'r
                   prevail'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   the
                   Methods
                   of
                   cool
                   Counsel
                   sail'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   calls
                   the
                   Gods
                   to
                   witness
                   their
                   offence
                   ,
                
                 
                   Disclaims
                   the
                   War
                   ,
                   asserts
                   his
                   Innocence
                   .
                
                 
                   Hurry'd
                   by
                   Fate
                   ,
                   he
                   cries
                   ,
                   and
                   born
                   before
                
                 
                   A
                   furious
                   Wind
                   ,
                   we
                   leave
                   the
                   faithful
                   Shore
                   :
                
                 
                   O
                   more
                   than
                   Madmen
                   !
                   you
                   your selves
                   shall
                   bear
                
                 
                   The
                   guilt
                   of
                   Blood
                   and
                   Sacrilegious
                   War
                   :
                
                 
                   Thou
                   ,
                   Turnus
                   ,
                   shalt
                   attone
                   it
                   by
                   thy
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   pray
                   to
                   Heav'n
                   for
                   Peace
                   ,
                   but
                   pray
                   too
                   late
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   me
                   ,
                   my
                   stormy
                   Voyage
                   at
                   an
                   end
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   to
                   the
                   Port
                   of
                   Death
                   securely
                   tend
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Fun'ral
                   Pomp
                   which
                   to
                   your
                   Kings
                   you
                   pay
                   ,
                
                 
                   Is
                   all
                   I
                   want
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   you
                   take
                   away
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   said
                   no
                   more
                   ,
                   but
                   in
                   his
                   Walls
                   confin'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shut
                   out
                   the
                   Woes
                   which
                   he
                   too
                   well
                   divin'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   with
                   the
                   rising
                   Storm
                   wou'd
                   vainly
                   strive
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   left
                   the
                   Helm
                   ,
                   and
                   let
                   the
                   Vessel
                   drive
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   solemn
                   Custom
                   was
                   observ'd
                   of
                   old
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   Latium
                   held
                   ,
                   and
                   now
                   the
                   Romans
                   hold
                   ;
                
                 
                   Their
                   Standard
                   ,
                   when
                   in
                   fighting
                   Fields
                   they
                   rear
                
                 
                   Against
                   the
                   fierce
                   Hircanians
                   ,
                   or
                   declare
                
                 
                   The
                   
                     Scythian
                     ,
                     Indian
                  
                   ,
                   or
                   Arabian
                   War
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   from
                   the
                   boasting
                   Parthians
                   wou'd
                   regain
                
                 
                   Their
                   Eagles
                   lost
                   in
                   
                   Carrhae's
                   bloody
                   Plain
                   :
                
                 
                   Two
                   Gates
                   of
                   Steel
                   (
                   the
                   Name
                   of
                   Mars
                   they
                   bear
                   )
                
                 
                   And
                   still
                   are
                   worship'd
                   with
                   religious
                   Fear
                   ;
                
                 
                   Before
                   his
                   Temple
                   stand
                   :
                   The
                   dire
                   abode
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   fear'd
                   Issues
                   of
                   the
                   furious
                   God
                   ,
                
                 
                   Are
                   fenc'd
                   with
                   Brazen
                   Bolts
                   ;
                   without
                   the
                   Gates
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   wary
                   Guardian
                   Janus
                   doubly
                   waits
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   when
                   the
                   sacred
                   Senate
                   votes
                   the
                   Wars
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Roman
                   Consul
                   their
                   Decree
                   declares
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   his
                   Robes
                   the
                   sounding
                   Gates
                   unbars
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Youth
                   in
                   Military
                   Shouts
                   arise
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   loud
                   Trumpets
                   break
                   the
                   yielding
                   Skies
                   .
                
                 
                   These
                   Rites
                   of
                   old
                   by
                   Sov'raign
                   Princes
                   us'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Were
                   the
                   King's
                   Office
                   ,
                   but
                   the
                   King
                   refus'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Deaf
                   to
                   their
                   Cries
                   ,
                   nor
                   wou'd
                   the
                   Gates
                   unbar
                
                 
                   Of
                   sacred
                   Peace
                   ,
                   or
                   loose
                   th'
                   imprison'd
                   War
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   hid
                   his
                   Head
                   ,
                   and
                   ,
                   safe
                   from
                   loud
                   Alarms
                   ,
                
                 
                   Abhor'd
                   the
                   wicked
                   Ministry
                   of
                   Arms.
                
                 
                   Then
                   Heav'ns
                   Imperious
                   Queen
                   came
                   down
                   from
                   high
                   ;
                
                 
                   At
                   her
                   Approach
                   the
                   Brazen
                   Hinges
                   fly
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Gates
                   are
                   forc'd
                   ,
                   and
                   ev'ry
                   falling
                   Bar
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   like
                   a
                   Tempest
                   issues
                   out
                   the
                   War.
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   peaceful
                   Cities
                   of
                   th'
                   Ausonian
                   Shore
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lull'd
                   in
                   their
                   Ease
                   ,
                   and
                   undisturb'd
                   before
                   ;
                
                 
                   Are
                   all
                   on
                   Fire
                   ,
                   and
                   some
                   with
                   studious
                   Care
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   restiff
                   Steeds
                   in
                   sandy
                   Plains
                   prepare
                   :
                
                 
                   Some
                   their
                   soft
                   Limbs
                   in
                   painful
                   Marches
                   try
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   War
                   is
                   all
                   their
                   Wish
                   ,
                   and
                   Arms
                   the
                   gen'ral
                   Cry.
                
                 
                   Part
                   scour
                   the
                   rusty
                   Shields
                   with
                   Seam
                   ,
                   and
                   part
                
                 
                   New
                   grind
                   the
                   blunted
                   Ax
                   ,
                   and
                   point
                   the
                   Dart
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   Joy
                   they
                   view
                   the
                   waving
                   Ensigns
                   fly
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   hear
                   the
                   Trumpet
                   's
                   Clangor
                   pierce
                   the
                   Sky
                   .
                
                 
                   Five
                   Cities
                   forge
                   their
                   Arms
                   ;
                   th'
                   Atinian
                   Pow'rs
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     Antemnae
                     ,
                     Tybur
                  
                   with
                   her
                   lofty
                   Tow'rs
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ardea
                   the
                   proud
                   ,
                   the
                   Crustumerian
                   Town
                   :
                
                 
                   All
                   these
                   of
                   old
                   were
                   places
                   of
                   Renown
                   .
                
                 
                   Some
                   hammer
                   Helmets
                   for
                   the
                   fighting
                   Field
                   ,
                
                 
                   Some
                   twine
                   young
                   Sallows
                   to
                   support
                   the
                   Shield
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Croslet
                   some
                   ,
                   and
                   some
                   the
                   Cuishes
                   mould
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Silver
                   plated
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   ductile
                   Gold.
                
                 
                   The
                   rustick
                   Honours
                   of
                   the
                   Scythe
                   and
                   Share
                   ,
                
                 
                   Give
                   place
                   to
                   Swords
                   and
                   Plumes
                   ,
                   the
                   Pride
                   of
                   War.
                
                 
                   Old
                   Fauchions
                   are
                   new
                   temper'd
                   in
                   the
                   Fires
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   sounding
                   Trumpet
                   ev'ry
                   Soul
                   inspires
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Word
                   is
                   giv'n
                   ,
                   with
                   eager
                   Speed
                   they
                   lace
                
                 
                   The
                   shining
                   Head-piece
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Shield
                   embrace
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   neighing
                   Steeds
                   are
                   to
                   the
                   Chariot
                   ty'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   trusty
                   Weapon
                   sits
                   on
                   ev'ry
                   side
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   now
                   the
                   mighty
                   Labour
                   is
                   begun
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ye
                   Muses
                   open
                   all
                   your
                   Helicon
                   .
                
                 
                   Sing
                   you
                   the
                   Chiefs
                   that
                   sway'd
                   th'
                   Ausonian
                   Land
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   Arms
                   ,
                   and
                   Armies
                   under
                   their
                   Command
                   :
                
                 
                   What
                   Warriours
                   in
                   our
                   ancient
                   Clime
                   were
                   bred
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   Souldiers
                   follow'd
                   ,
                   and
                   what
                   Heroes
                   led
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   well
                   you
                   know
                   ,
                   and
                   can
                   record
                   alone
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   Fame
                   to
                   future
                   times
                   conveys
                   but
                   darkly
                   down
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Mezentius
                   first
                   appear'd
                   upon
                   the
                   Plain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Scorn
                   fate
                   upon
                   his
                   Brows
                   ,
                   and
                   sour
                   Disdain
                   ;
                
                 
                   Defying
                   Earth
                   and
                   Heav'n
                   :
                   Etruria
                   lost
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   brings
                   to
                   
                   Turnus's
                   Aid
                   his
                   baffled
                   Host
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   charming
                   Lausus
                   ,
                   full
                   of
                   youthful
                   Fire
                   ,
                
                 
                   Rode
                   in
                   the
                   Rank
                   ,
                   and
                   next
                   his
                   sullen
                   Sire
                   :
                
                 
                   To
                   Turnus
                   only
                   second
                   in
                   the
                   Grace
                
                 
                   Of
                   Manly
                   Meen
                   ,
                   and
                   features
                   of
                   the
                   Face
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   skilful
                   Horseman
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   Huntsman
                   bred
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Fates
                   averse
                   a
                   thousand
                   Men
                   he
                   led
                   :
                
                 
                   His
                   Sire
                   unworthy
                   of
                   so
                   brave
                   a
                   Son
                   ;
                
                 
                   Himself
                   well
                   worthy
                   of
                   a
                   happier
                   Throne
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Next
                   Aventinus
                   drives
                   his
                   Chariot
                   round
                
                 
                   The
                   Latian
                   Plains
                   ,
                   with
                   Palms
                   and
                   Lawrels
                   crown'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Proud
                   of
                   his
                   Steeds
                   he
                   smoaks
                   along
                   the
                   Field
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Father
                   's
                   Hydra
                   fills
                   his
                   ample
                   Shield
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   hundred
                   Serpents
                   hiss
                   about
                   the
                   Brims
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Son
                   of
                   Hercules
                   he
                   justly
                   seems
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   his
                   broad
                   Shoulders
                   and
                   Gigantick
                   Limbs
                   .
                
                 
                   Of
                   Heav'nly
                   part
                   ,
                   and
                   part
                   of
                   Earthly
                   Blood
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   mortal
                   Woman
                   mixing
                   with
                   a
                   God.
                
                 
                   For
                   strong
                   Alcides
                   ,
                   after
                   he
                   had
                   slain
                
                 
                   The
                   triple
                   Geryon
                   ,
                   drove
                   from
                   conquer'd
                   Spain
                
                 
                   His
                   captive
                   Herds
                   ,
                   and
                   thence
                   in
                   Triumph
                   led
                   ;
                
                 
                   On
                   Tuscan
                   Tyber's
                   flow'ry
                   Banks
                   they
                   fed
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   on
                   Mount
                   Aventine
                   ,
                   the
                   Son
                   of
                   Jove
                
                 
                   The
                   Priestess
                   Rhea
                   found
                   ,
                   and
                   forc'd
                   to
                   Love.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   For
                   Arms
                   his
                   Men
                   long
                   Piles
                   and
                   Jav'lins
                   bore
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Poles
                   with
                   pointed
                   Steel
                   their
                   Foes
                   in
                   Battel
                   gore
                   .
                
                 
                   Like
                   Hercules
                   himself
                   ,
                   his
                   Son
                   appears
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   Salvage
                   Pomp
                   a
                   Lyon's
                   Hide
                   he
                   wears
                   ;
                
                 
                   About
                   his
                   Shoulders
                   hangs
                   the
                   shaggy
                   Skin
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Teeth
                   ,
                   and
                   gaping
                   Jaws
                   severely
                   grin
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Thus
                   like
                   the
                   God
                   his
                   Father
                   ,
                   homely
                   drest
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   strides
                   into
                   the
                   Hall
                   ,
                   a
                   horrid
                   Guest
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   two
                   Twin-Brothers
                   from
                   fair
                   Tybur
                   came
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   Which
                   from
                   their
                   Brother
                   Tyburs
                   took
                   the
                   Name
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                   Fierce
                   Coras
                   ,
                   and
                   Catillus
                   ,
                   void
                   of
                   Fear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Arm'd
                   Argive
                   Horse
                   they
                   led
                   ,
                   and
                   in
                   the
                   Front
                   appear
                   .
                
                 
                   Like
                   Cloud-born
                   Centaurs
                   ,
                   from
                   the
                   Mountain's
                   height
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   rapid
                   Course
                   descending
                   to
                   the
                   Fight
                   ;
                
                 
                   They
                   rush
                   along
                   ,
                   the
                   ratling
                   Woods
                   give
                   way
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Branches
                   bend
                   before
                   their
                   sweepy
                   Sway.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Nor
                   was
                   
                   Praeneste's
                   Founder
                   wanting
                   there
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whom
                   Fame
                   reports
                   the
                   Son
                   of
                   Mulciber
                   :
                
                 
                   Found
                   in
                   the
                   Fire
                   ,
                   and
                   foster'd
                   in
                   the
                   Plains
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   Shepherd
                   and
                   a
                   King
                   at
                   once
                   he
                   reigns
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   leads
                   to
                   Turnus
                   Aid
                   his
                   Country
                   Swains
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   own
                   Praeneste
                   sends
                   a
                   chosen
                   Band
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   those
                   who
                   plough
                   
                   Saturnia's
                   Gabine
                   Land
                   :
                
                 
                   Besides
                   the
                   Succour
                   which
                   cold
                   Anien
                   yields
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Rocks
                   of
                   Hernicus
                   ,
                   and
                   rosie
                   Fields
                   ;
                
                 
                   Anagnia
                   fat
                   ,
                   and
                   Father
                   Amasene
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   num'rous
                   Rout
                   ,
                   but
                   all
                   of
                   naked
                   Men
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Arms
                   they
                   wear
                   ,
                   nor
                   Swords
                   and
                   Bucklers
                   wield
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   drive
                   the
                   Chariot
                   thro'
                   the
                   dusty
                   Field
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   whirle
                   from
                   Leathern
                   Slings
                   huge
                   Balls
                   of
                   Lead
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Spoils
                   of
                   yellow
                   Wolves
                   adorn
                   their
                   Head
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Left
                   Foot
                   naked
                   ,
                   when
                   they
                   march
                   to
                   fight
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   in
                   a
                   Bull
                   's
                   raw
                   Hide
                   they
                   sheath
                   the
                   Right
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Messapus
                   next
                   ,
                   (
                   great
                   Neptune
                   was
                   his
                   Sire
                   )
                
                 
                   Secure
                   of
                   Steel
                   ,
                   and
                   fated
                   from
                   the
                   Fire
                   ;
                
                 
                   In
                   Pomp
                   appears
                   :
                   And
                   with
                   his
                   Ardour
                   warms
                
                 
                   A
                   heartless
                   Train
                   ,
                   unexercis'd
                   in
                   Arms
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   just
                   Faliscans
                   he
                   to
                   Battel
                   brings
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   those
                   who
                   live
                   where
                   Lake
                   Ciminia
                   springs
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   where
                   
                   Feronia's
                   Grove
                   and
                   Temple
                   stands
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   till
                   Fescennian
                   or
                   Flavinian
                   Lands
                   :
                
                 
                   All
                   these
                   in
                   order
                   march
                   ,
                   and
                   marching
                   sing
                
                 
                   The
                   warlike
                   Actions
                   of
                   their
                   Sea-born
                   King.
                
                 
                   Like
                   a
                   long
                   Team
                   of
                   Snowy
                   Swans
                   on
                   high
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   clap
                   their
                   Wings
                   ,
                   and
                   cleave
                   the
                   liquid
                   Sky
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   homeward
                   from
                   their
                   wat'ry
                   Pastures
                   born
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   sing
                   ,
                   and
                   
                   Asia's
                   Lakes
                   their
                   Notes
                   return
                   .
                
                 
                   Not
                   one
                   who
                   heard
                   their
                   Musick
                   from
                   afar
                   ,
                
                 
                   Wou'd
                   think
                   these
                   Troops
                   an
                   Army
                   train'd
                   to
                   War
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   Flocks
                   of
                   Fowl
                   ,
                   that
                   when
                   the
                   Tempests
                   roar
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   their
                   hoarse
                   gabling
                   seek
                   the
                   silent
                   Shoar
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   Clausus
                   came
                   ,
                   who
                   led
                   a
                   num'rous
                   Band
                
                 
                   Of
                   Troops
                   embody'd
                   ,
                   from
                   the
                   Sabine
                   Land
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   himself
                   alone
                   ,
                   an
                   Army
                   brought
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   was
                   he
                   the
                   noble
                   Claudian
                   Race
                   begot
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Claudian
                   Race
                   ,
                   ordain'd
                   ,
                   in
                   times
                   to
                   come
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   share
                   the
                   Greatness
                   of
                   Imperial
                   Rome
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   led
                   the
                   Cures
                   forth
                   of
                   old
                   Renown
                   ,
                
                 
                   Mutuscans
                   from
                   their
                   Olive-bearing
                   Town
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   th'
                   Eretian
                   Pow'rs
                   :
                   Besides
                   a
                   Band
                
                 
                   That
                   follow'd
                   from
                   
                   Velinum's
                   dewy
                   Land
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   Amiternian
                   Troops
                   ,
                   of
                   mighty
                   Fame
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Mountaineers
                   ,
                   that
                   from
                   Severus
                   came
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   from
                   the
                   craggy
                   Cliffs
                   of
                   Tetrica
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   those
                   where
                   yellow
                   Tyber
                   takes
                   his
                   way
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   where
                   
                   Himella's
                   wanton
                   Waters
                   play
                   .
                
                 
                   Casperia
                   sends
                   her
                   Arms
                   ,
                   with
                   those
                   that
                   lye
                
                 
                   By
                   Fabaris
                   ,
                   and
                   fruitful
                   Foruli
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   warlike
                   Aids
                   of
                   Horta
                   next
                   appear
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   cold
                   Nursians
                   come
                   to
                   close
                   the
                   Reer
                   :
                
                 
                   Mix'd
                   with
                   the
                   Natives
                   born
                   of
                   Latine
                   Blood
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whom
                   Allia
                   washes
                   with
                   her
                   fatal
                   Flood
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Not
                   thicker
                   Billows
                   beat
                   the
                   Lybian
                   Main
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   pale
                   Orion
                   sets
                   in
                   wint'ry
                   Rain
                   ;
                
                 
                   Not
                   thicker
                   Harvests
                   on
                   rich
                   Hermus
                   rise
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   Lycian
                   Fields
                   ,
                   when
                   Phoebus
                   burns
                   the
                   Skies
                   ;
                
                 
                   Than
                   stand
                   these
                   Troops
                   :
                   Their
                   Bucklers
                   ring
                   around
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   Trampling
                   turns
                   the
                   Turf
                   ,
                   and
                   shakes
                   the
                   solid
                   Ground
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   High
                   in
                   his
                   Chariot
                   then
                   Halesus
                   came
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Foe
                   by
                   Birth
                   to
                   
                   Troy's
                   unhappy
                   Name
                   :
                
                 
                   From
                   Agamemnon
                   born
                   ;
                   to
                   Turnus
                   Aid
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   thousand
                   Men
                   the
                   youthful
                   Heroe
                   led
                   ;
                
                 
                   Who
                   till
                   the
                   Massick
                   Soil
                   ,
                   for
                   Wine
                   renown'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   fierce
                   Auruncans
                   from
                   their
                   Hilly
                   Ground
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   those
                   who
                   live
                   by
                   Sidicinian
                   Shores
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   where
                   ,
                   with
                   shoaly
                   Foords
                   Vulturnus
                   roars
                   ;
                
                 
                   Cales
                   and
                   
                   Osca's
                   old
                   Inhabitants
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   rough
                   Saticulans
                   inur'd
                   to
                   Wants
                   :
                
                 
                   Light
                   demi-Launces
                   from
                   afar
                   they
                   throw
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fasten'd
                   with
                   Leathern
                   Thongs
                   to
                   gaul
                   the
                   Foe
                   .
                
                 
                   Short
                   crooked
                   Swords
                   in
                   closer
                   Fight
                   they
                   wear
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   on
                   their
                   warding
                   Arm
                   light
                   Bucklers
                   bear
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Nor
                   Oebalus
                   ,
                   shalt
                   thou
                   be
                   left
                   unsung
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   Nymph
                   Semethis
                   and
                   old
                   Telon
                   sprung
                   :
                
                 
                   Who
                   then
                   in
                   
                     Teleboan
                     Capri
                  
                   reign'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   that
                   short
                   Isle
                   th'
                   ambitious
                   Youth
                   disdain'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   o're
                   Campagnia
                   stretch'd
                   his
                   ample
                   Sway
                   ;
                
                 
                   Where
                   swelling
                   Sarnus
                   seeks
                   the
                   Tyrrhene
                   Sea
                   :
                
                 
                   O're
                   Batulum
                   ,
                   and
                   where
                   Abella
                   sees
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   her
                   high
                   Tow'rs
                   ,
                   the
                   Harvest
                   of
                   her
                   Trees
                   .
                
                 
                   All
                   these
                   (
                   as
                   was
                   the
                   Teuton
                   use
                   of
                   old
                   )
                
                 
                   Wield
                   Brazen
                   Swords
                   ,
                   and
                   Brazen
                   Bucklers
                   hold
                   :
                
                 
                   Sling
                   weighty
                   Stones
                   when
                   from
                   afar
                   they
                   fight
                   ;
                
                 
                   Their
                   Casques
                   are
                   Cork
                   ,
                   a
                   Covering
                   thick
                   and
                   light
                   .
                
                 
                   Next
                   these
                   in
                   Rank
                   ,
                   the
                   warlike
                   Ufens
                   went
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   led
                   the
                   Mountain
                   Troops
                   that
                   Nursia
                   sent
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   rude
                   Equicolae
                   his
                   Rule
                   obey'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Hunting
                   their
                   Sport
                   ,
                   and
                   Plund'ring
                   was
                   their
                   Trade
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   Arms
                   they
                   plough'd
                   ,
                   to
                   Battel
                   still
                   prepar'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Their
                   Soil
                   was
                   barren
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   Hearts
                   were
                   hard
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Umbro
                   the
                   Priest
                   the
                   proud
                   Marrubians
                   led
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   King
                   Archippus
                   sent
                   to
                   Turnus
                   aid
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   peaceful
                   Olives
                   crown'd
                   his
                   hoary
                   head
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   Wand
                   and
                   holy
                   Words
                   ,
                   the
                   Viper's
                   rage
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   venom'd
                   wounds
                   of
                   Serpents
                   ,
                   cou'd
                   asswage
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   ,
                   when
                   he
                   pleas'd
                   with
                   powerful
                   Juice
                   to
                   steep
                
                 
                   Their
                   Temples
                   ,
                   shut
                   their
                   Eyes
                   in
                   pleasing
                   Sleep
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   vain
                   were
                   Marsian
                   Herbs
                   ,
                   and
                   Magick
                   Art
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   cure
                   the
                   Wound
                   giv'n
                   by
                   the
                   Dardan
                   Dart.
                
                 
                   Yet
                   his
                   untimely
                   Fate
                   ,
                   th'
                   Angitian
                   Woods
                
                 
                   In
                   sighs
                   remurmur'd
                   ,
                   to
                   the
                   Fucine
                   Floods
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Son
                   of
                   fam'd
                   Hippolitus
                   was
                   there
                   ;
                
                 
                   Fam'd
                   as
                   his
                   Sire
                   ,
                   and
                   as
                   his
                   Mother
                   fair
                   .
                
                 
                   Whom
                   in
                   Egerian
                   Groves
                   Aricia
                   bore
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   nurs'd
                   his
                   Youth
                   along
                   the
                   Marshy
                   Shore
                   :
                
                 
                   Where
                   great
                   
                   Diana's
                   peaceful
                   Altars
                   flame
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   fruitful
                   Fields
                   ,
                   and
                   Virbius
                   was
                   his
                   Name
                   .
                
                 
                   Hippolitus
                   ,
                   as
                   old
                   Records
                   have
                   said
                   ,
                
                 
                   Was
                   by
                   his
                   Stepdam
                   sought
                   to
                   share
                   her
                   Bed
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   when
                   no
                   Female
                   Arts
                   his
                   Mind
                   cou'd
                   move
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   turn'd
                   to
                   furious
                   Hate
                   her
                   impious
                   Love.
                
                 
                   Torn
                   by
                   Wild
                   Horses
                   on
                   the
                   sandy
                   Shore
                   ,
                
                 
                   Another's
                   Crimes
                   th'
                   unhappy
                   Hunter
                   bore
                   ;
                
                 
                   Glutting
                   his
                   Father's
                   Eyes
                   with
                   guiltless
                   gore
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   chast
                   Diana
                   ,
                   who
                   his
                   death
                   deplor'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Aesculapian
                   Herbs
                   his
                   life
                   restor'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   Jove
                   ,
                   who
                   saw
                   from
                   high
                   ,
                   with
                   just
                   disdain
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   dead
                   inspir'd
                   with
                   Vital
                   Breath
                   again
                   ,
                
                 
                   Struck
                   to
                   the
                   Center
                   with
                   his
                   flaming
                   Dart
                
                 
                   Th'
                   unhappy
                   Founder
                   of
                   the
                   Godlike
                   Art.
                
                 
                 
                   But
                   Trivia
                   kept
                   in
                   secret
                   Shades
                   alone
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   care
                   ,
                   Hippolitus
                   ,
                   to
                   Fate
                   unknown
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   call'd
                   him
                   Virbius
                   in
                   th'
                   Egerian
                   Grove
                   :
                
                 
                   Where
                   then
                   he
                   liv'd
                   obscure
                   ,
                   but
                   safe
                   from
                   Jove
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   this
                   ,
                   from
                   Trivia's
                   Temple
                   and
                   her
                   Wood
                   ,
                
                 
                   Are
                   Coursers
                   driv'n
                   ,
                   who
                   shed
                   their
                   Master's
                   Blood
                   ;
                
                 
                   Affrighted
                   by
                   the
                   Monsters
                   of
                   the
                   Flood
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   Son
                   ,
                   the
                   Second
                   Virbius
                   ,
                   yet
                   retain'd
                
                 
                   His
                   Fathers
                   Art
                   ,
                   and
                   Warrior
                   Steeds
                   he
                   rein'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Amid
                   the
                   Troops
                   ,
                   and
                   like
                   the
                   leading
                   God
                   ,
                
                 
                   High
                   o're
                   the
                   rest
                   in
                   Arms
                   the
                   Graceful
                   Turnus
                   rode
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   triple
                   Pile
                   of
                   Plumes
                   his
                   Crest
                   adorn'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   On
                   which
                   with
                   belching
                   Flames
                   Chimaera
                   burn'd
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   more
                   the
                   Winds
                   his
                   kindled
                   Course
                   inspire
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   more
                   with
                   fury
                   burn'd
                   the
                   blazing
                   Fire
                   .
                
                 
                   Fair
                   Io
                   grac'd
                   his
                   Shield
                   ,
                   but
                   Io
                   now
                
                 
                   With
                   Horns
                   exalted
                   stands
                   ,
                   and
                   seems
                   to
                   lowe
                   :
                
                 
                   (
                   A
                   noble
                   charge
                   )
                   her
                   Keeper
                   by
                   her
                   side
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   watch
                   her
                   Walks
                   his
                   hundred
                   Eyes
                   apply'd
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   on
                   the
                   Brims
                   her
                   Sire
                   ,
                   the
                   wat'ry
                   God
                   ,
                
                 
                   Rowl'd
                   from
                   a
                   Silver
                   Urn
                   his
                   Crystal
                   Flood
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   Cloud
                   of
                   Foot
                   succeeds
                   ,
                   and
                   fills
                   the
                   Fields
                
                 
                   With
                   Swords
                   and
                   pointed
                   Spears
                   ,
                   and
                   clatt'ring
                   Shields
                   ;
                
                 
                   Of
                   Argives
                   ,
                   and
                   of
                   old
                   Sicanian
                   Bands
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   those
                   who
                   Plow
                   the
                   rich
                   Sutulian
                   Lands
                   ;
                
                 
                   Auruncan
                   Youth
                   and
                   those
                   Sacrana
                   yieids
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   proud
                   Labicans
                   with
                   painted
                   Shields
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   those
                   who
                   near
                   Numician
                   Streams
                   reside
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   those
                   whom
                   
                   Tyber's
                   holy
                   Forests
                   hide
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   Circes
                   Hills
                   from
                   the
                   main
                   Land
                   divide
                   .
                
                 
                   Where
                   Ufens
                   glides
                   along
                   the
                   lowly
                   Lands
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   the
                   black
                   Water
                   of
                   Pomptina
                   stands
                   .
                
                 
                   Last
                   from
                   the
                   Volscians
                   fair
                   Camilla
                   came
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   led
                   her
                   warlike
                   Troops
                   ,
                   a
                   Warriour
                   Dame
                   :
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     Charles
                     Fox
                     of
                     y
                     e
                     Parish
                     of
                     S
                     t
                     :
                     Martins
                     in
                     y
                     e
                     Fields
                     Esqr.
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     7.
                     l.
                     1075.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                 
                   Unbred
                   to
                   Spinning
                   ,
                   in
                   the
                   Loom
                   unskill'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   chose
                   the
                   nobler
                   Pallas
                   of
                   the
                   Field
                   .
                
                 
                   Mix'd
                   with
                   the
                   first
                   ,
                   the
                   fierce
                   Virago
                   fought
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sustain'd
                   the
                   Toils
                   of
                   Arms
                   ,
                   the
                   Danger
                   sought
                   :
                
                 
                   Outstrip'd
                   the
                   Winds
                   in
                   speed
                   upon
                   the
                   Plain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Flew
                   o're
                   the
                   Fields
                   ,
                   nor
                   hurt
                   the
                   bearded
                   Grain
                   :
                
                 
                   She
                   swept
                   the
                   Seas
                   ,
                   and
                   as
                   she
                   skim'd
                   along
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   flying
                   Feet
                   unbath'd
                   on
                   Billows
                   hung
                   .
                
                 
                   Men
                   ,
                   Boys
                   ,
                   and
                   Women
                   stupid
                   with
                   Surprise
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   e're
                   she
                   passes
                   ,
                   fix
                   their
                   wond'ring
                   Eyes
                   :
                
                 
                   Longing
                   they
                   look
                   ,
                   and
                   gaping
                   at
                   the
                   Sight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Devour
                   her
                   o're
                   and
                   o're
                   with
                   vast
                   Delight
                   .
                
                 
                   Her
                   Purple
                   Habit
                   sits
                   with
                   such
                   a
                   Grace
                
                 
                   On
                   her
                   smooth
                   Shoulders
                   ,
                   and
                   so
                   suits
                   her
                   Face
                   :
                
                 
                   Her
                   Head
                   with
                   Ringlets
                   of
                   her
                   Hair
                   is
                   crown'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   a
                   Golden
                   Caul
                   the
                   Curls
                   are
                   bound
                   .
                
                 
                   She
                   shakes
                   her
                   Myrtle
                   Jav'lin
                   :
                   And
                   ,
                   behind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   Lycian
                   Quiver
                   dances
                   in
                   the
                   Wind.
                   
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 The
                 Eighth
                 Book
                 of
                 the
                 Aeneis
                 .
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Argument
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     The
                     War
                     being
                     now
                     begun
                     ,
                     both
                     the
                     Generals
                     make
                     all
                     possible
                     Preparations
                     .
                  
                   Tumus
                   
                     sends
                     to
                  
                   Diomedes
                   .
                   Aeneas
                   
                     goes
                     in
                     Person
                     to
                     beg
                     Succours
                     from
                  
                   Evander
                   
                     and
                     the
                  
                   Tuscans
                   .
                   Evander
                   
                     receives
                     him
                     kindly
                     ,
                     furnishes
                     him
                     with
                     Men
                     ,
                     and
                     sends
                     his
                     Son
                  
                   Pallas
                   
                     with
                     him
                  
                   .
                   Vulcan
                   ,
                   
                     at
                     the
                     Request
                     of
                  
                   Venus
                   ,
                   
                     makes
                     Arms
                     for
                     her
                     Son
                  
                   Aeneas
                   ,
                   
                     and
                     draws
                     on
                     his
                     Shield
                     the
                     most
                     memorable
                     Actions
                     of
                     his
                     Posterity
                     .
                  
                
              
               
                 
                   WHen
                   Turnus
                   had
                   assembled
                   all
                   his
                   Pow'rs
                   ;
                
                 
                   His
                   Standard
                   planted
                   on
                   
                   Laurentum's
                   Tow'rs
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   now
                   the
                   sprightly
                   Trumpet
                   ,
                   from
                   afar
                   ,
                
                 
                   Had
                   giv'n
                   the
                   Signal
                   of
                   approaching
                   War
                   ,
                
                 
                   Had
                   rouz'd
                   the
                   neighing
                   Steeds
                   to
                   scour
                   the
                   Fields
                   ,
                
                 
                   While
                   the
                   fierce
                   Riders
                   clatter'd
                   on
                   their
                   Shields
                   ,
                
                 
                   Trembling
                   with
                   Rage
                   ,
                   the
                   Latian
                   Youth
                   prepare
                
                 
                   To
                   join
                   th'
                   Allies
                   ,
                   and
                   headlong
                   rush
                   to
                   War.
                
                 
                   Fierce
                   Ufens
                   ,
                   and
                   Messapus
                   ,
                   led
                   the
                   Crowd
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   bold
                   Mezentius
                   ,
                   who
                   blasphem'd
                   aloud
                   .
                
                 
                   These
                   ,
                   thro
                   the
                   Country
                   took
                   their
                   wastful
                   Course
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Fields
                   to
                   forage
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   gather
                   Force
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   Venulus
                   to
                   Diomede
                   they
                   send
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   beg
                   his
                   Aid
                   Ausonia
                   to
                   defend
                   :
                
                 
                   Declare
                   the
                   common
                   Danger
                   ;
                   and
                   inform
                
                 
                   The
                   Grecian
                   Leader
                   of
                   the
                   growing
                   Storm
                   :
                
                 
                   Aeneas
                   landed
                   on
                   the
                   Latian
                   Coast
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   banish'd
                   Gods
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   a
                   baffled
                   Hoast
                   ;
                
                 
                   Yet
                   now
                   aspir'd
                   to
                   Conquest
                   of
                   the
                   State
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   claim'd
                   a
                   Title
                   from
                   the
                   Gods
                   and
                   Fate
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   num'rous
                   Nations
                   in
                   his
                   Quarrel
                   came
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   how
                   they
                   spread
                   his
                   formidable
                   Name
                   :
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     y
                     e
                     Right
                     Hon
                     ble
                     .
                     Tho
                     Earle
                     of
                     Ailesbury
                     &
                     Elgin
                     Viscount
                     Bruce
                     of
                     Ampthill
                     Baron
                     Bruce
                     of
                     Whorleton
                     Shelton
                     and
                     Kinloss
                     &
                     ct
                     .
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     8.
                     l.
                     2.
                     
                  
                
              
               
               
               
               
               
                 
                 
                 
                   What
                   he
                   design'd
                   ,
                   what
                   Mischiefs
                   might
                   arise
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   Fortune
                   favour'd
                   his
                   first
                   Enterprise
                   ,
                
                 
                   Was
                   left
                   for
                   him
                   to
                   weigh
                   :
                   whose
                   equal
                   Fears
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   common
                   Interest
                   was
                   involv'd
                   in
                   theirs
                   .
                
                 
                   While
                   Turnus
                   and
                   th'
                   Allies
                   thus
                   urge
                   the
                   War
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Trojan
                   floating
                   in
                   a
                   Flood
                   of
                   Care
                   ,
                
                 
                   Beholds
                   the
                   Tempest
                   which
                   his
                   Foes
                   prepare
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   way
                   and
                   that
                   he
                   turns
                   his
                   anxious
                   Mind
                   ;
                
                 
                   Thinks
                   ,
                   and
                   rejects
                   the
                   Counsels
                   he
                   design'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Explores
                   himself
                   in
                   vain
                   ,
                   in
                   ev'ry
                   part
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   gives
                   no
                   rest
                   to
                   his
                   distracted
                   Heart
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   So
                   when
                   the
                   Sun
                   by
                   Day
                   ,
                   or
                   Moon
                   by
                   Night
                   ,
                
                 
                   Strike
                   ,
                   on
                   the
                   polish'd
                   Brass
                   ,
                   their
                   trembling
                   Light
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   glitt'ring
                   Species
                   here
                   and
                   there
                   divide
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   cast
                   their
                   dubious
                   Beams
                   from
                   side
                   to
                   side
                   :
                
                 
                   Now
                   on
                   the
                   Walls
                   ,
                   now
                   on
                   the
                   Pavement
                   play
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   to
                   the
                   Cieling
                   flash
                   the
                   glaring
                   Day
                   .
                
                 
                   'T
                   was
                   Night
                   :
                   And
                   weary
                   Nature
                   lul'd
                   asleep
                
                 
                   The
                   Birds
                   of
                   Air
                   ,
                   and
                   Fishes
                   of
                   the
                   Deep
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Beasts
                   ,
                   and
                   Mortal
                   Men
                   :
                   The
                   Trojan
                   Chief
                
                 
                   Was
                   laid
                   on
                   
                   Tyber's
                   Banks
                   ,
                   oppress'd
                   with
                   Grief
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   found
                   in
                   silent
                   Slumber
                   late
                   Relief
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   thro'
                   the
                   Shadows
                   of
                   the
                   Poplar
                   Wood
                   ,
                
                 
                   Arose
                   the
                   Father
                   of
                   the
                   Roman
                   Flood
                   ;
                
                 
                   An
                   Azure
                   Robe
                   was
                   o're
                   his
                   Body
                   spread
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Wreath
                   of
                   shady
                   Reeds
                   adorn'd
                   his
                   Head
                   :
                
                 
                   Thus
                   ,
                   manifest
                   to
                   Sight
                   ,
                   the
                   God
                   appear'd
                   ▪
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   these
                   pleasing
                   Words
                   his
                   Sorrow
                   chear'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Undoubted
                   Off-spring
                   of
                   Etherial
                   Race
                   ,
                
                 
                   O
                   long
                   expected
                   in
                   this
                   promis'd
                   Place
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   ,
                   thro
                   the
                   Foes
                   ,
                   hast
                   born
                   thy
                   banish'd
                   Gods
                   ,
                
                 
                   Restor'd
                   them
                   to
                   their
                   Hearths
                   ,
                   and
                   old
                   Abodes
                   ;
                
                 
                   This
                   is
                   thy
                   happy
                   Home
                   !
                   The
                   Clime
                   where
                   Fate
                
                 
                   Ordains
                   thee
                   to
                   restore
                   the
                   Trojan
                   State.
                
                 
                 
                   Fear
                   not
                   ,
                   the
                   War
                   shall
                   end
                   in
                   lasting
                   Peace
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   the
                   Rage
                   of
                   haughty
                   Juno
                   cease
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   that
                   this
                   nightly
                   Vision
                   may
                   not
                   seem
                
                 
                   Th'
                   Effect
                   of
                   Fancy
                   ,
                   or
                   an
                   idle
                   Dream
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Sow
                   beneath
                   an
                   Oak
                   shall
                   lye
                   along
                   ;
                
                 
                   All
                   white
                   her self
                   ,
                   and
                   white
                   her
                   thirty
                   Young.
                
                 
                   When
                   thirty
                   rowling
                   Years
                   have
                   run
                   their
                   Race
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Son
                   ,
                   Ascanius
                   ,
                   on
                   this
                   empty
                   Space
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shall
                   build
                   a
                   Royal
                   Town
                   ,
                   of
                   lasting
                   Fame
                   ;
                
                 
                   Which
                   from
                   this
                   Omen
                   shall
                   receive
                   the
                   Name
                   .
                
                 
                   Time
                   shall
                   approve
                   the
                   Truth
                   :
                   For
                   what
                   remains
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   how
                   with
                   sure
                   Success
                   to
                   crown
                   thy
                   Pains
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Patience
                   next
                   attend
                   .
                   A
                   banish'd
                   Band
                   ,
                
                 
                   Driv'n
                   with
                   Evander
                   from
                   th'
                   Arcadian
                   Land
                   ,
                
                 
                   Have
                   planted
                   here
                   :
                   and
                   plac'd
                   on
                   high
                   their
                   Walls
                   ;
                
                 
                   Their
                   Town
                   the
                   Founder
                   ,
                   Palanteum
                   calls
                   :
                
                 
                   Deriv'd
                   from
                   Pallas
                   ,
                   his
                   great
                   Grandsire's
                   Name
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   the
                   fierce
                   Latians
                   old
                   Possession
                   claim
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   War
                   infesting
                   the
                   new
                   Colony
                   ;
                
                 
                   These
                   make
                   thy
                   Friends
                   ,
                   and
                   on
                   their
                   Aid
                   rely
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   thy
                   free
                   Passage
                   I
                   submit
                   my
                   Streams
                   :
                
                 
                   Wake
                   Son
                   of
                   Venus
                   from
                   thy
                   pleasing
                   Dreams
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   when
                   the
                   setting
                   Stars
                   are
                   lost
                   in
                   Day
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   
                   Juno's
                   Pow'r
                   thy
                   just
                   Devotion
                   pay
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   Sacrifice
                   the
                   wrathful
                   Queen
                   appease
                   ;
                
                 
                   Her
                   Pride
                   at
                   length
                   shall
                   fall
                   ,
                   her
                   Fury
                   cease
                   .
                
                 
                   When
                   thou
                   return'st
                   victorious
                   from
                   the
                   War
                   ,
                
                 
                   Perform
                   thy
                   Vows
                   to
                   me
                   with
                   grateful
                   Care.
                
                 
                   The
                   God
                   am
                   I
                   ,
                   whose
                   yellow
                   Water
                   flows
                
                 
                   Around
                   these
                   Fields
                   ,
                   and
                   fattens
                   as
                   it
                   goes
                   :
                
                 
                   Tyber
                   my
                   Name
                   :
                   among
                   the
                   rowling
                   Floods
                   ,
                
                 
                   Renown'd
                   on
                   Earth
                   ,
                   esteem'd
                   among
                   the
                   Gods.
                
                 
                   This
                   is
                   my
                   certain
                   Seat
                   :
                   In
                   Times
                   to
                   come
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Waves
                   shall
                   wash
                   the
                   Walls
                   of
                   mighty
                   Rome
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   He
                   said
                   ;
                   and
                   plung'd
                   below
                   ,
                   while
                   yet
                   he
                   spoke
                   :
                
                 
                   His
                   Dream
                   Aeneas
                   and
                   his
                   Sleep
                   forsook
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   rose
                   ,
                   and
                   looking
                   up
                   ,
                   beheld
                   the
                   Skies
                
                 
                   With
                   Purple
                   blushing
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Day
                   arise
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   Water
                   in
                   his
                   hollow
                   Palm
                   he
                   took
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   
                   Tyber's
                   Flood
                   ;
                   and
                   thus
                   the
                   Pow'rs
                   bespoke
                   .
                
                 
                   Laurentian
                   Nymphs
                   ,
                   by
                   whom
                   the
                   Streams
                   are
                   fed
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Father
                   Tyber
                   ,
                   in
                   thy
                   sacred
                   Bed
                
                 
                   Receive
                   Aeneas
                   ;
                   and
                   from
                   Danger
                   keep
                   .
                
                 
                   Whatever
                   Fount
                   ,
                   whatever
                   holy
                   deep
                   ,
                
                 
                   Conceals
                   thy
                   wat'ry
                   Stores
                   ;
                   where
                   e're
                   they
                   rise
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   bubling
                   from
                   below
                   ,
                   salute
                   the
                   Skies
                   :
                
                 
                   Thou
                   King
                   of
                   horned
                   Floods
                   ,
                   whose
                   plenteous
                   Urn
                
                 
                   Suffices
                   Fatness
                   to
                   the
                   fruitful
                   Corn
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   this
                   thy
                   kind
                   Compassion
                   of
                   our
                   Woes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shalt
                   share
                   my
                   Morning
                   Song
                   ,
                   and
                   Ev'ning
                   Vows
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   ,
                   oh
                   !
                   be
                   present
                   to
                   thy
                   Peoples
                   Aid
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   firm
                   the
                   gracious
                   Promise
                   thou
                   hast
                   made
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   having
                   said
                   ,
                   two
                   Gallies
                   ,
                   from
                   his
                   Stores
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Care
                   he
                   chuses
                   ;
                   Mans
                   ,
                   and
                   fits
                   with
                   Oars
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   on
                   the
                   Shore
                   the
                   fatal
                   Swine
                   is
                   found
                   :
                
                 
                   Wond'rous
                   to
                   tell
                   ;
                   she
                   lay
                   along
                   the
                   Ground
                   :
                
                 
                   Her
                   well
                   fed
                   Offspring
                   at
                   her
                   Udders
                   hung
                   ;
                
                 
                   She
                   white
                   her self
                   ,
                   and
                   white
                   her
                   thirty
                   young
                   .
                
                 
                   Aeneas
                   takes
                   the
                   Mother
                   ,
                   and
                   her
                   Brood
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   on
                   
                   Juno's
                   Altar
                   are
                   bestow'd
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   foll'wing
                   Night
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   succeeding
                   Day
                   ,
                
                 
                   Propitious
                   Tyber
                   smooth'd
                   his
                   wat'ry
                   Way
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   rowld
                   his
                   River
                   back
                   ;
                   and
                   pois'd
                   he
                   stood
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   gentle
                   Swelling
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   peaceful
                   Flood
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Trojans
                   mount
                   their
                   Ships
                   ;
                   they
                   put
                   from
                   Shore
                   ,
                
                 
                   Born
                   on
                   the
                   Waves
                   ,
                   and
                   scarcely
                   dip
                   an
                   Oar.
                
                 
                   Shouts
                   from
                   the
                   Land
                   give
                   Omen
                   to
                   their
                   Course
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   pitch'd
                   Vessels
                   glide
                   with
                   easie
                   Force
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Woods
                   and
                   Waters
                   ,
                   wonder
                   at
                   the
                   Gleam
                
                 
                   Of
                   Shields
                   ,
                   and
                   painted
                   Ships
                   ,
                   that
                   stem
                   the
                   Stream
                   .
                
                 
                   One
                   Summer's
                   Night
                   ,
                   and
                   one
                   whole
                   Day
                   they
                   pass
                   ,
                
                 
                   Betwixt
                   the
                   green-wood
                   Shades
                   ;
                   and
                   cut
                   the
                   liquid
                   Glass
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   fiery
                   Sun
                   had
                   finish'd
                   half
                   his
                   Race
                   ;
                
                 
                   Look'd
                   back
                   ,
                   and
                   doubted
                   in
                   the
                   middle
                   Space
                   :
                
                 
                   When
                   they
                   from
                   far
                   beheld
                   the
                   rising
                   Tow'rs
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Tops
                   of
                   Sheds
                   ,
                   and
                   Shepherds
                   lowly
                   Bow'rs
                   :
                
                 
                   Thin
                   as
                   they
                   stood
                   ,
                   which
                   ,
                   then
                   of
                   homely
                   Clay
                   ,
                
                 
                   Now
                   rise
                   in
                   Marble
                   ,
                   from
                   the
                   Roman
                   Sway.
                
                 
                   These
                   Cots
                   ,
                   (
                   Evander's
                   Kingdom
                   ,
                   mean
                   and
                   poor
                   )
                
                 
                   The
                   Trojan
                   saw
                   ;
                   and
                   turn'd
                   his
                   Ships
                   to
                   Shore
                   .
                
                 
                   'T
                   was
                   on
                   a
                   solemn
                   Day
                   :
                   Th'
                   Arcadian
                   States
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   King
                   and
                   Prince
                   without
                   the
                   City
                   Gates
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   paid
                   their
                   Off'rings
                   in
                   a
                   sacred
                   Grove
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   Hercules
                   ,
                   the
                   Warrior
                   Son
                   of
                   Jove
                   .
                
                 
                   Thick
                   Clouds
                   of
                   rowling
                   Smoke
                   involve
                   the
                   Sky
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   Fat
                   of
                   Entrails
                   on
                   his
                   Altar
                   fry
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   when
                   they
                   saw
                   the
                   Ships
                   that
                   stemm'd
                   the
                   Flood
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   glitter'd
                   thro'
                   the
                   Covert
                   of
                   the
                   Wood
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   rose
                   with
                   Fear
                   ;
                   and
                   left
                   th'
                   unfinish'd
                   Feast
                   :
                
                 
                   'Till
                   dauntless
                   Pallas
                   reassur'd
                   the
                   rest
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   pay
                   the
                   Rites
                   .
                   Himself
                   without
                   delay
                
                 
                   A
                   Jav'lin
                   seiz'd
                   ,
                   and
                   singly
                   took
                   his
                   Way
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   gain'd
                   a
                   rising
                   Ground
                   ;
                   and
                   call'd
                   from
                   far
                   .
                
                 
                   Resolve
                   me
                   ,
                   Strangers
                   ,
                   whence
                   ,
                   and
                   what
                   you
                   are
                   ;
                
                 
                   Your
                   Buis'ness
                   here
                   ;
                   and
                   bring
                   you
                   Peace
                   or
                   War
                   ?
                
                 
                   High
                   on
                   the
                   Stern
                   ,
                   Aeneas
                   took
                   his
                   Stand
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   held
                   a
                   Branch
                   of
                   Olive
                   in
                   his
                   Hand
                   ;
                
                 
                   While
                   thus
                   he
                   spoke
                   .
                   The
                   Phrygians
                   Arms
                   you
                   see
                   ;
                
                 
                   Expell'd
                   from
                   Troy
                   ,
                   provok'd
                   in
                   Italy
                
                 
                   By
                   Latian
                   Foes
                   ,
                   with
                   War
                   unjustly
                   made
                   :
                
                 
                   At
                   first
                   affianc'd
                   ,
                   and
                   at
                   last
                   betray'd
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   This
                   Message
                   bear
                   :
                   The
                   Trojans
                   and
                   their
                   Chief
                
                 
                   Bring
                   holy
                   Peace
                   ;
                   and
                   beg
                   the
                   King's
                   Relief
                   .
                
                 
                   Struck
                   with
                   so
                   great
                   a
                   Name
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   on
                   fire
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Youth
                   Replies
                   ,
                   Whatever
                   you
                   require
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   Fame
                   exacts
                   :
                   Upon
                   our
                   Shores
                   descend
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   welcome
                   Guest
                   ,
                   and
                   what
                   you
                   wish
                   ,
                   a
                   Friend
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   said
                   ;
                   and
                   downward
                   hasting
                   to
                   the
                   Strand
                   ,
                
                 
                   Embrac'd
                   the
                   Stranger
                   Prince
                   ,
                   and
                   join'd
                   his
                   Hand
                   .
                
                 
                   Conducted
                   to
                   the
                   Grove
                   ,
                   Aeneas
                   broke
                
                 
                   The
                   silence
                   first
                   ,
                   and
                   thus
                   the
                   King
                   bespoke
                   .
                
                 
                   Best
                   of
                   the
                   Greeks
                   ,
                   to
                   whom
                   ,
                   by
                   Fates
                   Command
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   bear
                   these
                   peaceful
                   Branches
                   in
                   my
                   hand
                   ;
                
                 
                   Undaunted
                   I
                   approach
                   you
                   ;
                   though
                   I
                   know
                
                 
                   Your
                   Birth
                   is
                   Grecian
                   ,
                   and
                   your
                   Land
                   my
                   Foe
                   :
                
                 
                   From
                   Atreus
                   tho'
                   your
                   ancient
                   Lineage
                   came
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   both
                   the
                   Brother
                   Kings
                   your
                   Kindred
                   claim
                   :
                
                 
                   Yet
                   ,
                   my
                   self-conscious
                   Worth
                   ,
                   your
                   high
                   Renown
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   Vertue
                   ,
                   through
                   the
                   Neighb'ring
                   Nations
                   blown
                   ,
                
                 
                   Our
                   Fathers
                   mingl'd
                   Blood
                   ,
                   Apollo's
                   Voice
                   ,
                
                 
                   Have
                   led
                   me
                   hether
                   ,
                   less
                   by
                   Need
                   than
                   Choice
                   .
                
                 
                   Our
                   Founder
                   Dardanus
                   ,
                   as
                   Fame
                   has
                   sung
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Greeks
                   acknowledge
                   ,
                   from
                   Electra
                   sprung
                   :
                
                 
                   Electra
                   from
                   the
                   Loins
                   of
                   Atlas
                   came
                   ;
                
                 
                   Atlas
                   whose
                   Head
                   sustains
                   the
                   Starry
                   Frame
                   .
                
                 
                   Your
                   Sire
                   is
                   Mercury
                   ;
                   whom
                   long
                   before
                
                 
                   On
                   cold
                   
                   Cyllene's
                   top
                   fair
                   Maja
                   bore
                   .
                
                 
                   Maja
                   the
                   fair
                   ,
                   on
                   Fame
                   if
                   we
                   rely
                   ,
                
                 
                   Was
                   Atlas
                   Daughter
                   ,
                   who
                   sustains
                   the
                   Sky
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   from
                   one
                   common
                   Source
                   our
                   Streams
                   divide
                   :
                
                 
                   Ours
                   is
                   the
                   Trojan
                   ,
                   yours
                   th'
                   Arcadian
                   side
                   .
                
                 
                   Rais'd
                   by
                   these
                   Hopes
                   ,
                   I
                   sent
                   no
                   News
                   before
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   ask'd
                   your
                   leave
                   ,
                   nor
                   did
                   your
                   Faith
                   implore
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   come
                   ,
                   without
                   a
                   Pledg
                   ,
                   my
                   own
                   Ambassador
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   same
                   Rutulians
                   ,
                   who
                   with
                   Arms
                   pursue
                
                 
                   The
                   Trojan
                   Race
                   ,
                   are
                   equal
                   Foes
                   to
                   you
                   .
                
                 
                   Our
                   Host
                   expell'd
                   ,
                   what
                   farther
                   Force
                   can
                   stay
                
                 
                   The
                   Victor
                   Troops
                   from
                   Universal
                   Sway
                   ?
                
                 
                   Then
                   will
                   they
                   stretch
                   their
                   Pow'r
                   athwart
                   the
                   Land
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   either
                   Sea
                   from
                   side
                   to
                   side
                   command
                   .
                
                 
                   Receive
                   our
                   offer'd
                   Faith
                   :
                   and
                   give
                   us
                   thine
                   ;
                
                 
                   Ours
                   is
                   a
                   gen'rous
                   ,
                   and
                   experienc'd
                   Line
                   :
                
                 
                   We
                   want
                   not
                   Hearts
                   ,
                   nor
                   Bodies
                   for
                   the
                   War
                   ;
                
                 
                   In
                   Council
                   cautious
                   ,
                   and
                   in
                   Fields
                   we
                   dare
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   said
                   ;
                   and
                   while
                   he
                   spoke
                   ,
                   with
                   piercing
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Evander
                   view'd
                   the
                   Man
                   with
                   vast
                   surprize
                   .
                
                 
                   Pleas'd
                   with
                   his
                   Action
                   ,
                   ravish'd
                   with
                   his
                   Face
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   answer'd
                   briefly
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   Royal
                   grace
                   .
                
                 
                   O
                   Valiant
                   Leader
                   of
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Line
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   whom
                   the
                   Features
                   of
                   thy
                   Father
                   shine
                   ;
                
                 
                   How
                   I
                   recall
                   Anchises
                   ,
                   how
                   I
                   see
                
                 
                   His
                   Motions
                   ,
                   Meen
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   my
                   Friend
                   in
                   thee
                   !
                
                 
                   Long
                   tho
                   it
                   be
                   ,
                   't
                   is
                   fresh
                   within
                   my
                   Mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   Priam
                   ,
                   to
                   his
                   Sister's
                   Court
                   design'd
                
                 
                   A
                   welcome
                   Visit
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   friendly
                   stay
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   through
                   th'
                   Arcadian
                   Kingdom
                   took
                   his
                   way
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   past
                   a
                   Boy
                   ,
                   the
                   callow
                   Down
                   began
                
                 
                   To
                   shade
                   my
                   Chin
                   ,
                   and
                   call
                   me
                   first
                   a
                   Man.
                
                 
                   I
                   saw
                   the
                   shining
                   Train
                   ,
                   with
                   vast
                   delight
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   
                   Priam's
                   goodly
                   Person
                   pleas'd
                   my
                   sight
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   great
                   Anchises
                   ,
                   far
                   above
                   the
                   rest
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   awful
                   Wonder
                   fir'd
                   my
                   Youthful
                   Breast
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   long'd
                   to
                   join
                   ,
                   in
                   Friendship
                   's
                   holy
                   Bands
                   ,
                
                 
                   Our
                   mutual
                   Hearts
                   ,
                   and
                   plight
                   our
                   mutual
                   Hands
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   first
                   accosted
                   him
                   :
                   I
                   su'd
                   ,
                   I
                   sought
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   loving
                   force
                   ,
                   to
                   Pheneus
                   brought
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   gave
                   me
                   ,
                   when
                   at
                   length
                   constrain'd
                   to
                   go
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Lycian
                   Quiver
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   Gnossian
                   Bow
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   A
                   Vest
                   embroyder'd
                   ,
                   glorious
                   to
                   behold
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   two
                   rich
                   Bridles
                   ,
                   with
                   their
                   Bits
                   of
                   Gold
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   my
                   Son's
                   Coursers
                   in
                   obedience
                   hold
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   League
                   you
                   ask
                   I
                   offer
                   ,
                   as
                   your
                   Right
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   when
                   to
                   Morrow's
                   Sun
                   reveals
                   the
                   Light
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   swift
                   Supplies
                   you
                   shall
                   be
                   sent
                   away
                   :
                
                 
                   Now
                   celebrate
                   ,
                   with
                   us
                   ,
                   this
                   solemn
                   Day
                   ;
                
                 
                   Whose
                   Holy
                   Rites
                   admit
                   no
                   long
                   Delay
                   .
                
                 
                   Honour
                   our
                   Annual
                   Feast
                   ;
                   and
                   take
                   your
                   Seat
                
                 
                   With
                   friendly
                   Welcome
                   ,
                   at
                   a
                   homely
                   Treat
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   having
                   said
                   ,
                   the
                   Bowls
                   (
                   remov'd
                   for
                   Fear
                   )
                
                 
                   The
                   Youths
                   replac'd
                   ;
                   and
                   soon
                   restor'd
                   the
                   Chear
                   .
                
                 
                   On
                   sods
                   of
                   Turf
                   he
                   set
                   the
                   Souldiers
                   round
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   Maple
                   Throne
                   ,
                   rais'd
                   higher
                   from
                   the
                   Ground
                   ,
                
                 
                   Receiv'd
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Chief
                   :
                   And
                   o're
                   the
                   Bed
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Lyon's
                   shaggy
                   Hide
                   for
                   Ornament
                   they
                   spread
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Loaves
                   were
                   serv'd
                   in
                   Canisters
                   ;
                   the
                   Wine
                
                 
                   In
                   Bowls
                   ,
                   the
                   Priest
                   renew'd
                   the
                   Rites
                   Divine
                   :
                
                 
                   Broil'd
                   Entrails
                   are
                   their
                   Food
                   ;
                   and
                   Beefs
                   continu'd
                   Chine
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   ,
                   when
                   the
                   Rage
                   of
                   Hunger
                   was
                   repress'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thus
                   spoke
                   Evander
                   to
                   his
                   Royal
                   Guest
                   .
                
                 
                   These
                   Rites
                   ,
                   these
                   Altars
                   ,
                   and
                   this
                   Feast
                   ,
                   O
                   King
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   no
                   vain
                   Fears
                   ,
                   or
                   Superstition
                   spring
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   blind
                   Devotion
                   ,
                   or
                   from
                   blinder
                   Chance
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   heady
                   Zeal
                   ,
                   or
                   brutal
                   Ignorance
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   ,
                   sav'd
                   from
                   Danger
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   grateful
                   Sence
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Labours
                   of
                   a
                   God
                   we
                   recompence
                   .
                
                 
                   See
                   ,
                   from
                   afar
                   ,
                   yon
                   Rock
                   that
                   mates
                   the
                   Sky
                   ;
                
                 
                   About
                   whose
                   Feet
                   such
                   Heaps
                   of
                   Rubbish
                   lye
                   :
                
                 
                   Such
                   indigested
                   Ruin
                   ;
                   bleak
                   and
                   bare
                   ,
                
                 
                   How
                   desart
                   now
                   it
                   stands
                   ,
                   expos'd
                   in
                   Air
                   !
                
                 
                   'T
                   was
                   once
                   a
                   Robber's
                   Den
                   ;
                   inclos'd
                   around
                
                 
                   With
                   living
                   Stone
                   ,
                   and
                   deep
                   beneath
                   the
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Monster
                   Cacus
                   ,
                   more
                   than
                   half
                   a
                   Beast
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   Hold
                   ,
                   impervious
                   to
                   the
                   Sun
                   ,
                   possess'd
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Pavement
                   ever
                   foul
                   with
                   Human
                   Gore
                   ;
                
                 
                   Heads
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   mangled
                   Members
                   ,
                   hung
                   the
                   Door
                   .
                
                 
                   Vulcan
                   this
                   Plague
                   begot
                   :
                   And
                   ,
                   like
                   his
                   Sire
                   ,
                
                 
                   Black
                   Clouds
                   he
                   belch'd
                   ,
                   and
                   flakes
                   of
                   livid
                   Fire
                   .
                
                 
                   Time
                   ,
                   long
                   expected
                   ,
                   eas'd
                   us
                   of
                   our
                   Load
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   brought
                   the
                   needful
                   Presence
                   of
                   a
                   God.
                
                 
                   Th'
                   avenging
                   Force
                   of
                   Hercules
                   ,
                   from
                   Spain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Arriv'd
                   in
                   Triumph
                   ,
                   from
                   Geryon
                   slain
                   ;
                
                 
                   Thrice
                   liv'd
                   the
                   Gyant
                   ,
                   and
                   thrice
                   liv'd
                   in
                   vain
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   Prize
                   ,
                   the
                   lowing
                   Herds
                   ,
                   Alcides
                   drove
                
                 
                   Near
                   
                   Tyber's
                   Bank
                   ,
                   to
                   graze
                   the
                   shady
                   Grove
                   .
                
                 
                   Allur'd
                   with
                   Hope
                   of
                   Plunder
                   ,
                   and
                   intent
                
                 
                   By
                   Force
                   to
                   rob
                   ,
                   by
                   Fraud
                   to
                   circumvent
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   brutal
                   Cacus
                   ,
                   as
                   by
                   Chance
                   they
                   stray'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Four
                   Oxen
                   thence
                   ,
                   and
                   four
                   fair
                   Kine
                   convey'd
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   lest
                   the
                   printed
                   Footsteps
                   might
                   be
                   seen
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   drag'd
                   'em
                   backwards
                   to
                   his
                   rocky
                   Den.
                
                 
                   The
                   Tracks
                   averse
                   ,
                   a
                   lying
                   Notice
                   gave
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   led
                   the
                   Searcher
                   backward
                   from
                   the
                   Cave
                   .
                
                 
                   Mean
                   time
                   the
                   Herdsman
                   Heroe
                   shifts
                   his
                   place
                   :
                
                 
                   To
                   find
                   fresh
                   Pasture
                   ,
                   and
                   untrodden
                   Grass
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Beasts
                   ,
                   who
                   miss'd
                   their
                   Mates
                   ,
                   fill'd
                   all
                   around
                
                 
                   With
                   Bellowings
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Rocks
                   restor'd
                   the
                   Sound
                   .
                
                 
                   One
                   Heifar
                   who
                   had
                   heard
                   her
                   Love
                   complain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Roar'd
                   from
                   the
                   Cave
                   ;
                   and
                   made
                   the
                   Project
                   vain
                   .
                
                 
                   Alcides
                   found
                   the
                   Fraud
                   :
                   With
                   Rage
                   he
                   shook
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   toss'd
                   about
                   his
                   Head
                   his
                   knotted
                   Oak
                   .
                
                 
                   Swift
                   as
                   the
                   Winds
                   ,
                   or
                   Scythian
                   Arrows
                   flight
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   clomb
                   ,
                   with
                   eager
                   haste
                   ,
                   th'
                   Aerial
                   height
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   first
                   we
                   saw
                   the
                   Monster
                   mend
                   his
                   Pace
                   :
                
                 
                   Fear
                   in
                   his
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   and
                   Paleness
                   in
                   his
                   Face
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Confess'd
                   the
                   Gods
                   approach
                   :
                   Trembling
                   he
                   springs
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   Terror
                   had
                   increas'd
                   his
                   Feet
                   with
                   Wings
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   stay'd
                   for
                   Stairs
                   ;
                   but
                   down
                   the
                   Depth
                   he
                   threw
                
                 
                   His
                   Body
                   ;
                   on
                   his
                   Back
                   the
                   Door
                   he
                   drew
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Door
                   ,
                   a
                   Rib
                   of
                   living
                   Rock
                   ;
                   with
                   Pains
                
                 
                   His
                   Father
                   hew'd
                   it
                   out
                   ,
                   and
                   bound
                   with
                   Iron
                   Chains
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   broke
                   the
                   heavy
                   Lincks
                   ;
                   the
                   Mountain
                   clos'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Bars
                   and
                   Leavers
                   to
                   his
                   Foe
                   oppos'd
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Wretch
                   had
                   hardly
                   made
                   his
                   Dungeon
                   fast
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   fierce
                   Avenger
                   came
                   with
                   bounding
                   haste
                   :
                
                 
                   Survey'd
                   the
                   Mouth
                   of
                   the
                   forbidden
                   hold
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   here
                   and
                   there
                   his
                   raging
                   Eyes
                   he
                   rowl'd
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   gnash'd
                   his
                   Teeth
                   ;
                   and
                   thrice
                   he
                   compass'd
                   round
                
                 
                   With
                   winged
                   speed
                   the
                   Circuit
                   of
                   the
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                   Thrice
                   at
                   the
                   Cavern's
                   Mouth
                   he
                   pull'd
                   in
                   vain
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   panting
                   ,
                   thrice
                   desisted
                   from
                   his
                   Pain
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   pointed
                   flinty
                   Rock
                   ,
                   all
                   bare
                   ,
                   and
                   black
                   ,
                
                 
                   Grew
                   gibbous
                   from
                   behind
                   the
                   Mountains
                   Back
                   :
                
                 
                   Owls
                   ,
                   Ravens
                   ,
                   all
                   ill
                   Omens
                   of
                   the
                   Night
                   ,
                
                 
                   Here
                   built
                   their
                   Nests
                   ,
                   and
                   hether
                   wing'd
                   their
                   Flight
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   leaning
                   Head
                   hung
                   threat'ning
                   o're
                   the
                   Flood
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   nodded
                   to
                   the
                   left
                   :
                   The
                   Heroe
                   stood
                
                 
                   Adverse
                   ,
                   with
                   planted
                   Feet
                   ,
                   and
                   from
                   the
                   right
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tugg'd
                   at
                   the
                   solid
                   Stone
                   with
                   all
                   his
                   might
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   heav'd
                   ,
                   the
                   fix'd
                   Foundations
                   of
                   the
                   Rock
                
                 
                   Gave
                   way
                   :
                   Heav'n
                   echo'd
                   at
                   the
                   ratling
                   Shock
                   .
                
                 
                   Tumbling
                   it
                   choak'd
                   the
                   Flood
                   :
                   On
                   either
                   side
                
                 
                   The
                   Banks
                   leap
                   backward
                   ;
                   and
                   the
                   Streams
                   divide
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Sky
                   shrunk
                   upward
                   with
                   unusual
                   Dread
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   trembling
                   Tyber
                   div'd
                   beneath
                   his
                   Bed.
                
                 
                   The
                   Court
                   of
                   Cacus
                   stands
                   reveal'd
                   to
                   sight
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Cavern
                   glares
                   with
                   new
                   admitted
                   Light.
                
                 
                   So
                   the
                   pent
                   Vapours
                   with
                   a
                   rumbling
                   Sound
                
                 
                   Heave
                   from
                   below
                   ;
                   and
                   rend
                   the
                   hollow
                   Ground
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   A
                   sounding
                   Flaw
                   succeeds
                   :
                   And
                   from
                   on
                   high
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Gods
                   ,
                   with
                   Hate
                   beheld
                   the
                   neather
                   Sky
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Ghosts
                   repine
                   at
                   violated
                   Night
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   curse
                   th'
                   invading
                   Sun
                   ;
                   and
                   sicken
                   at
                   the
                   sight
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   graceless
                   Monster
                   caught
                   in
                   open
                   Day
                   ,
                
                 
                   Inclos'd
                   ,
                   and
                   in
                   Despair
                   to
                   fly
                   away
                   ;
                
                 
                   Howls
                   horrible
                   from
                   underneath
                   ,
                   and
                   fills
                
                 
                   His
                   hollow
                   Palace
                   ,
                   with
                   unmanly
                   Yells
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Heroe
                   stands
                   above
                   ;
                   and
                   from
                   afar
                
                 
                   Plies
                   him
                   with
                   Darts
                   ,
                   and
                   Stones
                   ,
                   and
                   distant
                   War.
                
                 
                   He
                   ,
                   from
                   his
                   Nostrils
                   ,
                   and
                   huge
                   Mouth
                   ,
                   expires
                
                 
                   Black
                   Clouds
                   of
                   Smoke
                   ,
                   amidst
                   his
                   Father's
                   Fires
                   .
                
                 
                   Gath'ring
                   ,
                   with
                   each
                   repeated
                   Blast
                   ,
                   the
                   Night
                   :
                
                 
                   To
                   make
                   uncertain
                   Aim
                   ,
                   and
                   erring
                   Sight
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   wrathful
                   God
                   ,
                   then
                   plunges
                   from
                   above
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   where
                   in
                   thickest
                   Waves
                   the
                   Sparkles
                   drove
                   ,
                
                 
                   There
                   lights
                   ;
                   and
                   wades
                   thro
                   Fumes
                   ,
                   and
                   gropes
                   his
                   Way
                   ;
                
                 
                   Half
                   sing'd
                   ,
                   half
                   stifled
                   ,
                   'till
                   he
                   grasps
                   his
                   Prey
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Monster
                   ,
                   spewing
                   fruitless
                   Flames
                   ,
                   he
                   found
                   ;
                
                 
                   He
                   squeez'd
                   his
                   Throat
                   ,
                   he
                   writh'd
                   his
                   Neck
                   around
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   a
                   Knot
                   his
                   cripled
                   Members
                   bound
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   from
                   their
                   Sockets
                   ,
                   tore
                   his
                   burning
                   Eyes
                   ;
                
                 
                   Rowld
                   on
                   a
                   heap
                   the
                   breathless
                   Robber
                   lyes
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Doors
                   ,
                   unbarr'd
                   ,
                   receive
                   the
                   rushing
                   Day
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   thorough
                   Lights
                   disclose
                   the
                   ravish'd
                   Prey
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Bulls
                   redeem'd
                   ,
                   breathe
                   open
                   Air
                   agen
                   ;
                
                 
                   Next
                   ,
                   by
                   the
                   Feet
                   ,
                   they
                   drag
                   him
                   from
                   his
                   Den.
                
                 
                   The
                   wond'ring
                   Neighbourhood
                   ,
                   with
                   glad
                   surprize
                   ,
                
                 
                   Behold
                   his
                   shagged
                   Breast
                   ,
                   his
                   Gyant
                   Size
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Mouth
                   that
                   flames
                   no
                   more
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   extinguish'd
                   Eyes
                   .
                
                 
                   From
                   that
                   auspicious
                   Day
                   ,
                   with
                   Rites
                   Divine
                   ,
                
                 
                   We
                   worship
                   at
                   the
                   Hero
                   's
                   Holy
                   Shrine
                   .
                
                 
                   Potitius
                   first
                   ordain'd
                   these
                   annual
                   Vows
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   Priests
                   ,
                   were
                   added
                   the
                   Pinarian
                   House
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Who
                   rais'd
                   this
                   Altar
                   in
                   the
                   Sacred
                   Shade
                   ;
                
                 
                   Where
                   Honours
                   ,
                   ever
                   due
                   ,
                   for
                   ever
                   shall
                   be
                   paid
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   these
                   Deserts
                   ,
                   and
                   this
                   high
                   Virtue
                   shown
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ye
                   warlike
                   Youths
                   ,
                   your
                   Heads
                   with
                   Garlands
                   crown
                   .
                
                 
                   Fill
                   high
                   the
                   Goblets
                   with
                   a
                   sparkling
                   Flood
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   deep
                   Draughts
                   invoke
                   our
                   common
                   God.
                
                 
                   This
                   said
                   ,
                   a
                   double
                   Wreath
                   Evander
                   twin'd
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   Poplars
                   black
                   and
                   white
                   his
                   Temples
                   bind
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   Brims
                   his
                   ample
                   Bowl
                   :
                   With
                   like
                   Design
                
                 
                   The
                   rest
                   invoke
                   the
                   Gods
                   ,
                   with
                   sprinkled
                   Wine
                   .
                
                 
                   Mean
                   time
                   the
                   Sun
                   descended
                   from
                   the
                   Skies
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   bright
                   Evening-Star
                   began
                   to
                   rise
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   the
                   Priests
                   ,
                   Potitius
                   at
                   their
                   Head
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   Skins
                   of
                   Beasts
                   involv'd
                   ,
                   the
                   long
                   Procession
                   led
                   :
                
                 
                   Held
                   high
                   the
                   flaming
                   Tapers
                   in
                   their
                   Hands
                   ;
                
                 
                   As
                   Custom
                   had
                   prescrib'd
                   their
                   holy
                   Bands
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   with
                   a
                   second
                   Course
                   the
                   Tables
                   load
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   full
                   Chargers
                   offer
                   to
                   the
                   God.
                
                 
                   The
                   Salij
                   sing
                   ;
                   and
                   cense
                   his
                   Altars
                   round
                
                 
                   With
                   Saban
                   Smoke
                   ,
                   their
                   Heads
                   with
                   Poplar
                   bound
                   .
                
                 
                   One
                   Choire
                   of
                   old
                   ,
                   another
                   of
                   the
                   young
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   dance
                   ,
                   and
                   bear
                   the
                   Burthen
                   of
                   the
                   Song
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Lay
                   records
                   the
                   Labours
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Praise
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   th'
                   Immortal
                   Acts
                   of
                   Hercules
                   .
                
                 
                   First
                   ,
                   how
                   the
                   mighty
                   Babe
                   ,
                   when
                   swath'd
                   in
                   Bands
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Serpents
                   strangled
                   ,
                   with
                   his
                   Infant
                   Hands
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   as
                   in
                   Years
                   ,
                   and
                   matchless
                   Force
                   he
                   grew
                   ,
                
                 
                   Th'
                   Oechalian
                   Walls
                   ,
                   and
                   Trojan
                   overthrew
                   .
                
                 
                   Besides
                   a
                   thousand
                   Hazards
                   they
                   relate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Procur'd
                   by
                   
                   Juno's
                   ,
                   and
                   
                   Euristheus's
                   Hate
                   .
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Hands
                   ,
                   unconquer'd
                   Heroe
                   ,
                   cou'd
                   subdue
                
                 
                   The
                   Cloud-born
                   Centaurs
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Monster
                   Crew
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   thy
                   resistless
                   Arm
                   the
                   Bull
                   withstood
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   He
                   the
                   roaring
                   Terror
                   of
                   the
                   Wood.
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   triple
                   Porter
                   of
                   the
                   Stygian
                   Seat
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   lolling
                   Tongue
                   ,
                   lay
                   fawning
                   at
                   thy
                   Feet
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   seiz'd
                   with
                   Fear
                   ,
                   forgot
                   his
                   mangled
                   Meat
                   .
                
                 
                   Th'
                   Infernal
                   Waters
                   trembled
                   at
                   thy
                   Sight
                   ;
                
                 
                   Thee
                   ,
                   God
                   ,
                   no
                   face
                   of
                   Danger
                   cou'd
                   Affright
                   .
                
                 
                   Not
                   huge
                   Typhoeus
                   ,
                   nor
                   th'
                   unnumber'd
                   Snake
                   ,
                
                 
                   Increas'd
                   with
                   hissing
                   Heads
                   ,
                   in
                   
                   Lerna's
                   Lake
                   .
                
                 
                   Hail
                   
                   Jove's
                   undoubted
                   Son
                   !
                   An
                   added
                   Grace
                
                 
                   To
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   great
                   Author
                   of
                   thy
                   Race
                   .
                
                 
                   Receive
                   the
                   gratful
                   Off'rings
                   ,
                   which
                   we
                   pay
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   smile
                   propitious
                   on
                   thy
                   solemn
                   Day
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   Numbers
                   ,
                   thus
                   ,
                   they
                   sung
                   :
                   Above
                   the
                   rest
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Den
                   ,
                   and
                   Death
                   of
                   Cacus
                   crown
                   the
                   Feast
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Woods
                   to
                   hollow
                   Vales
                   convey
                   the
                   Sound
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Vales
                   to
                   Hills
                   ,
                   and
                   Hills
                   the
                   Notes
                   rebound
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Rites
                   perform'd
                   ,
                   the
                   chearful
                   Train
                   retire
                   .
                
                 
                   Betwixt
                   young
                   Pallas
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   aged
                   Sire
                
                 
                   The
                   Trojan
                   pass'd
                   ,
                   the
                   City
                   to
                   survey
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   pleafing
                   Talk
                   beguil'd
                   the
                   tedious
                   Way
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Stranger
                   cast
                   around
                   his
                   curious
                   Eyes
                   ;
                
                 
                   New
                   Objects
                   viewing
                   still
                   ,
                   with
                   new
                   Surprise
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   greedy
                   Joy
                   enquires
                   of
                   various
                   Things
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Acts
                   and
                   Monuments
                   of
                   Ancient
                   Kings
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   thus
                   the
                   Founder
                   of
                   the
                   Roman
                   Tow'rs
                   :
                
                 
                   These
                   Woods
                   were
                   first
                   the
                   Seat
                   of
                   Silvan
                   Pow'rs
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   Nymphs
                   ,
                   and
                   Fauns
                   ,
                   and
                   salvage
                   Men
                   ,
                   who
                   took
                
                 
                   Their
                   Birth
                   from
                   Trunks
                   of
                   Trees
                   ,
                   and
                   stubborn
                   Oak
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Laws
                   they
                   knew
                   ,
                   nor
                   Manners
                   ,
                   nor
                   the
                   Care
                
                 
                   Of
                   lab'ring
                   Oxen
                   ,
                   or
                   the
                   shining
                   Share
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Arts
                   of
                   Gain
                   ,
                   nor
                   what
                   they
                   gain'd
                   to
                   spare
                   .
                
                 
                   Their
                   Exercise
                   the
                   Chase
                   :
                   the
                   running
                   Flood
                
                 
                   Supply'd
                   their
                   Thirst
                   ;
                   the
                   Trees
                   supply'd
                   their
                   Food
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   Saturn
                   came
                   ,
                   who
                   fled
                   the
                   Pow'r
                   of
                   Jove
                   ,
                
                 
                   Robb'd
                   of
                   his
                   Realms
                   ,
                   and
                   banish'd
                   from
                   above
                   .
                
              
               
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     the
                     Hon
                     ble
                     .
                     Robert
                     Bruce
                     Second
                     son
                     to
                     Robert
                     late
                     Earle
                     of
                     Ailesbury
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   The
                   Men
                   ,
                   dispers'd
                   on
                   Hills
                   ,
                   to
                   Towns
                   he
                   brought
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Laws
                   ordain'd
                   ,
                   and
                   Civil
                   Customs
                   taught
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   Latium
                   call'd
                   the
                   Land
                   where
                   safe
                   he
                   lay
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   his
                   Unduteous
                   Son
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Usurping
                   Sway.
                
                 
                   With
                   his
                   mild
                   Empire
                   ,
                   Peace
                   and
                   Plenty
                   came
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   hence
                   the
                   Golden
                   Times
                   deriv'd
                   their
                   name
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   more
                   degenerate
                   ,
                   and
                   discolour'd
                   Age
                   ,
                
                 
                   Succeeded
                   this
                   ,
                   with
                   Avarice
                   and
                   Rage
                   .
                
                 
                   Th'
                   Ausonians
                   ,
                   then
                   ,
                   and
                   bold
                   Sicanians
                   came
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   
                   Saturn's
                   Empire
                   often
                   chang'd
                   the
                   name
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   Kings
                   ,
                   Gygantick
                   Tybris
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   rest
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Arbitrary
                   Sway
                   the
                   Land
                   oppress'd
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   Tybers
                   flood
                   was
                   Albula
                   before
                   :
                
                 
                   Till
                   ,
                   from
                   the
                   Tyrants
                   Fate
                   ,
                   his
                   name
                   it
                   bore
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   last
                   arriv'd
                   ,
                   driv'n
                   from
                   my
                   native
                   home
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   Fortune's
                   Pow'r
                   ,
                   and
                   Fate
                   's
                   resistless
                   Doom
                   .
                
                 
                   Long
                   toss'd
                   on
                   Seas
                   I
                   sought
                   this
                   happy
                   Land
                   :
                
                 
                   Warn'd
                   by
                   my
                   Mother
                   Nymph
                   ,
                   and
                   call'd
                   by
                   Heav'ns
                   Command
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Thus
                   ,
                   walking
                   on
                   ,
                   he
                   spoke
                   :
                   and
                   shew'd
                   the
                   Gate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Since
                   call'd
                   Carmental
                   by
                   the
                   Roman
                   State
                   ;
                
                 
                   Where
                   stood
                   an
                   Altar
                   ,
                   Sacred
                   to
                   the
                   Name
                
                 
                   Of
                   old
                   Carmenta
                   ,
                   the
                   Prophetick
                   Dame
                   :
                
                 
                   Who
                   to
                   her
                   Son
                   foretold
                   th'
                   Aenean
                   Race
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sublime
                   in
                   Fame
                   ,
                   and
                   
                   Rome's
                   Imperial
                   Place
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   shews
                   the
                   Forest
                   ,
                   which
                   in
                   after
                   times
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fierce
                   Romulus
                   ,
                   for
                   perpetrated
                   Crimes
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Sacred
                   Refuge
                   made
                   :
                   with
                   this
                   ,
                   the
                   Shrine
                
                 
                   Where
                   Pan
                   below
                   the
                   Rock
                   had
                   Rites
                   Divine
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   tells
                   of
                   Argus
                   death
                   ,
                   his
                   murder'd
                   Guest
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whose
                   Grave
                   ,
                   and
                   Tomb
                   ,
                   his
                   Innocence
                   attest
                   .
                
                 
                   Thence
                   ,
                   to
                   the
                   steep
                   Tarpeian
                   Rock
                   he
                   leads
                   ;
                
                 
                   Now
                   Roof'd
                   with
                   Gold
                   ;
                   then
                   thatch'd
                   with
                   homely
                   Reeds
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   Reverent
                   fear
                   (
                   such
                   Superstition
                   reigns
                
                 
                   Among
                   the
                   rude
                   )
                   ev'n
                   then
                   possess'd
                   the
                   Swains
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Some
                   God
                   they
                   knew
                   ,
                   what
                   God
                   they
                   cou'd
                   not
                   tell
                   ,
                
                 
                   Did
                   there
                   amidst
                   the
                   sacred
                   horrour
                   dwell
                   .
                
                 
                   Th'
                   Arcadians
                   thought
                   him
                   Jove
                   ;
                   and
                   said
                   they
                   saw
                
                 
                   The
                   mighty
                   Thund'rer
                   with
                   Majestick
                   awe
                   ;
                
                 
                   Who
                   shook
                   his
                   Shield
                   ,
                   and
                   dealt
                   his
                   Bolts
                   around
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   scatter'd
                   Tempests
                   on
                   the
                   teeming
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   saw
                   two
                   heaps
                   of
                   Ruins
                   ;
                   once
                   they
                   stood
                
                 
                   Two
                   stately
                   Towns
                   ,
                   on
                   either
                   side
                   the
                   Flood
                   .
                
                 
                   
                   Saturnia's
                   and
                   
                   Janicula's
                   Remains
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   either
                   place
                   ,
                   the
                   Founder's
                   Name
                   retains
                   .
                
                 
                   Discoursing
                   thus
                   together
                   ,
                   they
                   resort
                
                 
                   Where
                   poor
                   Evander
                   kept
                   his
                   Country
                   Court.
                
                 
                   They
                   view'd
                   the
                   ground
                   of
                   
                   Rome's
                   litigious
                   Hall
                   ;
                
                 
                   Once
                   Oxen
                   low'd
                   ,
                   where
                   now
                   the
                   Lawyers
                   bawl
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   stooping
                   ,
                   through
                   the
                   Narrow
                   Gate
                   they
                   press'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   thus
                   the
                   King
                   bespoke
                   his
                   Trojan
                   Guest
                   .
                
                 
                   Mean
                   as
                   it
                   is
                   ,
                   this
                   Palace
                   ,
                   and
                   this
                   Door
                   ,
                
                 
                   Receiv'd
                   Alcides
                   ,
                   then
                   a
                   Conquerour
                   .
                
                 
                   Dare
                   to
                   be
                   poor
                   :
                   accept
                   our
                   homely
                   Food
                
                 
                   Which
                   feasted
                   him
                   ;
                   and
                   emulate
                   a
                   God.
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   underneath
                   a
                   lowly
                   Roof
                   ,
                   he
                   led
                
                 
                   The
                   weary
                   Prince
                   ;
                   and
                   laid
                   him
                   on
                   a
                   Bed
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   stuffing
                   Leaves
                   ,
                   which
                   Hides
                   of
                   Bears
                   o'respread
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Now
                   Night
                   had
                   shed
                   her
                   silver
                   Dews
                   around
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   her
                   sable
                   Wings
                   embrac'd
                   the
                   Ground
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   Love's
                   fair
                   Goddess
                   ,
                   anxious
                   for
                   her
                   Son
                   ;
                
                 
                   (
                   New
                   Tumults
                   rising
                   ,
                   and
                   new
                   Wars
                   begun
                   )
                
                 
                   Couch'd
                   with
                   her
                   Husband
                   ,
                   in
                   his
                   Golden
                   Bed
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   these
                   alluring
                   Words
                   invokes
                   his
                   aid
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   that
                   her
                   pleasing
                   Speech
                   his
                   Mind
                   may
                   move
                   ,
                
                 
                   Inspires
                   each
                   accent
                   with
                   the
                   Charms
                   of
                   Love.
                
                 
                   While
                   Cruel
                   Fate
                   conspir'd
                   with
                   Grecian
                   Pow'rs
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   level
                   with
                   the
                   Ground
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Tow'rs
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   I
                   ask'd
                   not
                   Aid
                   th'
                   unhappy
                   to
                   restore
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   did
                   the
                   Succour
                   of
                   thy
                   Skill
                   implore
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   urg'd
                   the
                   Labours
                   of
                   my
                   Lord
                   in
                   vain
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   sinking
                   Empire
                   longer
                   to
                   sustain
                   .
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   much
                   I
                   ow'd
                   to
                   
                   Priam's
                   House
                   ;
                   and
                   more
                
                 
                   The
                   Dangers
                   of
                   Aeneas
                   did
                   deplore
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   now
                   by
                   
                   Jove's
                   Command
                   ,
                   and
                   Fates
                   Decree
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Race
                   is
                   doom'd
                   to
                   reign
                   in
                   Italy
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   humble
                   Suit
                   I
                   beg
                   thy
                   needful
                   Art
                   ,
                
                 
                   O
                   still
                   propitious
                   Pow'r
                   ,
                   that
                   rules
                   my
                   Heart
                   !
                
                 
                   A
                   Mother
                   kneels
                   a
                   suppliant
                   for
                   her
                   Son.
                
                 
                   By
                   Thetis
                   and
                   Aurora
                   thou
                   wert
                   won
                
                 
                   To
                   forge
                   impenetrable
                   Shields
                   ;
                   and
                   grace
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   fated
                   Arms
                   ,
                   a
                   less
                   illustrious
                   Race
                   .
                
                 
                   Behold
                   ,
                   what
                   haughty
                   Nations
                   are
                   combin'd
                
                 
                   Against
                   the
                   Relicks
                   of
                   the
                   Phrygian
                   Kind
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   Fire
                   and
                   Sword
                   my
                   People
                   to
                   destroy
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   conquer
                   Venus
                   twice
                   ,
                   in
                   conqu'ring
                   Troy.
                
                 
                   She
                   said
                   ;
                   and
                   strait
                   her
                   Arms
                   ,
                   of
                   snowy
                   hue
                   ,
                
                 
                   About
                   her
                   unresolving
                   Husband
                   threw
                   .
                
                 
                   Her
                   soft
                   Embraces
                   soon
                   infuse
                   Desire
                   :
                
                 
                   His
                   Bones
                   and
                   Marrow
                   sudden
                   Warmth
                   inspire
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   the
                   Godhead
                   feels
                   the
                   wonted
                   Fire
                   .
                
                 
                   Not
                   half
                   so
                   swift
                   the
                   ratling
                   Thunder
                   flies
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   forky
                   Lightnings
                   flash
                   along
                   the
                   Skies
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Goddess
                   ,
                   proud
                   of
                   her
                   successful
                   Wiles
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   conscious
                   of
                   her
                   Form
                   ,
                   in
                   secret
                   Smiles
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   thus
                   ,
                   the
                   Pow'r
                   ,
                   obnoxious
                   to
                   her
                   Charms
                   ,
                
                 
                   Panting
                   ,
                   and
                   half
                   dissolving
                   in
                   her
                   Arms
                   :
                
                 
                   Why
                   seek
                   you
                   Reasons
                   for
                   a
                   Cause
                   so
                   just
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   your
                   own
                   Beauties
                   ,
                   or
                   my
                   Love
                   distrust
                   ?
                
                 
                   Long
                   since
                   ,
                   had
                   you
                   requir'd
                   my
                   helpful
                   Hand
                   ,
                
                 
                   Th'
                   Artificer
                   ,
                   and
                   Art
                   you
                   might
                   command
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   To
                   labour
                   Arms
                   for
                   Troy
                   :
                   Nor
                   Jove
                   ,
                   nor
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Confin'd
                   their
                   Empire
                   to
                   so
                   short
                   a
                   Date
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   if
                   you
                   now
                   desire
                   new
                   Wars
                   to
                   wage
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Skill
                   I
                   promise
                   ;
                   and
                   my
                   Pains
                   engage
                   .
                
                 
                   Whatever
                   melting
                   Metals
                   can
                   conspire
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   breathing
                   Bellows
                   ,
                   or
                   the
                   forming
                   Fire
                   ,
                
                 
                   Is
                   freely
                   yours
                   :
                   Your
                   anxious
                   Fears
                   remove
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   think
                   no
                   Task
                   is
                   difficult
                   to
                   Love.
                
                 
                   Trembling
                   he
                   spoke
                   ;
                   and
                   eager
                   of
                   her
                   Charms
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   snatch'd
                   the
                   willing
                   Goddess
                   to
                   his
                   Arms
                   ;
                
                 
                   'Till
                   in
                   her
                   Lap
                   infus'd
                   ,
                   he
                   lay
                   possess'd
                
                 
                   Of
                   full
                   Desire
                   ,
                   and
                   sunk
                   to
                   pleasing
                   Rest
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   when
                   the
                   Night
                   her
                   middle
                   race
                   had
                   rode
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   his
                   first
                   Slumber
                   had
                   refresh'd
                   the
                   God
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   time
                   when
                   early
                   Housewifes
                   leave
                   the
                   Bed
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   living
                   Embers
                   on
                   the
                   Hearth
                   they
                   spred
                   ;
                
                 
                   Supply
                   the
                   Lamp
                   ,
                   and
                   call
                   the
                   Maids
                   to
                   rise
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   yawning
                   Mouths
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   half
                   open'd
                   Eyes
                   ;
                
                 
                   They
                   ply
                   the
                   Distaff
                   by
                   the
                   winking
                   Light
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   to
                   their
                   daily
                   Labour
                   add
                   the
                   Night
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   frugally
                   they
                   earn
                   their
                   Childrens
                   Bread
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   uncorrupted
                   keep
                   the
                   Nuptial
                   Bed.
                
                 
                   Not
                   less
                   concern'd
                   ,
                   nor
                   at
                   a
                   later
                   Hour
                   ,
                
                 
                   Rose
                   from
                   his
                   downy
                   Couch
                   the
                   forging
                   Pow'r
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Sacred
                   to
                   
                   Vulcan's
                   Name
                   an
                   Isle
                   there
                   lay
                   ,
                
                 
                   Betwixt
                   
                   Sicilia's
                   Coasts
                   and
                   Lipare
                   ;
                
                 
                   Rais'd
                   high
                   on
                   smoaking
                   Rocks
                   ,
                   and
                   deep
                   below
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   hollow
                   Caves
                   the
                   Fires
                   of
                   Aetna
                   glow
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Cyclops
                   here
                   their
                   heavy
                   Hammers
                   deal
                   ;
                
                 
                   Loud
                   Strokes
                   ,
                   and
                   hissings
                   of
                   tormented
                   Steel
                
                 
                   Are
                   heard
                   around
                   :
                   The
                   boyling
                   Waters
                   roar
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   smoaky
                   Flames
                   thro'
                   fuming
                   Tunnels
                   soar
                   .
                
                 
                   Hether
                   ,
                   the
                   Father
                   of
                   the
                   Fire
                   ,
                   by
                   Night
                   ,
                
                 
                   Through
                   the
                   brown
                   Air
                   precipitates
                   his
                   Flight
                   .
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     Christopher
                     Rich
                     of
                     Grays
                     Inn
                     
                       Esq
                    
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     8.
                     l
                     :
                     560
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                 
                   On
                   their
                   Eternal
                   Anvils
                   here
                   he
                   found
                
                 
                   The
                   Brethren
                   beating
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Blows
                   go
                   round
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   load
                   of
                   pointless
                   Thunder
                   now
                   there
                   lies
                
                 
                   Before
                   their
                   Hands
                   ,
                   to
                   ripen
                   for
                   the
                   Skies
                   :
                
                 
                   These
                   Darts
                   ,
                   for
                   angry
                   Jove
                   ,
                   they
                   dayly
                   cast
                   :
                
                 
                   Consum'd
                   on
                   Mortals
                   with
                   prodigious
                   waste
                   .
                
                 
                   Three
                   Rays
                   of
                   writhen
                   Rain
                   ,
                   of
                   Fire
                   three
                   more
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   winged
                   Southern
                   Winds
                   ,
                   and
                   cloudy
                   Store
                
                 
                   As
                   many
                   parts
                   ,
                   the
                   dreadful
                   Mixture
                   frame
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   Fears
                   are
                   added
                   ,
                   and
                   avenging
                   Flame
                   .
                
                 
                   Inferior
                   Ministers
                   ,
                   for
                   Mars
                   repair
                
                 
                   His
                   broken
                   Axeltrees
                   ,
                   and
                   blunted
                   War
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   send
                   him
                   forth
                   agen
                   ,
                   with
                   furbish'd
                   Arms
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   wake
                   the
                   lazy
                   War
                   ,
                   with
                   Trumpets
                   loud
                   Alarms
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   rest
                   refresh
                   the
                   scaly
                   Snakes
                   ,
                   that
                   fold
                
                 
                   The
                   Shield
                   of
                   Pallas
                   ;
                   and
                   renew
                   their
                   Gold.
                
                 
                   Full
                   on
                   the
                   Crest
                   the
                   
                   Gorgon's
                   Head
                   they
                   place
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Eyes
                   that
                   rowl
                   in
                   Death
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   distorted
                   Face
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   My
                   Sons
                   ,
                   said
                   Vulcan
                   ,
                   set
                   your
                   Tasks
                   aside
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   Strength
                   ,
                   and
                   Master
                   Skill
                   ,
                   must
                   now
                   be
                   try'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Arms
                   ,
                   for
                   a
                   Heroe
                   forge
                   :
                   Arms
                   that
                   require
                
                 
                   Your
                   Force
                   ,
                   your
                   Speed
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   your
                   forming
                   Fire
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   said
                   :
                   They
                   set
                   their
                   former
                   Work
                   aside
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   their
                   new
                   Toils
                   with
                   eager
                   haste
                   divide
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   Flood
                   of
                   molten
                   Silver
                   ,
                   Brass
                   ,
                   and
                   Gold
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   deadly
                   Steel
                   ,
                   in
                   the
                   large
                   Furnace
                   rowl'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Of
                   this
                   ,
                   their
                   artful
                   Hands
                   a
                   Shield
                   prepare
                   ;
                
                 
                   Alone
                   sufficient
                   to
                   sustain
                   the
                   War.
                
                 
                   Sev'n
                   Orbs
                   within
                   a
                   spacious
                   round
                   they
                   close
                   ;
                
                 
                   One
                   stirs
                   the
                   Fire
                   ,
                   and
                   one
                   the
                   Bellows
                   blows
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   hissing
                   Steel
                   is
                   in
                   the
                   Smithy
                   drown'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Grot
                   with
                   beaten
                   Anvils
                   groans
                   around
                   .
                
                 
                   By
                   turns
                   their
                   Arms
                   advance
                   ,
                   in
                   equal
                   time
                   :
                
                 
                   By
                   turns
                   their
                   Hands
                   descend
                   ,
                   and
                   Hammers
                   chime
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   They
                   turn
                   the
                   glowing
                   Mass
                   ,
                   with
                   crooked
                   Tongs
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   fiery
                   Work
                   proceeds
                   ,
                   with
                   Rustick
                   Songs
                   .
                
                 
                   While
                   ,
                   at
                   the
                   Lemnian
                   God's
                   Command
                   ,
                   they
                   urge
                
                 
                   Their
                   Labours
                   thus
                   ,
                   and
                   ply
                   th'
                   Eolian
                   Forge
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   chearful
                   Morn
                   salutes
                   
                   Evander's
                   Eyes
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Songs
                   of
                   chirping
                   Birds
                   invite
                   to
                   rise
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   leaves
                   his
                   lowly
                   Bed
                   ;
                   his
                   Buskins
                   meet
                
                 
                   Above
                   his
                   Ankles
                   ;
                   Sandals
                   sheath
                   his
                   Feet
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   sets
                   his
                   trusty
                   Sword
                   upon
                   his
                   side
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   o're
                   his
                   Shoulder
                   throws
                   a
                   Panther's
                   Hide
                   .
                
                 
                   Two
                   Menial
                   Dogs
                   before
                   their
                   Master
                   press'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Thus
                   clad
                   ,
                   and
                   guarded
                   thus
                   ,
                   he
                   seeks
                   his
                   Kingly
                   Guest
                   .
                
                 
                   Mindful
                   of
                   promis'd
                   Aid
                   ,
                   he
                   mends
                   his
                   Pace
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   meets
                   Aeneas
                   in
                   the
                   middle
                   Space
                   .
                
                 
                   Young
                   Pallas
                   did
                   his
                   Father's
                   Steps
                   attend
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   true
                   Achates
                   waited
                   on
                   his
                   Friend
                   .
                
                 
                   They
                   join
                   their
                   Hands
                   ;
                   a
                   secret
                   Seat
                   they
                   chufe
                   ;
                
                 
                   Th'
                   Arcadian
                   first
                   ,
                   their
                   former
                   Talk
                   renews
                   .
                
                 
                   Undaunted
                   Prince
                   ,
                   I
                   never
                   can
                   believe
                
                 
                   The
                   Trojan
                   Empire
                   lost
                   ,
                   while
                   you
                   survive
                   .
                
                 
                   Command
                   th'
                   Assistance
                   of
                   a
                   faithful
                   Friend
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   feeble
                   are
                   the
                   Succours
                   I
                   can
                   send
                   .
                
                 
                   Our
                   narrow
                   Kingdom
                   ,
                   here
                   the
                   Tyber
                   bounds
                   ;
                
                 
                   That
                   other
                   side
                   the
                   Latian
                   State
                   surrounds
                   ;
                
                 
                   Insults
                   our
                   Walls
                   ,
                   and
                   wastes
                   our
                   fruitful
                   Grounds
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   mighty
                   Nations
                   I
                   prepare
                   ,
                   to
                   join
                
                 
                   Their
                   Arms
                   with
                   yours
                   ,
                   and
                   aid
                   your
                   just
                   Design
                   .
                
                 
                   You
                   come
                   ,
                   as
                   by
                   your
                   better
                   Genius
                   sent
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   Fortune
                   seems
                   to
                   favour
                   your
                   intent
                   .
                
                 
                   Not
                   far
                   from
                   hence
                   there
                   stands
                   a
                   Hilly
                   Town
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   ancient
                   Building
                   ,
                   and
                   of
                   high
                   Renown
                   ;
                
                 
                   Torn
                   from
                   the
                   Tuscans
                   ,
                   by
                   the
                   Lydian
                   Race
                   ;
                
                 
                   Who
                   gave
                   the
                   Name
                   of
                   Caere
                   ,
                   to
                   the
                   Place
                
                 
                 
                   Once
                   Agyllina
                   call'd
                   :
                   It
                   flourish'd
                   long
                
                 
                   In
                   Pride
                   of
                   Wealth
                   ;
                   and
                   warlike
                   People
                   strong
                   .
                
                 
                   'Till
                   curs'd
                   Mezentius
                   ,
                   in
                   a
                   fatal
                   Hour
                   ,
                
                 
                   Assum'd
                   the
                   Crown
                   ,
                   with
                   Arbitrary
                   Pow'r
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   Words
                   can
                   paint
                   those
                   execrable
                   Times
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Subjects
                   Suff'rings
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Tyrant's
                   Crimes
                   !
                
                 
                   That
                   Blood
                   ,
                   those
                   Murthers
                   ,
                   O
                   ye
                   Gods
                   replace
                
                 
                   On
                   his
                   own
                   Head
                   ,
                   and
                   on
                   his
                   impious
                   Race
                   !
                
                 
                   The
                   living
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Dead
                   ,
                   at
                   his
                   Command
                
                 
                   Were
                   coupled
                   ,
                   Face
                   to
                   Face
                   ,
                   and
                   Hand
                   to
                   Hand
                   :
                
                 
                   'Till
                   choak'd
                   with
                   Stench
                   ,
                   in
                   loath'd
                   Embraces
                   ty'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   ling'ring
                   Wretches
                   pin'd
                   away
                   ,
                   and
                   dy'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   plung'd
                   in
                   Ills
                   ,
                   and
                   meditating
                   more
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   People's
                   Patience
                   tyr'd
                   ,
                   no
                   longer
                   bore
                
                 
                   The
                   raging
                   Monster
                   :
                   But
                   with
                   Arms
                   beset
                
                 
                   His
                   House
                   ,
                   and
                   Vengeance
                   and
                   Destruction
                   threat
                   .
                
                 
                   They
                   fire
                   his
                   Palace
                   :
                   While
                   the
                   Flame
                   ascends
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   force
                   his
                   Guards
                   ;
                   and
                   execute
                   his
                   Friends
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   cleaves
                   the
                   Crowd
                   ;
                   and
                   favour'd
                   by
                   the
                   Night
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   
                   Turnus's
                   friendly
                   Court
                   directs
                   his
                   flight
                   .
                
                 
                   By
                   just
                   Revenge
                   the
                   Tuscans
                   set
                   on
                   Fire
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Arms
                   ,
                   their
                   King
                   to
                   Punishment
                   require
                   :
                
                 
                   Their
                   num'rous
                   Troops
                   ,
                   now
                   muster'd
                   on
                   the
                   Strand
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Counsel
                   shall
                   submit
                   to
                   your
                   Command
                   .
                
                 
                   Their
                   Navy
                   swarms
                   upon
                   the
                   Coasts
                   :
                   They
                   cry
                
                 
                   To
                   hoist
                   their
                   Anchors
                   ;
                   but
                   the
                   Gods
                   deny
                   .
                
                 
                   An
                   ancient
                   Augur
                   ,
                   skill'd
                   in
                   future
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   these
                   foreboding
                   Words
                   restrains
                   their
                   Hate
                   .
                
                 
                   Ye
                   brave
                   in
                   Arms
                   ,
                   ye
                   Lydian
                   Blood
                   ,
                   the
                   Flow'r
                
                 
                   Of
                   Tuscan
                   Youth
                   ,
                   and
                   choice
                   of
                   all
                   their
                   Pow'r
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whom
                   just
                   Revenge
                   against
                   Mezentius
                   arms
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   seek
                   your
                   Tyrant's
                   Death
                   ,
                   by
                   lawful
                   Arms
                   :
                
                 
                   Know
                   this
                   ;
                   no
                   Native
                   of
                   our
                   Land
                   may
                   lead
                
                 
                   This
                   pow'rful
                   People
                   :
                   Seek
                   a
                   Foreign
                   Head.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Aw'd
                   with
                   these
                   Words
                   ,
                   in
                   Camps
                   they
                   still
                   abide
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   wait
                   with
                   longing
                   Looks
                   their
                   promis'd
                   Guide
                   .
                
                 
                   Tarchon
                   ,
                   the
                   Tuscan
                   Chief
                   ,
                   to
                   me
                   has
                   sent
                
                 
                   Their
                   Crown
                   ,
                   and
                   ev'ry
                   Regal
                   Ornament
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   People
                   join
                   their
                   own
                   with
                   his
                   Desire
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   All
                   ,
                   my
                   Conduct
                   ,
                   as
                   their
                   King
                   ,
                   require
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   the
                   chill
                   Blood
                   that
                   creeps
                   within
                   my
                   Veins
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Age
                   ,
                   and
                   lifeless
                   Limbs
                   unfit
                   for
                   Pains
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   a
                   Soul
                   conscious
                   of
                   its
                   own
                   Decay
                   ,
                
                 
                   Have
                   forc'd
                   me
                   to
                   refuse
                   Imperial
                   Sway.
                
                 
                   My
                   Pallas
                   were
                   more
                   fit
                   to
                   mount
                   the
                   Throne
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   shou'd
                   ,
                   but
                   he
                   's
                   a
                   Sabine
                   Mother's
                   Son
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   half
                   a
                   Native
                   :
                   But
                   in
                   you
                   combine
                
                 
                   A
                   Manly
                   Vigour
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   Foreign
                   Line
                   .
                
                 
                   Where
                   Fate
                   and
                   smiling
                   Fortune
                   shew
                   the
                   Way
                   ,
                
                 
                   Pursue
                   the
                   ready
                   Path
                   to
                   Sov'raign
                   Sway.
                
                 
                   The
                   Staff
                   of
                   my
                   declining
                   Days
                   ,
                   my
                   Son
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shall
                   make
                   your
                   good
                   or
                   ill
                   Success
                   his
                   own
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   fighting
                   Fields
                   from
                   you
                   shall
                   learn
                   to
                   dare
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   serve
                   the
                   hard
                   Apprentiship
                   of
                   War.
                
                 
                   Your
                   matchless
                   Courage
                   ,
                   and
                   your
                   Conduct
                   view
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   early
                   shall
                   begin
                   t'
                   admire
                   and
                   copy
                   you
                   .
                
                 
                   Besides
                   ,
                   two
                   hundred
                   Horse
                   he
                   shall
                   command
                   :
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   few
                   ,
                   a
                   warlike
                   and
                   well
                   chosen
                   Band.
                
                 
                   These
                   in
                   my
                   Name
                   are
                   listed
                   :
                   And
                   my
                   Son
                
                 
                   As
                   many
                   more
                   has
                   added
                   in
                   his
                   own
                   .
                
                 
                   Scarce
                   had
                   he
                   said
                   ;
                   Achates
                   and
                   his
                   Guest
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   downcast
                   Eyes
                   their
                   silent
                   Grief
                   exprest
                   :
                
                 
                   Who
                   short
                   of
                   Succours
                   ;
                   and
                   in
                   deep
                   Despair
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shook
                   at
                   the
                   dismal
                   Prospect
                   of
                   the
                   War.
                
                 
                   But
                   his
                   bright
                   Mother
                   ,
                   from
                   a
                   breaking
                   Cloud
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   chear
                   her
                   Issue
                   ,
                   thunder'd
                   thrice
                   aloud
                   .
                
                 
                   Thrice
                   ,
                   forky
                   Lightning
                   flash'd
                   along
                   the
                   Sky
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Tyrrhene
                   Trumpets
                   thrice
                   were
                   heard
                   on
                   high
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   gazing
                   up
                   ,
                   repeated
                   Peals
                   they
                   hear
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   in
                   a
                   Heav'n
                   serene
                   ,
                   refulgent
                   Arms
                   appear
                   ;
                
                 
                   Red'ning
                   the
                   Skies
                   ,
                   and
                   glitt'ring
                   all
                   around
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   temper'd
                   Metals
                   clash
                   ;
                   and
                   yield
                   a
                   Silver
                   sound
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   rest
                   stood
                   trembling
                   ,
                   struck
                   with
                   awe
                   divine
                   ,
                
                 
                   Aeneas
                   onely
                   conscious
                   to
                   the
                   Sign
                   :
                
                 
                   Presag'd
                   th'
                   Event
                   ;
                   and
                   joyful
                   view'd
                   ,
                   above
                   ,
                
                 
                   Th'
                   accomplish'd
                   Promise
                   of
                   the
                   Queen
                   of
                   Love.
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   to
                   th'
                   Arcadian
                   King
                   :
                   This
                   Prodigy
                
                 
                   (
                   Dismiss
                   your
                   Fear
                   )
                   belongs
                   alone
                   to
                   me
                   .
                
                 
                   Heav'n
                   calls
                   me
                   to
                   the
                   War
                   :
                   Th'
                   expected
                   Sign
                
                 
                   Is
                   giv'n
                   of
                   promis'd
                   Aid
                   ,
                   and
                   Arms
                   Divine
                   .
                
                 
                   My
                   Goddess-Mother
                   ;
                   whose
                   Indulgent
                   Care
                   ,
                
                 
                   Foresaw
                   the
                   Dangers
                   of
                   the
                   growing
                   War
                   ;
                
                 
                   This
                   Omen
                   gave
                   ;
                   when
                   Bright
                   Vulcanian
                   Arms
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fated
                   from
                   force
                   of
                   Steel
                   by
                   Stygian
                   Charms
                   ,
                
                 
                   Suspended
                   ,
                   shone
                   on
                   high
                   :
                   She
                   then
                   foreshow'd
                
                 
                   Approaching
                   Fights
                   ,
                   and
                   Fields
                   to
                   float
                   in
                   Blood.
                
                 
                   Turnus
                   shall
                   dearly
                   pay
                   for
                   Faith
                   forsworn
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Corps
                   ,
                   and
                   Swords
                   ,
                   and
                   Shields
                   ,
                   on
                   Tyber
                   born
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shall
                   choak
                   his
                   Flood
                   :
                   Now
                   sound
                   the
                   loud
                   Alarms
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Latian
                   Troops
                   prepare
                   your
                   perjur'd
                   Arms.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   He
                   said
                   ;
                   and
                   rising
                   from
                   his
                   homely
                   Throne
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Solemn
                   Rites
                   of
                   Hercules
                   begun
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   on
                   his
                   Altars
                   wak'd
                   the
                   sleeping
                   Fires
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   chearful
                   to
                   his
                   Household-Gods
                   retires
                   .
                
                 
                   There
                   offers
                   chosen
                   Sheep
                   :
                   Th'
                   Arcadian
                   King
                
                 
                   And
                   Trojan
                   Youth
                   the
                   same
                   Oblations
                   bring
                   .
                
                 
                   Next
                   of
                   his
                   Men
                   ,
                   and
                   Ships
                   ,
                   he
                   makes
                   review
                   ,
                
                 
                   Draws
                   out
                   the
                   best
                   ,
                   and
                   ablest
                   of
                   the
                   Crew
                   .
                
                 
                   Down
                   with
                   the
                   falling
                   Stream
                   the
                   Refuse
                   run
                   :
                
                 
                   To
                   raise
                   with
                   joyful
                   News
                   his
                   drooping
                   Son.
                
                 
                   Steeds
                   are
                   prepar'd
                   to
                   mount
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Band
                   ;
                
                 
                   Who
                   wait
                   their
                   Leader
                   to
                   the
                   Tyrrhene
                   Land.
                
                 
                 
                   A
                   sprightly
                   Courser
                   ,
                   fairer
                   than
                   the
                   rest
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   King
                   himself
                   presents
                   his
                   Royal
                   Guest
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   Lyons
                   Hide
                   his
                   Back
                   and
                   Limbs
                   infold
                   ;
                
                 
                   Precious
                   with
                   studded
                   work
                   ,
                   and
                   Paws
                   of
                   Gold.
                
                 
                   Fame
                   through
                   the
                   little
                   City
                   spreads
                   aloud
                
                 
                   Th'
                   intended
                   March
                   ,
                   amid
                   the
                   fearful
                   Crowd
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Matrons
                   beat
                   their
                   Breasts
                   ;
                   dissolve
                   in
                   Tears
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   double
                   their
                   Devotion
                   in
                   their
                   Fears
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   War
                   at
                   hand
                   appears
                   with
                   more
                   affright
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   rises
                   ev'ry
                   Moment
                   to
                   the
                   sight
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   old
                   Evander
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   close
                   embrace
                   ,
                
                 
                   Strain'd
                   his
                   departing
                   Friend
                   ;
                   and
                   Tears
                   o're-flow
                   his
                   Face
                   :
                
                 
                   Wou'd
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   said
                   he
                   ,
                   my
                   strength
                   and
                   youth
                   recall
                   ,
                
                 
                   Such
                   as
                   I
                   was
                   beneath
                   
                   Preneste's
                   Wall
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   when
                   I
                   made
                   the
                   foremost
                   Foes
                   retire
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   set
                   whole
                   heaps
                   of
                   conquer'd
                   Shields
                   on
                   Fire
                   .
                
                 
                   When
                   Herilus
                   in
                   single
                   Fight
                   I
                   slew
                   ;
                
                 
                   Whom
                   with
                   three
                   lives
                   Feronia
                   did
                   endue
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   thrice
                   I
                   sent
                   him
                   to
                   the
                   Stygian
                   Shore
                   ;
                
                 
                   Till
                   the
                   last
                   Ebbing
                   Soul
                   return'd
                   no
                   more
                   :
                
                 
                   Such
                   ,
                   if
                   I
                   stood
                   renew'd
                   ,
                   not
                   these
                   Alarms
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Death
                   ,
                   shou'd
                   rend
                   me
                   from
                   my
                   Pallas
                   arms
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   proud
                   Mezentius
                   ,
                   thus
                   unpunish'd
                   ,
                   boast
                
                 
                   His
                   Rapes
                   and
                   Murthers
                   on
                   the
                   Tuscan
                   Coast
                   .
                
                 
                   Ye
                   Gods
                   !
                   and
                   mighty
                   Jove
                   ,
                   in
                   pity
                   bring
                
                 
                   Relief
                   ,
                   and
                   hear
                   a
                   Father
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   King.
                
                 
                   If
                   Fate
                   and
                   you
                   ,
                   reserve
                   these
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   to
                   see
                
                 
                   My
                   Son
                   return
                   with
                   peace
                   and
                   Victory
                   ;
                
                 
                   If
                   the
                   lov'd
                   Boy
                   shall
                   bless
                   his
                   Father's
                   sight
                   ;
                
                 
                   If
                   we
                   shall
                   meet
                   again
                   with
                   more
                   delight
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   draw
                   my
                   Life
                   in
                   length
                   ,
                   let
                   me
                   sustain
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   hopes
                   of
                   his
                   Embrace
                   ,
                   the
                   worst
                   of
                   Pain
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   if
                   your
                   hard
                   Decrees
                   ,
                   which
                   O
                   I
                   dread
                   ,
                
                 
                   Have
                   doom'd
                   to
                   death
                   his
                   undeserving
                   head
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   This
                   ,
                   O
                   this
                   very
                   Moment
                   ,
                   let
                   me
                   die
                   ;
                
                 
                   While
                   Hopes
                   and
                   Fears
                   in
                   equal
                   ballance
                   lye
                   .
                
                 
                   While
                   yet
                   Possest
                   of
                   all
                   his
                   Youthful
                   Charms
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   strain
                   him
                   close
                   within
                   these
                   Aged
                   Arms
                   :
                
                 
                   Before
                   that
                   fatal
                   news
                   my
                   Soul
                   shall
                   wound
                   !
                
                 
                   He
                   said
                   ,
                   and
                   ,
                   swooning
                   ,
                   sunk
                   upon
                   the
                   ground
                   ;
                
                 
                   His
                   Servants
                   bore
                   him
                   off
                   :
                   And
                   softly
                   laid
                
                 
                   His
                   languish'd
                   Limbs
                   upon
                   his
                   homely
                   Bed.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Horsemen
                   march
                   ;
                   the
                   Gates
                   are
                   open'd
                   wide
                   ;
                
                 
                   Aeneas
                   at
                   their
                   head
                   ,
                   Achates
                   by
                   his
                   side
                   .
                
                 
                   Next
                   these
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Leaders
                   rode
                   along
                   :
                
                 
                   Last
                   ,
                   follows
                   in
                   the
                   Reer
                   ,
                   th'
                   Arcadian
                   Throng
                   .
                
                 
                   Young
                   Pallas
                   shone
                   conspicuous
                   o're
                   the
                   rest
                   ;
                
                 
                   Guilded
                   his
                   Arms
                   ,
                   Embroider'd
                   was
                   his
                   Vest
                   .
                
                 
                   So
                   ,
                   from
                   the
                   Seas
                   ,
                   exerts
                   his
                   radiant
                   head
                
                 
                   The
                   Star
                   ,
                   by
                   whom
                   the
                   Lights
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   are
                   led
                   :
                
                 
                   Shakes
                   from
                   his
                   rosie
                   Locks
                   the
                   perly
                   Dews
                   ;
                
                 
                   Dispels
                   the
                   darkness
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Day
                   renews
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   trembling
                   Wives
                   ,
                   the
                   Walls
                   and
                   Turrets
                   crowd
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   follow
                   ,
                   with
                   their
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   the
                   dusty
                   Cloud
                   :
                
                 
                   Which
                   Winds
                   disperse
                   by
                   fits
                   ;
                   and
                   shew
                   from
                   far
                
                 
                   The
                   blaze
                   of
                   Arms
                   ,
                   and
                   Shields
                   ,
                   and
                   shining
                   War.
                
                 
                   The
                   Troops
                   ,
                   drawn
                   up
                   in
                   beautiful
                   Array
                   ,
                
                 
                   O're
                   heathy
                   Plains
                   pursue
                   the
                   ready
                   way
                   .
                
                 
                   Repeated
                   peals
                   of
                   showts
                   are
                   heard
                   around
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Neighing
                   Coursers
                   answer
                   to
                   the
                   sound
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   shake
                   with
                   horny
                   Hoofs
                   the
                   solid
                   ground
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   A
                   greenwood
                   Shade
                   ,
                   for
                   long
                   Religion
                   known
                   ,
                
                 
                   Stands
                   by
                   the
                   Streams
                   that
                   wash
                   the
                   Tuscan
                   Town
                   :
                
                 
                   Incompass'd
                   round
                   with
                   gloomy
                   Hills
                   above
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   add
                   a
                   holy
                   horrour
                   to
                   the
                   Grove
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   first
                   Inhabitants
                   ,
                   of
                   Grecian
                   Blood
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   sacred
                   Forest
                   to
                   Sylvanus
                   vow'd
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Guardian
                   of
                   their
                   Flocks
                   ,
                   and
                   Fields
                   ;
                   and
                   pay
                
                 
                   Their
                   due
                   Devotions
                   on
                   his
                   annual
                   day
                   .
                
                 
                   Not
                   far
                   from
                   hence
                   ,
                   along
                   the
                   River's
                   side
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   Tents
                   secure
                   ,
                   the
                   Tuscan
                   Troops
                   abide
                   ;
                
                 
                   By
                   Tarchon
                   led
                   .
                   Now
                   ,
                   from
                   a
                   rising
                   ground
                   ,
                
                 
                   Aeneas
                   cast
                   his
                   wond'ring
                   Eyes
                   around
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   the
                   Tyrrhene
                   Army
                   had
                   in
                   sight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Stretch'd
                   on
                   the
                   spacious
                   Plain
                   from
                   left
                   to
                   right
                   .
                
                 
                   Thether
                   his
                   warlike
                   Train
                   the
                   Trojan
                   led
                   ;
                
                 
                   Refresh'd
                   his
                   Men
                   ,
                   and
                   weary'd
                   Horses
                   fed
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Mean
                   time
                   the
                   Mother
                   Goddess
                   ,
                   crown'd
                   with
                   Charms
                   ,
                
                 
                   Breaks
                   through
                   the
                   Clouds
                   ,
                   and
                   brings
                   the
                   fated
                   Arms.
                
                 
                   Within
                   a
                   winding
                   Vale
                   she
                   finds
                   her
                   Son
                   ,
                
                 
                   On
                   the
                   cool
                   Rivers
                   '
                   Banks
                   ,
                   retir'd
                   alone
                   .
                
                 
                   She
                   shews
                   her
                   heav'nly
                   Form
                   ,
                   without
                   disguise
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   gives
                   her self
                   to
                   his
                   desiring
                   Eyes
                   .
                
                 
                   Behold
                   ,
                   she
                   said
                   ,
                   perform'd
                   ,
                   in
                   ev'ry
                   part
                
                 
                   My
                   promise
                   made
                   ;
                   and
                   
                   Vulcan's
                   labour'd
                   Art.
                
                 
                   Now
                   seek
                   ,
                   secure
                   ,
                   the
                   Latian
                   Enemy
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   haughty
                   Turnus
                   to
                   the
                   Field
                   defy
                   .
                
                 
                   She
                   said
                   :
                   And
                   having
                   first
                   her
                   Son
                   embrac'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   radiant
                   Arms
                   beneath
                   an
                   Oak
                   she
                   plac'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Proud
                   of
                   the
                   Gift
                   ,
                   he
                   rowl'd
                   his
                   greedy
                   sight
                
                 
                   Around
                   the
                   Work
                   ,
                   and
                   gaz'd
                   with
                   vast
                   delight
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   lifts
                   ,
                   he
                   turns
                   ,
                   he
                   poizes
                   ,
                   and
                   admires
                
                 
                   The
                   Crested
                   Helm
                   ,
                   that
                   vomits
                   radiant
                   Fires
                   :
                
                 
                   His
                   hands
                   the
                   fatal
                   Sword
                   ,
                   and
                   Corslet
                   hold
                   :
                
                 
                   One
                   keen
                   with
                   temper'd
                   Steel
                   ,
                   one
                   stiff
                   with
                   Gold.
                
                 
                   Both
                   ample
                   ,
                   flaming
                   both
                   ,
                   and
                   beamy
                   bright
                   :
                
                 
                   So
                   shines
                   a
                   Cloud
                   ,
                   when
                   edg'd
                   with
                   adverse
                   Light.
                
                 
                   He
                   shakes
                   the
                   pointed
                   Spear
                   ;
                   and
                   longs
                   to
                   try
                
                 
                   The
                   plated
                   Cuishes
                   ,
                   on
                   his
                   manly
                   thigh
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   most
                   admires
                   the
                   Shields
                   Mysterious
                   mould
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Roman
                   Triumphs
                   rising
                   on
                   the
                   Gold.
                   
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     Sr.
                     Godfry
                     Kneller
                     Knight
                     Principall
                     Painter
                     to
                     his
                     Majesty
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     8.
                     l.
                     805
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                 
                   For
                   those
                   ,
                   emboss'd
                   ,
                   the
                   Heav'nly
                   Smith
                   had
                   wrought
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   Not
                   in
                   the
                   Rolls
                   of
                   future
                   Fate
                   untaught
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                   The
                   Wars
                   in
                   Order
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Race
                   Divine
                
                 
                   Of
                   Warriors
                   ,
                   issuing
                   from
                   the
                   Julian
                   Line
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Cave
                   of
                   Mars
                   was
                   dress'd
                   with
                   mossy
                   Greens
                   :
                
                 
                   There
                   ,
                   by
                   the
                   Wolf
                   ,
                   were
                   laid
                   the
                   Martial
                   Twins
                   .
                
                 
                   Intrepid
                   on
                   her
                   swelling
                   Dugs
                   they
                   hung
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   foster
                   Dam
                   loll'd
                   out
                   her
                   fawning
                   Tongue
                   :
                
                 
                   They
                   suck'd
                   secure
                   ,
                   while
                   bending
                   Back
                   her
                   Head
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   lick'd
                   their
                   tender
                   Limbs
                   ;
                   and
                   form'd
                   them
                   as
                   they
                   fed
                   .
                
                 
                   Not
                   far
                   from
                   thence
                   new
                   Rome
                   appears
                   ,
                   with
                   Games
                
                 
                   Projected
                   for
                   the
                   Rape
                   of
                   Sabine
                   Dames
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Pit
                   resounds
                   with
                   Shrieks
                   :
                   A
                   War
                   succeeds
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   breach
                   of
                   Publick
                   Faith
                   ,
                   and
                   unexampl'd
                   Deeds
                   .
                
                 
                   Here
                   for
                   Revenge
                   the
                   Sabine
                   Troops
                   contend
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Romans
                   there
                   with
                   Arms
                   the
                   Prey
                   defend
                   .
                
                 
                   Weary'd
                   with
                   tedious
                   War
                   ,
                   at
                   length
                   they
                   cease
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   both
                   the
                   Kings
                   and
                   Kingdoms
                   plight
                   the
                   Peace
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   friendly
                   Chiefs
                   ,
                   before
                   
                   Jove's
                   Altar
                   stand
                   ;
                
                 
                   Both
                   arm'd
                   ,
                   with
                   each
                   a
                   Charger
                   in
                   his
                   Hand
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   fatted
                   Sow
                   ,
                   for
                   Sacrifice
                   is
                   led
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   Imprecations
                   on
                   the
                   perjur'd
                   Head.
                
                 
                   Near
                   this
                   ,
                   the
                   Traytor
                   Metius
                   ,
                   stretch'd
                   between
                
                 
                   Four
                   fiery
                   Steeds
                   ,
                   is
                   dragg'd
                   along
                   the
                   Green
                   ;
                
                 
                   By
                   Tullus
                   doom
                   :
                   The
                   Brambles
                   drink
                   his
                   Blood
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   his
                   torn
                   Limbs
                   are
                   left
                   ,
                   the
                   Vulture's
                   Food
                   .
                
                 
                   There
                   ,
                   Porsena
                   to
                   Rome
                   proud
                   Tarquin
                   brings
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   wou'd
                   by
                   Force
                   restore
                   the
                   banish'd
                   Kings
                   .
                
                 
                   One
                   Tyrant
                   ,
                   for
                   his
                   fellow
                   Tyrant
                   fights
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Roman
                   Youth
                   assert
                   their
                   Native
                   Rights
                   .
                
                 
                   Before
                   the
                   Town
                   the
                   Tuscan
                   Army
                   lies
                   :
                
                 
                   To
                   win
                   by
                   Famine
                   ,
                   or
                   by
                   Fraud
                   surprise
                   .
                
                 
                   Their
                   King
                   ,
                   half
                   threat'ning
                   ,
                   half
                   disdaining
                   stood
                   :
                
                 
                   While
                   Cocles
                   broke
                   the
                   Bridge
                   ;
                   and
                   stem'd
                   the
                   Flood
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Captive
                   Maids
                   there
                   tempt
                   the
                   raging
                   Tide
                   :
                
                 
                   Scap'd
                   from
                   their
                   Chains
                   ,
                   with
                   Clelia
                   for
                   their
                   Guide
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   High
                   on
                   a
                   Rock
                   Heroick
                   Manlius
                   stood
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   guard
                   the
                   Temple
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Temple's
                   God
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   Rome
                   was
                   poor
                   ;
                   and
                   there
                   you
                   might
                   behold
                
                 
                   The
                   Palace
                   ,
                   thatch'd
                   with
                   Straw
                   ,
                   now
                   roof'd
                   with
                   Gold.
                
                 
                   The
                   Silver
                   Goofe
                   before
                   the
                   shining
                   Gate
                
                 
                   There
                   flew
                   ;
                   and
                   by
                   her
                   Cackle
                   ,
                   sav'd
                   the
                   State.
                
                 
                   She
                   told
                   the
                   Gauls
                   approach
                   :
                   Th'
                   approaching
                   Gauls
                   ,
                
                 
                   Obscure
                   in
                   Night
                   ,
                   ascend
                   ,
                   and
                   seize
                   the
                   Walls
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Gold
                   ,
                   dissembl'd
                   well
                   their
                   yellow
                   Hair
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   Golden
                   Chains
                   on
                   their
                   white
                   Necks
                   they
                   wear
                   .
                
                 
                   Gold
                   are
                   their
                   Vests
                   :
                   Long
                   Alpine
                   Spears
                   they
                   wield
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   their
                   left
                   Arm
                   sustains
                   a
                   length
                   of
                   Shield
                   .
                
                 
                   Hard
                   by
                   ,
                   the
                   leaping
                   Salian
                   Priests
                   advance
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   naked
                   thro'
                   the
                   Streets
                   the
                   mad
                   Luperci
                   dance
                   :
                
                 
                   In
                   Caps
                   of
                   Wool.
                   The
                   Targets
                   dropt
                   from
                   Heav'n
                   :
                
                 
                   Here
                   modest
                   Matrons
                   in
                   soft
                   Litters
                   driv'n
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   pay
                   their
                   Vows
                   in
                   solemn
                   Pomp
                   appear
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   odorous
                   Gums
                   in
                   their
                   chast
                   Hands
                   they
                   bear
                   .
                
                 
                   Far
                   hence
                   remov'd
                   ,
                   the
                   Stygian
                   Seats
                   are
                   seen
                   :
                
                 
                   Pains
                   of
                   the
                   damn'd
                   ,
                   and
                   punish'd
                   Catiline
                   :
                
                 
                   Hung
                   on
                   a
                   Rock
                   the
                   Traytor
                   ;
                   and
                   around
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Furies
                   hissing
                   from
                   the
                   neather
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                   Apart
                   from
                   these
                   ,
                   the
                   happy
                   Souls
                   ,
                   he
                   draws
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   
                   Cato's
                   holy
                   Ghost
                   ,
                   dispensing
                   Laws
                   .
                
                 
                   Betwixt
                   the
                   Quarters
                   ,
                   flows
                   a
                   Golden
                   Sea
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   foaming
                   Surges
                   ,
                   there
                   ,
                   in
                   Silver
                   play
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   dancing
                   Dolphins
                   ,
                   with
                   their
                   Tails
                   ,
                   divide
                
                 
                   The
                   glitt'ring
                   Waves
                   ;
                   and
                   cut
                   the
                   precious
                   Tide
                   .
                
                 
                   Amid
                   the
                   Main
                   ,
                   two
                   mighty
                   Fleets
                   engage
                
                 
                   Their
                   Brazen
                   Beaks
                   ;
                   oppos'd
                   with
                   equal
                   Rage
                   .
                
                 
                   Actium
                   ,
                   surveys
                   the
                   well
                   disputed
                   Prize
                   :
                
                 
                   
                   Leucate's
                   wat'ry
                   Plain
                   ,
                   with
                   foamy
                   Billows
                   fries
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Young
                   Caesar
                   ,
                   on
                   the
                   Stern
                   ,
                   in
                   Armour
                   bright
                   ;
                
                 
                   Here
                   leads
                   the
                   Romans
                   and
                   their
                   Gods
                   to
                   fight
                   :
                
                 
                   His
                   beamy
                   Temples
                   shoot
                   their
                   Flames
                   afar
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   o're
                   his
                   Head
                   is
                   hung
                   the
                   Julian
                   Star.
                
                 
                   Agrippa
                   seconds
                   him
                   ,
                   with
                   prosp'rous
                   Gales
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   with
                   propitious
                   Gods
                   ,
                   his
                   Foes
                   assails
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   Naval
                   Crown
                   ,
                   that
                   binds
                   his
                   Manly
                   Brows
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   happy
                   Fortune
                   of
                   the
                   Fight
                   foreshows
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Rang'd
                   on
                   the
                   Line
                   oppos'd
                   ,
                   Antonius
                   brings
                
                 
                   Barbarian
                   Aids
                   ,
                   and
                   Troops
                   of
                   Eastern
                   Kings
                   .
                
                 
                   Th'
                   Arabians
                   near
                   ,
                   and
                   Bactrians
                   from
                   afar
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   Tongues
                   discordant
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   mingled
                   War.
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   rich
                   in
                   gaudy
                   Robes
                   ,
                   amidst
                   the
                   Strife
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   ill
                   Fate
                   follows
                   him
                   ;
                   th'
                   Egyptian
                   Wife
                   .
                
                 
                   Moving
                   they
                   fight
                   :
                   With
                   Oars
                   ,
                   and
                   forky
                   Prows
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Froth
                   is
                   gather'd
                   ;
                   and
                   the
                   Water
                   glows
                   .
                
                 
                   It
                   seems
                   ,
                   as
                   if
                   the
                   Cyclades
                   again
                
                 
                   Were
                   rooted
                   up
                   ,
                   and
                   justled
                   in
                   the
                   Main
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   floating
                   Mountains
                   ,
                   floating
                   Mountains
                   meet
                   :
                
                 
                   Such
                   is
                   the
                   fierce
                   Encounter
                   of
                   the
                   Fleet.
                
                 
                   Fire-balls
                   are
                   thrown
                   ;
                   and
                   pointed
                   Jav'lins
                   fly
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Fields
                   of
                   Neptune
                   take
                   a
                   Purple
                   Dye
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Queen
                   her self
                   ,
                   amidst
                   the
                   loud
                   Alarms
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Cymbals
                   toss'd
                   her
                   fainting
                   Souldiers
                   warms
                   .
                
                 
                   Fool
                   as
                   she
                   was
                   ;
                   who
                   had
                   not
                   yet
                   divin'd
                
                 
                   Her
                   cruel
                   Fate
                   ;
                   nor
                   saw
                   the
                   Snakes
                   behind
                   .
                
                 
                   Her
                   Country
                   Gods
                   ,
                   the
                   Monsters
                   of
                   the
                   Sky
                   ,
                
                 
                   Great
                   
                     Neptune
                     ,
                     Pallas
                  
                   ,
                   and
                   Love's
                   Queen
                   ,
                   defy
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Dog
                   Anubis
                   barks
                   ,
                   but
                   barks
                   in
                   vain
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   longer
                   dares
                   oppose
                   th'
                   Aetherial
                   Train
                   .
                
                 
                   Mars
                   ,
                   in
                   the
                   middle
                   of
                   the
                   shining
                   Shield
                
                 
                   Is
                   grav'd
                   ,
                   and
                   strides
                   along
                   the
                   liquid
                   Field
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Dirae
                   sowse
                   from
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   with
                   swift
                   Descent
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   Discord
                   ,
                   dy'd
                   in
                   Blood
                   ,
                   with
                   Garments
                   rent
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Divides
                   the
                   Preace
                   :
                   Her
                   Steps
                   ,
                   Bellona
                   treads
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   shakes
                   her
                   Iron
                   Rod
                   above
                   their
                   Heads
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   seen
                   ,
                   Apollo
                   ,
                   from
                   his
                   Actian
                   height
                   ,
                
                 
                   Pours
                   down
                   his
                   Arrows
                   :
                   At
                   whose
                   winged
                   flight
                
                 
                   The
                   trembling
                   Indians
                   ,
                   and
                   Egyptians
                   yield
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   soft
                   Sabaeans
                   quit
                   the
                   wat'ry
                   Field
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   fatal
                   Mistress
                   hoists
                   her
                   silken
                   Sails
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   shrinking
                   from
                   the
                   Fight
                   ,
                   invokes
                   the
                   Gales
                   .
                
                 
                   Aghast
                   she
                   looks
                   ;
                   and
                   heaves
                   her
                   Breast
                   ,
                   for
                   Breath
                   :
                
                 
                   Panting
                   ,
                   and
                   pale
                   with
                   fear
                   of
                   future
                   Death
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   God
                   had
                   figur'd
                   her
                   ,
                   as
                   driv'n
                   along
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   Winds
                   and
                   Waves
                   ;
                   and
                   scudding
                   thro'
                   the
                   Throng
                   .
                
                 
                   Just
                   opposite
                   ,
                   sad
                   Nilus
                   ,
                   opens
                   wide
                
                 
                   His
                   Arms
                   ,
                   and
                   ample
                   Bosom
                   ,
                   to
                   the
                   Tide
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   spreads
                   his
                   Mantle
                   o're
                   the
                   winding
                   Coast
                   :
                
                 
                   In
                   which
                   he
                   wraps
                   his
                   Queen
                   ,
                   and
                   hides
                   the
                   flying
                   Ho●●●
                
                 
                   The
                   Victor
                   ,
                   to
                   the
                   Gods
                   his
                   Thanks
                   express'd
                   ▪
                
                 
                   And
                   Rome
                   triumphant
                   ,
                   with
                   his
                   Presence
                   bless'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Three
                   hundred
                   Temples
                   in
                   the
                   Town
                   he
                   plac'd
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   Spoils
                   and
                   Altars
                   ev'ry
                   Temple
                   grac'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Three
                   shining
                   Nights
                   ,
                   and
                   three
                   succeeding
                   Days
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Fields
                   resound
                   with
                   Shouts
                   ;
                   the
                   Streets
                   with
                   Praise
                
                 
                   The
                   Domes
                   with
                   Songs
                   ,
                   the
                   Theatres
                   with
                   Plays
                   .
                
                 
                   All
                   Altars
                   flame
                   :
                   Before
                   each
                   Altar
                   lies
                   ,
                
                 
                   Drench'd
                   in
                   his
                   Gore
                   ,
                   the
                   destin'd
                   Sacrifice
                   .
                
                 
                   Great
                   Caesar
                   sits
                   sublime
                   upon
                   his
                   Throne
                   ;
                
                 
                   Before
                   
                   Apollo's
                   Porch
                   of
                   Parian
                   Stone
                   :
                
                 
                   Accepts
                   the
                   Presents
                   vow'd
                   for
                   Victory
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   hangs
                   the
                   monumental
                   Crowns
                   on
                   high
                   .
                
                 
                   Vast
                   Crowds
                   of
                   vanquish'd
                   Nations
                   march
                   along
                   :
                
                 
                   Various
                   in
                   Arms
                   ,
                   in
                   Habit
                   ,
                   and
                   in
                   Tongue
                   .
                
                 
                   Here
                   ,
                   Mulciber
                   assigns
                   the
                   proper
                   Place
                
                 
                   For
                   Carians
                   ,
                   and
                   th'
                   ungirt
                   Numidian
                   Race
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   Then
                   ranks
                   the
                   Thracians
                   in
                   the
                   second
                   Row
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   Scythians
                   ,
                   expert
                   in
                   the
                   Dart
                   and
                   Bow.
                
                 
                   And
                   here
                   the
                   tam'd
                   Euphrates
                   humbly
                   glides
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   there
                   the
                   Rhine
                   submits
                   her
                   swelling
                   Tides
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   proud
                   Araxes
                   ,
                   whom
                   no
                   Bridge
                   cou'd
                   bind
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Danes
                   unconquer'd
                   Offspring
                   ,
                   march
                   behind
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Morini
                   ,
                   the
                   last
                   of
                   Human
                   Kind
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   These
                   Figures
                   ,
                   on
                   the
                   Shield
                   divinely
                   wrought
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   Vulcan
                   labour'd
                   ,
                   and
                   by
                   Venus
                   brought
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Joy
                   and
                   Wonder
                   fill
                   the
                   Hero's
                   thought
                   .
                
                 
                   Unknown
                   the
                   Names
                   ,
                   he
                   yet
                   admires
                   the
                   Grace
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   bears
                   aloft
                   the
                   Fame
                   ,
                   and
                   Fortune
                   of
                   his
                   Race
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 The
                 Ninth
                 Book
                 of
                 the
                 Aeneis
                 .
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Argument
                   .
                
                 
                   Turnus
                   
                     takes
                     Advantage
                     of
                  
                   Aeneas
                   
                     's
                     Absence
                     ,
                     fires
                     some
                     of
                     his
                     Ships
                     ,
                     (
                     which
                     are
                     transform'd
                     into
                     Sea-Nymphs
                     )
                     and
                     assaults
                     his
                     Camp.
                     The
                  
                   Trojans
                   
                     reduc'd
                     to
                     the
                     last
                     Extremities
                     ,
                     send
                  
                   Nisus
                   and
                   Euryalus
                   
                     to
                     recall
                  
                   Aeneas
                   ;
                   
                     which
                     furnishes
                     the
                     Poet
                     with
                     that
                     admirable
                     Episode
                     of
                     their
                     Friendship
                     ,
                     Generosity
                     ;
                     and
                     the
                     conclusion
                     of
                     their
                     Adventures
                     .
                  
                
              
               
                 
                   WHile
                   these
                   Affairs
                   in
                   distant
                   Places
                   pass'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   various
                   
                     Iris
                     Juno
                  
                   sends
                   with
                   haste
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   find
                   bold
                   Turnus
                   ,
                   who
                   ,
                   with
                   anxious
                   Thought
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   secret
                   Shade
                   of
                   his
                   great
                   Grandsire
                   sought
                   .
                
                 
                   Retir'd
                   alone
                   she
                   found
                   the
                   daring
                   Man
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   op'd
                   her
                   rosie
                   Lips
                   ,
                   and
                   thus
                   began
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   none
                   of
                   all
                   the
                   Gods
                   cou'd
                   grant
                   thy
                   Vows
                   ;
                
                 
                   That
                   ,
                   Turnus
                   ,
                   this
                   auspicious
                   Day
                   bestows
                   .
                
                 
                   Aeneas
                   ,
                   gone
                   to
                   seek
                   th'
                   Arcadian
                   Prince
                   ,
                
                 
                   Has
                   left
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Camp
                   without
                   defence
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   short
                   of
                   Succours
                   there
                   ;
                   employs
                   his
                   Pains
                
                 
                   In
                   Parts
                   remote
                   to
                   raise
                   the
                   Tuscan
                   Swains
                   :
                
                 
                   Now
                   snatch
                   an
                   Hour
                   that
                   favours
                   thy
                   Designs
                   ,
                
                 
                   Unite
                   thy
                   Forces
                   ,
                   and
                   attack
                   their
                   Lines
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   said
                   ,
                   on
                   equal
                   Wings
                   she
                   pois'd
                   her
                   Weight
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   form'd
                   a
                   radiant
                   Rainbow
                   in
                   her
                   flight
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Daunian
                   Heroe
                   lifts
                   his
                   Hands
                   and
                   Eyes
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   thus
                   invokes
                   the
                   Goddess
                   as
                   she
                   flies
                   .
                
                 
                   Iris
                   ,
                   the
                   Grace
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   what
                   Pow'r
                   Divine
                
                 
                   Has
                   sent
                   thee
                   down
                   ,
                   thro'
                   dusky
                   Clouds
                   to
                   shine
                   ?
                
                 
                   See
                   they
                   divide
                   ;
                   immortal
                   Day
                   appears
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   glitt'ring
                   Planets
                   dancing
                   in
                   their
                   Spheres
                   !
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     the
                     Right
                     Hon
                     ble
                     .
                     Robert
                     Earle
                     of
                     Sunderland
                     Ld.
                     Chamberlaine
                     of
                     his
                     Majesties
                     Household
                     &
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     9.
                     l.
                     2.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                 
                   With
                   Joy
                   ,
                   these
                   happy
                   Omens
                   I
                   obey
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   follow
                   to
                   the
                   War
                   ,
                   the
                   God
                   that
                   leads
                   the
                   Way
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Thus
                   having
                   said
                   ,
                   as
                   by
                   the
                   Brook
                   he
                   stood
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   scoop'd
                   the
                   Water
                   from
                   the
                   Crystal
                   Flood
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   with
                   his
                   Hands
                   the
                   drops
                   to
                   Heav'n
                   he
                   throws
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   loads
                   the
                   Pow'rs
                   above
                   with
                   offer'd
                   Vows
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Now
                   march
                   the
                   bold
                   Confed'rates
                   thro'
                   the
                   Plain
                   ;
                
                 
                   Well
                   hors'd
                   ,
                   well
                   clad
                   ,
                   a
                   rich
                   and
                   shining
                   Train
                   :
                
                 
                   Messapus
                   leads
                   the
                   Van
                   ;
                   and
                   in
                   the
                   Reer
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Sons
                   of
                   Tyrrheus
                   in
                   bright
                   Arms
                   appear
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   the
                   Main
                   Battel
                   ,
                   with
                   his
                   flaming
                   Crest
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   mighty
                   Turnus
                   tow'rs
                   above
                   the
                   rest
                   :
                
                 
                   Silent
                   they
                   move
                   ;
                   majestically
                   slow
                   ,
                
                 
                   Like
                   ebbing
                   Nile
                   ,
                   or
                   Ganges
                   in
                   his
                   flow
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Trojans
                   view
                   the
                   dusty
                   Cloud
                   from
                   far
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   dark
                   Menace
                   of
                   the
                   distant
                   War.
                
                 
                   Caicus
                   from
                   the
                   Rampire
                   saw
                   it
                   rise
                   ,
                
                 
                   Blackning
                   the
                   Fields
                   ,
                   and
                   thickning
                   thro'
                   the
                   Skies
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   to
                   his
                   Fellows
                   thus
                   aloud
                   he
                   calls
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   rowling
                   Clouds
                   ,
                   my
                   Friends
                   ,
                   approach
                   the
                   Walls
                   ?
                
                 
                   Arm
                   ,
                   arm
                   ,
                   and
                   man
                   the
                   Works
                   ;
                   prepare
                   your
                   Spears
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   pointed
                   Darts
                   ;
                   the
                   Latian
                   Hoast
                   appears
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Thus
                   warn'd
                   ,
                   they
                   shut
                   their
                   Gates
                   ;
                   with
                   Shouts
                   ascend
                
                 
                   The
                   Bulwarks
                   ,
                   and
                   secure
                   their
                   Foes
                   attend
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   their
                   wise
                   Gen'ral
                   with
                   foreseeing
                   Care
                   ,
                
                 
                   Had
                   charg'd
                   them
                   not
                   to
                   tempt
                   the
                   doubtful
                   War
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   ,
                   tho'
                   provok'd
                   ,
                   in
                   open
                   Fields
                   advance
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   close
                   within
                   their
                   Lines
                   attend
                   their
                   chance
                   .
                
                 
                   Unwilling
                   ,
                   yet
                   they
                   keep
                   the
                   strict
                   Command
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   sourly
                   wait
                   in
                   Arms
                   the
                   Hostile
                   Band.
                
                 
                   The
                   fiery
                   Turnus
                   flew
                   before
                   the
                   rest
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Pye-ball'd
                   Steed
                   of
                   Thracian
                   Strain
                   he
                   press'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   His
                   Helm
                   of
                   massy
                   Gold
                   ;
                   and
                   Crimson
                   was
                   his
                   Crest
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   With
                   twenty
                   Horse
                   to
                   fecond
                   his
                   Designs
                   ,
                
                 
                   An
                   unexpected
                   Foe
                   ,
                   he
                   fac'd
                   the
                   Lines
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Is
                   there
                   ,
                   he
                   said
                   ,
                   in
                   Arms
                   who
                   bravely
                   dare
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Leader's
                   Honour
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Danger
                   share
                   ?
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   spurring
                   on
                   ,
                   his
                   brandish'd
                   Dart
                   he
                   threw
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   sign
                   of
                   War
                   ,
                   applauding
                   Shouts
                   ensue
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Amaz'd
                   to
                   find
                   a
                   dastard
                   Race
                   that
                   run
                
                 
                   Behind
                   the
                   Rampires
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Battel
                   shun
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   rides
                   around
                   the
                   Camp
                   ,
                   with
                   rowling
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   stops
                   at
                   ev'ry
                   Post
                   ;
                   and
                   ev'ry
                   Passage
                   tries
                   .
                
                 
                   So
                   roams
                   the
                   nightly
                   Wolf
                   about
                   the
                   Fold
                   ,
                
                 
                   Wet
                   with
                   descending
                   Show'rs
                   ,
                   and
                   stiff
                   with
                   cold
                   ;
                
                 
                   He
                   howls
                   for
                   Hunger
                   ,
                   and
                   he
                   grins
                   for
                   Pain
                   ;
                
                 
                   His
                   gnashing
                   Teeth
                   are
                   exercis'd
                   in
                   vain
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   impotent
                   of
                   Anger
                   ,
                   finds
                   no
                   way
                
                 
                   In
                   his
                   distended
                   Paws
                   to
                   grasp
                   the
                   Prey
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Mothers
                   listen
                   ;
                   but
                   the
                   bleating
                   Lambs
                
                 
                   Securely
                   swig
                   the
                   Dug
                   ,
                   beneath
                   the
                   Dams
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   ranges
                   eager
                   Turnus
                   o're
                   the
                   Plain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sharp
                   with
                   Desire
                   ,
                   and
                   furious
                   with
                   Disdain
                   :
                
                 
                   Surveys
                   each
                   Passage
                   with
                   a
                   piercing
                   Sight
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   force
                   his
                   Foes
                   in
                   equal
                   Field
                   to
                   fight
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   ,
                   while
                   he
                   gazes
                   round
                   ,
                   at
                   length
                   he
                   spies
                
                 
                   Where
                   ,
                   fenc'd
                   with
                   strong
                   Redoubts
                   ,
                   their
                   Navy
                   lies
                   ;
                
                 
                   Close
                   underneath
                   the
                   Walls
                   :
                   The
                   washing
                   Tyde
                
                 
                   Secures
                   from
                   all
                   approach
                   this
                   weaker
                   side
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   takes
                   the
                   wish'd
                   Occasion
                   ;
                   fills
                   his
                   Hand
                
                 
                   With
                   ready
                   Fires
                   ,
                   and
                   shakes
                   a
                   flaming
                   Brand
                   :
                
                 
                   Urg'd
                   by
                   his
                   Presence
                   ,
                   ev'ry
                   Soul
                   is
                   warm'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ev'ry
                   Hand
                   with
                   kindled
                   Firrs
                   is
                   arm'd
                   .
                
                 
                   From
                   the
                   fir'd
                   Pines
                   the
                   scatt'ring
                   Sparkles
                   fly
                   ;
                
                 
                   Fat
                   Vapours
                   mix'd
                   with
                   Flames
                   involve
                   the
                   Sky
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   Pow'r
                   ,
                   O
                   Muses
                   ,
                   cou'd
                   avert
                   the
                   Flame
                
                 
                   Which
                   threaten'd
                   ,
                   in
                   the
                   Fleet
                   ,
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Name
                   !
                
                 
                 
                   Tell
                   :
                   For
                   the
                   Fact
                   thro'
                   length
                   of
                   Time
                   obscure
                   ,
                
                 
                   Is
                   hard
                   to
                   Faith
                   ;
                   yet
                   shall
                   the
                   Fame
                   endure
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   said
                   ,
                   that
                   when
                   the
                   Chief
                   prepar'd
                   his
                   flight
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   fell'd
                   his
                   Timber
                   from
                   Mount
                   
                   Ida's
                   height
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Grandam
                   Goddess
                   then
                   approach'd
                   her
                   Son
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   a
                   Mother's
                   Majesty
                   begun
                   .
                
                 
                   Grant
                   me
                   ,
                   she
                   said
                   ,
                   the
                   sole
                   Request
                   I
                   bring
                   .
                
                 
                   Since
                   conquer'd
                   Heav'n
                   has
                   own'd
                   you
                   for
                   its
                   King
                   :
                
                 
                   On
                   
                   Ida's
                   Brows
                   ,
                   for
                   Ages
                   past
                   ,
                   there
                   stood
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Firrs
                   and
                   Maples
                   fill'd
                   ,
                   a
                   shady
                   Wood
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   on
                   the
                   Summit
                   rose
                   a
                   Sacred
                   Grove
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   I
                   was
                   worshipp'd
                   with
                   Religious
                   Love
                   ;
                
                 
                   Those
                   Woods
                   ,
                   that
                   Holy
                   Grove
                   ,
                   my
                   long
                   delight
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   gave
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Prince
                   ,
                   to
                   speed
                   his
                   flight
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   fill'd
                   with
                   Fear
                   ,
                   on
                   their
                   behalf
                   I
                   come
                   ;
                
                 
                   Let
                   neither
                   Winds
                   o'reset
                   ,
                   nor
                   Waves
                   intomb
                
                 
                   The
                   floating
                   Forests
                   of
                   the
                   Sacred
                   Pine
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   let
                   it
                   be
                   their
                   Safety
                   to
                   be
                   mine
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   thus
                   reply'd
                   her
                   awful
                   Son
                   ;
                   who
                   rowls
                
                 
                   The
                   radiant
                   Stars
                   ,
                   and
                   Heav'n
                   and
                   Earth
                   controuls
                   ;
                
                 
                   How
                   dare
                   you
                   ,
                   Mother
                   ,
                   endless
                   Date
                   demand
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   Vessels
                   moulded
                   by
                   a
                   Mortal
                   Hand
                   ?
                
                 
                   What
                   then
                   is
                   Fate
                   ?
                   Shall
                   bold
                   Aeneas
                   ride
                
                 
                   Of
                   Safety
                   certain
                   ,
                   on
                   th'
                   uncertain
                   Tide
                   ?
                
                 
                   Yet
                   what
                   I
                   can
                   ,
                   I
                   grant
                   :
                   When
                   ,
                   wafted
                   o're
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Chief
                   is
                   landed
                   on
                   the
                   Latian
                   Shore
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whatever
                   Ships
                   escape
                   the
                   raging
                   Storms
                   ,
                
                 
                   At
                   my
                   Command
                   shall
                   change
                   their
                   fading
                   Forms
                
                 
                   To
                   Nymphs
                   Divine
                   :
                   and
                   plow
                   the
                   wat'ry
                   Way
                   ,
                
                 
                   Like
                   Dotis
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Daughters
                   of
                   the
                   Sea.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   To
                   seal
                   his
                   sacred
                   Vow
                   ,
                   by
                   Styx
                   he
                   swore
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Lake
                   of
                   liquid
                   Pitch
                   ,
                   the
                   dreery
                   Shore
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   
                   Phlegethon's
                   innavigable
                   Flood
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   black
                   Regions
                   of
                   his
                   Brother
                   God
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   said
                   ;
                   and
                   shook
                   the
                   Skies
                   with
                   his
                   Imperial
                   Nod.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   And
                   now
                   at
                   length
                   the
                   number'd
                   Hours
                   were
                   come
                   ,
                
                 
                   Prefix'd
                   by
                   Fate
                   's
                   irrevocable
                   Doom
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   the
                   great
                   Mother
                   of
                   the
                   Gods
                   was
                   free
                
                 
                   To
                   save
                   her
                   Ships
                   ,
                   and
                   finish
                   
                   Jove's
                   Decree
                   .
                
                 
                   First
                   ,
                   from
                   the
                   Quarter
                   of
                   the
                   Morn
                   ,
                   there
                   sprung
                
                 
                   A
                   Light
                   that
                   sign'd
                   the
                   Heav'ns
                   ,
                   and
                   shot
                   along
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   from
                   a
                   Cloud
                   ,
                   fring'd
                   round
                   with
                   Golden
                   Fires
                   ,
                
                 
                   Were
                   Timbrels
                   heard
                   ,
                   and
                   Berecynthian
                   Quires
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   last
                   a
                   Voice
                   ,
                   with
                   more
                   than
                   Mortal
                   Sounds
                   ,
                
                 
                   Both
                   Hosts
                   in
                   Arms
                   oppos'd
                   ,
                   with
                   equal
                   Horrour
                   wounds
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   O
                   Trojan
                   Race
                   ,
                   your
                   needless
                   Aid
                   forbear
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   know
                   my
                   Ships
                   are
                   my
                   peculiar
                   Care.
                
                 
                   With
                   greater
                   ease
                   the
                   bold
                   Rutulian
                   may
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   hissing
                   Brands
                   ,
                   attempt
                   to
                   burn
                   the
                   Sea
                   ,
                
                 
                   Than
                   sindge
                   my
                   sacred
                   Pines
                   .
                   But
                   you
                   my
                   Charge
                   ,
                
                 
                   Loos'd
                   from
                   your
                   crooked
                   Anchors
                   lanch
                   at
                   large
                   ,
                
                 
                   Exalted
                   each
                   a
                   Nymph
                   :
                   Forsake
                   the
                   Sand
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   swim
                   the
                   Seas
                   ,
                   at
                   
                   Cybele's
                   Command
                   .
                
                 
                   No
                   sooner
                   had
                   the
                   Goddess
                   ceas'd
                   to
                   speak
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   lo
                   ,
                   th'
                   obedient
                   Ships
                   ,
                   their
                   Haulsers
                   break
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   strange
                   to
                   tell
                   ,
                   like
                   Dolphins
                   in
                   the
                   Main
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   plunge
                   their
                   Prows
                   ,
                   and
                   dive
                   ,
                   and
                   spring
                   again
                   :
                
                 
                   As
                   many
                   beauteous
                   Maids
                   the
                   Billows
                   sweep
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   rode
                   before
                   tall
                   Vessels
                   on
                   the
                   Deep
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Foes
                   ,
                   surpriz'd
                   with
                   Wonder
                   ,
                   stood
                   aghast
                   ,
                
                 
                   Messapus
                   curb'd
                   his
                   fiery
                   Courser's
                   haste
                   ;
                
                 
                   Old
                   Tyber
                   roar'd
                   ;
                   and
                   raising
                   up
                   his
                   Head
                   ,
                
                 
                   Call'd
                   back
                   his
                   Waters
                   to
                   their
                   Oozy
                   Bed.
                
                 
                   Turnus
                   alone
                   ,
                   undaunted
                   ,
                   bore
                   the
                   Shock
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   these
                   Words
                   his
                   trembling
                   Troops
                   bespoke
                   ▪
                
                 
                   These
                   Monsters
                   for
                   the
                   Trojans
                   Fate
                   are
                   meant
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   are
                   by
                   Jove
                   for
                   black
                   Presages
                   sent
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   takes
                   the
                   Cowards
                   last
                   Relief
                   away
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   fly
                   they
                   cannot
                   ;
                   and
                   ,
                   constrain'd
                   to
                   stay
                   ,
                
                 
                   Must
                   yield
                   unfought
                   ,
                   a
                   base
                   inglorious
                   Prey
                   .
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     Thomas
                     Foley
                     Jun
                     r
                     :
                     of
                     Great
                     Witley
                     Court
                     in
                     the
                     County
                     of
                     Worcester
                     
                       Esq.
                       
                    
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     9.
                     l.
                     130.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                 
                   The
                   liquid
                   half
                   of
                   all
                   the
                   Globe
                   ,
                   is
                   lost
                   ;
                
                 
                   Heav'n
                   shuts
                   the
                   Seas
                   ,
                   and
                   we
                   secure
                   the
                   Coast
                   .
                
                 
                   Theirs
                   is
                   no
                   more
                   ,
                   than
                   that
                   small
                   spot
                   of
                   Ground
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   Millions
                   of
                   our
                   Martial
                   Troops
                   surround
                   .
                
                 
                   Their
                   Fates
                   I
                   fear
                   not
                   ;
                   or
                   vain
                   Oracles
                   ;
                
                 
                   'T
                   was
                   giv'n
                   to
                   Venus
                   ,
                   they
                   shou'd
                   cross
                   the
                   Seas
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   land
                   secure
                   upon
                   the
                   Latian
                   Plains
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   promis'd
                   Hour
                   is
                   pass'd
                   ,
                   and
                   mine
                   remains
                   .
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   in
                   the
                   Fate
                   of
                   Turnus
                   ,
                   to
                   destroy
                
                 
                   With
                   Sword
                   and
                   Fire
                   the
                   faithless
                   Race
                   of
                   Troy.
                
                 
                   Shall
                   such
                   Affronts
                   as
                   these
                   ,
                   alone
                   inflame
                
                 
                   The
                   Grecian
                   Brothers
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Grecian
                   Name
                   ?
                
                 
                   My
                   Cause
                   and
                   theirs
                   is
                   one
                   ;
                   a
                   fatal
                   Strife
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   final
                   Ruin
                   ,
                   for
                   a
                   ravish'd
                   Wife
                   .
                
                 
                   Was
                   't
                   not
                   enough
                   ,
                   that
                   ,
                   punish'd
                   for
                   the
                   Crime
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   fell
                   ;
                   but
                   will
                   they
                   fall
                   a
                   second
                   Time
                   ?
                
                 
                   One
                   wou'd
                   have
                   thought
                   they
                   paid
                   enough
                   before
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   curse
                   the
                   costly
                   Sex
                   ;
                   and
                   durst
                   offend
                   no
                   more
                   .
                
                 
                   Can
                   they
                   securely
                   trust
                   their
                   feeble
                   Wall
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   slight
                   Partition
                   ,
                   a
                   thin
                   Interval
                   ,
                
                 
                   Betwixt
                   their
                   Fate
                   and
                   them
                   ;
                   when
                   Troy
                   ,
                   tho'
                   built
                
                 
                   By
                   Hands
                   Divine
                   ,
                   yet
                   perish'd
                   by
                   their
                   Guilt
                   ?
                
                 
                   Lend
                   me
                   ,
                   for
                   once
                   ,
                   my
                   Friends
                   ,
                   your
                   valiant
                   Hands
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   force
                   from
                   out
                   their
                   Lines
                   these
                   dastard
                   Bands
                   .
                
                 
                   Less
                   than
                   a
                   thousand
                   Ships
                   will
                   end
                   this
                   War
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Vulcan
                   needs
                   his
                   fated
                   Arms
                   prepare
                   .
                
                 
                   Let
                   all
                   the
                   Tuscans
                   ,
                   all
                   th'
                   Arcadians
                   join
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   these
                   ,
                   nor
                   those
                   shall
                   frustrate
                   my
                   Design
                   .
                
                 
                   Let
                   them
                   not
                   fear
                   the
                   Treasons
                   of
                   the
                   Night
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   robb'd
                   Palladium
                   ,
                   the
                   pretended
                   flight
                   :
                
                 
                   Our
                   Onset
                   shall
                   be
                   made
                   in
                   open
                   Light.
                
                 
                   No
                   wooden
                   Engine
                   shall
                   their
                   Town
                   betray
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fires
                   they
                   shall
                   have
                   around
                   ,
                   but
                   Fires
                   by
                   Day
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   No
                   Grecian
                   Babes
                   before
                   their
                   Camp
                   appear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whom
                   
                   Hector's
                   Arms
                   detain'd
                   ,
                   to
                   the
                   tenth
                   tardy
                   Year
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   ,
                   since
                   the
                   Sun
                   is
                   rowling
                   to
                   the
                   West
                   ,
                
                 
                   Give
                   we
                   the
                   silent
                   Night
                   to
                   neeedful
                   Rest
                   :
                
                 
                   Refresh
                   your
                   Bodies
                   ,
                   and
                   your
                   Arms
                   prepare
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Morn
                   shall
                   end
                   the
                   small
                   Remains
                   of
                   War.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Post
                   of
                   Honour
                   to
                   Messapus
                   falls
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   keep
                   the
                   Nightly
                   Guard
                   ;
                   to
                   watch
                   the
                   Walls
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   pitch
                   the
                   Fires
                   at
                   Distances
                   around
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   close
                   the
                   Trojans
                   in
                   their
                   scanty
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                   Twice
                   seven
                   Rutulian
                   Captains
                   ready
                   stand
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   twice
                   seven
                   hundred
                   Horse
                   these
                   Chiefs
                   command
                   :
                
                 
                   All
                   clad
                   in
                   shining
                   Arms
                   the
                   Works
                   invest
                   ;
                
                 
                   Each
                   with
                   a
                   radiant
                   Helm
                   ,
                   and
                   waving
                   Crest
                   .
                
                 
                   Stretch'd
                   at
                   their
                   length
                   ,
                   they
                   press
                   the
                   grassy
                   Ground
                   ;
                
                 
                   They
                   laugh
                   ,
                   they
                   sing
                   ,
                   the
                   jolly
                   Bowls
                   go
                   round
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   Lights
                   ,
                   and
                   chearful
                   Fires
                   renew
                   the
                   Day
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   pass
                   the
                   wakeful
                   Night
                   in
                   Feasts
                   and
                   Play.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Trojans
                   ,
                   from
                   above
                   ,
                   their
                   Foes
                   beheld
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   arm'd
                   Legions
                   all
                   the
                   Rampires
                   fill'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Seiz'd
                   with
                   Affright
                   ,
                   their
                   Gates
                   they
                   first
                   explore
                   ,
                
                 
                   Join
                   Works
                   to
                   Works
                   with
                   Bridges
                   ;
                   Tow'r
                   to
                   Tow'r
                   :
                
                 
                   Thus
                   all
                   things
                   needful
                   for
                   Defence
                   ,
                   abound
                   ;
                
                 
                   Mnestheus
                   ,
                   and
                   brave
                   Seresthus
                   walk
                   the
                   round
                   :
                
                 
                   Commission'd
                   by
                   their
                   Absent
                   Prince
                   ,
                   to
                   share
                
                 
                   The
                   common
                   Danger
                   ,
                   and
                   divide
                   the
                   Care.
                
                 
                   The
                   Souldiers
                   draw
                   their
                   Lots
                   ;
                   and
                   as
                   they
                   fall
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   turns
                   relieve
                   each
                   other
                   on
                   the
                   Wall.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Nigh
                   where
                   the
                   Foes
                   their
                   utmost
                   Guards
                   advance
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   watch
                   the
                   Gate
                   ,
                   was
                   warlike
                   Nisus
                   chance
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   Father
                   Hyrtacus
                   of
                   Noble
                   Blood
                   ;
                
                 
                   His
                   Mother
                   was
                   a
                   Hunt'ress
                   of
                   the
                   Wood
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   sent
                   him
                   to
                   the
                   Wars
                   ;
                   well
                   cou'd
                   he
                   bear
                
                 
                   His
                   Lance
                   in
                   fight
                   ,
                   and
                   dart
                   the
                   flying
                   Spear
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   But
                   better
                   skill'd
                   unerring
                   Shafts
                   to
                   send
                   :
                
                 
                   Beside
                   him
                   stood
                   Euryalus
                   his
                   Friend
                   .
                
                 
                   Euryalus
                   ,
                   than
                   whom
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Hoast
                
                 
                   No
                   fairer
                   Face
                   ,
                   or
                   fweeter
                   Air
                   could
                   boast
                   .
                
                 
                   Scarce
                   had
                   the
                   Down
                   to
                   shade
                   his
                   Cheeks
                   begun
                   ;
                
                 
                   One
                   was
                   their
                   Care
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   Delight
                   was
                   one
                   .
                
                 
                   One
                   Common
                   hazard
                   in
                   the
                   War
                   they
                   shar'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   were
                   both
                   by
                   choice
                   upon
                   the
                   Guard.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   Nisus
                   ,
                   thus
                   :
                   Or
                   do
                   the
                   Gods
                   inspire
                
                 
                   This
                   warmth
                   ,
                   or
                   make
                   we
                   Gods
                   of
                   our
                   Desire
                   ?
                
                 
                   A
                   gen'rous
                   ardour
                   boils
                   within
                   my
                   Breast
                   ,
                
                 
                   Eager
                   of
                   Action
                   ,
                   Enemy
                   to
                   Rest
                   :
                
                 
                   This
                   urges
                   me
                   to
                   fight
                   ,
                   and
                   fires
                   my
                   Mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   leave
                   a
                   memorable
                   Name
                   behind
                   .
                
                 
                   Thou
                   see'st
                   the
                   Foe
                   secure
                   :
                   how
                   faintly
                   shine
                
                 
                   Their
                   scatter'd
                   Fires
                   !
                   the
                   most
                   in
                   Sleep
                   supine
                   ;
                
                 
                   Along
                   the
                   ground
                   ,
                   an
                   easie
                   Conquest
                   lye
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   wakeful
                   few
                   ,
                   the
                   fuming
                   Flaggon
                   ply
                   :
                
                 
                   All
                   hush'd
                   around
                   .
                   Now
                   hear
                   what
                   I
                   revolve
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   Thought
                   unripe
                   ;
                   and
                   scarcely
                   yet
                   resolve
                   .
                
                 
                   Our
                   absent
                   Prince
                   both
                   Camp
                   and
                   Council
                   mourn
                   ;
                
                 
                   By
                   Message
                   both
                   wou'd
                   hasten
                   his
                   return
                   :
                
                 
                   If
                   they
                   confer
                   what
                   I
                   demand
                   ,
                   on
                   thee
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   For
                   Fame
                   is
                   Recompence
                   enough
                   for
                   me
                   )
                
                 
                   Methinks
                   ,
                   beneath
                   yon
                   Hill
                   ,
                   I
                   have
                   espy'd
                
                 
                   A
                   way
                   that
                   safely
                   will
                   my
                   passage
                   guide
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Euryalus
                   stood
                   list'ning
                   while
                   he
                   spoke
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   love
                   of
                   Praise
                   ,
                   and
                   noble
                   Envy
                   struck
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   to
                   his
                   ardent
                   Friend
                   expos'd
                   his
                   Mind
                   :
                
                 
                   All
                   this
                   alone
                   ,
                   and
                   leaving
                   me
                   behind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Am
                   I
                   unworthy
                   ,
                   Nisus
                   ,
                   to
                   be
                   join'd
                   ?
                
                 
                   Think'st
                   thou
                   I
                   can
                   my
                   share
                   of
                   Glory
                   yield
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   send
                   thee
                   unassisted
                   to
                   the
                   Field
                   ?
                
                 
                 
                   Not
                   so
                   my
                   Father
                   taught
                   my
                   Childhood
                   Arms
                   ;
                
                 
                   Born
                   in
                   a
                   Siege
                   ,
                   and
                   bred
                   among
                   Alarms
                   !
                
                 
                   Nor
                   is
                   my
                   Youth
                   unworthy
                   of
                   my
                   Friend
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   of
                   the
                   Heav'n-born
                   Heroe
                   I
                   attend
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   thing
                   call'd
                   Life
                   ,
                   with
                   ease
                   I
                   can
                   disclaim
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   think
                   it
                   over
                   sold
                   to
                   purchase
                   Fame
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   Nisus
                   ,
                   thus
                   ;
                   alas
                   !
                   thy
                   tender
                   years
                
                 
                   Wou'd
                   minister
                   new
                   matter
                   to
                   my
                   Fears
                   :
                
                 
                   So
                   may
                   the
                   Gods
                   ,
                   who
                   view
                   this
                   friendly
                   Strife
                   ,
                
                 
                   Restore
                   me
                   to
                   thy
                   lov'd
                   Embrace
                   with
                   life
                   ,
                
                 
                   Condemn'd
                   to
                   pay
                   my
                   Vows
                   (
                   as
                   sure
                   I
                   trust
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                   This
                   thy
                   Request
                   is
                   Cruel
                   and
                   Unjust
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   if
                   some
                   Chance
                   ,
                   as
                   many
                   Chances
                   are
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   doubtful
                   Hazards
                   in
                   the
                   deeds
                   of
                   War
                   ;
                
                 
                   If
                   one
                   shou'd
                   reach
                   my
                   Head
                   ,
                   there
                   let
                   it
                   fall
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   spare
                   thy
                   Life
                   ;
                   I
                   wou'd
                   not
                   perish
                   all
                   .
                
                 
                   Thy
                   bloomy
                   Youth
                   deserves
                   a
                   longer
                   date
                   ;
                
                 
                   Live
                   thou
                   to
                   mourn
                   thy
                   Love
                   's
                   unhappy
                   Fate
                   :
                
                 
                   To
                   bear
                   my
                   mangled
                   Body
                   from
                   the
                   Foe
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   buy
                   it
                   back
                   ,
                   and
                   Fun'ral
                   Rites
                   bestow
                   .
                
                 
                   Or
                   if
                   hard
                   Fortune
                   shall
                   those
                   Dues
                   deny
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thou
                   canst
                   at
                   least
                   an
                   empty
                   Tomb
                   supply
                   .
                
                 
                   O
                   let
                   not
                   me
                   the
                   Widows
                   Tears
                   renew
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   let
                   a
                   Mother's
                   Curse
                   my
                   Name
                   pursue
                   ;
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Pious
                   Parent
                   ,
                   who
                   ,
                   for
                   love
                   of
                   thee
                   ,
                
                 
                   Forsook
                   the
                   Coasts
                   of
                   friendly
                   Sicily
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   Age
                   ,
                   committing
                   to
                   the
                   Seas
                   and
                   Wind
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   ev'ry
                   weary
                   Matron
                   staid
                   behind
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   this
                   ,
                   Euryalus
                   ,
                   you
                   plead
                   in
                   vain
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   but
                   protract
                   the
                   Cause
                   you
                   cannot
                   gain
                   :
                
                 
                   No
                   more
                   delays
                   ,
                   but
                   haste
                   .
                   With
                   that
                   he
                   wakes
                
                 
                   The
                   nodding
                   Watch
                   ;
                   each
                   to
                   his
                   Office
                   takes
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Guard
                   reliev'd
                   ,
                   the
                   gen'rous
                   Couple
                   went
                
                 
                   To
                   find
                   the
                   Council
                   at
                   the
                   Royal
                   Tent.
                
                 
                 
                   All
                   Creatures
                   else
                   forgot
                   their
                   daily
                   Care
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Sleep
                   ,
                   the
                   common
                   Gift
                   of
                   Nature
                   ,
                   share
                   :
                
                 
                   Except
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Peers
                   ,
                   who
                   wakeful
                   sate
                
                 
                   In
                   nightly
                   Council
                   for
                   th'
                   indanger'd
                   State.
                
                 
                   They
                   vote
                   a
                   Message
                   to
                   their
                   absent
                   Chief
                   ;
                
                 
                   Shew
                   their
                   Distress
                   ;
                   and
                   beg
                   a
                   swift
                   Relief
                   .
                
                 
                   Amid
                   the
                   Camp
                   a
                   silent
                   Seat
                   they
                   chose
                   ,
                
                 
                   Remote
                   from
                   Clamour
                   ,
                   and
                   secure
                   from
                   Foes
                   .
                
                 
                   On
                   their
                   left
                   Arms
                   their
                   ample
                   Shields
                   they
                   bear
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   right
                   reclin'd
                   upon
                   the
                   bending
                   Spear
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   Nisus
                   and
                   his
                   Friend
                   approach
                   the
                   Guard
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   beg
                   Admission
                   ,
                   eager
                   to
                   be
                   heard
                   :
                
                 
                   Th'
                   Affair
                   important
                   ,
                   not
                   to
                   be
                   deferr'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Ascanius
                   bids
                   'em
                   be
                   conducted
                   in
                   ;
                
                 
                   Ord'ring
                   the
                   more
                   experienc'd
                   to
                   begin
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   Nisus
                   thus
                   .
                   Ye
                   Fathers
                   lend
                   your
                   Ears
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   judge
                   our
                   bold
                   Attempt
                   beyond
                   our
                   Years
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Foe
                   securely
                   drench'd
                   in
                   Sleep
                   and
                   Wine
                   ,
                
                 
                   Neglect
                   their
                   Watch
                   ;
                   the
                   Fires
                   but
                   thinly
                   shine
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   where
                   the
                   Smoke
                   ,
                   in
                   cloudy
                   Vapours
                   flies
                   ,
                
                 
                   Cov'ring
                   the
                   Plain
                   ,
                   and
                   curling
                   to
                   the
                   Skies
                   ,
                
                 
                   Betwixt
                   two
                   Paths
                   ,
                   which
                   at
                   the
                   Gate
                   divide
                   ,
                
                 
                   Close
                   by
                   the
                   Sea
                   ,
                   a
                   Passage
                   we
                   have
                   spy'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   will
                   our
                   way
                   to
                   great
                   Aeneas
                   guide
                   .
                
                 
                   Expect
                   each
                   Hour
                   to
                   see
                   him
                   safe
                   again
                   ,
                
                 
                   Loaded
                   with
                   Spoils
                   of
                   Foes
                   in
                   Battel
                   slain
                   .
                
                 
                   Snatch
                   we
                   the
                   lucky
                   Minute
                   while
                   we
                   may
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   can
                   we
                   be
                   mistaken
                   in
                   the
                   way
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   hunting
                   in
                   the
                   Vale
                   ,
                   we
                   both
                   have
                   seen
                
                 
                   The
                   rising
                   Turrets
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Stream
                   between
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   know
                   the
                   winding
                   Course
                   ,
                   with
                   ev'ry
                   Ford.
                
                 
                   He
                   ceas'd
                   :
                   And
                   old
                   Alethes
                   took
                   the
                   Word
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Our
                   Country
                   Gods
                   ,
                   in
                   whom
                   our
                   Trust
                   we
                   place
                   ,
                
                 
                   Will
                   yet
                   from
                   Ruin
                   save
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Race
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   While
                   we
                   behold
                   such
                   dauntless
                   Worth
                   appear
                
                 
                   In
                   dawning
                   Youth
                   ;
                   and
                   Souls
                   so
                   void
                   of
                   Fear
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   into
                   Tears
                   of
                   Joy
                   the
                   Father
                   broke
                   ;
                
                 
                   Each
                   in
                   his
                   longing
                   Arms
                   by
                   Turns
                   he
                   took
                   :
                
                 
                   Panted
                   and
                   paus'd
                   ;
                   and
                   thus
                   again
                   he
                   spoke
                   .
                
                 
                   Ye
                   brave
                   young
                   Men
                   ,
                   what
                   equal
                   Gifts
                   can
                   we
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   recompencc
                   of
                   such
                   Desert
                   ,
                   decree
                   ?
                
                 
                   The
                   greatest
                   ,
                   sure
                   ,
                   and
                   best
                   you
                   can
                   receive
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Gods
                   ,
                   and
                   your
                   own
                   conscious
                   Worth
                   will
                   give
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   rest
                   our
                   grateful
                   Gen'ral
                   will
                   bestow
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   young
                   Ascanius
                   'till
                   his
                   Manhood
                   owe.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   I
                   ,
                   whose
                   Welfare
                   in
                   my
                   Father
                   lies
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ascanius
                   adds
                   ,
                   by
                   the
                   great
                   Deities
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   my
                   dear
                   Country
                   ,
                   by
                   my
                   household
                   Gods
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   hoary
                   
                   Vesta's
                   Rites
                   ,
                   and
                   dark
                   Abodes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Adjure
                   you
                   both
                   ;
                   (
                   on
                   you
                   my
                   Fortune
                   stands
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   and
                   my
                   Faith
                   I
                   plight
                   into
                   your
                   Hands
                   :
                   )
                
                 
                   Make
                   me
                   but
                   happy
                   in
                   his
                   safe
                   Return
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whose
                   wanted
                   Presence
                   I
                   can
                   only
                   mourn
                   ;
                
                 
                   Your
                   common
                   Gift
                   shall
                   two
                   large
                   Goblets
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   Silver
                   ,
                   wrought
                   with
                   curious
                   Imagery
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   high
                   emboss'd
                   ,
                   which
                   ,
                   when
                   old
                   Priam
                   reign'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   conqu'ring
                   Sire
                   at
                   sack'd
                   Arisba
                   gain'd
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   more
                   ,
                   two
                   Tripods
                   cast
                   in
                   antick
                   Mould
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   two
                   great
                   Talents
                   of
                   the
                   finest
                   Gold
                   :
                
                 
                   Beside
                   a
                   costly
                   Bowl
                   ,
                   ingrav'd
                   with
                   Art
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   Dido
                   gave
                   ,
                   when
                   first
                   she
                   gave
                   her
                   Heart
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   if
                   in
                   conquer'd
                   Italy
                   we
                   reign
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   Spoils
                   by
                   Lot
                   the
                   Victor
                   shall
                   obtain
                   ;
                
                 
                   Thou
                   saw'st
                   the
                   Courser
                   by
                   proud
                   Turnus
                   press'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   ,
                   Nisus
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Arms
                   ,
                   and
                   nodding
                   Crest
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Shield
                   ,
                   from
                   Chance
                   exempt
                   ,
                   shall
                   be
                   thy
                   Share
                   ;
                
                 
                   Twelve
                   lab'ring
                   Slaves
                   ,
                   twelve
                   Handmaids
                   young
                   and
                   fair
                   ,
                
                 
                   All
                   clad
                   in
                   rich
                   Attire
                   ,
                   and
                   train'd
                   with
                   Care.
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   last
                   ,
                   a
                   Latian
                   Field
                   with
                   fruitful
                   Plains
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   a
                   large
                   Portion
                   of
                   the
                   King
                   's
                   Domains
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   thou
                   ,
                   whose
                   Years
                   are
                   more
                   to
                   mine
                   ally'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   Fate
                   my
                   vow'd
                   Affection
                   shall
                   divide
                
                 
                   From
                   thee
                   ,
                   Heroick
                   Youth
                   ;
                   be
                   wholly
                   mine
                   :
                
                 
                   Take
                   full
                   Possession
                   ;
                   all
                   my
                   Soul
                   is
                   thine
                   .
                
                 
                   One
                   Faith
                   ,
                   one
                   Fame
                   ,
                   one
                   Fate
                   shall
                   both
                   attend
                   ;
                
                 
                   My
                   Life's
                   Companion
                   ,
                   and
                   my
                   Bosom
                   Friend
                   .
                
                 
                   My
                   Peace
                   shall
                   be
                   committed
                   to
                   thy
                   Care
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   to
                   thy
                   Conduct
                   ,
                   my
                   Concerns
                   in
                   War.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   thus
                   the
                   young
                   Euryalus
                   reply'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Whatever
                   Fortune
                   ,
                   good
                   or
                   bad
                   betide
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   same
                   shall
                   be
                   my
                   Age
                   ,
                   as
                   now
                   my
                   Youth
                   ;
                
                 
                   No
                   time
                   shall
                   find
                   me
                   wanting
                   to
                   my
                   Truth
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   only
                   from
                   your
                   Goodness
                   let
                   me
                   gain
                   ;
                
                 
                   (
                   And
                   this
                   ungranted
                   ,
                   all
                   Rewards
                   are
                   vain
                   )
                
                 
                   Of
                   
                   Priam's
                   Royal
                   Race
                   my
                   Mother
                   came
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   sure
                   the
                   best
                   that
                   ever
                   bore
                   the
                   Name
                   :
                
                 
                   Whom
                   neither
                   Troy
                   ,
                   nor
                   Sicily
                   cou'd
                   hold
                
                 
                   From
                   me
                   departing
                   ,
                   but
                   o'respent
                   ,
                   and
                   old
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Fate
                   she
                   follow'd
                   ;
                   ignorant
                   of
                   this
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whatever
                   Danger
                   ,
                   neither
                   parting
                   Kiss
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   pious
                   Blessing
                   taken
                   ,
                   her
                   I
                   leave
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   in
                   this
                   only
                   Act
                   of
                   all
                   my
                   Life
                   deceive
                   .
                
                 
                   By
                   this
                   right
                   Hand
                   ,
                   and
                   conscious
                   Night
                   I
                   swear
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Soul
                   so
                   sad
                   a
                   farewel
                   could
                   not
                   bear
                   .
                
                 
                   Be
                   you
                   her
                   Comfort
                   ;
                   fill
                   my
                   vacant
                   place
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   Permit
                   me
                   to
                   presume
                   so
                   great
                   a
                   Grace
                   )
                
                 
                   Support
                   her
                   Age
                   ,
                   forsaken
                   and
                   distress'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   hope
                   alone
                   will
                   fortifie
                   my
                   Breast
                
                 
                   Against
                   the
                   worst
                   of
                   Fortunes
                   ,
                   and
                   of
                   Fears
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   said
                   :
                   The
                   mov'd
                   Assistants
                   melt
                   in
                   Tears
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   thus
                   Ascanius
                   ,
                   (
                   wonder-struck
                   to
                   see
                
                 
                   That
                   Image
                   of
                   his
                   filial
                   Piety
                   ;
                   )
                
                 
                 
                   So
                   great
                   Beginnings
                   ,
                   in
                   so
                   green
                   an
                   Age
                   ,
                
                 
                   Exact
                   the
                   Faith
                   ,
                   which
                   I
                   again
                   ingage
                   .
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Mother
                   all
                   the
                   Dues
                   shall
                   justly
                   claim
                
                 
                   Creusa
                   had
                   ;
                   and
                   only
                   want
                   the
                   Name
                   .
                
                 
                   Whate're
                   Event
                   thy
                   bold
                   Attempt
                   shall
                   have
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   Merit
                   to
                   have
                   born
                   a
                   Son
                   so
                   brave
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   by
                   my
                   Head
                   ,
                   a
                   sacred
                   Oath
                   ,
                   I
                   swear
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   My
                   Father
                   us'd
                   it
                   )
                   what
                   returning
                   here
                
                 
                   Crown'd
                   with
                   Success
                   ,
                   I
                   for
                   thy self
                   prepare
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   ,
                   if
                   thou
                   fail
                   ,
                   shall
                   thy
                   lov'd
                   Mother
                   share
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   He
                   said
                   ;
                   and
                   weeping
                   while
                   he
                   spoke
                   the
                   Word
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   his
                   broad
                   Belt
                   he
                   drew
                   a
                   shining
                   Sword
                   ,
                
                 
                   Magnificent
                   with
                   Gold.
                   Lycaon
                   made
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   an
                   Iv'ry
                   Scabbard
                   sheath'd
                   the
                   Blade
                   :
                
                 
                   This
                   was
                   his
                   Gift
                   :
                   Great
                   Mnestheus
                   gave
                   his
                   Friend
                
                 
                   A
                   Lyon's
                   Hide
                   ,
                   his
                   Body
                   to
                   defend
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   good
                   Alethes
                   furnish'd
                   him
                   beside
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   his
                   own
                   trusty
                   Helm
                   ,
                   of
                   Temper
                   try'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Thus
                   arm'd
                   they
                   went.
                   The
                   Noble
                   Trojans
                   wait
                
                 
                   Their
                   issuing
                   forth
                   ,
                   and
                   follow
                   to
                   the
                   Gate
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   Prayers
                   and
                   Vows
                   ,
                   above
                   the
                   rest
                   appears
                
                 
                   Ascanius
                   ,
                   manly
                   far
                   beyond
                   his
                   Years
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   Messages
                   committed
                   to
                   their
                   Care
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   all
                   in
                   Winds
                   were
                   lost
                   ,
                   and
                   flitting
                   Air.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Trenches
                   first
                   they
                   pass'd
                   :
                   Then
                   took
                   their
                   Way
                
                 
                   Where
                   their
                   proud
                   Foes
                   in
                   pitch'd
                   Pavilions
                   lay
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   many
                   fatal
                   ,
                   e're
                   themselves
                   were
                   slain
                   :
                
                 
                   They
                   found
                   the
                   careless
                   Hoast
                   dispers'd
                   upon
                   the
                   Plain
                   .
                
                 
                   Who
                   gorg'd
                   ,
                   and
                   drunk
                   with
                   Wine
                   ,
                   supinely
                   snore
                   ;
                
                 
                   Unharnass'd
                   Chariots
                   stand
                   along
                   the
                   Shore
                   :
                
                 
                   Amidst
                   the
                   Wheels
                   and
                   Reins
                   ,
                   the
                   Goblet
                   by
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Medly
                   of
                   Debauch
                   and
                   War
                   they
                   lye
                   .
                
                 
                   Observing
                   Nisus
                   shew'd
                   his
                   Friend
                   the
                   sight
                   ;
                
                 
                   Behold
                   a
                   Conquest
                   gain'd
                   without
                   a
                   Fight
                   .
                
              
               
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     y
                     e
                     Hon
                     ble
                     :
                     Colonel
                     George
                     Cholmondeley
                     Colonel
                     of
                     his
                     Majestys
                     Troop
                     of
                     Granadier
                     Guards
                     &
                     Groome
                     of
                     his
                     Maj
                     ties
                     :
                     Bedchamber
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     9.
                     l.
                     435.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Occasion
                   offers
                   ,
                   and
                   I
                   stand
                   prepar'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   There
                   lies
                   our
                   Way
                   ;
                   be
                   thou
                   upon
                   the
                   Guard
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   look
                   around
                   ;
                   while
                   I
                   securely
                   go
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   a
                   hew
                   Passage
                   ,
                   thro
                   the
                   sleeping
                   Foe
                   .
                
                 
                   Softly
                   he
                   spoke
                   ;
                   then
                   striding
                   ,
                   took
                   his
                   way
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   his
                   drawn
                   Sword
                   ,
                   where
                   haughty
                   Rhamnes
                   lay
                   :
                
                 
                   His
                   Head
                   rais'd
                   high
                   ,
                   on
                   Tapestry
                   beneath
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   heaving
                   from
                   his
                   Breast
                   ,
                   he
                   drew
                   his
                   Breath
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   King
                   and
                   Prophet
                   by
                   King
                   Turnus
                   lov'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   Fate
                   by
                   Prescience
                   cannot
                   be
                   remov'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Him
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   sleeping
                   Slaves
                   he
                   slew
                   .
                   Then
                   spies
                
                 
                   Where
                   Rhemus
                   ,
                   with
                   his
                   rich
                   Retinue
                   lies
                   :
                
                 
                   His
                   Armor-bearer
                   first
                   ,
                   and
                   next
                   he
                   kills
                
                 
                   His
                   Charioteer
                   ,
                   intrench'd
                   betwixt
                   the
                   Wheels
                
                 
                   And
                   his
                   lov'd
                   Horses
                   :
                   Last
                   invades
                   their
                   Lord
                   ;
                
                 
                   Full
                   on
                   his
                   Neck
                   he
                   drives
                   the
                   fatal
                   Sword
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   gasping
                   Head
                   flies
                   off
                   ;
                   a
                   Purple
                   flood
                
                 
                   Flows
                   from
                   the
                   Trunk
                   ,
                   that
                   welters
                   in
                   the
                   Blood
                   :
                
                 
                   Which
                   by
                   the
                   spurning
                   Heels
                   ,
                   dispers'd
                   around
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Bed
                   besprinkles
                   ,
                   and
                   bedews
                   the
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                   Lamus
                   the
                   bold
                   ,
                   and
                   Lamyrus
                   the
                   strong
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   slew
                   ;
                   and
                   then
                   Serranus
                   fair
                   and
                   young
                   :
                
                 
                   From
                   Dice
                   and
                   Wine
                   the
                   Youth
                   retir'd
                   to
                   Rest
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   puff'd
                   the
                   fumy
                   God
                   from
                   out
                   his
                   Breast
                   :
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   then
                   he
                   dreamt
                   of
                   Drink
                   and
                   lucky
                   Play
                   ;
                
                 
                   More
                   lucky
                   had
                   it
                   lasted
                   'till
                   the
                   Day
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   famish'd
                   Lyon
                   thus
                   ,
                   with
                   Hunger
                   bold
                   ;
                
                 
                   O'releaps
                   the
                   Fences
                   of
                   the
                   Nightly
                   Fold
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   tears
                   the
                   peaceful
                   Flocks
                   :
                   With
                   silent
                   Awe
                
                 
                   Trembling
                   they
                   lye
                   ,
                   and
                   pant
                   beneath
                   his
                   Paw
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Nor
                   with
                   less
                   Rage
                   Euryalus
                   employs
                
                 
                   The
                   wrathful
                   Sword
                   ,
                   or
                   fewer
                   Foes
                   destroys
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   on
                   th'
                   ignoble
                   Crowd
                   his
                   Fury
                   flew
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   
                     Fadus
                     ,
                     Hebesus
                  
                   ,
                   and
                   Rhaetus
                   slew
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Oppress'd
                   with
                   heavy
                   Sleep
                   the
                   former
                   fall
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   Rhoetus
                   wakeful
                   ,
                   and
                   observing
                   all
                   :
                
                 
                   Behind
                   a
                   spacious
                   Jarr
                   he
                   slink'd
                   for
                   fear
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   fatal
                   Iron
                   found
                   ,
                   and
                   reach'd
                   him
                   there
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   as
                   he
                   rose
                   ,
                   it
                   pierc'd
                   his
                   naked
                   side
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   reeking
                   ,
                   thence
                   return'd
                   in
                   Crimson
                   dy'd
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Wound
                   pours
                   out
                   a
                   Stream
                   of
                   Wine
                   and
                   Blood
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Purple
                   Soul
                   comes
                   floating
                   in
                   the
                   flood
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Now
                   where
                   Messapus
                   Quarter'd
                   they
                   arrive
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Fires
                   were
                   fainting
                   there
                   ,
                   and
                   just
                   alive
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Warriour-Horses
                   ty'd
                   in
                   order
                   fed
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nisus
                   observ'd
                   the
                   Discipline
                   ,
                   and
                   said
                   ,
                
                 
                   Our
                   eager
                   thirst
                   of
                   Blood
                   may
                   both
                   betray
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   see
                   the
                   scatter'd
                   Streaks
                   of
                   dawning
                   day
                   ,
                
                 
                   Foe
                   to
                   Nocturnal
                   Thefts
                   :
                   No
                   more
                   ,
                   my
                   Friend
                   ,
                
                 
                   Here
                   let
                   our
                   glutted
                   Execution
                   end
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   Lane
                   through
                   slaughter'd
                   Bodies
                   we
                   have
                   made
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   bold
                   Euryalus
                   ,
                   tho'
                   loath
                   ,
                   obey'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Of
                   Arms
                   ,
                   and
                   Arras
                   ,
                   and
                   of
                   Plate
                   they
                   find
                
                 
                   A
                   precious
                   load
                   ;
                   but
                   these
                   they
                   leave
                   behind
                   .
                
                 
                   Yet
                   fond
                   of
                   gaudy
                   Spoils
                   the
                   Boy
                   wou'd
                   stay
                
                 
                   To
                   make
                   the
                   rich
                   Caparison
                   his
                   prey
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   on
                   the
                   steed
                   of
                   conquer'd
                   Rhamnes
                   lay
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   did
                   his
                   Eyes
                   less
                   longingly
                   behold
                
                 
                   The
                   Girdle-Belt
                   ,
                   with
                   Nails
                   of
                   burnish'd
                   Gold.
                
                 
                   This
                   Present
                   Cedicus
                   the
                   Rich
                   ,
                   bestow'd
                
                 
                   On
                   Remulus
                   ,
                   when
                   Friendship
                   first
                   they
                   vow'd
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   absent
                   ,
                   join'd
                   in
                   hospitable
                   tyes
                   ;
                
                 
                   He
                   dying
                   ,
                   to
                   his
                   Heir
                   bequeath'd
                   the
                   Prize
                   :
                
                 
                   Till
                   by
                   the
                   Conqu'ring
                   Ardean
                   Troops
                   oppress'd
                
                 
                   He
                   fell
                   ;
                   and
                   they
                   the
                   Glorious
                   Gift
                   possess'd
                   .
                
                 
                   These
                   Glitt'ring
                   Spoils
                   (
                   now
                   made
                   the
                   Victor's
                   gain
                   )
                
                 
                   He
                   to
                   his
                   body
                   suits
                   ;
                   but
                   suits
                   in
                   vain
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Messapus
                   Helm
                   he
                   finds
                   among
                   the
                   rest
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   laces
                   on
                   ,
                   and
                   wears
                   the
                   waving
                   Crest
                   .
                
                 
                   Proud
                   of
                   their
                   Conquest
                   ,
                   prouder
                   of
                   their
                   Prey
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   leave
                   the
                   Camp
                   ;
                   and
                   take
                   the
                   ready
                   way
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   far
                   they
                   had
                   not
                   pass'd
                   ,
                   before
                   they
                   spy'd
                
                 
                   Three
                   hundred
                   Horse
                   with
                   Volscens
                   for
                   their
                   Guide
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Queen
                   a
                   Legion
                   to
                   King
                   Turnus
                   sent
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   the
                   swift
                   Horse
                   the
                   slower
                   Foot
                   outwent
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   advancing
                   ,
                   sought
                   the
                   Leader's
                   Tent.
                
                 
                   They
                   saw
                   the
                   Pair
                   ;
                   for
                   thro'
                   the
                   doubtful
                   shade
                
                 
                   His
                   shineing
                   Helm
                   Euryalus
                   betray'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   On
                   which
                   the
                   Moon
                   with
                   full
                   reflexion
                   play'd
                   .
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   not
                   for
                   nought
                   ,
                   cry'd
                   Volscens
                   ,
                   from
                   the
                   Crow'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   These
                   Men
                   go
                   there
                   ;
                   then
                   rais'd
                   his
                   Voice
                   aloud
                   :
                
                 
                   Stand
                   ,
                   stand
                   :
                   why
                   thus
                   in
                   Arms
                   ,
                   and
                   whither
                   bent
                   ;
                
                 
                   From
                   whence
                   ,
                   to
                   whom
                   ,
                   and
                   on
                   what
                   Errand
                   sent
                   ?
                
                 
                   Silent
                   they
                   scud
                   away
                   ,
                   and
                   haste
                   their
                   flight
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   Neighb'ring
                   Woods
                   ,
                   and
                   trust
                   themselves
                   to
                   night
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   speedy
                   Horse
                   all
                   passages
                   belay
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   spur
                   their
                   smoaking
                   Steeds
                   to
                   Cross
                   their
                   way
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   watch
                   each
                   Entrance
                   of
                   the
                   winding
                   Wood
                   ;
                
                 
                   Black
                   was
                   the
                   Forest
                   ,
                   thick
                   with
                   Beech
                   it
                   stood
                   :
                
                 
                   Horrid
                   with
                   Fern
                   ,
                   and
                   intricate
                   with
                   Thorn
                   ,
                
                 
                   Few
                   Paths
                   of
                   Humane
                   Feet
                   or
                   Tracks
                   of
                   Beasts
                   were
                   worn
                
                 
                   The
                   darkness
                   of
                   the
                   Shades
                   ,
                   his
                   heavy
                   Prey
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Fear
                   ,
                   mis-led
                   the
                   Younger
                   from
                   his
                   way
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   Nisus
                   hit
                   the
                   Turns
                   with
                   happier
                   haste
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   thoughtless
                   of
                   his
                   Friend
                   ,
                   the
                   Forest
                   pass'd
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   Alban
                   Plains
                   ,
                   from
                   
                   Alba's
                   Name
                   so
                   call'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   King
                   Latinus
                   then
                   his
                   Oxen
                   stall'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Till
                   turning
                   at
                   the
                   length
                   ,
                   he
                   stood
                   his
                   ground
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   miss'd
                   his
                   Friend
                   ,
                   and
                   cast
                   his
                   Eyes
                   around
                   ;
                
                 
                   Ah
                   Wretch
                   ,
                   he
                   cry'd
                   ,
                   where
                   have
                   I
                   left
                   behind
                
                 
                   Th'
                   unhappy
                   Youth
                   ,
                   where
                   shall
                   I
                   hope
                   to
                   find
                   ?
                
                 
                 
                   Or
                   what
                   way
                   take
                   !
                   again
                   He
                   ventures
                   back
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   treads
                   the
                   Mazes
                   of
                   his
                   former
                   track
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   winds
                   the
                   Wood
                   ,
                   and
                   list'ning
                   hears
                   the
                   noise
                
                 
                   Of
                   trampling
                   Coursers
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Riders
                   voice
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   sound
                   approach'd
                   ,
                   and
                   suddenly
                   he
                   view'd
                
                 
                   The
                   Foes
                   inclosing
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Friend
                   pursu'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Forelay'd
                   and
                   taken
                   ,
                   while
                   he
                   strove
                   in
                   vain
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   shelter
                   of
                   the
                   friendly
                   Shades
                   to
                   gain
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   shou'd
                   he
                   next
                   attempt
                   !
                   what
                   Arms
                   employ
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   fruitless
                   Force
                   to
                   free
                   the
                   Captive
                   Boy
                   ?
                
                 
                   Or
                   desperate
                   shou'd
                   he
                   rush
                   and
                   lose
                   his
                   Life
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   odds
                   oppress'd
                   ,
                   in
                   such
                   unequal
                   strife
                   ?
                
                 
                   Resolv'd
                   at
                   length
                   ,
                   his
                   pointed
                   Spear
                   he
                   shook
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   casting
                   on
                   the
                   Moon
                   a
                   mournful
                   look
                   ,
                
                 
                   Guardian
                   of
                   Groves
                   ,
                   and
                   Goddess
                   of
                   the
                   Night
                   ;
                
                 
                   Fair
                   ,
                   Queen
                   ,
                   he
                   said
                   ,
                   direct
                   my
                   Dart
                   aright
                   :
                
                 
                   If
                   e're
                   my
                   Pious
                   Father
                   for
                   my
                   sake
                
                 
                   Did
                   grateful
                   Off'rings
                   on
                   thy
                   Altars
                   make
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   I
                   increas'd
                   them
                   with
                   my
                   Silvan
                   toils
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   hung
                   thy
                   Holy
                   Roofs
                   ,
                   with
                   Salvage
                   Spoils
                   ;
                
                 
                   Give
                   me
                   to
                   scatter
                   these
                   .
                   Then
                   from
                   his
                   Ear
                
                 
                   He
                   poiz'd
                   ,
                   and
                   aim'd
                   ,
                   and
                   lanch'd
                   the
                   trembling
                   Spear
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   deadly
                   Weapon
                   ,
                   hiffing
                   from
                   the
                   Grove
                   ,
                
                 
                   Impetuous
                   on
                   the
                   back
                   of
                   Sulmo
                   drove
                   :
                
                 
                   Pierc'd
                   his
                   thin
                   Armour
                   ,
                   drank
                   his
                   Vital
                   Blood
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   his
                   Body
                   left
                   the
                   broken
                   Wood.
                
                 
                   He
                   staggers
                   round
                   ,
                   his
                   Eyeballs
                   rowl
                   in
                   Death
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   short
                   sobs
                   he
                   gasps
                   away
                   his
                   Breath
                   .
                
                 
                   All
                   stand
                   amaz'd
                   ;
                   a
                   second
                   Jav'lin
                   flies
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   equal
                   strength
                   ,
                   and
                   quivers
                   through
                   the
                   Skies
                   ;
                
                 
                   This
                   through
                   thy
                   Temples
                   ,
                   Tagus
                   ,
                   forc'd
                   the
                   way
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   the
                   Brain-pan
                   warmly
                   bury'd
                   lay
                   .
                
                 
                   Fierce
                   Volscens
                   foams
                   with
                   Rage
                   ,
                   and
                   gazing
                   round
                   ,
                
                 
                   Descry'd
                   not
                   him
                   who
                   gave
                   the
                   Fatal
                   Wound
                   :
                
              
               
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     S
                     r
                     :
                     Io
                     n
                     Percivalé
                     Bart.
                     of
                     Barton
                     in
                     the
                     County
                     of
                     Corke
                     in
                     Ireland
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     9.
                     l.
                     590
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Nor
                   knew
                   to
                   fix
                   Revenge
                   :
                   but
                   thou
                   ,
                   he
                   cries
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shalt
                   pay
                   for
                   both
                   ,
                   and
                   at
                   the
                   Pris'ner
                   flies
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   his
                   drawn
                   Sword.
                   Then
                   struck
                   with
                   deep
                   Despair
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   cruel
                   sight
                   the
                   Lover
                   cou'd
                   not
                   bear
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   from
                   his
                   Covert
                   rush'd
                   in
                   open
                   view
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   sent
                   his
                   Voice
                   before
                   him
                   as
                   he
                   flew
                   .
                
                 
                   Me
                   ,
                   me
                   ,
                   he
                   cry'd
                   ,
                   turn
                   all
                   your
                   Swords
                   alone
                
                 
                   On
                   me
                   ;
                   the
                   Fact
                   confess'd
                   ,
                   the
                   Fault
                   my
                   own
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   neither
                   cou'd
                   nor
                   durst
                   ,
                   the
                   guiltless
                   Youth
                   ;
                
                 
                   Ye
                   Moon
                   and
                   Stars
                   bear
                   Witness
                   to
                   the
                   Truth
                   !
                
                 
                   His
                   only
                   Crime
                   ,
                   (
                   if
                   Friendship
                   can
                   offend
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                   Is
                   too
                   much
                   Love
                   ;
                   to
                   his
                   unhappy
                   Friend
                   .
                
                 
                   Too
                   late
                   he
                   speaks
                   ;
                   the
                   Sword
                   ,
                   which
                   Fury
                   guides
                   ,
                
                 
                   Driv'n
                   with
                   full
                   Force
                   ,
                   had
                   pierc'd
                   his
                   tender
                   Sides
                   .
                
                 
                   Down
                   fell
                   the
                   beauteous
                   Youth
                   ;
                   the
                   yawning
                   Wound
                
                 
                   Gush'd
                   out
                   a
                   Purple
                   Stream
                   ,
                   and
                   stain'd
                   the
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   snowy
                   Neck
                   reclines
                   upon
                   his
                   Breast
                   ,
                
                 
                   Like
                   a
                   fair
                   Flow'r
                   by
                   the
                   keen
                   Share
                   oppress'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Like
                   a
                   white
                   Poppy
                   sinking
                   on
                   the
                   Plain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whose
                   heavy
                   Head
                   is
                   overcharg'd
                   with
                   Rain
                   .
                
                 
                   Despair
                   ,
                   and
                   Rage
                   ,
                   and
                   Vengeance
                   justly
                   vow'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Drove
                   Nisus
                   headlong
                   on
                   the
                   hostile
                   Crowd
                   :
                
                 
                   Volscens
                   he
                   seeks
                   ;
                   on
                   him
                   alone
                   he
                   bends
                   ;
                
                 
                   Born
                   back
                   ,
                   and
                   bor'd
                   ,
                   by
                   his
                   surrounding
                   Friends
                   ,
                
                 
                   Onward
                   he
                   press'd
                   :
                   and
                   kept
                   him
                   still
                   in
                   sight
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   whirl'd
                   aloft
                   his
                   Sword
                   ,
                   with
                   all
                   his
                   might
                   :
                
                 
                   Th'
                   unnerring
                   Steel
                   descended
                   while
                   he
                   spoke
                   ;
                
                 
                   Pierc'd
                   his
                   wide
                   Mouth
                   ,
                   and
                   thro'
                   his
                   Weazon
                   broke
                   :
                
                 
                   Dying
                   ,
                   he
                   flew
                   ;
                   and
                   stagg'ring
                   on
                   the
                   Plain
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   smimming
                   Eyes
                   he
                   sought
                   his
                   Lover
                   slain
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   quiet
                   on
                   his
                   bleeding
                   Bosom
                   fell
                   ;
                
                 
                   Content
                   in
                   Death
                   ,
                   to
                   be
                   reveng'd
                   so
                   well
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   O
                   happy
                   Friends
                   !
                   for
                   if
                   my
                   Verse
                   can
                   give
                
                 
                   Immortal
                   Life
                   ,
                   your
                   Fame
                   shall
                   ever
                   live
                   :
                
                 
                 
                 
                 
                 
                 
                   Fix'd
                   as
                   the
                   Capitol's
                   Foundation
                   lies
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   spread
                   ,
                   where
                   e're
                   the
                   Roman
                   Eagle
                   flies
                   !
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   conqu'ring
                   Party
                   ,
                   first
                   divide
                   the
                   Prey
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   their
                   slain
                   General
                   to
                   the
                   Camp
                   convey
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   Wonder
                   ,
                   as
                   they
                   went
                   ,
                   the
                   Troops
                   were
                   fill'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   see
                   such
                   Numbers
                   whom
                   so
                   few
                   had
                   kill'd
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     Serranus
                     ,
                     Rhamnes
                  
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   rest
                   they
                   found
                   ;
                
                 
                   Vast
                   Crowds
                   the
                   dying
                   and
                   the
                   dead
                   surround
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   yet
                   reeking
                   Blood
                   o'reflows
                   the
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                   All
                   knew
                   the
                   Helmet
                   which
                   Messapus
                   lost
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   mourn'd
                   a
                   Purchase
                   ,
                   that
                   so
                   dear
                   had
                   cost
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   rose
                   the
                   ruddy
                   Morn
                   from
                   
                   Tithon's
                   Bed
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   the
                   Dawns
                   of
                   Day
                   the
                   Skies
                   o'respread
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   long
                   the
                   Sun
                   his
                   daily
                   Course
                   withheld
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   added
                   Colours
                   to
                   the
                   World
                   reveal'd
                   .
                
                 
                   When
                   early
                   Turnus
                   wak'ning
                   with
                   the
                   Light
                   ,
                
                 
                   All
                   clad
                   in
                   Armour
                   calls
                   his
                   Troops
                   to
                   fight
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   Martial
                   Men
                   with
                   fierce
                   Harangues
                   he
                   fir'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   his
                   own
                   Ardor
                   ,
                   in
                   their
                   Souls
                   inspir'd
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   done
                   ,
                   to
                   give
                   new
                   Terror
                   to
                   his
                   Foes
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Heads
                   of
                   Nisus
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Friend
                   he
                   shows
                   ,
                
                 
                   Rais'd
                   high
                   on
                   pointed
                   Spears
                   :
                   A
                   ghastly
                   Sight
                   ;
                
                 
                   Loud
                   peals
                   of
                   Shouts
                   ensue
                   ,
                   and
                   barbarous
                   Delight
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Mean
                   time
                   the
                   Trojans
                   run
                   ,
                   where
                   Danger
                   calls
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   line
                   their
                   Trenches
                   ,
                   and
                   they
                   man
                   their
                   Walls
                   :
                
                 
                   In
                   Front
                   extended
                   to
                   the
                   left
                   they
                   stood
                   :
                
                 
                   Safe
                   was
                   the
                   right
                   surrounded
                   by
                   the
                   Flood
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   casting
                   from
                   their
                   Tow'rs
                   a
                   frightful
                   view
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   saw
                   the
                   Faces
                   ,
                   which
                   too
                   well
                   they
                   knew
                   ;
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   then
                   disguis'd
                   in
                   Death
                   ,
                   and
                   smear'd
                   all
                   o're
                
                 
                   With
                   Filth
                   obscene
                   ,
                   and
                   dropping
                   putrid
                   Gore
                   .
                
                 
                   Soon
                   hasty
                   Fame
                   ,
                   thro'
                   the
                   sad
                   City
                   bears
                
                 
                   The
                   mournful
                   Message
                   to
                   the
                   Mother's
                   Ears
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   An
                   icy
                   Cold
                   benums
                   her
                   Limbs
                   :
                   She
                   shakes
                   :
                
                 
                   Her
                   Cheeks
                   the
                   Blood
                   ,
                   her
                   Hand
                   the
                   Web
                   forsakes
                   .
                
                 
                   She
                   runs
                   the
                   Rampires
                   round
                   amidst
                   the
                   War
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   fears
                   the
                   flying
                   Darts
                   :
                   She
                   rends
                   her
                   Hair
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   fills
                   with
                   loud
                   Laments
                   the
                   liquid
                   Air.
                
                 
                   Thus
                   then
                   ,
                   my
                   lov'd
                   Euryalus
                   appears
                   ;
                
                 
                   Thus
                   looks
                   the
                   Prop
                   of
                   my
                   declining
                   Years
                   !
                
                 
                   Was
                   't
                   on
                   this
                   Face
                   ,
                   my
                   famish'd
                   Eyes
                   I
                   fed
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ah
                   how
                   unlike
                   the
                   living
                   ,
                   is
                   the
                   dead
                   !
                
                 
                   And
                   cou'dst
                   thou
                   leave
                   me
                   ,
                   cruel
                   ,
                   thus
                   alone
                   ,
                
                 
                   Not
                   one
                   kind
                   Kiss
                   from
                   a
                   departing
                   Son
                   !
                
                 
                   No
                   Look
                   ,
                   no
                   last
                   adieu
                   before
                   he
                   went
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   an
                   ill-boding
                   Hour
                   to
                   Slaughter
                   sent
                   !
                
                 
                   Cold
                   on
                   the
                   Ground
                   ,
                   and
                   pressing
                   foreign
                   Clay
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   Latian
                   Dogs
                   ,
                   and
                   Fowls
                   he
                   lies
                   a
                   Prey
                   !
                
                 
                   Nor
                   was
                   I
                   near
                   to
                   close
                   his
                   dying
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   wash
                   his
                   Wounds
                   ,
                   to
                   weep
                   his
                   Obsequies
                   :
                
                 
                   To
                   call
                   about
                   his
                   Corps
                   his
                   crying
                   Friends
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   spread
                   the
                   Mantle
                   ,
                   (
                   made
                   for
                   other
                   ends
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                   On
                   his
                   dear
                   Body
                   ,
                   which
                   I
                   wove
                   with
                   Care
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   did
                   my
                   daily
                   Pains
                   ,
                   or
                   nightly
                   labour
                   spare
                   .
                
                 
                   Where
                   shall
                   I
                   find
                   his
                   Corps
                   ,
                   what
                   Earth
                   sustains
                
                 
                   His
                   Trunk
                   dismember'd
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   cold
                   Remains
                   ?
                
                 
                   For
                   this
                   ,
                   alas
                   ,
                   I
                   left
                   my
                   needful
                   Ease
                   ,
                
                 
                   Expos'd
                   my
                   Life
                   to
                   Winds
                   ,
                   and
                   winter
                   Seas
                   !
                
                 
                   If
                   any
                   pity
                   touch
                   Rutulian
                   Hearts
                   ,
                
                 
                   Here
                   empty
                   all
                   your
                   Quivers
                   ,
                   all
                   your
                   Darts
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   if
                   they
                   fail
                   ,
                   thou
                   Jove
                   conclude
                   my
                   Woe
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   send
                   me
                   Thunder-struck
                   to
                   Shades
                   below
                   !
                
              
               
                 
                   Her
                   Shrieks
                   and
                   Clamours
                   ,
                   pierce
                   the
                   Trojans
                   Ears
                   ,
                
                 
                   Unman
                   their
                   Courage
                   ,
                   and
                   augment
                   their
                   Fears
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   young
                   Ascanius
                   cou'd
                   the
                   sight
                   sustain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   old
                   Ilioneus
                   his
                   Tears
                   restrain
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   But
                   Actor
                   and
                   Idoeus
                   ,
                   jointly
                   sent
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   bear
                   the
                   madding
                   Mother
                   to
                   her
                   Tent.
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   the
                   Trumpets
                   terribly
                   from
                   far
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   rattling
                   Clangor
                   ,
                   rouze
                   the
                   sleepy
                   War.
                
                 
                   The
                   Souldiers
                   Shouts
                   succeed
                   the
                   Brazen
                   Sounds
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   from
                   Pole
                   to
                   Pole
                   ,
                   the
                   Noise
                   rebounds
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Volscians
                   bear
                   their
                   Shields
                   upon
                   their
                   Head
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   rushing
                   forward
                   ,
                   from
                   a
                   moving
                   Shed
                   ;
                
                 
                   These
                   fill
                   the
                   Ditch
                   ,
                   those
                   pull
                   the
                   Bulwarks
                   down
                   :
                
                 
                   Some
                   raise
                   the
                   Ladders
                   ,
                   others
                   scale
                   the
                   Town
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   where
                   void
                   Spaces
                   on
                   the
                   Walls
                   appear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   thin
                   Defence
                   ,
                   they
                   pour
                   their
                   Forces
                   there
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   Poles
                   and
                   missive
                   Weapons
                   from
                   afar
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Trojans
                   keep
                   aloof
                   the
                   rising
                   War.
                
                 
                   Taught
                   by
                   their
                   ten
                   Years
                   Siege
                   defensive
                   fight
                   ;
                
                 
                   They
                   rowl
                   down
                   Ribs
                   of
                   Rocks
                   ,
                   an
                   unresisted
                   Weight
                   :
                
                 
                   To
                   break
                   the
                   Penthouse
                   with
                   the
                   pond'rous
                   Blow
                   ;
                
                 
                   Which
                   yet
                   the
                   patient
                   Volscians
                   undergo
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   cou'd
                   not
                   bear
                   th'
                   unequal
                   Combat
                   long
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   where
                   the
                   Trojans
                   find
                   the
                   thickest
                   Throng
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Ruin
                   falls
                   :
                   Their
                   shatter'd
                   Shields
                   give
                   way
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   their
                   crush'd
                   Heads
                   become
                   an
                   easie
                   Prey
                   .
                
                 
                   They
                   shrink
                   for
                   Fear
                   ,
                   abated
                   of
                   their
                   Rage
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   longer
                   dare
                   in
                   a
                   blind
                   Fight
                   engage
                   .
                
                 
                   Contented
                   now
                   to
                   gaul
                   them
                   from
                   below
                
                 
                   With
                   Darts
                   and
                   Slings
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   the
                   distant
                   Bow.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Elsewhere
                   Mezentius
                   ,
                   terrible
                   to
                   view
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   blazing
                   Pine
                   within
                   the
                   Trenches
                   threw
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   brave
                   Messapus
                   ,
                   Neptune's
                   warlike
                   Son
                   ,
                
                 
                   Broke
                   down
                   the
                   Palisades
                   ,
                   the
                   Trenches
                   Won
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   loud
                   for
                   Ladders
                   calls
                   ,
                   to
                   scale
                   the
                   Town
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Calliope
                   begin
                   :
                   Ye
                   sacred
                   Nine
                   ,
                
                 
                   Inspire
                   your
                   Poet
                   in
                   his
                   high
                   Design
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   To
                   sing
                   what
                   Slaughter
                   manly
                   Turnus
                   made
                   :
                
                 
                   What
                   Souls
                   he
                   sent
                   below
                   the
                   Stygian
                   Shade
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   Fame
                   the
                   Souldiers
                   with
                   their
                   Captain
                   share
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   vast
                   Circuit
                   of
                   the
                   fatal
                   War.
                
                 
                   For
                   you
                   in
                   singing
                   Martial
                   Facts
                   excel
                   ;
                
                 
                   You
                   best
                   remember
                   ;
                   and
                   alone
                   can
                   tell
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   There
                   stood
                   a
                   Tow'r
                   ,
                   amazing
                   to
                   the
                   sight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Built
                   up
                   of
                   Beams
                   ;
                   and
                   of
                   stupendous
                   height
                   ;
                
                 
                   Art
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   nature
                   of
                   the
                   Place
                   conspir'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   furnish
                   all
                   the
                   Strength
                   ,
                   that
                   War
                   requir'd
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   level
                   this
                   ,
                   the
                   bold
                   Italians
                   join
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   wary
                   Trojans
                   obviate
                   their
                   design
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   weighty
                   Stones
                   o'rewhelm
                   their
                   Troops
                   below
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shoot
                   through
                   the
                   Loopholes
                   ,
                   and
                   sharp
                   Jav'lins
                   throw
                   .
                
                 
                   Turnus
                   ,
                   the
                   Chief
                   ,
                   toss'd
                   from
                   his
                   thund'ring
                   Hand
                   ,
                
                 
                   Against
                   the
                   wooden
                   Walls
                   ,
                   a
                   flaming
                   Brand
                   :
                
                 
                   It
                   stuck
                   ,
                   the
                   fiery
                   Plague
                   :
                   The
                   Winds
                   were
                   high
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Planks
                   were
                   season'd
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Timber
                   dry
                   .
                
                 
                   Contagion
                   caught
                   the
                   Posts
                   :
                   It
                   spread
                   along
                   ,
                
                 
                   Scorch'd
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   distance
                   drove
                   the
                   scatter'd
                   Throng
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Trojans
                   fled
                   ;
                   the
                   Fire
                   pursu'd
                   amain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Still
                   gath'ring
                   fast
                   upon
                   the
                   trembling
                   Train
                   ;
                
                 
                   Till
                   crowding
                   to
                   the
                   Corners
                   of
                   the
                   Wall
                   ,
                
                 
                   Down
                   the
                   Defence
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Defenders
                   fall
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   mighty
                   flaw
                   makes
                   Heav'n
                   it self
                   resound
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Dead
                   ,
                   and
                   dying
                   Trojans
                   strew
                   the
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Tow'r
                   that
                   follow'd
                   on
                   the
                   fallen
                   Crew
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whelm'd
                   o're
                   their
                   Heads
                   ,
                   and
                   bury'd
                   whom
                   it
                   slew
                   :
                
                 
                   Some
                   stuck
                   upon
                   the
                   Darts
                   themselves
                   had
                   sent
                   ;
                
                 
                   All
                   ,
                   the
                   same
                   equal
                   Ruin
                   underwent
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Young
                   Lycus
                   and
                   Helenor
                   only
                   scape
                   ;
                
                 
                   Sav'd
                   ,
                   how
                   they
                   know
                   not
                   ,
                   from
                   the
                   steepy
                   Leap.
                
                 
                   Helenor
                   ,
                   elder
                   of
                   the
                   two
                   ;
                   by
                   Birth
                   ,
                
                 
                   On
                   one
                   side
                   Royal
                   ,
                   one
                   a
                   Son
                   of
                   Earth
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Whom
                   to
                   the
                   Lydian
                   King
                   ,
                   Lycimnia
                   bare
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   sent
                   her
                   boasted
                   Bastard
                   to
                   the
                   War
                   :
                
                 
                   (
                   A
                   Priviledge
                   which
                   none
                   but
                   Free-men
                   share
                   .
                   )
                
                 
                   Slight
                   were
                   his
                   Arms
                   ,
                   a
                   Sword
                   and
                   Silver
                   Shield
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   Marks
                   of
                   Honour
                   charg'd
                   its
                   empty
                   Field
                   .
                
                 
                   Light
                   as
                   he
                   fell
                   ,
                   so
                   light
                   the
                   Youth
                   arose
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   rising
                   found
                   himself
                   amidst
                   his
                   Foes
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   flight
                   was
                   left
                   ,
                   nor
                   hopes
                   to
                   force
                   his
                   Way
                   ;
                
                 
                   Embolden'd
                   by
                   Despair
                   ,
                   he
                   stood
                   at
                   Bay
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   like
                   a
                   Stag
                   ,
                   whom
                   all
                   the
                   Troop
                   surrounds
                
                 
                   Of
                   eager
                   Huntsmen
                   ,
                   and
                   invading
                   Hounds
                   ;
                
                 
                   Resolv'd
                   on
                   Death
                   ,
                   he
                   dissipates
                   his
                   Fears
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   bounds
                   aloft
                   ,
                   against
                   the
                   pointed
                   Spears
                   :
                
                 
                   So
                   dares
                   the
                   Youth
                   ,
                   secure
                   of
                   Death
                   ;
                   and
                   throws
                
                 
                   His
                   dying
                   Body
                   ,
                   on
                   his
                   thickest
                   Foes
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   Lycus
                   ,
                   swifter
                   of
                   his
                   Feet
                   ,
                   by
                   far
                   ,
                
                 
                   Runs
                   ,
                   doubles
                   ,
                   winds
                   and
                   turns
                   ,
                   amidst
                   the
                   War
                   :
                
                 
                   Springs
                   to
                   the
                   Walls
                   ,
                   and
                   leaves
                   his
                   Foes
                   behind
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   snatches
                   at
                   the
                   Beam
                   he
                   first
                   can
                   find
                   .
                
                 
                   Looks
                   up
                   ,
                   and
                   leaps
                   aloft
                   at
                   all
                   the
                   stretch
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   hopes
                   the
                   helping
                   Hand
                   of
                   some
                   kind
                   Friend
                   to
                   reach
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   Turnus
                   follow'd
                   hard
                   his
                   hunted
                   Prey
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   His
                   Spear
                   had
                   almost
                   reach'd
                   him
                   in
                   the
                   way
                   ,
                
                 
                   Short
                   of
                   his
                   Reins
                   ,
                   and
                   scarce
                   a
                   Span
                   behind
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                   Fool
                   ,
                   said
                   the
                   Chief
                   ,
                   tho'
                   fleeter
                   than
                   the
                   Wind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Coud'st
                   thou
                   presume
                   to
                   scape
                   ,
                   when
                   I
                   pursue
                   ?
                
                 
                   He
                   said
                   ,
                   and
                   downward
                   by
                   the
                   Feet
                   he
                   drew
                
                 
                   The
                   trembling
                   Dastard
                   :
                   at
                   the
                   Tug
                   he
                   falls
                   ,
                
                 
                   Vast
                   Ruins
                   come
                   along
                   ,
                   rent
                   from
                   the
                   smoking
                   Walls
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   on
                   some
                   silver
                   Swan
                   ,
                   or
                   tim'rous
                   Hare
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                   Jove's
                   Bird
                   comes
                   sowsing
                   down
                   ,
                   from
                   upper
                   Air
                   ;
                
                 
                   Her
                   crooked
                   Tallons
                   truss
                   the
                   fearful
                   Prey
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   out
                   of
                   sight
                   she
                   soars
                   ,
                   and
                   wings
                   her
                   way
                   .
                
                 
                 
                 
                 
                   So
                   seizes
                   the
                   grim
                   Wolf
                   the
                   tender
                   Lamb
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   vain
                   lamented
                   by
                   the
                   bleating
                   Dam.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   rushing
                   onward
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   barbr'ous
                   cry
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Troops
                   of
                   Turnus
                   to
                   the
                   Combat
                   fly
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Ditch
                   with
                   Faggots
                   fill'd
                   ,
                   the
                   daring
                   Foe
                
                 
                   Toss'd
                   Firebrands
                   to
                   the
                   steepy
                   Turrets
                   throw
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Ilioneus
                   ,
                   as
                   bold
                   Lucetius
                   came
                
                 
                   To
                   force
                   the
                   Gate
                   ,
                   and
                   feed
                   the
                   kindling
                   Flame
                   ,
                
                 
                   Rowl'd
                   down
                   the
                   Fragment
                   of
                   a
                   Rock
                   so
                   right
                   ,
                
                 
                   It
                   crush'd
                   him
                   double
                   underneath
                   the
                   weight
                   .
                
                 
                   Two
                   more
                   young
                   Liger
                   and
                   Asylas
                   slew
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   bend
                   the
                   Bow
                   young
                   Liger
                   better
                   knew
                   ;
                
                 
                   Asylas
                   best
                   the
                   pointed
                   Jav'lin
                   threw
                   .
                
                 
                   Brave
                   Caeneus
                   laid
                   Ortygius
                   on
                   the
                   Plain
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Victor
                   Caeneus
                   was
                   by
                   Turnus
                   slain
                   .
                
                 
                   By
                   the
                   same
                   Hand
                   ,
                   Clonius
                   and
                   Itys
                   fall
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sagar
                   ,
                   and
                   Ida
                   ,
                   standing
                   on
                   the
                   Wall.
                
                 
                   From
                   Capys
                   Arms
                   his
                   Fate
                   Privernus
                   found
                   ;
                
                 
                   Hurt
                   by
                   Themilla
                   first
                   ;
                   but
                   slight
                   the
                   Wound
                   ;
                
                 
                   His
                   Shield
                   thrown
                   by
                   ,
                   to
                   mitigate
                   the
                   smart
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   clap'd
                   his
                   Hand
                   upon
                   the
                   wounded
                   part
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   second
                   Shaft
                   came
                   swift
                   and
                   unespy'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   pierc'd
                   his
                   Hand
                   ,
                   and
                   nail'd
                   it
                   to
                   his
                   side
                   :
                
                 
                   Transfix'd
                   his
                   breathing
                   Lungs
                   ,
                   and
                   beating
                   heart
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Soul
                   came
                   issuing
                   out
                   ,
                   and
                   hiss'd
                   against
                   the
                   Dart.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Son
                   of
                   Arcens
                   shone
                   amid
                   the
                   rest
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   glitt'ring
                   Armour
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   Purple
                   Vest
                   .
                
                 
                   Fair
                   was
                   his
                   Face
                   ,
                   his
                   Eyes
                   inspiring
                   Love
                   ,
                
                 
                   Bred
                   by
                   his
                   Father
                   in
                   the
                   Martian
                   Grove
                   ;
                
                 
                   Where
                   the
                   fat
                   Altars
                   of
                   Palicus
                   flame
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   sent
                   in
                   Arms
                   to
                   purchase
                   early
                   Fame
                   .
                
                 
                   Him
                   ,
                   when
                   he
                   spy'd
                   from
                   far
                   the
                   Thuscan
                   King
                   ,
                
                 
                   Laid
                   by
                   the
                   Lance
                   ,
                   and
                   took
                   him
                   to
                   the
                   Sling
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Thrice
                   whirl'd
                   the
                   Thong
                   around
                   his
                   head
                   ,
                   and
                   threw
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   heated
                   Lead
                   half
                   melted
                   as
                   it
                   flew
                   :
                
                 
                   It
                   pierc'd
                   his
                   hollow
                   Temples
                   and
                   his
                   Brain
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Youth
                   came
                   tumbling
                   down
                   ,
                   and
                   spurn'd
                   the
                   Plain
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   Young
                   Ascanius
                   ,
                   who
                   before
                   this
                   day
                
                 
                   Was
                   wont
                   in
                   Woods
                   to
                   shoot
                   the
                   salvage
                   Prey
                   ,
                
                 
                   First
                   bent
                   in
                   Martial
                   Strife
                   ,
                   the
                   twanging
                   Bow
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   exercis'd
                   against
                   a
                   Humane
                   Foe
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   this
                   bereft
                   Numanus
                   of
                   his
                   life
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   Turnus
                   younger
                   Sister
                   took
                   to
                   Wife
                   .
                
                 
                   Proud
                   of
                   his
                   Realm
                   ,
                   and
                   of
                   his
                   Royal
                   Bride
                   ,
                
                 
                   Vaunting
                   before
                   his
                   Troops
                   ,
                   and
                   lengthen'd
                   with
                   a
                   Stride
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   these
                   Insulting
                   terms
                   ,
                   the
                   Trojans
                   he
                   defy'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Twice
                   Conquer'd
                   Cowards
                   ,
                   now
                   your
                   shame
                   is
                   shown
                   ,
                
                 
                   Coop'd
                   up
                   a
                   second
                   time
                   within
                   your
                   Town
                   !
                
                 
                   Who
                   dare
                   not
                   issue
                   forth
                   in
                   open
                   Field
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   hold
                   your
                   Walls
                   before
                   you
                   for
                   a
                   Shield
                   :
                
                 
                   Thus
                   threat
                   you
                   War
                   ,
                   thus
                   our
                   Alliance
                   force
                   !
                
                 
                   What
                   Gods
                   what
                   madness
                   hether
                   steer'd
                   your
                   Course
                   !
                
                 
                   You
                   shall
                   not
                   find
                   the
                   Sons
                   of
                   Atreus
                   here
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   need
                   the
                   Frauds
                   of
                   sly
                   Ulysses
                   fear
                   .
                
                 
                   Strong
                   from
                   the
                   Cradle
                   ,
                   of
                   a
                   sturdy
                   Brood
                   ,
                
                 
                   We
                   bear
                   our
                   new-born
                   Infants
                   to
                   the
                   Flood
                   ;
                
                 
                   There
                   bath'd
                   amid
                   the
                   Stream
                   ,
                   our
                   Boys
                   we
                   hold
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Winter
                   harden'd
                   ,
                   and
                   inur'd
                   to
                   Cold.
                
                 
                   They
                   wake
                   before
                   the
                   Day
                   to
                   range
                   the
                   Wood
                   ,
                
                 
                   Kill
                   e're
                   they
                   eat
                   ,
                   nor
                   tast
                   unconquer'd
                   Food
                   .
                
                 
                   No
                   Sports
                   ,
                   but
                   what
                   belong
                   to
                   War
                   they
                   know
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   break
                   the
                   stubborn
                   Colt
                   ,
                   to
                   bend
                   the
                   Bow.
                
                 
                   Our
                   youth
                   ,
                   of
                   Labour
                   patient
                   ,
                   earn
                   their
                   Bread
                   ;
                
                 
                   Hardly
                   they
                   work
                   ,
                   with
                   frugal
                   Diet
                   fed
                   .
                
                 
                   From
                   Ploughs
                   and
                   Harrows
                   sent
                   to
                   seek
                   Renown
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   fight
                   in
                   Fields
                   ,
                   and
                   storm
                   the
                   shaken
                   Town
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   No
                   part
                   of
                   Life
                   from
                   Toils
                   of
                   War
                   is
                   free
                   ;
                
                 
                   No
                   change
                   in
                   Age
                   ,
                   or
                   diff'rence
                   in
                   Degree
                   .
                
                 
                   We
                   plow
                   ,
                   and
                   till
                   in
                   Arms
                   ;
                   our
                   Oxen
                   feel
                   ,
                
                 
                   Instead
                   of
                   Goads
                   ,
                   the
                   Spur
                   ,
                   and
                   pointed
                   Steel
                   :
                
                 
                   Th'
                   inverted
                   Lance
                   makes
                   Furrows
                   in
                   the
                   Plain
                   ;
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   time
                   that
                   changes
                   all
                   ,
                   yet
                   changes
                   us
                   in
                   vain
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Body
                   ,
                   not
                   the
                   Mind
                   :
                   Nor
                   can
                   controul
                
                 
                   Th'
                   immortal
                   Vigour
                   ,
                   or
                   abate
                   the
                   Soul.
                
                 
                   Our
                   Helms
                   defend
                   the
                   Young
                   ,
                   disguise
                   the
                   Grey
                   :
                
                 
                   We
                   live
                   by
                   Plunder
                   ,
                   and
                   delight
                   in
                   Prey
                   .
                
                 
                   Your
                   Vests
                   embroyder'd
                   with
                   rich
                   Purple
                   shine
                   ;
                
                 
                   In
                   Sloth
                   you
                   Glory
                   ,
                   and
                   in
                   Dances
                   join
                   .
                
                 
                   Your
                   Vests
                   have
                   sweeping
                   Sleeves
                   :
                   With
                   female
                   Pride
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   Turbants
                   underneath
                   your
                   Chins
                   are
                   ty'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Go
                   ,
                   Phrygians
                   ,
                   to
                   your
                   Dindymus
                   agen
                   ;
                
                 
                   Go
                   ,
                   less
                   than
                   Women
                   ,
                   in
                   the
                   Shapes
                   of
                   Men.
                
                 
                   Go
                   ,
                   mix'd
                   with
                   Eunuchs
                   ,
                   in
                   the
                   Mother's
                   Rites
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   with
                   unequal
                   Sound
                   the
                   Flute
                   invites
                   .
                
                 
                   Sing
                   ,
                   dance
                   ,
                   and
                   howl
                   by
                   turns
                   in
                   
                   Ida's
                   Shade
                   ;
                
                 
                   Resign
                   the
                   War
                   to
                   Men
                   ,
                   who
                   know
                   the
                   Martial
                   Trade
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   This
                   foul
                   Reproach
                   ,
                   Ascanius
                   cou'd
                   not
                   hear
                
                 
                   With
                   Patience
                   ,
                   or
                   a
                   vow'd
                   Revenge
                   forbear
                   .
                
                 
                   At
                   the
                   full
                   stretch
                   of
                   both
                   his
                   Hands
                   ,
                   he
                   drew
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   almost
                   join'd
                   the
                   Horns
                   of
                   the
                   tough
                   Eugh
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   first
                   ,
                   before
                   the
                   Throne
                   of
                   Jove
                   he
                   stood
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   thus
                   with
                   lifted
                   Hands
                   invok'd
                   the
                   God.
                
                 
                   My
                   first
                   Attempt
                   ,
                   great
                   Jupiter
                   succeed
                   ;
                
                 
                   An
                   annual
                   Off'ring
                   in
                   thy
                   Grove
                   shall
                   bleed
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   snow-white
                   Steer
                   ,
                   before
                   thy
                   Altar
                   led
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   like
                   his
                   Mother
                   bears
                   aloft
                   his
                   Head
                   ,
                
                 
                   Buts
                   with
                   his
                   threatning
                   Brows
                   ,
                   and
                   bellowing
                   stands
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   dares
                   the
                   Fight
                   ,
                   and
                   spurns
                   the
                   yellow
                   Sands
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Jove
                   bow'd
                   the
                   Heav'ns
                   ,
                   and
                   lent
                   a
                   gracious
                   Ear
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   thunder'd
                   on
                   the
                   left
                   ,
                   amidst
                   the
                   clear
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Sounded
                   at
                   once
                   the
                   Bow
                   ;
                   and
                   swiftly
                   flies
                
                 
                   The
                   feather'd
                   Death
                   ,
                   and
                   hisfes
                   thro'
                   the
                   Skies
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Steel
                   thro'
                   both
                   his
                   Temples
                   forc'd
                   the
                   way
                   :
                
                 
                   Extended
                   on
                   the
                   Ground
                   ,
                   Numanus
                   lay
                   .
                
                 
                   Go
                   now
                   ,
                   vain
                   Boaster
                   ,
                   and
                   true
                   Valour
                   scorn
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Phrygians
                   twice
                   subdu'd
                   ,
                   yet
                   make
                   this
                   third
                   Return
                   .
                
                 
                   Ascanius
                   said
                   no
                   more
                   :
                   The
                   Trojans
                   shake
                
                 
                   The
                   Heav'ns
                   with
                   Shouting
                   ,
                   and
                   new
                   Vigour
                   take
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Apollo
                   then
                   bestrode
                   a
                   Golden
                   Cloud
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   view
                   the
                   feats
                   of
                   Arms
                   ,
                   and
                   fighting
                   Crowd
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   thus
                   the
                   beardless
                   Victor
                   ,
                   he
                   bespoke
                   aloud
                   .
                
                 
                   Advance
                   Illustrious
                   Youth
                   ,
                   increase
                   in
                   Fame
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   wide
                   from
                   East
                   to
                   West
                   extend
                   thy
                   Name
                   .
                
                 
                   Offspring
                   of
                   Gods
                   thy self
                   ;
                   and
                   Rome
                   shall
                   owe
                
                 
                   To
                   thee
                   ,
                   a
                   Race
                   of
                   Demigods
                   below
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   is
                   the
                   Way
                   to
                   Heav'n
                   :
                   The
                   Pow'rs
                   Divine
                
                 
                   From
                   this
                   beginning
                   date
                   the
                   Julian
                   Line
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   thee
                   ,
                   to
                   them
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   victorious
                   Heirs
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   conquer'd
                   War
                   is
                   due
                   ;
                   and
                   the
                   vast
                   World
                   is
                   theirs
                   .
                
                 
                   Troy
                   is
                   too
                   narrow
                   for
                   thy
                   Name
                   .
                   He
                   said
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   plunging
                   downward
                   shot
                   his
                   radiant
                   Head
                   ;
                
                 
                   Dispell'd
                   the
                   breathing
                   Air
                   ,
                   that
                   broke
                   his
                   Flight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shorn
                   of
                   his
                   Beams
                   ,
                   a
                   Man
                   to
                   Mortal
                   sight
                   .
                
                 
                   Old
                   Butes
                   Form
                   he
                   took
                   ,
                   Anchises
                   Squire
                   ,
                
                 
                   Now
                   left
                   to
                   rule
                   Ascanius
                   ,
                   by
                   his
                   Sire
                   :
                
                 
                   His
                   wrinkled
                   Visage
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   hoary
                   Hairs
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Meen
                   ,
                   his
                   Habit
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Arms
                   he
                   wears
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   thus
                   salutes
                   the
                   Boy
                   ,
                   too
                   forward
                   for
                   his
                   Years
                   .
                
                 
                   Suffice
                   it
                   thee
                   ,
                   thy
                   Father
                   's
                   worthy
                   Son
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   warlike
                   Prize
                   thou
                   hast
                   already
                   won
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   God
                   of
                   Archers
                   gives
                   thy
                   Youth
                   a
                   part
                
                 
                   Of
                   his
                   own
                   Praise
                   ;
                   nor
                   envies
                   equal
                   Art.
                
                 
                   Now
                   tempt
                   the
                   War
                   no
                   more
                   .
                   He
                   said
                   ,
                   and
                   flew
                
                 
                   Obscure
                   in
                   Air
                   ,
                   and
                   vanish'd
                   from
                   their
                   view
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Trojans
                   ,
                   by
                   his
                   Arms
                   ,
                   their
                   Patron
                   know
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   hear
                   the
                   twanging
                   of
                   his
                   Heav'nly
                   Bow.
                
                 
                   Then
                   duteous
                   Force
                   they
                   use
                   ;
                   and
                   Phoebus
                   Name
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   keep
                   from
                   Fight
                   ,
                   the
                   Youth
                   too
                   fond
                   of
                   Fame
                   .
                
                 
                   Undaunted
                   they
                   themselves
                   no
                   Danger
                   shun
                   :
                
                 
                   From
                   Wall
                   to
                   Wall
                   ,
                   the
                   Shouts
                   and
                   Clamours
                   run
                   .
                
                 
                   They
                   bend
                   their
                   Bows
                   ;
                   they
                   whirl
                   their
                   Slings
                   around
                   :
                
                 
                   Heaps
                   of
                   spent
                   Arrows
                   fall
                   ;
                   and
                   strew
                   the
                   Ground
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Helms
                   ,
                   and
                   Shields
                   ,
                   and
                   ratling
                   Arms
                   resound
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Combate
                   thickens
                   ,
                   like
                   the
                   Storm
                   that
                   flies
                
                 
                   From
                   Westward
                   ,
                   when
                   the
                   Show'ry
                   Kids
                   arise
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   patt'ring
                   Hail
                   comes
                   pouring
                   on
                   the
                   Main
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   Jupiter
                   descends
                   in
                   harden'd
                   Rain
                   .
                
                 
                   Or
                   bellowing
                   Clouds
                   burst
                   with
                   a
                   stormy
                   Sound
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   an
                   armed
                   Winter
                   strew
                   the
                   Ground
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Pand'rus
                   and
                   Bitias
                   ,
                   Thunder-bolts
                   of
                   War
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whom
                   Hiera
                   ,
                   to
                   bold
                   Alcanor
                   bare
                
                 
                   On
                   
                   Ida's
                   Top
                   ,
                   two
                   Youths
                   of
                   Height
                   and
                   Size
                   ,
                
                 
                   Like
                   Firrs
                   that
                   on
                   their
                   Mother
                   Mountain
                   rise
                   ;
                
                 
                   Presuming
                   on
                   their
                   Force
                   ,
                   the
                   Gates
                   unbar
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   of
                   their
                   own
                   Accord
                   invite
                   the
                   War.
                
                 
                   With
                   Fates
                   averse
                   ,
                   against
                   their
                   King's
                   Command
                   ,
                
                 
                   Arm'd
                   on
                   the
                   right
                   ,
                   and
                   on
                   the
                   left
                   they
                   stand
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   flank
                   the
                   Passage
                   :
                   Shining
                   Steel
                   they
                   wear
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   waving
                   Crests
                   ,
                   above
                   their
                   Heads
                   appear
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   two
                   tall
                   Oaks
                   ,
                   that
                   Padus
                   Banks
                   adorn
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lift
                   up
                   to
                   Heav'n
                   their
                   leafy
                   Heads
                   unshorn
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   overpress'd
                   with
                   Nature's
                   heavy
                   load
                   ,
                
                 
                   Dance
                   to
                   the
                   whistling
                   Winds
                   ,
                   and
                   at
                   each
                   other
                   nod
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   flows
                   a
                   Tyde
                   of
                   Latians
                   ,
                   when
                   they
                   see
                
                 
                   The
                   Gate
                   set
                   open
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Passage
                   free
                   .
                
                 
                   Bold
                   Quercens
                   ,
                   with
                   rash
                   Tmarus
                   rushing
                   on
                   ,
                
                 
                   Equicolus
                   ,
                   that
                   in
                   bright
                   Armour
                   shone
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   Haemon
                   first
                   ,
                   but
                   soon
                   repuls'd
                   they
                   fly
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   in
                   the
                   well-defended
                   Pass
                   they
                   dye
                   .
                
                 
                   These
                   with
                   Success
                   are
                   fir'd
                   ,
                   and
                   those
                   with
                   Rage
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   each
                   on
                   equal
                   Terms
                   at
                   length
                   ingage
                   .
                
                 
                   Drawn
                   from
                   their
                   Lines
                   ,
                   and
                   issuing
                   on
                   the
                   Plain
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Trojans
                   hand
                   to
                   hand
                   the
                   Fight
                   maintain
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Fierce
                   Turnus
                   in
                   another
                   Quarter
                   fought
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   suddenly
                   th'
                   unhop'd
                   for
                   News
                   was
                   brought
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Foes
                   had
                   left
                   the
                   fastness
                   of
                   their
                   Place
                   ,
                
                 
                   Prevail'd
                   in
                   Fight
                   ,
                   and
                   had
                   his
                   Men
                   in
                   Chace
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   quits
                   th'
                   Attack
                   ,
                   and
                   ,
                   to
                   prevent
                   their
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Runs
                   ,
                   where
                   the
                   Gyant
                   Brothers
                   guard
                   the
                   Gate
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   first
                   he
                   met
                   ,
                   Antiphates
                   the
                   brave
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   base
                   begotten
                   on
                   a
                   Theban
                   Slave
                   ;
                
                 
                   
                   Sarpedon's
                   Son
                   he
                   slew
                   :
                   The
                   deadly
                   Dart
                
                 
                   Found
                   Passage
                   thro'
                   his
                   Breast
                   ,
                   and
                   pierc'd
                   his
                   Heart
                   .
                
                 
                   Fix'd
                   in
                   the
                   Wound
                   th'
                   Italian
                   Cornel
                   stood
                   ;
                
                 
                   Warm'd
                   in
                   his
                   Lungs
                   ,
                   and
                   in
                   his
                   vital
                   Blood.
                
                 
                   Aphidnus
                   next
                   ,
                   and
                   Erymanthus
                   dies
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Meropes
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Gygantick
                   Size
                
                 
                   Of
                   Bitias
                   ,
                   threat'ning
                   with
                   his
                   ardent
                   Eyes
                   .
                
                 
                   Not
                   by
                   the
                   feeble
                   Dart
                   he
                   fell
                   oppress'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Dart
                   were
                   lost
                   ,
                   within
                   that
                   roomy
                   Breast
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   from
                   a
                   knotted
                   Lance
                   ,
                   large
                   ,
                   heavy
                   ,
                   strong
                   ;
                
                 
                   Which
                   roar'd
                   like
                   Thunder
                   as
                   it
                   whirl'd
                   along
                   :
                
                 
                   Not
                   two
                   Bull-hides
                   th'
                   impetuous
                   Force
                   withhold
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Coat
                   of
                   double
                   Male
                   ,
                   with
                   Scales
                   of
                   Gold.
                
                 
                   Down
                   sunk
                   the
                   Monster-Bulk
                   ,
                   and
                   press'd
                   the
                   Ground
                   ;
                
                 
                   His
                   Arms
                   and
                   clatt'ring
                   Shield
                   ,
                   on
                   the
                   vast
                   Body
                   sound
                   .
                
                 
                   Not
                   with
                   less
                   Ruin
                   ,
                   than
                   the
                   Bajan
                   Mole
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   Rais'd
                   on
                   the
                   Seas
                   the
                   Surges
                   to
                   controul
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                   At
                   once
                   comes
                   tumbling
                   down
                   the
                   rocky
                   Wall
                   ,
                
                 
                   Prone
                   to
                   the
                   Deep
                   the
                   Stones
                   disjointed
                   fall
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Of
                   the
                   vast
                   Pile
                   ;
                   the
                   scatter'd
                   Ocean
                   flies
                   ;
                
                 
                   Black
                   Sands
                   ,
                   discolour'd
                   Froth
                   ,
                   and
                   mingled
                   Mud
                   arise
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   frighted
                   Billows
                   rowl
                   ,
                   and
                   seek
                   the
                   Shores
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   trembles
                   Prochyta
                   ,
                   then
                   Ischia
                   roars
                   :
                
                 
                   Typhoeus
                   thrown
                   beneath
                   ,
                   by
                   
                   Jove's
                   Command
                   ,
                
                 
                   Astonish'd
                   at
                   the
                   Flaw
                   ,
                   that
                   shakes
                   the
                   Land
                   ,
                
                 
                   Soon
                   shifts
                   his
                   weary
                   Side
                   ,
                   and
                   scarce
                   awake
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Wonder
                   feels
                   the
                   weight
                   press
                   lighter
                   on
                   his
                   Back
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Warrior
                   God
                   the
                   Latian
                   Troops
                   inspir'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   New
                   strung
                   their
                   Sinews
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   Courage
                   fir'd
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   chills
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Hearts
                   with
                   cold
                   Affright
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   black
                   Despair
                   precipitates
                   their
                   Flight
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   When
                   Pandarus
                   beheld
                   his
                   Brother
                   kill'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Town
                   with
                   Fear
                   ,
                   and
                   wild
                   Confusion
                   fill'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   turns
                   the
                   Hindges
                   of
                   the
                   heavy
                   Gate
                
                 
                   With
                   both
                   his
                   Hands
                   ;
                   and
                   adds
                   his
                   Shoulders
                   to
                   the
                   weight
                   .
                
                 
                   Some
                   happier
                   Friends
                   ,
                   within
                   the
                   Walls
                   inclos'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   rest
                   shut
                   out
                   ,
                   to
                   certain
                   Death
                   expos'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Fool
                   as
                   he
                   was
                   ,
                   and
                   frantick
                   in
                   his
                   Care
                   ,
                
                 
                   T'
                   admit
                   young
                   Turnus
                   ,
                   and
                   include
                   the
                   War.
                
                 
                   He
                   thrust
                   amid
                   the
                   Crowd
                   ,
                   securely
                   bold
                   ;
                
                 
                   Like
                   a
                   fierce
                   Tyger
                   pent
                   amid
                   the
                   Fold
                   .
                
                 
                   Too
                   late
                   his
                   blazing
                   Buckler
                   they
                   descry
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   sparkling
                   Fires
                   that
                   shot
                   from
                   either
                   Eye
                   :
                
                 
                   His
                   mighty
                   Members
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   ample
                   Breast
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   ratt'ling
                   Armour
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Crimson
                   Crest
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Far
                   from
                   that
                   hated
                   Face
                   the
                   Trojans
                   fly
                   ;
                
                 
                   All
                   but
                   the
                   Fool
                   who
                   sought
                   his
                   Destiny
                   .
                
                 
                   Mad
                   Pandarus
                   steps
                   forth
                   ,
                   with
                   Vengeance
                   vow'd
                
                 
                   For
                   
                   Bitias's
                   Death
                   ,
                   and
                   threatens
                   thus
                   aloud
                   .
                
                 
                   These
                   are
                   not
                   
                   Ardea's
                   Walls
                   ,
                   nor
                   this
                   the
                   Town
                
                 
                   Amata
                   proffers
                   with
                   
                   Lavinia's
                   Crown
                   :
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   hostile
                   Earth
                   you
                   tread
                   ;
                   of
                   hope
                   bereft
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   means
                   of
                   safe
                   Return
                   by
                   flight
                   are
                   left
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   To
                   whom
                   with
                   Count'nance
                   calm
                   ,
                   and
                   Soul
                   sedate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thus
                   Turnus
                   :
                   Then
                   begin
                   ;
                   and
                   try
                   thy
                   Fate
                   :
                
                 
                   My
                   Message
                   to
                   the
                   Ghost
                   of
                   Priam
                   bear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tell
                   him
                   a
                   new
                   Achilles
                   sent
                   thee
                   there
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   A
                   Lance
                   of
                   tough
                   ground-Ash
                   the
                   Trojan
                   threw
                   ,
                
                 
                   Rough
                   in
                   the
                   Rind
                   ,
                   and
                   knotted
                   as
                   it
                   grew
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   his
                   full
                   force
                   he
                   whirl'd
                   it
                   first
                   around
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   the
                   soft
                   yielding
                   Air
                   receiv'd
                   the
                   wound
                   :
                
                 
                   Imperial
                   Juno
                   turn'd
                   the
                   Course
                   before
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   fix'd
                   the
                   wand'ring
                   Weapon
                   in
                   the
                   door
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   hope
                   not
                   thou
                   ,
                   said
                   Turnus
                   ,
                   when
                   I
                   strike
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   shun
                   thy
                   Fate
                   ,
                   our
                   Force
                   is
                   not
                   alike
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   thy
                   Steel
                   temper'd
                   by
                   the
                   Lemnian
                   God
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   rising
                   ,
                   on
                   is
                   utmost
                   stretch
                   he
                   stood
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   aim'd
                   from
                   high
                   ,
                   the
                   full
                   descending
                   blow
                
                 
                   Cleaves
                   the
                   broad
                   Front
                   ,
                   and
                   beardless
                   Cheeks
                   in
                   two
                   :
                
                 
                   Down
                   sinks
                   the
                   Giant
                   with
                   a
                   thund'ring
                   sound
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   pond'rous
                   Limbs
                   oppress
                   the
                   trembling
                   ground
                   ;
                
                 
                   Blood
                   ,
                   Brains
                   ,
                   and
                   Foam
                   ,
                   gush
                   from
                   the
                   gaping
                   Wound
                   .
                
                 
                   Scalp
                   ,
                   Face
                   ,
                   and
                   Shoulders
                   ,
                   the
                   keen
                   Steel
                   divides
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   shar'd
                   Visage
                   hangs
                   on
                   equal
                   sides
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Trojans
                   fly
                   from
                   their
                   approaching
                   Fate
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   had
                   the
                   Victor
                   then
                   secur'd
                   the
                   Gate
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   to
                   his
                   Troops
                   without
                   ,
                   unclos'd
                   the
                   Barrs
                   ;
                
                 
                   One
                   lucky
                   Day
                   had
                   ended
                   all
                   his
                   Wars
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   boiling
                   Youth
                   ,
                   and
                   blind
                   Desire
                   of
                   Blood
                   ,
                
                 
                   Push'd
                   on
                   his
                   Fury
                   ,
                   to
                   pursue
                   the
                   Crowd
                   :
                
                 
                   Hamstring'd
                   behind
                   unhappy
                   Gyges
                   dy'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   Phalaris
                   is
                   added
                   to
                   his
                   side
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   pointed
                   Jav'lins
                   from
                   the
                   dead
                   he
                   drew
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   their
                   Friends
                   Arms
                   against
                   their
                   Fellows
                   threw
                   .
                
                 
                   Strong
                   Halys
                   stands
                   in
                   vain
                   ;
                   weak
                   Phlegys
                   flies
                   ;
                
                 
                   Saturnia
                   ,
                   still
                   at
                   hand
                   ,
                   new
                   Force
                   and
                   Fire
                   supplies
                   .
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     M
                     r
                     John
                     Clos
                     Jerman
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     9.
                     l.
                     1010.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                 
                   Then
                   
                     Halius
                     ,
                     Prytanis
                     ,
                     Alcander
                  
                   fall
                   ;
                
                 
                   (
                   Ingag'd
                   against
                   the
                   Foes
                   who
                   scal'd
                   the
                   Wall
                   :
                   )
                
                 
                   But
                   whom
                   they
                   fear'd
                   without
                   ,
                   they
                   found
                   within
                   :
                
                 
                   At
                   last
                   ,
                   tho'
                   late
                   ,
                   by
                   Linceus
                   he
                   was
                   seen
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   calls
                   new
                   Succours
                   ,
                   and
                   assaults
                   the
                   Prince
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   weak
                   his
                   Force
                   ,
                   and
                   vain
                   is
                   their
                   Defence
                   .
                
                 
                   Turn'd
                   to
                   the
                   right
                   ,
                   his
                   Sword
                   the
                   Heroe
                   drew
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   at
                   one
                   blow
                   the
                   bold
                   Aggressor
                   slew
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   joints
                   the
                   Neck
                   :
                   And
                   with
                   a
                   stroke
                   so
                   strong
                
                 
                   The
                   Helm
                   flies
                   off
                   ;
                   and
                   bears
                   the
                   Head
                   along
                   .
                
                 
                   Next
                   him
                   ,
                   the
                   Huntsman
                   Amycus
                   he
                   kill'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   Darts
                   ,
                   invenom'd
                   ,
                   and
                   in
                   Poyson
                   skill'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   Clytius
                   fell
                   beneath
                   his
                   fatal
                   Spear
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Creteus
                   ,
                   whom
                   the
                   Muses
                   held
                   so
                   dear
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   fought
                   with
                   Courage
                   ,
                   and
                   he
                   sung
                   the
                   fight
                   :
                
                 
                   Arms
                   were
                   his
                   buis'ness
                   ,
                   Verses
                   his
                   delight
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Trojan
                   Chiefs
                   behold
                   ,
                   with
                   Rage
                   and
                   Grief
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   slaughter'd
                   Friends
                   ,
                   and
                   hasten
                   their
                   Relief
                   .
                
                 
                   Bold
                   Mnestheus
                   rallies
                   first
                   the
                   broken
                   Train
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whom
                   brave
                   Seresthus
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Troop
                   sustain
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   save
                   the
                   living
                   ,
                   and
                   revenge
                   the
                   dead
                   ;
                
                 
                   Aginst
                   one
                   Warriour's
                   Arms
                   all
                   Troy
                   they
                   led
                   .
                
                 
                   O
                   ,
                   void
                   of
                   Sense
                   and
                   Courage
                   ,
                   Mnestheus
                   cry'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   can
                   you
                   hope
                   your
                   Coward
                   Heads
                   to
                   hide
                   ?
                
                 
                   Ah
                   ,
                   where
                   beyond
                   these
                   Rampires
                   can
                   you
                   run
                   !
                
                 
                   One
                   Man
                   ,
                   and
                   in
                   your
                   Camp
                   inclos'd
                   ,
                   you
                   shun
                   !
                
                 
                   Shall
                   then
                   a
                   single
                   Sword
                   such
                   Slaughter
                   boast
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   pass
                   unpunish'd
                   from
                   a
                   Num'rous
                   Hoast
                   ?
                
                 
                   Forsaking
                   Honour
                   ,
                   and
                   renouncing
                   Fame
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   Gods
                   ,
                   your
                   Country
                   ,
                   and
                   your
                   King
                   you
                   shame
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   This
                   just
                   Reproach
                   their
                   Vertue
                   does
                   excite
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   stand
                   ,
                   they
                   joyn
                   ,
                   they
                   thicken
                   to
                   the
                   Fight
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Now
                   Turnus
                   doubts
                   ,
                   and
                   yet
                   disdains
                   to
                   yield
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   with
                   slow
                   paces
                   measures
                   back
                   the
                   Field
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   Inches
                   to
                   the
                   Walls
                   ,
                   where
                   
                   Tyber's
                   Tide
                   ,
                
                 
                   Washing
                   the
                   Camp
                   ,
                   defends
                   the
                   weaker
                   side
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   more
                   he
                   loses
                   ,
                   they
                   advance
                   the
                   more
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   tread
                   in
                   ev'ry
                   Step
                   he
                   trod
                   before
                   .
                
                 
                   They
                   showt
                   ,
                   they
                   bear
                   him
                   back
                   ,
                   and
                   whom
                   by
                   Might
                
                 
                   They
                   cannot
                   Conquer
                   ,
                   they
                   oppress
                   with
                   Weight
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   As
                   compass'd
                   with
                   a
                   Wood
                   of
                   Spears
                   around
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Lordly
                   Lyon
                   ,
                   still
                   maintains
                   his
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                   Grins
                   horrible
                   ,
                   retires
                   ,
                   and
                   turns
                   again
                   ;
                
                 
                   Threats
                   his
                   distended
                   Paws
                   ,
                   and
                   shakes
                   his
                   Mane
                   ;
                
                 
                   He
                   loses
                   while
                   in
                   vain
                   he
                   presses
                   on
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   will
                   his
                   Courage
                   let
                   him
                   dare
                   to
                   run
                   :
                
                 
                   So
                   Turnus
                   fares
                   ;
                   and
                   unresolv'd
                   of
                   flight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Moves
                   tardy
                   back
                   ,
                   and
                   just
                   recedes
                   from
                   fight
                   .
                
                 
                   Yet
                   twice
                   ,
                   inrag'd
                   ,
                   the
                   Combat
                   he
                   renews
                   ;
                
                 
                   Twice
                   breaks
                   ,
                   and
                   twice
                   his
                   broken
                   Foes
                   pursues
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   now
                   they
                   swarm
                   ;
                   and
                   with
                   fresh
                   Troops
                   supply'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Come
                   rowling
                   on
                   ,
                   and
                   rush
                   from
                   ev'ry
                   side
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Juno
                   ,
                   who
                   sustain'd
                   his
                   Arms
                   before
                   ,
                
                 
                   Dares
                   with
                   new
                   strength
                   suffice
                   th'
                   exhausted
                   store
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   Jove
                   ,
                   with
                   sour
                   Commands
                   ,
                   sent
                   Iris
                   down
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   force
                   th'
                   Invader
                   from
                   the
                   frighted
                   Town
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   With
                   Labour
                   spent
                   ,
                   no
                   Longer
                   can
                   he
                   wield
                
                 
                   The
                   heavy
                   Fauchion
                   ,
                   or
                   sustain
                   the
                   Shield
                   :
                
                 
                   O'rewhelm'd
                   with
                   Darts
                   ,
                   which
                   from
                   afar
                   they
                   fling
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Weapons
                   round
                   his
                   hollow
                   Temples
                   ring
                   :
                
                 
                   His
                   golden
                   Helm
                   gives
                   way
                   :
                   with
                   stony
                   blows
                
                 
                   Batter'd
                   ,
                   and
                   flat
                   ,
                   and
                   beaten
                   to
                   his
                   Brows
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   Crest
                   is
                   rash'd
                   away
                   ;
                   his
                   ample
                   Shield
                
                 
                   Is
                   falsify'd
                   ,
                   and
                   round
                   with
                   Jav'lins
                   fill'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Foe
                   now
                   faint
                   ,
                   the
                   Trojans
                   overwhelm
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   Mnestheus
                   lays
                   hard
                   load
                   upon
                   his
                   Helm
                   .
                
                 
                   Sick
                   sweat
                   succeeds
                   ,
                   he
                   drops
                   at
                   ev'ry
                   pore
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   driving
                   Dust
                   his
                   Cheeks
                   are
                   pasted
                   o're
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Shorter
                   and
                   shorter
                   ev'ry
                   Gasp
                   he
                   takes
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   vain
                   Efforts
                   ,
                   and
                   hurtless
                   Blows
                   he
                   makes
                   .
                
                 
                   Arm'd
                   as
                   he
                   was
                   ,
                   at
                   length
                   ,
                   he
                   leap'd
                   from
                   high
                   ;
                
                 
                   Plung'd
                   in
                   the
                   Flood
                   ,
                   and
                   made
                   the
                   Waters
                   fly
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   yellow
                   God
                   ,
                   the
                   welcome
                   Burthen
                   bore
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   wip'd
                   the
                   Sweat
                   ,
                   and
                   wash'd
                   away
                   the
                   Gore
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   gently
                   wafts
                   him
                   to
                   the
                   farther
                   Coast
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   sends
                   him
                   safe
                   to
                   chear
                   his
                   anxious
                   Hoast
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 The
                 Tenth
                 Book
                 of
                 the
                 Aeneis
                 .
              
               
                 
                   Jupiter
                   
                     calling
                     a
                     Council
                     of
                     the
                     Gods
                     ,
                     forbids
                     them
                     to
                     engage
                     in
                     either
                     Party
                     .
                     At
                  
                   Aeneas
                   
                     's
                     return
                     there
                     is
                     a
                     bloody
                     Battel
                     :
                  
                   Turnus
                   killing
                   Pallas
                   ;
                   Aeneas
                   ,
                   Lausus
                   and
                   Mezentius
                   .
                   Mezentius
                   
                     is
                     describ'd
                     as
                     an
                     Atheist
                  
                   ;
                   Lausus
                   
                     as
                     a
                     pious
                     and
                     virtuous
                     Youth
                     :
                     The
                     different
                     Actions
                     and
                     Death
                     of
                     these
                     two
                     ,
                     are
                     the
                     Subject
                     of
                     a
                     Noble
                     Episode
                     .
                  
                
              
               
                 
                   THE
                   Gates
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   unfold
                   ;
                   Jove
                   summons
                   all
                
                 
                   The
                   Gods
                   to
                   Council
                   ,
                   in
                   the
                   Common
                   Hall.
                
                 
                   Sublimely
                   seated
                   ,
                   he
                   surveys
                   from
                   far
                
                 
                   The
                   Fields
                   ,
                   the
                   Camp
                   ,
                   the
                   Fortune
                   of
                   the
                   War
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   th'
                   inferior
                   World
                   :
                   From
                   first
                   to
                   last
                
                 
                   The
                   Sov'raign
                   Senate
                   in
                   Degrees
                   are
                   plac'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   thus
                   th'
                   Almighty
                   Sire
                   began
                   .
                   Ye
                   Gods
                   ,
                
                 
                   Natives
                   ,
                   or
                   Denizons
                   ,
                   of
                   blest
                   Abodes
                   ;
                
                 
                   From
                   whence
                   these
                   Murmurs
                   ,
                   and
                   this
                   change
                   of
                   Mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   backward
                   Fate
                   from
                   what
                   was
                   first
                   design'd
                   ?
                
                 
                   Why
                   this
                   protracted
                   War
                   ?
                   When
                   my
                   Commands
                
                 
                   Pronounc'd
                   a
                   Peace
                   ,
                   and
                   gave
                   the
                   Latian
                   Lands
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   Fear
                   or
                   Hope
                   on
                   either
                   part
                   divides
                
                 
                   Our
                   Heav'ns
                   ,
                   and
                   arms
                   our
                   Pow'rs
                   on
                   diff'rent
                   sides
                   ?
                
                 
                   A
                   lawful
                   Time
                   of
                   War
                   at
                   length
                   will
                   come
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   Nor
                   need
                   your
                   haste
                   anticipate
                   the
                   Doom
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                   When
                   Carthage
                   shall
                   contest
                   the
                   World
                   with
                   Rome
                   :
                
                 
                   Shall
                   force
                   the
                   rigid
                   Rocks
                   ,
                   and
                   Alpine
                   Chains
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   like
                   a
                   Flood
                   come
                   pouring
                   on
                   the
                   Plains
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   is
                   your
                   time
                   for
                   Faction
                   and
                   Debate
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   partial
                   Favour
                   ,
                   and
                   permitted
                   Hate
                   .
                
                 
                   Let
                   now
                   your
                   immature
                   Dissention
                   cease
                   ;
                
                 
                   Sit
                   quiet
                   ,
                   and
                   compose
                   your
                   Souls
                   to
                   Peace
                   .
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     y
                     e
                     Right
                     Hon
                     ble
                     :
                     Iohn
                     Ld.
                     Viscount
                     Fitzharding
                     of
                     Beare-haven
                     and
                     Bawn
                     Berkley
                     of
                     Rathdowne
                     in
                     y
                     e
                     Kingdom
                     of
                     Ireland
                     &
                     Master
                     of
                     y
                     e
                     Horse
                     to
                     Her
                     Royall
                     Highness
                     the
                     Princess
                     Anne
                     of
                     Denmark
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     10.
                     l.
                     1.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                 
                   Thus
                   Jupiter
                   in
                   few
                   unfolds
                   the
                   Charge
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   lovely
                   Venus
                   thus
                   replies
                   at
                   large
                   .
                
                 
                   O
                   Pow'r
                   immense
                   ,
                   Eternal
                   Energy
                   !
                
                 
                   (
                   For
                   to
                   what
                   else
                   Protection
                   can
                   we
                   fly
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                   Seest
                   thou
                   the
                   proud
                   Rutulians
                   ,
                   how
                   they
                   dare
                
                 
                   In
                   Fields
                   ,
                   unpunish'd
                   ,
                   and
                   insult
                   my
                   Care
                   ?
                
                 
                   How
                   lofty
                   Turnus
                   vaunts
                   amidst
                   his
                   Train
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   shining
                   Arms
                   ,
                   triumphant
                   on
                   the
                   Plain
                   ?
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   in
                   their
                   Lines
                   and
                   Trenches
                   they
                   contend
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   scarce
                   their
                   Walls
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Troops
                   defend
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Town
                   is
                   fill'd
                   with
                   Slaughter
                   ,
                   and
                   o'refloats
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   a
                   red
                   Deluge
                   ,
                   their
                   increasing
                   Moats
                   .
                
                 
                   Aeneas
                   ignorant
                   ,
                   and
                   far
                   from
                   thence
                   ,
                
                 
                   Has
                   left
                   a
                   Camp
                   expos'd
                   ,
                   without
                   Defence
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   endless
                   outrage
                   shall
                   they
                   still
                   sustain
                   ?
                
                 
                   Shall
                   Troy
                   renew'd
                   be
                   forc'd
                   ,
                   and
                   fir'd
                   again
                   ?
                
                 
                   A
                   second
                   Siege
                   my
                   banish'd
                   Issue
                   fears
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   a
                   new
                   Diomede
                   in
                   Arms
                   appears
                   .
                
                 
                   One
                   more
                   audacious
                   Mortal
                   will
                   be
                   found
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   I
                   thy
                   Daughter
                   wait
                   another
                   Wound
                   .
                
                 
                   Yet
                   ,
                   if
                   with
                   Fates
                   averse
                   ,
                   without
                   thy
                   Leave
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Latian
                   Lands
                   my
                   Progeny
                   receive
                   ;
                
                 
                   Bear
                   they
                   the
                   Pains
                   of
                   violated
                   Law
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   thy
                   Protection
                   from
                   their
                   Aid
                   withdraw
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   if
                   the
                   Gods
                   their
                   sure
                   Success
                   foretel
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   those
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   consent
                   with
                   those
                   of
                   Hell
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   promise
                   Italy
                   ;
                   who
                   dare
                   debate
                
                 
                   The
                   Pow'r
                   of
                   Jove
                   ,
                   or
                   fix
                   another
                   Fate
                   ?
                
                 
                   What
                   shou'd
                   I
                   tell
                   of
                   Tempests
                   on
                   the
                   Main
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   Eolus
                   usurping
                   
                   Neptune's
                   Reign
                   ?
                
                 
                   Of
                   Iris
                   sent
                   ;
                   with
                   Bachanalian
                   Heat
                   ,
                
                 
                   T'
                   inspire
                   the
                   Matrons
                   ,
                   and
                   destroy
                   the
                   Fleet.
                
                 
                   Now
                   Juno
                   to
                   the
                   Stygian
                   Sky
                   descends
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sollicites
                   Hell
                   for
                   Aid
                   ,
                   and
                   arms
                   the
                   Fiends
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   That
                   new
                   Example
                   wanted
                   yet
                   above
                   :
                
                 
                   An
                   Act
                   that
                   well
                   became
                   the
                   Wife
                   of
                   Jove
                   .
                
                 
                   Alecto
                   ,
                   rais'd
                   by
                   her
                   ,
                   with
                   Rage
                   inflames
                
                 
                   The
                   peaceful
                   Bosoms
                   of
                   the
                   Latian
                   Dames
                   .
                
                 
                   Imperial
                   Sway
                   no
                   more
                   exalts
                   my
                   Mind
                   :
                
                 
                   (
                   Such
                   hopes
                   I
                   had
                   indeed
                   ,
                   while
                   Heav'n
                   was
                   kind
                   )
                
                 
                   Now
                   let
                   my
                   happier
                   Foes
                   possess
                   my
                   place
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whom
                   Jove
                   prefers
                   before
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Race
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   conquer
                   they
                   ,
                   whom
                   you
                   with
                   Conquest
                   grace
                   .
                
                 
                   Since
                   you
                   can
                   spare
                   ,
                   from
                   all
                   your
                   wide
                   Command
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   spot
                   of
                   Earth
                   ,
                   no
                   hospitable
                   Land
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   may
                   my
                   wand'ring
                   Fugitives
                   receive
                   ;
                
                 
                   (
                   Since
                   haughty
                   Juno
                   will
                   not
                   give
                   you
                   leave
                   )
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   Father
                   ,
                   (
                   if
                   I
                   still
                   may
                   use
                   that
                   Name
                   )
                
                 
                   By
                   ruin'd
                   Troy
                   ,
                   yet
                   smoking
                   from
                   the
                   Flame
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   beg
                   you
                   let
                   Ascanius
                   ,
                   by
                   my
                   Care
                   ,
                
                 
                   Be
                   freed
                   from
                   Danger
                   ,
                   and
                   dismiss'd
                   the
                   War
                   :
                
                 
                   Inglorious
                   let
                   him
                   live
                   ,
                   without
                   a
                   Crown
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Father
                   may
                   be
                   cast
                   on
                   Coasts
                   unknown
                   ,
                
                 
                   Strugling
                   with
                   Fate
                   ;
                   but
                   let
                   me
                   save
                   the
                   Son.
                
                 
                   Mine
                   is
                   Cythera
                   ,
                   mine
                   the
                   Cyprian
                   Tow'rs
                   ;
                
                 
                   In
                   those
                   Recesses
                   ,
                   and
                   those
                   sacred
                   Bow'rs
                   ,
                
                 
                   Obscurely
                   let
                   him
                   rest
                   ;
                   his
                   Right
                   resign
                
                 
                   To
                   promis'd
                   Empire
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Julian
                   Line
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   Carthage
                   may
                   th'
                   Ausonian
                   Towns
                   destroy
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   fear
                   the
                   Race
                   of
                   a
                   rejected
                   Boy
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   profits
                   it
                   my
                   Son
                   ,
                   to
                   scape
                   the
                   Fire
                   ,
                
                 
                   Arm'd
                   with
                   his
                   Gods
                   ,
                   and
                   loaded
                   with
                   his
                   Sire
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   pass
                   the
                   Perils
                   of
                   the
                   Seas
                   and
                   Wind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Evade
                   the
                   Greeks
                   ,
                   and
                   leave
                   the
                   War
                   behind
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   reach
                   th'
                   Italian
                   Shores
                   :
                   If
                   after
                   all
                   ,
                
                 
                   Our
                   second
                   Pergamus
                   is
                   doom'd
                   to
                   fall
                   ?
                
                 
                   Much
                   better
                   had
                   he
                   curb'd
                   his
                   high
                   Desires
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   hover'd
                   o're
                   his
                   ill
                   extinguish'd
                   Fires
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   To
                   Simois
                   Banks
                   the
                   Fugitives
                   restore
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   give
                   them
                   back
                   to
                   War
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   the
                   Woes
                   before
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Deep
                   indignation
                   swell'd
                   
                   Saturnia's
                   Heart
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   must
                   I
                   own
                   ,
                   she
                   said
                   ,
                   my
                   secret
                   Smart
                   ?
                
                 
                   What
                   with
                   more
                   decence
                   were
                   in
                   silence
                   kept
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   but
                   for
                   this
                   unjust
                   Reproach
                   had
                   slept
                   ?
                
                 
                   Did
                   God
                   ,
                   or
                   Man
                   ,
                   your
                   Fav'rite
                   Son
                   advise
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   War
                   unhop'd
                   the
                   Latians
                   to
                   surprise
                   ?
                
                 
                   By
                   Fate
                   you
                   boast
                   ,
                   and
                   by
                   the
                   Gods
                   Decree
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   left
                   his
                   Native
                   Land
                   for
                   Italy
                   :
                
                 
                   Confess
                   the
                   Truth
                   ;
                   by
                   mad
                   Cassandra
                   ,
                   more
                
                 
                   Than
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   inspir'd
                   ,
                   he
                   sought
                   a
                   foreign
                   Shore
                   !
                
                 
                   Did
                   I
                   perswade
                   to
                   trust
                   his
                   second
                   Troy
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   the
                   raw
                   Conduct
                   of
                   a
                   beardless
                   Boy
                   ?
                
                 
                   With
                   Walls
                   unfinish'd
                   ,
                   which
                   himself
                   forsakes
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   thro'
                   the
                   Waves
                   a
                   wand'ring
                   Voyage
                   makes
                   ?
                
                 
                   When
                   have
                   I
                   urg'd
                   him
                   meanly
                   to
                   demand
                
                 
                   The
                   Tuscan
                   Aid
                   ,
                   and
                   arm
                   a
                   quiet
                   Land
                   ?
                
                 
                   Did
                   I
                   or
                   Iris
                   give
                   this
                   mad
                   Advice
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   made
                   the
                   Fool
                   himself
                   the
                   fatal
                   Choice
                   ?
                
                 
                   You
                   think
                   it
                   hard
                   ,
                   the
                   Latians
                   shou'd
                   destroy
                
                 
                   With
                   Swords
                   your
                   Trojans
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   Fires
                   your
                   Troy
                   :
                
                 
                   Hard
                   and
                   unjust
                   indeed
                   ,
                   for
                   Men
                   to
                   draw
                
                 
                   Their
                   Native
                   Air
                   ,
                   nor
                   take
                   a
                   foreign
                   Law
                   :
                
                 
                   That
                   Turnus
                   is
                   permitted
                   still
                   to
                   live
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   whom
                   his
                   Birth
                   a
                   God
                   and
                   Goddess
                   give
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   yet
                   't
                   is
                   just
                   and
                   lawful
                   for
                   your
                   Line
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   drive
                   their
                   Fields
                   ,
                   and
                   Force
                   with
                   Fraud
                   to
                   join
                   .
                
                 
                   Realms
                   ,
                   not
                   your
                   own
                   ,
                   among
                   your
                   Clans
                   divide
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   from
                   the
                   Bridegroom
                   tear
                   the
                   promis'd
                   Bride
                   :
                
                 
                   Petition
                   ,
                   while
                   you
                   publick
                   Arms
                   prepare
                   ;
                
                 
                   Pretend
                   a
                   Peace
                   ,
                   and
                   yet
                   provoke
                   a
                   War.
                
                 
                   'T
                   was
                   giv'n
                   to
                   you
                   ,
                   your
                   darling
                   Son
                   to
                   shrowd
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   draw
                   the
                   Dastard
                   from
                   the
                   fighting
                   Crowd
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   for
                   a
                   Man
                   obtend
                   an
                   empty
                   Cloud
                   .
                
                 
                 
                 
                 
                 
                 
                   From
                   flaming
                   Fleets
                   you
                   turn'd
                   the
                   Fire
                   away
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   chang'd
                   the
                   Ships
                   to
                   Daughters
                   of
                   the
                   Sea.
                
                 
                   But
                   't
                   is
                   my
                   Crime
                   ,
                   the
                   Queen
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   offends
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   she
                   presume
                   to
                   save
                   her
                   suff'ring
                   Friends
                   .
                
                 
                   Your
                   Son
                   ,
                   not
                   knowing
                   what
                   his
                   Foes
                   decree
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   say
                   is
                   absent
                   :
                   Absent
                   let
                   him
                   be
                   .
                
                 
                   Yours
                   is
                   Cythera
                   ,
                   yours
                   the
                   Cyprian
                   Tow'rs
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   soft
                   Recesses
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Sacred
                   Bow'rs
                   .
                
                 
                   Why
                   do
                   you
                   then
                   these
                   needless
                   Arms
                   prepare
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   thus
                   provoke
                   a
                   People
                   prone
                   to
                   War
                   ?
                
                 
                   Did
                   I
                   with
                   Fire
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Town
                   deface
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   hinder
                   from
                   return
                   your
                   exil'd
                   Race
                   ?
                
                 
                   Was
                   I
                   the
                   Cause
                   of
                   Mischief
                   ,
                   or
                   the
                   Man
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whose
                   lawless
                   Lust
                   the
                   bloody
                   War
                   began
                   ?
                
                 
                   Think
                   on
                   whose
                   Faith
                   th'
                   Adult'rous
                   Youth
                   rely'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Who
                   promis'd
                   ,
                   who
                   procur'd
                   the
                   Spartan
                   Bride
                   ?
                
                 
                   When
                   all
                   th'
                   united
                   States
                   of
                   Greece
                   combin'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   purge
                   the
                   World
                   of
                   the
                   perfidious
                   Kind
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   was
                   your
                   time
                   to
                   fear
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Fate
                   :
                
                 
                   Your
                   Quarrels
                   and
                   Complaints
                   are
                   now
                   too
                   late
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Thus
                   Juno
                   .
                   Murmurs
                   rise
                   ,
                   with
                   mix'd
                   Applause
                   ;
                
                 
                   Just
                   as
                   they
                   favour
                   ,
                   or
                   dislike
                   the
                   Cause
                   :
                
                 
                   So
                   Winds
                   ,
                   when
                   yet
                   unfledg'd
                   in
                   Woods
                   they
                   lie
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   whispers
                   first
                   their
                   tender
                   Voices
                   try
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   issue
                   on
                   the
                   Main
                   with
                   bellowing
                   rage
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Storms
                   to
                   trembling
                   Mariners
                   presage
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   thus
                   to
                   both
                   reply'd
                   th'
                   Imperial
                   God
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   shakes
                   Heav'ns
                   Axels
                   with
                   his
                   awful
                   Nod.
                
                 
                   (
                   When
                   he
                   begins
                   ,
                   the
                   silent
                   Senate
                   stand
                
                 
                   With
                   Rev'rence
                   ,
                   list'ning
                   to
                   the
                   dread
                   Command
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Clouds
                   dispel
                   ;
                   the
                   Winds
                   their
                   Breath
                   restrain
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   hush'd
                   Waves
                   lie
                   flatted
                   on
                   the
                   Main
                   .
                   )
                
              
               
                 
                   Coelestials
                   !
                   Your
                   attentive
                   Ears
                   incline
                   ;
                
                 
                   Since
                   ,
                   said
                   the
                   God
                   ,
                   the
                   Trojans
                   must
                   not
                   join
                
                 
                   In
                   wish'd
                   Alliance
                   with
                   the
                   Latian
                   Line
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   Since
                   endless
                   jarrings
                   ,
                   and
                   immortal
                   Hate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tend
                   but
                   to
                   discompose
                   our
                   happy
                   State
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   War
                   henceforward
                   be
                   resign'd
                   to
                   Fate
                   .
                
                 
                   Each
                   to
                   his
                   proper
                   Fortune
                   stand
                   or
                   fall
                   ,
                
                 
                   Equal
                   and
                   unconcern'd
                   I
                   look
                   on
                   all
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     Rutulians
                     ,
                     Trojans
                  
                   ,
                   are
                   the
                   same
                   to
                   me
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   both
                   shall
                   draw
                   the
                   Lots
                   their
                   Fates
                   decree
                   .
                
                 
                   Let
                   these
                   assault
                   ;
                   if
                   Fortune
                   be
                   their
                   Friend
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   if
                   she
                   favours
                   those
                   ,
                   let
                   those
                   defend
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Fates
                   will
                   find
                   their
                   way
                   .
                   The
                   Thund'rer
                   said
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   shook
                   the
                   sacred
                   Honours
                   of
                   his
                   Head
                   ;
                
                 
                   Attesting
                   Styx
                   ,
                   th'
                   Inviolable
                   Flood
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   black
                   Regions
                   of
                   his
                   Brother
                   God
                
                 
                   Trembled
                   the
                   Poles
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   ;
                   and
                   Earth
                   confess'd
                   the
                   Nod.
                
                 
                   This
                   end
                   the
                   Sessions
                   had
                   :
                   The
                   Senate
                   rise
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   to
                   his
                   Palace
                   wait
                   their
                   Sov'raign
                   thro'
                   the
                   Skies
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Mean
                   time
                   ,
                   intent
                   upon
                   their
                   Siege
                   ,
                   the
                   Foes
                
                 
                   Within
                   their
                   Walls
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Hoast
                   inclose
                   :
                
                 
                   They
                   wound
                   ,
                   they
                   kill
                   ,
                   they
                   watch
                   at
                   ev'ry
                   Gate
                   :
                
                 
                   Renew
                   the
                   Fires
                   ,
                   and
                   urge
                   their
                   happy
                   Fate
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Th'
                   Aeneans
                   wish
                   in
                   vain
                   their
                   wanted
                   Chief
                   ,
                
                 
                   Hopeless
                   of
                   flight
                   ,
                   more
                   hopeless
                   of
                   Relief
                   :
                
                 
                   Thin
                   on
                   the
                   Tow'rs
                   they
                   stand
                   ;
                   and
                   ev'n
                   thofe
                   few
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   feeble
                   ,
                   fainting
                   ,
                   and
                   dejected
                   Crew
                   :
                
                 
                   Yet
                   in
                   the
                   face
                   of
                   Danger
                   some
                   there
                   stood
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   two
                   bold
                   Brothers
                   of
                   
                   Sarpedon's
                   Blood
                   ,
                
                 
                   Asius
                   ,
                   and
                   Acmon
                   :
                   both
                   th'
                   Assaraci
                   ;
                
                 
                   Young
                   Haemon
                   ,
                   and
                   tho'
                   young
                   ,
                   resolv'd
                   to
                   dye
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   these
                   were
                   Clarus
                   and
                   Thymaetes
                   join'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Tibris
                   and
                   Castor
                   ,
                   both
                   of
                   Lycian
                   Kind
                   .
                
                 
                   From
                   
                   Acmon's
                   Hands
                   a
                   rowling
                   Stone
                   there
                   came
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   large
                   ,
                   if
                   half
                   deserv'd
                   a
                   Mountain's
                   Name
                   :
                
                 
                   Strong
                   sinew'd
                   was
                   the
                   Youth
                   ,
                   and
                   big
                   of
                   Bone
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Brother
                   Mnestheus
                   cou'd
                   not
                   more
                   have
                   done
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   the
                   great
                   Father
                   of
                   th'
                   intrepid
                   Son.
                
                 
                 
                   Some
                   Firebrands
                   throw
                   ,
                   some
                   flights
                   of
                   Arrows
                   send
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   some
                   with
                   Darts
                   ,
                   and
                   some
                   with
                   Stones
                   defend
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Amid
                   the
                   Press
                   appears
                   the
                   beauteous
                   Boy
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Care
                   of
                   Venus
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Hope
                   of
                   Troy.
                
                 
                   His
                   lovely
                   Face
                   unarm'd
                   ,
                   his
                   Head
                   was
                   bare
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   ringlets
                   o're
                   his
                   Shoulders
                   hung
                   his
                   Hair.
                
                 
                   His
                   Forehead
                   circled
                   with
                   a
                   Diadem
                   ;
                
                 
                   Distinguish'd
                   from
                   the
                   Crowd
                   ,
                   he
                   shines
                   a
                   Gem
                   ,
                
                 
                   Enchas'd
                   in
                   Gold
                   ,
                   or
                   Polish'd
                   Iv'ry
                   set
                   ,
                
                 
                   Amidst
                   the
                   meaner
                   foil
                   of
                   sable
                   Jett
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Nor
                   Ismarus
                   was
                   wanting
                   to
                   the
                   War
                   ,
                
                 
                   Directing
                   Ointed
                   Arrows
                   from
                   afar
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Death
                   with
                   Poyson
                   arm'd
                   :
                   In
                   Lydia
                   born
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   plenteous
                   Harvests
                   the
                   fat
                   Fields
                   adorn
                   :
                
                 
                   Where
                   proud
                   Pactolus
                   floats
                   the
                   fruitful
                   Lands
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   leaves
                   a
                   rich
                   manure
                   of
                   Golden
                   Sands
                   .
                
                 
                   There
                   Capys
                   ,
                   Author
                   of
                   the
                   Capuan
                   Name
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   there
                   was
                   Mnestheus
                   too
                   increas'd
                   in
                   Fame
                   :
                
                 
                   Since
                   Turnus
                   from
                   the
                   Camp
                   He
                   cast
                   with
                   shame
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Thus
                   Mortal
                   War
                   was
                   wag'd
                   on
                   either
                   side
                   ,
                
                 
                   Mean
                   time
                   the
                   Heroe
                   cuts
                   the
                   Nightly
                   Tyde
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   ,
                   anxious
                   ,
                   from
                   Evander
                   when
                   he
                   went
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   sought
                   the
                   Tyrrhene
                   Camp
                   ,
                   and
                   
                   Tarchon's
                   Tent
                   ;
                
                 
                   Expos'd
                   the
                   Cause
                   of
                   coming
                   to
                   the
                   Chief
                   ;
                
                 
                   His
                   Name
                   ,
                   and
                   Country
                   told
                   ,
                   and
                   ask'd
                   Relief
                   :
                
                 
                   Propos'd
                   the
                   Terms
                   ;
                   his
                   own
                   small
                   strength
                   declar'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   Vengeance
                   proud
                   Mezentius
                   had
                   prepar'd
                   :
                
                 
                   What
                   Turnus
                   ,
                   bold
                   and
                   violent
                   ,
                   design'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   shew'd
                   the
                   slippry
                   state
                   of
                   Humane-kind
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   fickle
                   Fortune
                   ;
                   warn'd
                   him
                   to
                   beware
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   to
                   his
                   wholsom
                   Counsel
                   added
                   Pray'r
                   .
                
                 
                   Tarchon
                   ,
                   without
                   delay
                   ,
                   the
                   Treaty
                   signs
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   to
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Troops
                   the
                   Tuscan
                   joins
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   They
                   soon
                   set
                   sail
                   ;
                   nor
                   now
                   the
                   Fates
                   withstand
                   ;
                
                 
                   Their
                   Forces
                   trusted
                   with
                   a
                   Foreign
                   Hand
                   .
                
                 
                   Aeneas
                   leads
                   ;
                   upon
                   his
                   Stern
                   appear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Two
                   Lyons
                   carv'd
                   ,
                   which
                   rising
                   Ida
                   bear
                   :
                
                 
                   Ida
                   ,
                   to
                   wand'ring
                   Trojans
                   ever
                   dear
                   .
                
                 
                   Under
                   their
                   grateful
                   Shade
                   Aeneas
                   sate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Revolving
                   Wars
                   Events
                   ,
                   and
                   various
                   Fate
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   left
                   young
                   Pallas
                   kept
                   ,
                   fix'd
                   to
                   his
                   side
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   oft
                   of
                   Winds
                   enquir'd
                   ,
                   and
                   of
                   the
                   Tyde
                   :
                
                 
                   Oft
                   of
                   the
                   Stars
                   ,
                   and
                   of
                   their
                   wat'ry
                   Way
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   what
                   he
                   suffer'd
                   both
                   by
                   Land
                   and
                   Sea.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Now
                   sacred
                   Sisters
                   open
                   all
                   your
                   Spring
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Tuscan
                   Leaders
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   Army
                   sing
                   ;
                
                 
                   Which
                   follow'd
                   great
                   Aeneas
                   to
                   the
                   War
                   :
                
                 
                   Their
                   Arms
                   ,
                   their
                   Numbers
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   Names
                   declare
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   A
                   thousand
                   Youths
                   brave
                   Massicus
                   obey
                   ,
                
                 
                   Born
                   in
                   the
                   Tyger
                   ,
                   thro'
                   the
                   foaming
                   Sea
                   ;
                
                 
                   From
                   Asium
                   brought
                   ,
                   and
                   Cosa
                   ,
                   by
                   his
                   Care
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   Arms
                   ,
                   light
                   Quivers
                   ,
                   Bows
                   ,
                   and
                   Shafts
                   they
                   bear
                   .
                
                 
                   Fierce
                   Abas
                   next
                   ,
                   his
                   Men
                   bright
                   Armour
                   wore
                   ;
                
                 
                   His
                   Stern
                   ,
                   
                   Apollo's
                   Golden
                   Statue
                   bore
                   .
                
                 
                   Six
                   hundred
                   Populonea
                   sent
                   along
                   ,
                
                 
                   All
                   skill'd
                   in
                   Martial
                   Exercise
                   ,
                   and
                   strong
                   .
                
                 
                   Three
                   hundred
                   more
                   for
                   Battel
                   Ilva
                   joins
                   ,
                
                 
                   An
                   Isle
                   renown'd
                   for
                   Steel
                   ,
                   and
                   unexhausted
                   Mines
                   .
                
                 
                   Asylas
                   on
                   his
                   Prow
                   the
                   third
                   appears
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   Heav'n
                   interprets
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   wand'ring
                   Stars
                   :
                
                 
                   From
                   offer'd
                   Entrails
                   Prodigies
                   expounds
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Peals
                   of
                   Thunder
                   ,
                   with
                   presaging
                   Sounds
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   thousand
                   Spears
                   in
                   warlike
                   Order
                   stand
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sent
                   by
                   the
                   Pisans
                   under
                   his
                   Command
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Fair
                   Astur
                   follows
                   in
                   the
                   wat'ry
                   Field
                   ,
                
                 
                   Proud
                   of
                   his
                   manag'd
                   Horse
                   ,
                   and
                   painted
                   Shield
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Gravisca
                   ,
                   noisom
                   from
                   the
                   neighb'ring
                   Fen
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   his
                   own
                   Coere
                   sent
                   three
                   hundred
                   Men
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   those
                   which
                   
                   Minio's
                   Fields
                   ,
                   and
                   Pyrgi
                   gave
                   ;
                
                 
                   All
                   bred
                   in
                   Arms
                   ,
                   unanimous
                   and
                   brave
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Thou
                   Muse
                   the
                   Name
                   of
                   Cyniras
                   renew
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   brave
                   Cupavo
                   follow'd
                   but
                   by
                   few
                   :
                
                 
                   Whose
                   Helm
                   confess'd
                   the
                   Lineage
                   of
                   the
                   Man
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   bore
                   ,
                   with
                   Wings
                   display'd
                   ,
                   a
                   silver
                   Swan
                   .
                
                 
                   Love
                   was
                   the
                   fault
                   of
                   his
                   fam'd
                   Ancestry
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whose
                   Forms
                   ,
                   and
                   Fortunes
                   in
                   his
                   Ensigns
                   fly
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   Cycnus
                   lov'd
                   unhappy
                   Phaeton
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   sung
                   his
                   Loss
                   in
                   Poplar
                   Groves
                   ,
                   alone
                   ;
                
                 
                   Beneath
                   the
                   Sister
                   shades
                   to
                   sooth
                   his
                   Grief
                   ;
                
                 
                   Heav'n
                   heard
                   his
                   Song
                   ,
                   and
                   hasten'd
                   his
                   Relief
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   chang'd
                   to
                   snowy
                   Plumes
                   his
                   hoary
                   Hair
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   wing'd
                   his
                   Flight
                   ,
                   to
                   chant
                   aloft
                   in
                   Air.
                
                 
                   His
                   Son
                   Cupavo
                   brush'd
                   the
                   briny
                   Flood
                   ;
                
                 
                   Upon
                   his
                   Stern
                   a
                   brawny
                   Centaur
                   stood
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   heav'd
                   a
                   Rock
                   ,
                   and
                   threat'ning
                   still
                   to
                   throw
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   lifted
                   Hands
                   ,
                   alarm'd
                   the
                   Seas
                   below
                   :
                
                 
                   They
                   seem'd
                   to
                   fear
                   the
                   formidable
                   Sight
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   rowl'd
                   their
                   Billows
                   on
                   ,
                   to
                   speed
                   his
                   Flight
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Ocnus
                   was
                   next
                   ,
                   who
                   led
                   his
                   Native
                   Train
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   hardy
                   Warriors
                   ,
                   thro'
                   the
                   wat'ry
                   Plain
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Son
                   of
                   Manto
                   ,
                   by
                   the
                   Tuscan
                   Stream
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   whence
                   the
                   Mantuan
                   Town
                   derives
                   the
                   Name
                   .
                
                 
                   An
                   ancient
                   City
                   ,
                   but
                   of
                   mix'd
                   Descent
                   ,
                
                 
                   Three
                   sev'ral
                   Tribes
                   compose
                   the
                   Government
                   :
                
                 
                   Four
                   Towns
                   are
                   under
                   each
                   ;
                   but
                   all
                   obey
                
                 
                   The
                   Mantuan
                   Laws
                   ,
                   and
                   own
                   the
                   Tuscan
                   Sway.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Hate
                   to
                   Mezentius
                   ,
                   arm'd
                   five
                   hundred
                   more
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whom
                   Mincius
                   from
                   his
                   Sire
                   Benacus
                   bore
                   ;
                
                 
                   
                     (
                     Mincius
                  
                   with
                   Wreaths
                   of
                   Reeds
                   his
                   forehead
                   cover'd
                   o're
                   .
                   )
                
                 
                 
                   These
                   grave
                   Auletes
                   leads
                   .
                   A
                   hundred
                   sweep
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   stretching
                   Oars
                   at
                   once
                   the
                   glassy
                   deep
                   :
                
                 
                   Him
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Martial
                   Train
                   ,
                   the
                   Triton
                   bears
                   ,
                
                 
                   High
                   on
                   his
                   Poop
                   the
                   Sea-green
                   God
                   appears
                   :
                
                 
                   Frowning
                   he
                   seems
                   his
                   crooked
                   Shell
                   to
                   sound
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   at
                   the
                   Blast
                   the
                   Billows
                   dance
                   around
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   hairy
                   Man
                   above
                   the
                   Waste
                   he
                   shows
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Porpoise
                   Tail
                   beneath
                   his
                   Belly
                   grows
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   ends
                   a
                   Fish
                   :
                   His
                   Breast
                   the
                   Waves
                   divides
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Froth
                   and
                   Foam
                   augment
                   the
                   murm'ring
                   Tides
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Full
                   thirty
                   Ships
                   transport
                   the
                   chosen
                   Train
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   
                   Troy's
                   Relief
                   ,
                   and
                   scour
                   the
                   briny
                   Main
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Now
                   was
                   the
                   World
                   sorsaken
                   by
                   the
                   Sun
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Phoebe
                   half
                   her
                   nightly
                   Race
                   had
                   run
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   careful
                   Chief
                   ,
                   who
                   never
                   clos'd
                   his
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Himself
                   the
                   Rudder
                   holds
                   ,
                   the
                   Sails
                   supplies
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   Choir
                   of
                   Nereids
                   meet
                   him
                   on
                   the
                   Flood
                   ,
                
                 
                   Once
                   his
                   own
                   Gallies
                   ,
                   hewn
                   from
                   
                   Ida's
                   Wood
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   now
                   as
                   many
                   Nymphs
                   the
                   Sea
                   they
                   sweep
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   rode
                   before
                   tall
                   Vessels
                   on
                   the
                   Deep
                   .
                
                 
                   They
                   know
                   him
                   from
                   afar
                   ;
                   and
                   ,
                   in
                   a
                   Ring
                   ,
                
                 
                   Inclose
                   the
                   Ship
                   that
                   bore
                   the
                   Trojan
                   King.
                
                 
                   Cymodoce
                   ,
                   whose
                   Voice
                   excell'd
                   the
                   rest
                   ,
                
                 
                   Above
                   the
                   Waves
                   advanc'd
                   her
                   snowy
                   Breast
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   right
                   Hand
                   stops
                   the
                   Stern
                   ,
                   her
                   left
                   divides
                
                 
                   The
                   curling
                   Ocean
                   ,
                   and
                   corrects
                   the
                   Tides
                   :
                
                 
                   She
                   spoke
                   for
                   all
                   the
                   Choir
                   ;
                   and
                   thus
                   began
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   pleasing
                   Words
                   to
                   warn
                   th'
                   unknowing
                   Man.
                
                 
                   Sleeps
                   our
                   lov'd
                   Lord
                   ?
                   O
                   Goddess-born
                   !
                   awake
                   ,
                
                 
                   Spread
                   ev'ry
                   Sail
                   ,
                   pursue
                   your
                   wat'ry
                   Track
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   haste
                   your
                   Course
                   .
                   Your
                   Navy
                   once
                   were
                   we
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   
                   Ida's
                   Height
                   descending
                   to
                   the
                   Sea
                   :
                
                 
                   'Till
                   Turnus
                   ,
                   as
                   at
                   Anchor
                   fix'd
                   we
                   stood
                   ,
                
                 
                   Presum'd
                   to
                   violate
                   our
                   holy
                   Wood.
                
                 
                 
                   Then
                   loos'd
                   from
                   Shore
                   we
                   fled
                   his
                   Fires
                   prophane
                   ;
                
                 
                   (
                   Unwillingly
                   we
                   broke
                   our
                   Master's
                   Chain
                   )
                
                 
                   And
                   since
                   have
                   sought
                   you
                   thro'
                   the
                   Tuscan
                   Main
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   mighty
                   Mother
                   chang'd
                   our
                   Forms
                   to
                   these
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   gave
                   us
                   Life
                   Immortal
                   in
                   the
                   Seas
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   young
                   Ascanius
                   ,
                   in
                   his
                   Camp
                   distress'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   your
                   insulting
                   Foes
                   is
                   hardly
                   press'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Th'
                   Arcadian
                   Horsemen
                   ,
                   and
                   Etrurian
                   Hoast
                
                 
                   Advance
                   in
                   order
                   on
                   the
                   Latian
                   Coast
                   :
                
                 
                   To
                   cut
                   their
                   way
                   the
                   Daunian
                   Chief
                   designs
                   ,
                
                 
                   Before
                   their
                   Troops
                   can
                   reach
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Lines
                   .
                
                 
                   Thou
                   ,
                   when
                   the
                   rosie
                   Morn
                   restores
                   the
                   Light
                   ,
                
                 
                   First
                   arm
                   thy
                   Souldiers
                   for
                   th'
                   ensuing
                   Fight
                   :
                
                 
                   Thy self
                   the
                   fated
                   Sword
                   of
                   Vulcan
                   wield
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   bear
                   aloft
                   th'
                   impenetrable
                   Shield
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   Morrow's
                   Sun
                   ,
                   unless
                   my
                   Skill
                   be
                   vain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shall
                   see
                   huge
                   heaps
                   of
                   Foes
                   in
                   Battel
                   slain
                   .
                
                 
                   Parting
                   ,
                   she
                   spoke
                   ;
                   and
                   with
                   Immortal
                   Force
                   ,
                
                 
                   Push'd
                   on
                   the
                   Vessel
                   in
                   her
                   wat'ry
                   Course
                   :
                
                 
                   (
                   For
                   well
                   she
                   knew
                   the
                   Way
                   )
                   impell'd
                   behind
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Ship
                   flew
                   forward
                   ,
                   and
                   outstrip'd
                   the
                   Wind.
                
                 
                   The
                   rest
                   make
                   up
                   :
                   Unknowing
                   of
                   the
                   cause
                
                 
                   The
                   Chief
                   admires
                   their
                   Speed
                   ,
                   and
                   happy
                   Omens
                   draws
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   thus
                   he
                   pray'd
                   ,
                   and
                   fix'd
                   on
                   Heav'n
                   his
                   Eyes
                   ;
                
                 
                   Hear
                   thou
                   ,
                   great
                   Mother
                   of
                   the
                   Deities
                   !
                
                 
                   With
                   Turrets
                   crown'd
                   ,
                   (
                   on
                   
                   Ida's
                   holy
                   Hill
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fierce
                   Tygers
                   ,
                   rein'd
                   and
                   curb'd
                   ,
                   obey
                   thy
                   Will.
                   )
                
                 
                   Firm
                   thy
                   own
                   Omens
                   ,
                   lead
                   us
                   on
                   to
                   fight
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   let
                   thy
                   Phrygians
                   conquer
                   in
                   thy
                   right
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   He
                   said
                   no
                   more
                   .
                   And
                   now
                   renewing
                   Day
                
                 
                   Had
                   chas'd
                   the
                   Shadows
                   of
                   the
                   Night
                   away
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   charg'd
                   the
                   Souldiers
                   with
                   preventing
                   Care
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   Flags
                   to
                   follow
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   Arms
                   prepare
                   ;
                
                 
                   Warn'd
                   of
                   th'
                   ensuing
                   Fight
                   ,
                   and
                   bad'em
                   hope
                   the
                   War.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Now
                   ,
                   from
                   his
                   lofty
                   Poop
                   ,
                   he
                   view'd
                   below
                
                 
                   His
                   Camp
                   incompass'd
                   ,
                   and
                   th'
                   inclosing
                   Foe
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   blazing
                   Shield
                   imbrac'd
                   ,
                   he
                   held
                   on
                   high
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Camp
                   receive
                   the
                   sign
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   loud
                   Shouts
                   reply
                   .
                
                 
                   Hope
                   arms
                   their
                   Anger
                   :
                   From
                   their
                   Tow'rs
                   they
                   throw
                
                 
                   Their
                   Darts
                   with
                   double
                   Force
                   ,
                   and
                   drive
                   the
                   Foe
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   ,
                   at
                   the
                   signal
                   giv'n
                   ,
                   the
                   Cranes
                   arise
                
                 
                   Before
                   the
                   stormy
                   South
                   ,
                   and
                   blacken
                   all
                   the
                   Skies
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   King
                   Turnus
                   wonder'd
                   at
                   the
                   Fight
                   renew'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   'Till
                   ,
                   looking
                   back
                   ,
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Fleet
                   he
                   view'd
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Seas
                   with
                   swelling
                   Canvass
                   cover'd
                   o're
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   swift
                   Ships
                   descending
                   on
                   the
                   Shore
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Latians
                   saw
                   from
                   far
                   ,
                   with
                   dazl'd
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   radiant
                   Crest
                   that
                   seem'd
                   in
                   Flames
                   to
                   rise
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   dart
                   diffusive
                   Fires
                   around
                   the
                   Field
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   keen
                   glitt'ring
                   of
                   the
                   Golden
                   Shield
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Thus
                   threatning
                   Comets
                   ,
                   when
                   by
                   Night
                   they
                   rise
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shoot
                   sanguine
                   Streams
                   ,
                   and
                   sadden
                   all
                   the
                   Skies
                   :
                
                 
                   So
                   Sirius
                   ,
                   flashing
                   forth
                   sinister
                   Lights
                   ,
                
                 
                   Pale
                   humane
                   kind
                   with
                   Plagues
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   dry
                   Famine
                   frights
                   .
                
                 
                   Yet
                   Turnus
                   ,
                   with
                   undaunted
                   Mind
                   is
                   bent
                
                 
                   To
                   man
                   the
                   Shores
                   ,
                   and
                   hinder
                   their
                   Descent
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   thus
                   awakes
                   the
                   Courage
                   of
                   his
                   Friends
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   you
                   so
                   long
                   have
                   wish'd
                   ,
                   kind
                   Fortune
                   sends
                   :
                
                 
                   In
                   equal
                   Arms
                   to
                   meet
                   th'
                   invading
                   Foe
                   :
                
                 
                   You
                   find
                   ,
                   and
                   find
                   him
                   at
                   Advantage
                   now
                   .
                
                 
                   Yours
                   is
                   the
                   Day
                   ,
                   you
                   need
                   but
                   only
                   dare
                   :
                
                 
                   Your
                   Swords
                   will
                   make
                   you
                   Masters
                   of
                   the
                   War.
                
                 
                   Your
                   Sires
                   ,
                   your
                   Sons
                   ,
                   your
                   Houses
                   ,
                   and
                   your
                   Lands
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   dearest
                   Wifes
                   ,
                   are
                   all
                   within
                   your
                   Hands
                   .
                
                 
                   Be
                   mindful
                   of
                   the
                   Race
                   from
                   whence
                   you
                   came
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   emulate
                   in
                   Arms
                   your
                   Fathers
                   Fame
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   take
                   the
                   Time
                   ,
                   while
                   stagg'ring
                   yet
                   they
                   stand
                
                 
                   With
                   Feet
                   unfirm
                   ;
                   and
                   prepossess
                   the
                   Strand
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Fortune
                   befriends
                   the
                   bold
                   .
                   Nor
                   more
                   he
                   said
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   ballanc'd
                   whom
                   to
                   leave
                   ,
                   and
                   whom
                   to
                   lead
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   these
                   elects
                   ,
                   the
                   Landing
                   to
                   prevent
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   those
                   he
                   leaves
                   to
                   keep
                   the
                   City
                   pent
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Mean
                   time
                   the
                   Trojan
                   sends
                   his
                   Troops
                   ashore
                   :
                
                 
                   Some
                   are
                   by
                   Boats
                   expos'd
                   ,
                   by
                   Bridges
                   more
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   lab'ring
                   Oars
                   they
                   bear
                   along
                   the
                   Strand
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   the
                   Tide
                   languishes
                   ,
                   and
                   leap
                   a-land
                   .
                
                 
                   Tarchon
                   observes
                   the
                   Coast
                   with
                   careful
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   where
                   no
                   Foord
                   he
                   finds
                   ,
                   no
                   Water
                   fryes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Billows
                   with
                   unequal
                   Murmurs
                   roar
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   smoothly
                   slide
                   along
                   ,
                   and
                   swell
                   the
                   Shoar
                   ;
                
                 
                   That
                   Course
                   he
                   steer'd
                   ,
                   and
                   thus
                   he
                   gave
                   command
                   ,
                
                 
                   Here
                   ply
                   your
                   Oars
                   ,
                   and
                   at
                   all
                   hazard
                   land
                   :
                
                 
                   Force
                   on
                   the
                   Vessel
                   that
                   her
                   Keel
                   may
                   wound
                
                 
                   This
                   hated
                   Soil
                   ,
                   and
                   furrow
                   hostile
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                   Let
                   me
                   securely
                   land
                   ,
                   I
                   ask
                   no
                   more
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   sink
                   my
                   Ships
                   ,
                   or
                   shatter
                   on
                   the
                   Shore
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   This
                   fiery
                   Speech
                   inflames
                   his
                   fearful
                   Friends
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   tug
                   at
                   ev'ry
                   Oar
                   ;
                   and
                   ev'ry
                   Stretcher
                   bends
                   :
                
                 
                   They
                   run
                   their
                   Ships
                   aground
                   ,
                   the
                   Vessels
                   knock
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   Thus
                   forc'd
                   ashore
                   )
                   and
                   tremble
                   with
                   the
                   shock
                   .
                
                 
                   
                   Tarchon's
                   alone
                   was
                   lost
                   ,
                   that
                   stranded
                   stood
                   ,
                
                 
                   Stuck
                   on
                   a
                   Bank
                   ,
                   and
                   beaten
                   by
                   the
                   Flood
                   .
                
                 
                   She
                   breaks
                   her
                   Back
                   ,
                   the
                   loosen'd
                   Sides
                   give
                   way
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   plunge
                   the
                   Tuscan
                   Souldiers
                   in
                   the
                   Sea.
                
                 
                   Their
                   broken
                   Oars
                   ,
                   and
                   floating
                   Planks
                   withstand
                
                 
                   Their
                   Passage
                   ,
                   while
                   they
                   labour
                   to
                   the
                   Land
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   ebbing
                   Tides
                   bear
                   back
                   upon
                   th'
                   uncertain
                   Sand.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Now
                   Turnus
                   leads
                   his
                   Troops
                   ,
                   without
                   delay
                   ,
                
                 
                   Advancing
                   to
                   the
                   Margin
                   of
                   the
                   Sea.
                
                 
                   The
                   Trumpets
                   sound
                   :
                   Aeneas
                   first
                   assail'd
                
                 
                   The
                   Clowns
                   new
                   rais'd
                   and
                   raw
                   ;
                   and
                   soon
                   prevail'd
                   .
                
              
               
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     y
                     e
                     Right
                     Hon
                     ble
                     :
                     S
                     r
                     :
                     Robert
                     Howard
                     Auditor
                     of
                     his
                     Ma
                     ties
                     .
                     Exchequer
                     ,
                     and
                     one
                     of
                     y
                     e
                     Lords
                     of
                     his
                     Maj
                     ties
                     .
                     most
                     Hon
                     ble
                     :
                     Prioy
                     Councill
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     10.
                     l.
                     450.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Great
                   Theron
                   fell
                   ,
                   an
                   Omen
                   of
                   the
                   Fight
                   :
                
                 
                   Great
                   Theron
                   large
                   of
                   Limbs
                   ,
                   of
                   Gyant
                   height
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   first
                   in
                   open
                   Field
                   defy'd
                   the
                   Prince
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   Armour
                   scal'd
                   with
                   Gold
                   was
                   no
                   Defence
                
                 
                   Against
                   the
                   fated
                   Sword
                   ,
                   which
                   open'd
                   wide
                
                 
                   His
                   plated
                   Shield
                   ,
                   and
                   pierc'd
                   his
                   naked
                   side
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Next
                   ,
                   Lycas
                   fell
                   ;
                   who
                   ,
                   not
                   like
                   others
                   born
                   ,
                
                 
                   Was
                   from
                   his
                   wretched
                   Mother
                   rip'd
                   and
                   torn
                   :
                
                 
                   Sacred
                   ,
                   O
                   Phoebus
                   !
                   from
                   his
                   Birth
                   to
                   thee
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   his
                   beginning
                   Life
                   from
                   biting
                   Steel
                   was
                   free
                   .
                
                 
                   Not
                   far
                   from
                   him
                   was
                   Gyas
                   laid
                   along
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   monst'rous
                   Bulk
                   ;
                   with
                   Cisseus
                   fierce
                   and
                   strong
                   :
                
                 
                   Vain
                   Bulk
                   and
                   Strength
                   ;
                   for
                   when
                   the
                   Chief
                   assail'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Valour
                   ,
                   nor
                   Herculean
                   Arms
                   avail'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   their
                   fam'd
                   Father
                   ,
                   wont
                   in
                   War
                   to
                   go
                
                 
                   With
                   great
                   Alcides
                   ,
                   while
                   he
                   toil'd
                   below
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   noisie
                   Pharos
                   next
                   receiv'd
                   his
                   Death
                   ,
                
                 
                   Aeneas
                   writh'd
                   his
                   Dart
                   ,
                   and
                   stopp'd
                   his
                   bawling
                   Breath
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   wretched
                   Cydon
                   had
                   receiv'd
                   his
                   Doom
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   courted
                   Clytius
                   in
                   his
                   beardless
                   Bloom
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   sought
                   with
                   lust
                   obscene
                   polluted
                   Joys
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Trojan
                   Sword
                   had
                   cur'd
                   his
                   love
                   of
                   Boys
                   ,
                
                 
                   Had
                   not
                   his
                   sev'n
                   bold
                   Brethren
                   stop'd
                   the
                   Course
                
                 
                   Of
                   the
                   fierce
                   Champion
                   ,
                   with
                   united
                   Force
                   .
                
                 
                   Sev'n
                   Darts
                   were
                   thrown
                   at
                   once
                   ,
                   and
                   some
                   rebound
                
                 
                   From
                   his
                   bright
                   Shield
                   ,
                   some
                   on
                   his
                   Helmet
                   sound
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   rest
                   had
                   reach'd
                   him
                   ,
                   but
                   his
                   Mother's
                   Care
                
                 
                   Prevented
                   those
                   ,
                   and
                   turn'd
                   aside
                   in
                   Air.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Prince
                   then
                   call'd
                   Achates
                   ,
                   to
                   supply
                
                 
                   The
                   Spears
                   ,
                   that
                   knew
                   the
                   way
                   to
                   Victory
                   .
                
                 
                   Those
                   fatal
                   Weapons
                   ,
                   which
                   inur'd
                   to
                   Blood
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   Grecian
                   Bodies
                   under
                   Ilium
                   stood
                   :
                
                 
                   Not
                   one
                   of
                   those
                   my
                   Hand
                   shall
                   toss
                   in
                   vain
                
                 
                   Against
                   our
                   Foes
                   ,
                   on
                   this
                   contended
                   Plain
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   He
                   said
                   :
                   Then
                   seiz'd
                   a
                   mighty
                   Spear
                   ,
                   and
                   threw
                   ;
                
                 
                   Which
                   ,
                   wing'd
                   with
                   Fate
                   ,
                   thro'
                   
                   Maeon's
                   Buckler
                   flew
                   :
                
                 
                   Pierc'd
                   all
                   the
                   brazen
                   Plates
                   ,
                   and
                   reach'd
                   his
                   Heart
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   stagger'd
                   with
                   intolerable
                   Smart
                   .
                
                 
                   Alcanor
                   saw
                   ;
                   and
                   reach'd
                   ,
                   but
                   reach'd
                   in
                   vain
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   helping
                   Hand
                   ,
                   his
                   Brother
                   to
                   sustain
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   second
                   Spear
                   ,
                   which
                   kept
                   the
                   former
                   Course
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   the
                   same
                   Hand
                   ,
                   and
                   sent
                   with
                   equal
                   Force
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   right
                   Arm
                   pierc'd
                   ,
                   and
                   holding
                   on
                   ,
                   bereft
                
                 
                   His
                   use
                   of
                   both
                   ,
                   and
                   pinion'd
                   down
                   his
                   left
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   Numitor
                   ,
                   from
                   his
                   dead
                   Brother
                   drew
                
                 
                   Th'
                   ill-omend
                   Spear
                   ,
                   and
                   at
                   the
                   Trojan
                   threw
                   :
                
                 
                   Preventing
                   Fate
                   directs
                   the
                   Lance
                   awry
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   glancing
                   ,
                   only
                   mark'd
                   Achates
                   Thigh
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   In
                   Pride
                   of
                   Youth
                   the
                   
                     Sabine
                     Clausus
                  
                   came
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   from
                   afar
                   ,
                   at
                   Driops
                   took
                   his
                   Aim
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Spear
                   flew
                   hissing
                   thro'
                   the
                   middle
                   Space
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   pierc'd
                   his
                   Throat
                   ,
                   directed
                   at
                   his
                   Face
                   :
                
                 
                   It
                   stop'd
                   at
                   once
                   the
                   Passage
                   of
                   his
                   Wind
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   free
                   Soul
                   to
                   flitting
                   Air
                   resign'd
                   :
                
                 
                   His
                   Forehead
                   was
                   the
                   first
                   that
                   struck
                   the
                   Ground
                   ;
                
                 
                   Life-blood
                   ,
                   and
                   Life
                   rush'd
                   mingl'd
                   thro'
                   the
                   Wound
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   slew
                   three
                   Brothers
                   of
                   the
                   Borean
                   Race
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   three
                   ,
                   whom
                   Ismarus
                   ,
                   their
                   Native
                   Place
                   ,
                
                 
                   Had
                   sent
                   to
                   War
                   ,
                   but
                   all
                   the
                   Sons
                   of
                   Thrace
                   .
                
                 
                   Halesus
                   next
                   ,
                   the
                   bold
                   Aurunci
                   leads
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Son
                   of
                   Neptune
                   to
                   his
                   Aid
                   succeeds
                   ,
                
                 
                   Conspicuous
                   on
                   his
                   Horse
                   :
                   On
                   either
                   Hand
                
                 
                   These
                   fight
                   to
                   keep
                   ,
                   and
                   those
                   to
                   win
                   the
                   Land.
                
                 
                   With
                   mutual
                   Blood
                   th'
                   Ausonian
                   Soil
                   is
                   dy'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   While
                   on
                   its
                   Borders
                   each
                   their
                   Claim
                   decide
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   As
                   wint'ry
                   Winds
                   contending
                   in
                   the
                   Sky
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   equal
                   force
                   of
                   Lungs
                   their
                   Titles
                   try
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   They
                   rage
                   ,
                   they
                   roar
                   ;
                   the
                   doubtful
                   rack
                   of
                   Heav'n
                
                 
                   Stands
                   without
                   Motion
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Tyde
                   undriv'n
                   :
                
                 
                   Each
                   bent
                   to
                   conquer
                   ,
                   neither
                   side
                   to
                   yield
                   ;
                
                 
                   They
                   long
                   suspend
                   the
                   Fortune
                   of
                   the
                   Field
                   .
                
                 
                   Both
                   Armies
                   thus
                   perform
                   what
                   Courage
                   can
                   :
                
                 
                   Foot
                   set
                   to
                   Foot
                   ,
                   and
                   crowded
                   Man
                   to
                   Man.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   in
                   another
                   part
                   ,
                   th'
                   Arcadian
                   Horse
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   ill
                   Success
                   ingage
                   the
                   Latin
                   Force
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   where
                   th'
                   impetuous
                   Torrent
                   rushing
                   down
                   ,
                
                 
                   Huge
                   craggy
                   Stones
                   ,
                   and
                   rooted
                   Trees
                   had
                   thrown
                   :
                
                 
                   They
                   left
                   their
                   Coursers
                   ,
                   and
                   unus'd
                   to
                   Fight
                
                 
                   On
                   Foot
                   ,
                   were
                   scatter'd
                   in
                   a
                   shameful
                   flight
                   .
                
                 
                   Pallas
                   ,
                   who
                   with
                   Disdain
                   and
                   Grief
                   ,
                   had
                   view'd
                
                 
                   His
                   Foes
                   pursuing
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Friends
                   pursu'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Us'd
                   Threatnings
                   mix'd
                   with
                   Pray'rs
                   ,
                   his
                   last
                   Ressource
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   these
                   to
                   move
                   their
                   Minds
                   ,
                   with
                   those
                   to
                   fire
                   their
                   Force
                   .
                
                 
                   Which
                   way
                   ,
                   Companions
                   !
                   Whether
                   wou'd
                   you
                   run
                   ?
                
                 
                   By
                   you
                   your selves
                   ,
                   and
                   mighty
                   Battels
                   won
                   ;
                
                 
                   By
                   my
                   great
                   Sire
                   ,
                   by
                   his
                   establish'd
                   Name
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   early
                   promise
                   of
                   my
                   Future
                   Fame
                   ;
                
                 
                   By
                   my
                   Youth
                   emulous
                   of
                   equal
                   Right
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   share
                   his
                   Honours
                   ,
                   shun
                   ignoble
                   Flight
                   .
                
                 
                   Trust
                   not
                   your
                   Feet
                   ,
                   your
                   Hands
                   must
                   hew
                   your
                   way
                
                 
                   Thro'
                   yon
                   black
                   Body
                   ,
                   and
                   that
                   thick
                   Array
                   :
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   thro'
                   that
                   forward
                   Path
                   that
                   we
                   must
                   come
                   :
                
                 
                   There
                   lies
                   our
                   Way
                   ,
                   and
                   that
                   our
                   Passage
                   home
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Pow'rs
                   above
                   ,
                   nor
                   Destinies
                   below
                   ,
                
                 
                   Oppress
                   our
                   Arms
                   ;
                   with
                   equal
                   Strength
                   we
                   go
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   Mortal
                   Hands
                   to
                   meet
                   a
                   Mortal
                   Foe
                   .
                
                 
                   See
                   on
                   what
                   Foot
                   we
                   stand
                   :
                   A
                   scanty
                   Shore
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Sea
                   behind
                   ,
                   our
                   Enemies
                   before
                   :
                
                 
                   No
                   Passage
                   left
                   ,
                   unless
                   we
                   swim
                   the
                   Main
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   forcing
                   these
                   ,
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Trenches
                   gain
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   This
                   said
                   ,
                   he
                   strode
                   with
                   eager
                   haste
                   along
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   bore
                   amidst
                   the
                   thickest
                   of
                   the
                   Throng
                   .
                
                 
                   Lagus
                   ,
                   the
                   first
                   he
                   met
                   ,
                   with
                   Fate
                   to
                   Foe
                   ,
                
                 
                   Had
                   heav'd
                   a
                   Stone
                   of
                   mighty
                   Weight
                   to
                   throw
                   :
                
                 
                   Stooping
                   ,
                   the
                   Spear
                   descended
                   on
                   his
                   Chine
                   ,
                
                 
                   Just
                   where
                   the
                   Bone
                   distinguish'd
                   either
                   Loin
                   :
                
                 
                   It
                   stuck
                   so
                   fast
                   ,
                   so
                   deeply
                   bury'd
                   lay
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   scarce
                   the
                   Victor
                   forc'd
                   the
                   Steel
                   away
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Hisbon
                   came
                   on
                   ,
                   but
                   while
                   he
                   mov'd
                   too
                   slow
                
                 
                   To
                   wish'd
                   Revenge
                   ,
                   the
                   Prince
                   prevents
                   his
                   Blow
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   warding
                   his
                   at
                   once
                   ,
                   at
                   once
                   he
                   press'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   plung'd
                   the
                   fatal
                   Weapon
                   in
                   his
                   Breast
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   leud
                   Anchemolus
                   he
                   laid
                   in
                   Dust
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   stain'd
                   his
                   Stepdam's
                   Bed
                   with
                   impious
                   Lust
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   after
                   him
                   the
                   Daucian
                   Twins
                   were
                   slain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Laris
                   and
                   Thimbrus
                   ,
                   on
                   the
                   Latian
                   Plain
                   :
                
                 
                   So
                   wond'rous
                   like
                   in
                   Feature
                   ,
                   Shape
                   ,
                   and
                   Size
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   caus'd
                   an
                   Error
                   in
                   their
                   Parents
                   Eyes
                   .
                
                 
                   Grateful
                   Mistake
                   !
                   but
                   soon
                   the
                   Sword
                   decides
                
                 
                   The
                   nice
                   Distinction
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   Fate
                   divides
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   Thimbrus
                   Head
                   was
                   lop'd
                   :
                   and
                   Laris
                   Hand
                
                 
                   Dismember'd
                   ,
                   sought
                   its
                   Owner
                   on
                   the
                   Strand
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   trembling
                   Fingers
                   yet
                   the
                   Fauchion
                   strain
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   threaten
                   still
                   th'
                   intended
                   Stroke
                   in
                   vain
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Now
                   ,
                   to
                   renew
                   the
                   Charge
                   ,
                   th'
                   Arcadians
                   came
                   :
                
                 
                   Sight
                   of
                   such
                   Acts
                   ,
                   and
                   sense
                   of
                   honest
                   Shame
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Grief
                   ,
                   with
                   Anger
                   mix'd
                   ,
                   their
                   Minds
                   inflame
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   casual
                   Blow
                   was
                   Rhaeteus
                   slain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   chanc'd
                   ,
                   as
                   Pallas
                   threw
                   ,
                   to
                   cross
                   the
                   Plain
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   flying
                   Spear
                   was
                   after
                   Ilus
                   sent
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   Rhaeteus
                   hapen'd
                   on
                   a
                   Death
                   unmeant
                   :
                
                 
                   From
                   Teuthras
                   ,
                   and
                   from
                   Tyres
                   while
                   he
                   fled
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Lance
                   ,
                   athwart
                   his
                   Body
                   ,
                   laid
                   him
                   dead
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Rowl'd
                   from
                   his
                   Chariot
                   with
                   a
                   Mortal
                   Wound
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   intercepted
                   Fate
                   ,
                   he
                   spurn'd
                   the
                   Ground
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   As
                   ,
                   when
                   in
                   Summer
                   ,
                   welcome
                   Winds
                   arise
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   watchful
                   Shepherd
                   to
                   the
                   Forest
                   flies
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   fires
                   the
                   midmost
                   Plants
                   ;
                   Contagion
                   spreads
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   catching
                   Flames
                   infect
                   the
                   neighb'ring
                   Heads
                   ;
                
                 
                   Around
                   the
                   Forest
                   flies
                   the
                   furious
                   Blast
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   the
                   leafie
                   Nation
                   sinks
                   at
                   last
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Vulcan
                   rides
                   in
                   Triumph
                   o're
                   the
                   Wast
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Pastor
                   pleas'd
                   with
                   his
                   dire
                   Victory
                   ,
                
                 
                   Beholds
                   the
                   satiate
                   Flames
                   in
                   Sheets
                   ascend
                   the
                   Sky
                   :
                
                 
                   So
                   
                   Pallas's
                   Troops
                   their
                   scatter'd
                   Strength
                   unite
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   pouring
                   on
                   their
                   Foes
                   ,
                   their
                   Prince
                   delight
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Halesus
                   came
                   ,
                   fierce
                   with
                   desire
                   of
                   Blood
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   But
                   first
                   collected
                   in
                   his
                   Arms
                   he
                   stood
                   )
                
                 
                   Advancing
                   then
                   ,
                   he
                   ply'd
                   the
                   Spear
                   so
                   well
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     Ladon
                     ,
                     Demodocus
                  
                   ,
                   and
                   Pheres
                   fell
                   :
                
                 
                   Around
                   his
                   Head
                   he
                   toss'd
                   his
                   glitt'ring
                   Brand
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   from
                   Strimonius
                   hew'd
                   his
                   better
                   Hand
                   ,
                
                 
                   Held
                   up
                   to
                   guard
                   his
                   Throat
                   :
                   Then
                   hurl'd
                   a
                   Stone
                
                 
                   At
                   Thoas
                   ample
                   Front
                   ,
                   and
                   pierc'd
                   the
                   Bone
                   :
                
                 
                   It
                   struck
                   beneath
                   the
                   space
                   of
                   either
                   Eye
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Blood
                   ,
                   and
                   mingled
                   Brains
                   ,
                   together
                   fly
                   .
                
                 
                   Deep
                   skill'd
                   in
                   future
                   Fates
                   ,
                   Halesus
                   Sire
                   ,
                
                 
                   Did
                   with
                   the
                   Youth
                   to
                   lonely
                   Groves
                   retire
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   when
                   the
                   Father
                   's
                   Mortal
                   Race
                   was
                   run
                   ,
                
                 
                   Dire
                   Destiny
                   laid
                   hold
                   upon
                   the
                   Son
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   haul'd
                   him
                   to
                   the
                   War
                   :
                   to
                   find
                   beneath
                
                 
                   Th'
                   Evandrian
                   Spear
                   ,
                   a
                   memorable
                   Death
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Pallas
                   th'
                   Encounter
                   seeks
                   ,
                   but
                   e're
                   he
                   throws
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   
                     Tuscan
                     Tyber
                  
                   thus
                   address'd
                   his
                   Vows
                   :
                
                 
                   O
                   sacred
                   Stream
                   direct
                   my
                   flying
                   Dart
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   give
                   to
                   pass
                   the
                   proud
                   Halesus
                   Heart
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   His
                   Arms
                   and
                   Spoils
                   thy
                   holy
                   Oak
                   shall
                   bear
                   :
                
                 
                   Pleas'd
                   with
                   the
                   Bribe
                   ,
                   the
                   God
                   receiv'd
                   his
                   Pray'r
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   while
                   his
                   Shield
                   protects
                   a
                   Friend
                   distress'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Dart
                   came
                   driving
                   on
                   ,
                   and
                   pierc'd
                   his
                   Breast
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   Lausus
                   ,
                   no
                   small
                   portion
                   of
                   the
                   War
                   ,
                
                 
                   Permits
                   not
                   Panick
                   Fear
                   to
                   reign
                   too
                   far
                   ,
                
                 
                   Caus'd
                   by
                   the
                   Death
                   of
                   so
                   renown'd
                   a
                   Knight
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   by
                   his
                   own
                   Example
                   chears
                   the
                   Fight
                   .
                
                 
                   Fierce
                   Abas
                   first
                   he
                   slew
                   ,
                   Abas
                   ,
                   the
                   stay
                
                 
                   Of
                   Trojan
                   Hopes
                   ,
                   and
                   hind'rance
                   of
                   the
                   Day
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Phrygian
                   Troops
                   escap'd
                   the
                   Greeks
                   in
                   vain
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   mix'd
                   Allies
                   ,
                   now
                   load
                   the
                   Plain
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   To
                   the
                   rude
                   shock
                   of
                   War
                   both
                   Armies
                   came
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   Leaders
                   equal
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   Strength
                   the
                   same
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Rear
                   so
                   press'd
                   the
                   Front
                   ,
                   they
                   cou'd
                   not
                   wield
                
                 
                   Their
                   angry
                   Weapons
                   ,
                   to
                   dispute
                   the
                   Field
                   .
                
                 
                   Here
                   Pallas
                   urges
                   on
                   ,
                   and
                   Lausus
                   there
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   equal
                   Youth
                   and
                   Beauty
                   both
                   appear
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   both
                   by
                   Fate
                   forbid
                   to
                   breath
                   their
                   Native
                   Air.
                
                 
                   Their
                   Congress
                   in
                   the
                   Field
                   great
                   Jove
                   withstands
                   ,
                
                 
                   Both
                   doom'd
                   to
                   fall
                   ,
                   but
                   fall
                   by
                   greater
                   Hands
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Mean
                   time
                   Juturna
                   warns
                   the
                   Daunian
                   Chief
                
                 
                   Of
                   Lausus
                   Danger
                   ,
                   urging
                   swift
                   Relief
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   his
                   driv'n
                   Chariot
                   he
                   divides
                   the
                   Crowd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   making
                   to
                   his
                   Friends
                   ,
                   thus
                   calls
                   aloud
                   :
                
                 
                   Let
                   none
                   presume
                   his
                   needless
                   Aid
                   to
                   join
                   ;
                
                 
                   Retire
                   ,
                   and
                   clear
                   the
                   Field
                   ,
                   the
                   Fight
                   is
                   mine
                   :
                
                 
                   To
                   this
                   right
                   Hand
                   is
                   Pallas
                   only
                   due
                   :
                
                 
                   Oh
                   were
                   his
                   Father
                   here
                   my
                   just
                   Revenge
                   to
                   view
                   !
                
                 
                   From
                   the
                   forbidden
                   Space
                   his
                   Men
                   retir'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Pallas
                   ,
                   their
                   Awe
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   stern
                   Words
                   admir'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Survey'd
                   him
                   o're
                   and
                   o're
                   with
                   wond'ring
                   sight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Struck
                   with
                   his
                   haughty
                   Meen
                   ,
                   and
                   tow'ring
                   Height
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Then
                   to
                   the
                   King
                   ;
                   your
                   empty
                   Vaunts
                   forbear
                   :
                
                 
                   Success
                   I
                   hope
                   ,
                   and
                   Fate
                   I
                   cannot
                   fear
                   .
                
                 
                   Alive
                   or
                   dead
                   ,
                   I
                   shall
                   deserve
                   a
                   Name
                   :
                
                 
                   Jove
                   is
                   impartial
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   both
                   the
                   same
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   said
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   the
                   void
                   advanc'd
                   his
                   Pace
                   ;
                
                 
                   Pale
                   Horror
                   sate
                   on
                   each
                   Arcadian
                   Face
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   Turnus
                   ,
                   from
                   his
                   Chariot
                   leaping
                   light
                   ,
                
                 
                   Address'd
                   himself
                   on
                   Foot
                   to
                   single
                   Fight
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   as
                   a
                   Lyon
                   ,
                   when
                   he
                   spies
                   from
                   far
                
                 
                   A
                   Bull
                   ,
                   that
                   seems
                   to
                   meditate
                   the
                   War
                   ;
                
                 
                   Bending
                   his
                   Neck
                   ,
                   and
                   spurning
                   back
                   the
                   Sand
                   ,
                
                 
                   Runs
                   roaring
                   downward
                   from
                   his
                   hilly
                   Stand
                   :
                
                 
                   Imagine
                   eager
                   Turnus
                   not
                   more
                   slow
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   rush
                   from
                   high
                   on
                   his
                   unequal
                   Foe
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Young
                   Pallas
                   ,
                   when
                   he
                   saw
                   the
                   Chief
                   advance
                
                 
                   Within
                   due
                   distance
                   of
                   his
                   flying
                   Lance
                   ;
                
                 
                   Prepares
                   to
                   charge
                   him
                   first
                   :
                   Resolv'd
                   to
                   try
                
                 
                   If
                   Fortune
                   wou'd
                   his
                   want
                   of
                   Force
                   supply
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   thus
                   to
                   Heav'n
                   and
                   Hercules
                   address'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Alcides
                   ,
                   once
                   on
                   Earth
                   
                   Evander's
                   Guest
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Son
                   adjures
                   you
                   by
                   those
                   Holy
                   Rites
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   hospitable
                   Board
                   ,
                   those
                   Genial
                   Nights
                   ;
                
                 
                   Assist
                   my
                   great
                   Attempt
                   to
                   gain
                   this
                   Prize
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   let
                   proud
                   Turnus
                   view
                   ,
                   with
                   dying
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   ravish'd
                   Spoils
                   .
                   'T
                   was
                   heard
                   ,
                   the
                   vain
                   Request
                   ;
                
                 
                   Alcides
                   mourn'd
                   :
                   And
                   stifled
                   Sighs
                   within
                   his
                   Breast
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   Jove
                   ,
                   to
                   sooth
                   his
                   Sorrow
                   ,
                   thus
                   began
                   :
                
                 
                   Short
                   bounds
                   of
                   Life
                   are
                   set
                   to
                   Mortal
                   Man
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   Vertues
                   work
                   alone
                   to
                   stretch
                   the
                   narrow
                   Span.
                
                 
                   So
                   many
                   Sons
                   of
                   Gods
                   in
                   bloody
                   Fight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Around
                   the
                   Walls
                   of
                   Troy
                   ,
                   have
                   lost
                   the
                   Light
                   :
                
                 
                   My
                   own
                   Sarpedon
                   fell
                   beneath
                   his
                   Foe
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   I
                   ,
                   his
                   mighty
                   Sire
                   ,
                   cou'd
                   ward
                   the
                   Blow
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Ev'n
                   Turnus
                   shortly
                   shall
                   resign
                   his
                   Breath
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   stands
                   already
                   on
                   the
                   Verge
                   of
                   Death
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   said
                   ,
                   the
                   God
                   permits
                   the
                   fatal
                   Fight
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   from
                   the
                   Latian
                   Fields
                   averts
                   his
                   sight
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Now
                   with
                   full
                   Force
                   his
                   Spear
                   young
                   Pallas
                   threw
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   having
                   thrown
                   ,
                   his
                   shining
                   Fauchion
                   drew
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Steel
                   just
                   graz'd
                   along
                   the
                   Shoulder
                   Joint
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   mark'd
                   it
                   slightly
                   with
                   the
                   glancing
                   Point
                   .
                
                 
                   Fierce
                   Turnus
                   first
                   to
                   nearer
                   distance
                   drew
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   poiz'd
                   his
                   pointed
                   Spear
                   before
                   he
                   threw
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   as
                   the
                   winged
                   Weapon
                   whiz'd
                   along
                   ;
                
                 
                   See
                   now
                   ,
                   said
                   he
                   ,
                   whose
                   Arm
                   is
                   better
                   strung
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Spear
                   kept
                   on
                   the
                   fatal
                   Course
                   ,
                   unstay'd
                
                 
                   By
                   Plates
                   of
                   Ir'n
                   ,
                   which
                   o're
                   the
                   Shield
                   were
                   laid
                   :
                
                 
                   Thro'
                   folded
                   Brass
                   ,
                   and
                   tough
                   Bull-hides
                   it
                   pass'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Corslet
                   pierc'd
                   ,
                   and
                   reach'd
                   his
                   Heart
                   at
                   last
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   vain
                   the
                   Youth
                   tugs
                   at
                   the
                   broken
                   Wood
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Soul
                   comes
                   issuing
                   with
                   the
                   vital
                   Blood
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   falls
                   ;
                   his
                   Arms
                   upon
                   his
                   Body
                   sound
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   his
                   bloody
                   Teeth
                   he
                   bites
                   the
                   Ground
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Turnus
                   bestrode
                   the
                   Corps
                   :
                   Arcadians
                   hear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Said
                   he
                   ;
                   my
                   Message
                   to
                   your
                   Master
                   bear
                   :
                
                 
                   Such
                   as
                   the
                   Sire
                   deserv'd
                   ,
                   the
                   Son
                   I
                   send
                   :
                
                 
                   It
                   costs
                   him
                   dear
                   to
                   be
                   the
                   Phrygians
                   Friend
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   lifeless
                   Body
                   ,
                   tell
                   him
                   ,
                   I
                   bestow
                
                 
                   Unask'd
                   ,
                   to
                   please
                   his
                   wand'ring
                   Ghost
                   below
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   said
                   ,
                   and
                   trampled
                   down
                   with
                   all
                   the
                   Force
                
                 
                   Of
                   his
                   left
                   Foot
                   ,
                   and
                   spurn'd
                   the
                   wretched
                   Corse
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   snatch'd
                   the
                   shining
                   Belt
                   ,
                   with
                   Gold
                   inlaid
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Belt
                   
                   Eurytion's
                   artful
                   Hands
                   had
                   made
                   :
                
                 
                   Where
                   fifty
                   fatal
                   Brides
                   ,
                   express'd
                   to
                   sight
                   ,
                
                 
                   All
                   ,
                   in
                   the
                   compass
                   of
                   one
                   mournful
                   Night
                   ,
                
                 
                   Depriv'd
                   their
                   Bridegrooms
                   of
                   returning
                   Light.
                   
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     S
                     r
                     :
                     Iohn
                     Leveson
                     Gower
                     of
                     Trentham
                     in
                     ,
                     Staffordshire
                     Baronet
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     10.
                     l.
                     690.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                 
                   In
                   an
                   ill
                   Hour
                   insulting
                   Turnus
                   tore
                
                 
                   Those
                   Golden
                   Spoils
                   ,
                   and
                   in
                   a
                   worse
                   he
                   wore
                   .
                
                 
                   O
                   Mortals
                   !
                   blind
                   in
                   Fate
                   ,
                   who
                   never
                   know
                
                 
                   To
                   bear
                   high
                   Fortune
                   ,
                   or
                   endure
                   the
                   low
                   !
                
                 
                   The
                   Time
                   shall
                   come
                   ,
                   when
                   Turnus
                   ,
                   but
                   in
                   vain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shall
                   wish
                   untouch'd
                   the
                   Trophies
                   of
                   the
                   slain
                   :
                
                 
                   Shall
                   wish
                   the
                   fatal
                   Belt
                   were
                   far
                   away
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   curse
                   the
                   dire
                   Remembrance
                   of
                   the
                   Day
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   sad
                   Arcadians
                   from
                   th'
                   unhappy
                   Field
                   ,
                
                 
                   Bear
                   back
                   the
                   breathless
                   Body
                   on
                   a
                   Shield
                   .
                
                 
                   O
                   Grace
                   and
                   Grief
                   of
                   War
                   !
                   at
                   once
                   restor'd
                
                 
                   With
                   Praises
                   to
                   thy
                   Sire
                   ,
                   at
                   once
                   deplor'd
                   .
                
                 
                   One
                   Day
                   first
                   sent
                   thee
                   to
                   the
                   fighting
                   Field
                   ,
                
                 
                   Beheld
                   whole
                   heaps
                   of
                   Foes
                   in
                   Battel
                   kill'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   One
                   Day
                   beheld
                   thee
                   dead
                   ,
                   and
                   born
                   upon
                   thy
                   Shield
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   dismal
                   News
                   ,
                   not
                   from
                   uncertain
                   Fame
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   sad
                   Spectators
                   ,
                   to
                   the
                   Heroe
                   came
                   :
                
                 
                   His
                   Friends
                   upon
                   the
                   brink
                   of
                   Ruin
                   stand
                   ,
                
                 
                   Unless
                   reliev'd
                   by
                   his
                   victorious
                   Hand
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   whirls
                   his
                   Sword
                   around
                   ,
                   without
                   delay
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   hews
                   through
                   adverse
                   Foes
                   an
                   ample
                   Way
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   find
                   fierce
                   Turnus
                   ,
                   of
                   his
                   Conquest
                   proud
                   :
                
                 
                   
                     Evander
                     ,
                     Pallas
                  
                   ,
                   all
                   that
                   Friendship
                   ow'd
                
                 
                   To
                   large
                   Deserts
                   ,
                   are
                   present
                   to
                   his
                   Eyes
                   ;
                
                 
                   His
                   plighted
                   Hand
                   ,
                   and
                   hospitable
                   Ties
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Four
                   Sons
                   of
                   Sulmo
                   ,
                   four
                   whom
                   Ufens
                   bred
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   took
                   in
                   fight
                   ,
                   and
                   living
                   Victims
                   led
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   please
                   the
                   Ghost
                   of
                   Pallas
                   ;
                   and
                   expire
                
                 
                   In
                   Sacrifice
                   ,
                   before
                   his
                   Fun'ral
                   Fire
                   .
                
                 
                   At
                   Magus
                   next
                   he
                   threw
                   :
                   He
                   stoop'd
                   below
                
                 
                   The
                   flying
                   Spear
                   ,
                   and
                   shun'd
                   the
                   promis'd
                   Blow
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   creeping
                   ,
                   clasp'd
                   the
                   Hero's
                   Knees
                   ,
                   and
                   pray'd
                   ▪
                
                 
                   By
                   young
                   Iulus
                   ,
                   by
                   thy
                   Father's
                   Shade
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   O
                   spare
                   my
                   Life
                   ,
                   and
                   send
                   me
                   back
                   to
                   see
                
                 
                   My
                   longing
                   Sire
                   ,
                   and
                   tender
                   Progeny
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   lofty
                   House
                   I
                   have
                   ,
                   and
                   Wealth
                   untold
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   Silver
                   Ingots
                   ,
                   and
                   in
                   Bars
                   of
                   Gold
                   :
                
                 
                   All
                   these
                   ,
                   and
                   Sums
                   besides
                   ,
                   which
                   see
                   no
                   Day
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Ransom
                   of
                   this
                   one
                   poor
                   Life
                   shall
                   pay
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   I
                   survive
                   ,
                   shall
                   Troy
                   the
                   less
                   prevail
                   ?
                
                 
                   A
                   single
                   Soul
                   's
                   too
                   light
                   to
                   turn
                   the
                   Scale
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   said
                   .
                   The
                   Heroe
                   sternly
                   thus
                   reply'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Barrs
                   ,
                   and
                   Ingots
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Sums
                   beside
                   ,
                
                 
                   Leave
                   for
                   thy
                   Childrens
                   Lot.
                   Thy
                   Turnus
                   broke
                
                 
                   All
                   Rules
                   of
                   War
                   ,
                   by
                   one
                   relentless
                   Stroke
                
                 
                   When
                   Pallas
                   fell
                   :
                   So
                   deems
                   ,
                   nor
                   deems
                   alone
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Father's
                   Shadow
                   ,
                   but
                   my
                   living
                   Son.
                
                 
                   Thus
                   having
                   said
                   ,
                   of
                   kind
                   Remorse
                   bereft
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   seiz'd
                   his
                   Helm
                   ,
                   and
                   drag'd
                   him
                   with
                   his
                   left
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   with
                   his
                   right
                   Hand
                   ,
                   while
                   his
                   Neck
                   he
                   wreath'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Up
                   to
                   the
                   hilts
                   his
                   shining
                   Fauchion
                   sheath'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   
                   Apollo's
                   Priest
                   ,
                   Emonides
                   ,
                   was
                   near
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   holy
                   Fillets
                   on
                   his
                   Front
                   appear
                   ;
                
                 
                   Glitt'ring
                   in
                   Arms
                   he
                   shone
                   amidst
                   the
                   Crowd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Much
                   of
                   his
                   God
                   ,
                   more
                   of
                   his
                   Purple
                   proud
                   :
                
                 
                   Him
                   the
                   fierce
                   Trojan
                   follow'd
                   thro'
                   the
                   Field
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   holy
                   Coward
                   fell
                   :
                   And
                   forc'd
                   to
                   yield
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Prince
                   stood
                   o're
                   the
                   Priest
                   ;
                   and
                   at
                   one
                   Blow
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sent
                   him
                   an
                   Off'ring
                   to
                   the
                   Shades
                   below
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   Arms
                   Seresthus
                   on
                   his
                   Shoulders
                   bears
                   ,
                
                 
                   Design'd
                   a
                   Trophee
                   to
                   the
                   God
                   of
                   Wars
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   
                     Vulcanian
                     Caeculus
                  
                   renews
                   the
                   Fight
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Umbro
                   born
                   upon
                   the
                   Mountains
                   Height
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Champion
                   chears
                   his
                   Troops
                   t'
                   encounter
                   those
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   seeks
                   Revenge
                   himself
                   on
                   other
                   Foes
                   .
                
                 
                   At
                   
                   Anxur's
                   Shield
                   he
                   drove
                   ,
                   and
                   at
                   the
                   Blow
                   ,
                
                 
                   Both
                   Shield
                   and
                   Arm
                   to
                   Ground
                   together
                   go
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Anxur
                   had
                   boasted
                   much
                   of
                   magick
                   Charms
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   thought
                   he
                   wore
                   impenetrable
                   Arms
                   ;
                
                 
                   So
                   made
                   by
                   mutter'd
                   Spells
                   :
                   And
                   from
                   the
                   Spheres
                   ,
                
                 
                   Had
                   Life
                   secur'd
                   ,
                   in
                   vain
                   ,
                   for
                   length
                   of
                   Years
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   Tarquitus
                   the
                   Field
                   in
                   Triumph
                   trod
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   Nymph
                   his
                   Mother
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Sire
                   a
                   God.
                
                 
                   Exulting
                   in
                   bright
                   Arms
                   he
                   braves
                   the
                   Prince
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   his
                   protended
                   Lance
                   He
                   makes
                   defence
                   :
                
                 
                   Bears
                   back
                   his
                   feeble
                   Foe
                   ;
                   then
                   pressing
                   on
                   ,
                
                 
                   Arrests
                   his
                   better
                   Hand
                   ,
                   and
                   drags
                   him
                   down
                   .
                
                 
                   Stands
                   o're
                   the
                   prostrate
                   Wretch
                   ,
                   and
                   as
                   he
                   lay
                   ,
                
                 
                   Vain
                   Tales
                   inventing
                   ,
                   and
                   prepar'd
                   to
                   pray
                   :
                
                 
                   Mows
                   off
                   his
                   Head
                   ,
                   the
                   Trunk
                   a
                   Moment
                   stood
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   sunk
                   ,
                   and
                   rowl'd
                   along
                   the
                   Sand
                   in
                   Blood.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   vengeful
                   Victor
                   thus
                   upbraids
                   the
                   slain
                   ;
                
                 
                   Lye
                   there
                   ,
                   proud
                   Man
                   unpity'd
                   ,
                   on
                   the
                   Plain
                   :
                
                 
                   Lye
                   there
                   ,
                   inglorious
                   ,
                   and
                   without
                   a
                   Tomb
                   ,
                
                 
                   Far
                   from
                   thy
                   Mother
                   ,
                   and
                   thy
                   Native
                   Home
                   :
                
                 
                   Expos'd
                   to
                   salvage
                   Beasts
                   ,
                   and
                   Birds
                   of
                   Prey
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   thrown
                   for
                   Food
                   to
                   Monsters
                   of
                   the
                   Sea.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   On
                   Lycas
                   and
                   Antaeus
                   next
                   he
                   ran
                   ,
                
                 
                   Two
                   Chiefs
                   of
                   Turnus
                   ,
                   and
                   who
                   led
                   his
                   Van.
                
                 
                   They
                   fled
                   for
                   Fear
                   ;
                   with
                   these
                   he
                   chas'd
                   along
                   ,
                
                 
                   Camers
                   the
                   yellow
                   Lock'd
                   ,
                   and
                   Numa
                   strong
                   ,
                
                 
                   Both
                   great
                   in
                   Arms
                   ,
                   and
                   both
                   were
                   fair
                   ,
                   and
                   young
                   :
                
                 
                   Camers
                   ,
                   was
                   Son
                   to
                   Volscens
                   lately
                   slain
                   ;
                
                 
                   In
                   Wealth
                   surpassing
                   all
                   the
                   Latian
                   Train
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   Amycla
                   fix'd
                   his
                   silent
                   ,
                   easy
                   Reign
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   as
                   Aegeon
                   ,
                   when
                   with
                   Heav'n
                   he
                   strove
                   ,
                
                 
                   Stood
                   opposite
                   in
                   Arms
                   to
                   mighty
                   Jove
                   ;
                
                 
                   Mov'd
                   all
                   his
                   hundred
                   Hands
                   ,
                   provok'd
                   the
                   War
                   ,
                
                 
                   Defy'd
                   the
                   forky
                   Lightning
                   from
                   afar
                   :
                
                 
                   At
                   fifty
                   Mouths
                   his
                   flaming
                   Breath
                   expires
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Flash
                   for
                   Flash
                   returns
                   ,
                   and
                   Fires
                   for
                   Fires
                   :
                
                 
                 
                 
                 
                 
                 
                   In
                   his
                   right
                   Hand
                   as
                   many
                   Swords
                   he
                   wields
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   takes
                   the
                   Thunder
                   on
                   as
                   many
                   Shields
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   Strength
                   like
                   his
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Heroe
                   stood
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   soon
                   the
                   Fields
                   with
                   falling
                   Corps
                   were
                   strowd
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   once
                   his
                   Fauchion
                   found
                   the
                   Taste
                   of
                   Blood.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   With
                   Fury
                   scarce
                   to
                   be
                   conceiv'd
                   ,
                   he
                   flew
                
                 
                   Against
                   Niphaeus
                   ,
                   whom
                   four
                   Coursers
                   drew
                   .
                
                 
                   They
                   ,
                   when
                   they
                   see
                   the
                   fiery
                   Chief
                   advance
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   pushing
                   at
                   their
                   Chests
                   his
                   pointed
                   Lance
                   ;
                
                 
                   Wheel'd
                   with
                   so
                   swift
                   a
                   Motion
                   ,
                   mad
                   with
                   Fear
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   threw
                   their
                   Master
                   headlong
                   from
                   the
                   Chair
                   :
                
                 
                   They
                   stare
                   ,
                   they
                   start
                   ,
                   nor
                   stop
                   their
                   Course
                   before
                
                 
                   They
                   bear
                   the
                   bounding
                   Chariot
                   to
                   the
                   Shore
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Now
                   Lucagus
                   ,
                   and
                   Liger
                   scour
                   the
                   Plains
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   two
                   white
                   Steeds
                   ,
                   but
                   Liger
                   holds
                   the
                   Reins
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Lucagus
                   the
                   lofty
                   Seat
                   maintains
                   .
                
                 
                   Bold
                   Brethren
                   both
                   ,
                   the
                   former
                   wav'd
                   in
                   Air
                
                 
                   His
                   flaming
                   Sword
                   ;
                   Aeneas
                   couch'd
                   his
                   Spear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Unus'd
                   to
                   Threats
                   ,
                   and
                   more
                   unus'd
                   to
                   Fear
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   Liger
                   thus
                   .
                   Thy
                   Confidence
                   is
                   vain
                
                 
                   To
                   scape
                   from
                   hence
                   ,
                   as
                   from
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Plain
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   these
                   the
                   Steeds
                   which
                   Diomede
                   bestrode
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   this
                   the
                   Chariot
                   where
                   Achilles
                   rode
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   
                   Venus's
                   Veil
                   is
                   here
                   ,
                   nor
                   
                   Neptune's
                   Shield
                   :
                
                 
                   Thy
                   fatal
                   Hour
                   is
                   come
                   ;
                   and
                   this
                   the
                   Field
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   Liger
                   vainly
                   vaunts
                   :
                   The
                   Trojan
                   Peer
                
                 
                   Return'd
                   his
                   answer
                   with
                   his
                   flying
                   Spear
                   .
                
                 
                   As
                   Lucagus
                   to
                   lash
                   his
                   Horses
                   bends
                   ,
                
                 
                   Prone
                   to
                   the
                   Wheels
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   left
                   Foot
                   protends
                   :
                
                 
                   Prepar'd
                   for
                   Fight
                   ,
                   the
                   fatal
                   Dart
                   arrives
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   thro'
                   the
                   borders
                   of
                   his
                   Buckler
                   drives
                   .
                
                 
                   Pass'd
                   through
                   ;
                   and
                   pierc'd
                   his
                   Groin
                   ,
                   the
                   deadly
                   Wound
                   ,
                
                 
                   Cast
                   from
                   his
                   Chariot
                   ,
                   rowl'd
                   him
                   on
                   the
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Whom
                   thus
                   the
                   Chief
                   upbraids
                   with
                   scornful
                   spight
                   :
                
                 
                   Blame
                   not
                   the
                   slowness
                   of
                   your
                   Steeds
                   in
                   flight
                   ;
                
                 
                   Vain
                   Shadows
                   did
                   not
                   force
                   their
                   swift
                   Retreat
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   you
                   your self
                   forsake
                   your
                   empty
                   Seat.
                
                 
                   He
                   said
                   ,
                   and
                   seiz'd
                   at
                   once
                   the
                   loosen'd
                   Rein
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   For
                   Liger
                   lay
                   already
                   on
                   the
                   Plain
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   the
                   same
                   Shock
                   )
                   then
                   ,
                   stretching
                   out
                   his
                   Hands
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Recreant
                   thus
                   his
                   wretched
                   Life
                   demands
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   by
                   thy self
                   ,
                   O
                   more
                   than
                   Mortal
                   Man
                   !
                
                 
                   By
                   her
                   and
                   him
                   from
                   whom
                   thy
                   Breath
                   began
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   form'd
                   thee
                   thus
                   Divine
                   ,
                   I
                   beg
                   thee
                   spare
                
                 
                   This
                   forfeit
                   Life
                   ,
                   and
                   hear
                   thy
                   Suppliant's
                   Pray'r
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   much
                   he
                   spoke
                   ,
                   and
                   more
                   he
                   wou'd
                   have
                   said
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   the
                   stern
                   Heroe
                   turn'd
                   aside
                   his
                   Head
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   cut
                   him
                   short
                   .
                   I
                   hear
                   another
                   Man
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   talk'd
                   not
                   thus
                   before
                   the
                   Fight
                   began
                   ;
                
                 
                   Now
                   take
                   your
                   turn
                   :
                   And
                   ,
                   as
                   a
                   Brother
                   shou'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Attend
                   your
                   Brother
                   to
                   the
                   Stygian
                   Flood
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   thro'
                   his
                   Breast
                   his
                   fatal
                   Sword
                   he
                   sent
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   Soul
                   issu'd
                   at
                   the
                   bloody
                   Vent
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   As
                   Storms
                   the
                   Skies
                   ,
                   and
                   Torrents
                   tear
                   the
                   Ground
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thus
                   rag'd
                   the
                   Prince
                   ,
                   and
                   scatter'd
                   Deaths
                   around
                   :
                
                 
                   At
                   length
                   Ascanius
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Train
                   ,
                
                 
                   Broke
                   from
                   the
                   Camp
                   ,
                   so
                   long
                   besieg'd
                   in
                   vain
                   .
                
                 
                   Mean
                   time
                   the
                   King
                   of
                   Gods
                   and
                   Mortal
                   Man
                   ,
                
                 
                   Held
                   Conference
                   with
                   his
                   Queen
                   ,
                   and
                   thus
                   began
                   :
                
                 
                   My
                   Sister
                   Goddess
                   ,
                   and
                   well
                   pleasing
                   Wife
                   ,
                
                 
                   Still
                   think
                   you
                   
                   Venus's
                   Aid
                   supports
                   the
                   Strife
                   ;
                
                 
                   Sustains
                   her
                   Trojans
                   :
                   Or
                   themselves
                   alone
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   inborn
                   Valour
                   force
                   their
                   Fortune
                   on
                   ?
                
                 
                   How
                   fierce
                   in
                   Fight
                   ,
                   with
                   Courage
                   undecay'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Judge
                   if
                   such
                   Warriors
                   want
                   immortal
                   Aid
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   whom
                   the
                   Goddess
                   ,
                   with
                   the
                   charming
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Soft
                   in
                   her
                   Tone
                   submissively
                   replies
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Why
                   ,
                   O
                   my
                   loving
                   Lord
                   ,
                   whose
                   Frown
                   I
                   fear
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   cannot
                   ,
                   unconcern'd
                   ,
                   your
                   Anger
                   bear
                   ;
                
                 
                   Why
                   urge
                   you
                   thus
                   my
                   Grief
                   ?
                   When
                   if
                   I
                   still
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   As
                   once
                   I
                   was
                   )
                   were
                   Mistress
                   of
                   your
                   Will
                   :
                
                 
                   From
                   your
                   Almighty
                   Pow'r
                   ,
                   your
                   pleasing
                   Wife
                
                 
                   Might
                   gain
                   the
                   Grace
                   of
                   lengthning
                   
                   Turnus's
                   Life
                   :
                
                 
                   Securely
                   snatch
                   him
                   from
                   the
                   fatal
                   Fight
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   give
                   him
                   to
                   his
                   aged
                   Father's
                   sight
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   let
                   him
                   perish
                   ,
                   since
                   you
                   hold
                   it
                   good
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   glut
                   the
                   Trojans
                   with
                   his
                   pious
                   Blood.
                
                 
                   Yet
                   from
                   our
                   Lineage
                   he
                   derives
                   his
                   Name
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   the
                   fourth
                   degree
                   ,
                   from
                   God
                   Pilumnus
                   came
                   :
                
                 
                   Yet
                   he
                   devoutly
                   pays
                   you
                   Rites
                   Divine
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   offers
                   daily
                   Incense
                   at
                   your
                   Shrine
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   shortly
                   thus
                   the
                   Sov'raign
                   God
                   reply'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Since
                   in
                   my
                   Pow'r
                   and
                   Goodness
                   you
                   confide
                   ;
                
                 
                   If
                   for
                   a
                   little
                   Space
                   ,
                   a
                   lengthen'd
                   Span
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   beg
                   Reprieve
                   for
                   this
                   expiring
                   Man
                   :
                
                 
                   I
                   grant
                   you
                   leave
                   to
                   take
                   your
                   Turnus
                   hence
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   Instant
                   Fate
                   ,
                   and
                   can
                   so
                   far
                   dispense
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   if
                   some
                   secret
                   Meaning
                   lies
                   beneath
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   save
                   the
                   short-liv'd
                   Youth
                   from
                   destin'd
                   Death
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   if
                   a
                   farther
                   Thought
                   you
                   entertain
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   change
                   the
                   Fates
                   ;
                   you
                   feed
                   your
                   hopes
                   in
                   vain
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   To
                   whom
                   the
                   Goddess
                   thus
                   ,
                   with
                   weeping
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   what
                   if
                   that
                   Request
                   your
                   Tongue
                   denies
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   Heart
                   shou'd
                   grant
                   ;
                   and
                   not
                   a
                   short
                   Reprieve
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   length
                   of
                   certain
                   Life
                   to
                   Turnus
                   give
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   speedy
                   Death
                   attends
                   the
                   guiltless
                   Youth
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   my
                   presaging
                   Soul
                   divines
                   with
                   Truth
                   .
                
                 
                   Which
                   ,
                   O!
                   I
                   wish
                   might
                   err
                   thro'
                   causeless
                   Fears
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   you
                   ,
                   (
                   for
                   you
                   have
                   Pow'r
                   )
                   prolong
                   his
                   Years
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Thus
                   having
                   said
                   ,
                   involv'd
                   in
                   Clouds
                   ,
                   she
                   flies
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   drives
                   a
                   Storm
                   before
                   her
                   thro'
                   the
                   Skies
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Swift
                   she
                   descends
                   ,
                   alighting
                   on
                   the
                   Plain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   the
                   fierce
                   Foes
                   a
                   dubious
                   Fight
                   maintain
                   .
                
                 
                   Of
                   Air
                   condens'd
                   ,
                   a
                   Spectre
                   soon
                   she
                   made
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   what
                   Aeneas
                   was
                   ,
                   such
                   seem'd
                   the
                   Shade
                   .
                
                 
                   Adorn'd
                   with
                   Dardan
                   Arms
                   ,
                   the
                   Phantom
                   bore
                
                 
                   His
                   Head
                   aloft
                   ,
                   a
                   Plumy
                   Crest
                   he
                   wore
                   :
                
                 
                   This
                   Hand
                   appear'd
                   a
                   shining
                   Sword
                   to
                   wield
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   that
                   sustain'd
                   an
                   imitated
                   Shield
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   manly
                   Meen
                   He
                   stalk'd
                   along
                   the
                   Ground
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   wanted
                   Voice
                   bely'd
                   ,
                   nor
                   vaunting
                   Sound
                   .
                
                 
                   (
                   Thus
                   haunting
                   Ghosts
                   appear
                   to
                   waking
                   Sight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   dreadful
                   Visions
                   in
                   our
                   Dreams
                   by
                   Night
                   .
                   )
                
                 
                   The
                   Spectre
                   seems
                   the
                   Daunian
                   Chief
                   to
                   dare
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   flourishes
                   his
                   empty
                   Sword
                   in
                   Air
                   :
                
                 
                   At
                   this
                   advancing
                   Turnus
                   hurl'd
                   his
                   Spear
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Phantom
                   wheel'd
                   ,
                   and
                   seem'd
                   to
                   fly
                   for
                   Fear
                   .
                
                 
                   Deluded
                   Turnus
                   thought
                   the
                   Trojan
                   fled
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   vain
                   hopes
                   his
                   haughty
                   Fancy
                   fed
                   .
                
                 
                   Whether
                   ,
                   O
                   Coward
                   ,
                   (
                   thus
                   he
                   calls
                   aloud
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   found
                   he
                   spoke
                   to
                   Wind
                   ,
                   and
                   chas'd
                   a
                   Cloud
                   ;
                   )
                
                 
                   Why
                   thus
                   forsake
                   your
                   Bride
                   ?
                   Receive
                   from
                   me
                
                 
                   The
                   fated
                   Land
                   you
                   sought
                   so
                   long
                   by
                   Sea.
                
                 
                   He
                   said
                   ,
                   and
                   brandishing
                   at
                   once
                   his
                   Blade
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   eager
                   Pace
                   pursu'd
                   the
                   flying
                   Shade
                   .
                
                 
                   By
                   chance
                   a
                   Ship
                   was
                   fasten'd
                   to
                   the
                   Shore
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   from
                   old
                   Clusium
                   King
                   Osinius
                   bore
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Planks
                   were
                   ready
                   laid
                   for
                   safe
                   ascent
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   shelter
                   there
                   the
                   trembling
                   Shadow
                   bent
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   skip'd
                   ,
                   and
                   sculk'd
                   ,
                   and
                   under
                   Hatches
                   went.
                
                 
                   Exulting
                   Turnus
                   ,
                   with
                   regardless
                   haste
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ascends
                   the
                   Plank
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   the
                   Gally
                   pass'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Scarce
                   had
                   he
                   reach'd
                   the
                   Prow
                   ,
                   
                   Saturnia's
                   Hand
                
                 
                   The
                   Haulsers
                   cuts
                   ,
                   and
                   shoots
                   the
                   Ship
                   from
                   Land.
                
                 
                 
                   With
                   Wind
                   in
                   Poop
                   ,
                   the
                   Vessel
                   plows
                   the
                   Sea
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   measures
                   back
                   with
                   speed
                   her
                   former
                   Way
                   .
                
                 
                   Mean
                   time
                   Aeneas
                   seeks
                   his
                   absent
                   Foe
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   sends
                   his
                   slaughter'd
                   Troops
                   to
                   Shades
                   below
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   guileful
                   Phantom
                   now
                   forsook
                   the
                   shrowd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   flew
                   sublime
                   ,
                   and
                   vanish'd
                   in
                   a
                   Cloud
                   .
                
                 
                   Too
                   late
                   young
                   Turnus
                   the
                   Delusion
                   found
                   ,
                
                 
                   Far
                   on
                   the
                   Sea
                   ,
                   still
                   making
                   from
                   the
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   thankless
                   for
                   a
                   Life
                   redeem'd
                   by
                   Shame
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   sense
                   of
                   Honour
                   stung
                   ,
                   and
                   forfeit
                   Fame
                   :
                
                 
                   Fearful
                   besides
                   of
                   what
                   in
                   Fight
                   had
                   pass'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Hands
                   ,
                   and
                   hagger'd
                   Eyes
                   to
                   Heav'n
                   he
                   cast
                   .
                
                 
                   O
                   Jove
                   !
                   he
                   cry'd
                   ,
                   for
                   what
                   Offence
                   have
                   I
                
                 
                   Deserv'd
                   to
                   bear
                   this
                   endless
                   Infamy
                   :
                
                 
                   Whence
                   am
                   I
                   forc'd
                   ,
                   and
                   whether
                   am
                   I
                   born
                   ,
                
                 
                   How
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   what
                   Reproach
                   shall
                   I
                   return
                   ?
                
                 
                   Shall
                   ever
                   I
                   behold
                   the
                   Latian
                   Plain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   see
                   
                   Laurentum's
                   lofty
                   Tow'rs
                   again
                   ?
                
                 
                   What
                   will
                   they
                   say
                   of
                   their
                   deserting
                   Chief
                   ?
                
                 
                   The
                   War
                   was
                   mine
                   ,
                   I
                   fly
                   from
                   their
                   Relief
                   :
                
                 
                   I
                   led
                   to
                   Slaughter
                   ,
                   and
                   in
                   Slaughter
                   leave
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   ev'n
                   from
                   hence
                   their
                   dying
                   Groans
                   receive
                   .
                
                 
                   Here
                   over-match'd
                   in
                   Fight
                   ,
                   in
                   heaps
                   they
                   lye
                   ,
                
                 
                   There
                   scatter'd
                   o're
                   the
                   Fields
                   ignobly
                   fly
                   .
                
                 
                   Gape
                   wide
                   ,
                   O
                   Earth
                   !
                   and
                   draw
                   me
                   down
                   alive
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   ,
                   oh
                   ye
                   pitying
                   Winds
                   ,
                   a
                   Wretch
                   relieve
                   ;
                
                 
                   On
                   Sands
                   or
                   Shelves
                   the
                   splitting
                   Vessel
                   drive
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   set
                   me
                   Shipwrack'd
                   on
                   some
                   desart
                   Shore
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   no
                   Rutulian
                   Eyes
                   may
                   see
                   me
                   more
                   :
                
                 
                   Unknown
                   to
                   Friends
                   ,
                   or
                   Foes
                   ,
                   or
                   conscious
                   Fame
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lest
                   she
                   should
                   follow
                   ,
                   and
                   my
                   flight
                   proclaim
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Thus
                   Turnus
                   rav'd
                   ,
                   and
                   various
                   Fates
                   revolv'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Choice
                   was
                   doubtful
                   ,
                   but
                   the
                   Death
                   resolv'd
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   now
                   the
                   Sword
                   ,
                   and
                   now
                   the
                   Sea
                   took
                   place
                   :
                
                 
                   That
                   to
                   revenge
                   ,
                   and
                   this
                   to
                   purge
                   Disgrace
                   .
                
                 
                   Sometimes
                   he
                   thought
                   to
                   swim
                   the
                   stormy
                   Main
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   stretch
                   of
                   Arms
                   the
                   distant
                   Shore
                   to
                   gain
                   :
                
                 
                   Thrice
                   he
                   the
                   Sword
                   assay'd
                   ,
                   and
                   thrice
                   the
                   Flood
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   Juno
                   mov'd
                   with
                   Pity
                   both
                   withstood
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   thrice
                   repress'd
                   his
                   Rage
                   :
                   strong
                   Gales
                   supply'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   push'd
                   the
                   Vessel
                   o're
                   the
                   swelling
                   Tide
                   .
                
                 
                   At
                   length
                   she
                   lands
                   him
                   on
                   his
                   Native
                   Shores
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   to
                   his
                   Father's
                   longing
                   Arms
                   restores
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Mean
                   time
                   ,
                   by
                   
                   Jove's
                   Impulse
                   ,
                   Mezentius
                   arm'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Succeeding
                   Turnus
                   ;
                   with
                   his
                   ardour
                   warm'd
                
                 
                   His
                   fainting
                   Friends
                   ,
                   reproach'd
                   their
                   shameful
                   flight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Repell'd
                   the
                   Victors
                   ,
                   and
                   renew'd
                   the
                   Fight
                   .
                
                 
                   Against
                   their
                   King
                   the
                   Tuscan
                   Troops
                   conspire
                   ,
                
                 
                   Such
                   is
                   their
                   Hate
                   ,
                   and
                   such
                   their
                   fierce
                   desire
                
                 
                   Of
                   wish'd
                   Revenge
                   :
                   On
                   him
                   ,
                   and
                   him
                   alone
                   ,
                
                 
                   All
                   Hands
                   employ'd
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   their
                   Darts
                   are
                   thrown
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   ,
                   like
                   a
                   solid
                   Rock
                   by
                   Seas
                   inclos'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   raging
                   Winds
                   and
                   roaring
                   Waves
                   oppos'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   From
                   his
                   proud
                   Summit
                   looking
                   down
                   ,
                   disdains
                
                 
                   Their
                   empty
                   Menace
                   ,
                   and
                   unmov'd
                   remains
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Beneath
                   his
                   Feet
                   fell
                   haughty
                   Hebrus
                   dead
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   Latagus
                   ;
                   and
                   Palmus
                   as
                   he
                   fled
                   :
                
                 
                   At
                   Latagus
                   a
                   weighty
                   Stone
                   he
                   flung
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Face
                   was
                   flatted
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Helmet
                   rung
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   Palmus
                   from
                   behind
                   receives
                   his
                   Wound
                   ,
                
                 
                   Hamstring'd
                   he
                   falls
                   ,
                   and
                   grovels
                   on
                   the
                   Ground
                   :
                
                 
                   His
                   Crest
                   and
                   Armor
                   from
                   his
                   Body
                   torn
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Shoulders
                   ,
                   Lausus
                   ,
                   and
                   thy
                   Head
                   adorn
                   .
                
                 
                   Evas
                   and
                   Mymas
                   ,
                   both
                   of
                   Troy
                   ,
                   he
                   slew
                   ,
                
                 
                   Mymas
                   his
                   Birth
                   from
                   fair
                   Theano
                   drew
                   :
                
                 
                   Born
                   on
                   that
                   fatal
                   Night
                   ,
                   when
                   ,
                   big
                   with
                   Fire
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Queen
                   produc'd
                   young
                   Paris
                   to
                   his
                   Sire
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   But
                   Paris
                   in
                   the
                   Phrygian
                   Fields
                   was
                   slain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Unthinking
                   Mymas
                   on
                   the
                   Latian
                   Plain
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   as
                   a
                   salvage
                   Boar
                   on
                   Mountains
                   bred
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   forest
                   Mast
                   ,
                   and
                   fatning
                   Marshes
                   fed
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   once
                   he
                   sees
                   himself
                   in
                   Toils
                   inclos'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   Huntsmen
                   and
                   their
                   eager
                   Hounds
                   oppos'd
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   whets
                   his
                   Tusks
                   ,
                   and
                   turns
                   ,
                   and
                   dares
                   the
                   War
                   :
                
                 
                   Th'
                   Invaders
                   dart
                   their
                   Jav'lins
                   from
                   afar
                   ;
                
                 
                   All
                   keep
                   aloof
                   ,
                   and
                   safely
                   shout
                   around
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   none
                   presumes
                   to
                   give
                   a
                   nearer
                   Wound
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   frets
                   and
                   froaths
                   ,
                   erects
                   his
                   bristled
                   Hide
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   shakes
                   a
                   Grove
                   of
                   Lances
                   from
                   his
                   Side
                   :
                
                 
                   Not
                   otherwise
                   the
                   Troops
                   ,
                   with
                   Hate
                   inspir'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   just
                   Revenge
                   ,
                   against
                   the
                   Tyrant
                   fir'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Their
                   Darts
                   with
                   Clamour
                   at
                   a
                   distance
                   drive
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   only
                   keep
                   the
                   languish'd
                   War
                   alive
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   From
                   Coritus
                   came
                   Acron
                   to
                   the
                   Fight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   left
                   his
                   Spouse
                   betroath'd
                   ,
                   and
                   unconsummate
                   Night
                   .
                
                 
                   Mezentius
                   sees
                   him
                   thro'
                   the
                   Squadrons
                   ride
                   ,
                
                 
                   Proud
                   of
                   the
                   Purple
                   Favours
                   of
                   his
                   Bride
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   as
                   a
                   hungry
                   Lyon
                   ,
                   who
                   beholds
                
                 
                   A
                   Gamesom
                   Goat
                   ,
                   who
                   frisks
                   about
                   the
                   Folds
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   beamy
                   stag
                   that
                   grazes
                   on
                   the
                   Plain
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   runs
                   ,
                   he
                   roars
                   ,
                   he
                   shakes
                   his
                   rising
                   Mane
                   ;
                
                 
                   He
                   grins
                   ,
                   and
                   opens
                   wide
                   his
                   greedy
                   Jaws
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Prey
                   lyes
                   panting
                   underneath
                   his
                   Paws
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   fills
                   his
                   famish'd
                   Maw
                   ,
                   his
                   Mouth
                   runs
                   o're
                
                 
                   With
                   unchew'd
                   Morsels
                   ,
                   while
                   he
                   churns
                   the
                   Gore
                   :
                
                 
                   So
                   proud
                   Mezentius
                   rushes
                   on
                   his
                   Foes
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   first
                   unhappy
                   Acron
                   overthrows
                   :
                
                 
                   Stretch'd
                   at
                   his
                   length
                   ,
                   he
                   spurns
                   the
                   swarthy
                   Ground
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Lance
                   besmear'd
                   with
                   Blood
                   ,
                   lies
                   broken
                   in
                   the
                   wound
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   with
                   Disdain
                   the
                   haughty
                   Victor
                   view'd
                
                 
                   Orodes
                   flying
                   ,
                   nor
                   the
                   Wretch
                   pursu'd
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Nor
                   thought
                   the
                   Dastard's
                   Back
                   deserv'd
                   a
                   Wound
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   running
                   gain'd
                   th'
                   Advantage
                   of
                   the
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   turning
                   short
                   ,
                   he
                   met
                   him
                   Face
                   to
                   Face
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   give
                   his
                   Victory
                   the
                   better
                   grace
                   .
                
                 
                   Orodes
                   falls
                   ,
                   in
                   equal
                   Fight
                   oppress'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Mezentius
                   fix'd
                   his
                   Foot
                   upon
                   his
                   Breast
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   rested
                   Lance
                   :
                   And
                   thus
                   aloud
                   he
                   cries
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lo
                   here
                   the
                   Champion
                   of
                   my
                   Rebels
                   lies
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Fields
                   around
                   with
                   
                     Io
                     Paean
                  
                   ring
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   peals
                   of
                   Shouts
                   applaud
                   the
                   conqu'ring
                   King.
                
                 
                   At
                   this
                   the
                   vanquish'd
                   ,
                   with
                   his
                   dying
                   Breath
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thus
                   faintly
                   spoke
                   ,
                   and
                   prophesy'd
                   in
                   Death
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   thou
                   ,
                   proud
                   Man
                   ,
                   unpunish'd
                   shalt
                   remain
                   ;
                
                 
                   Like
                   Death
                   attends
                   thee
                   on
                   this
                   fatal
                   Plain
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   sourly
                   smiling
                   ,
                   thus
                   the
                   King
                   reply'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   what
                   belongs
                   to
                   me
                   let
                   Jove
                   provide
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   dye
                   thou
                   first
                   ,
                   whatever
                   Chance
                   ensue
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   said
                   ,
                   and
                   from
                   the
                   Wound
                   the
                   Weapon
                   drew
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   hov'ring
                   Mist
                   came
                   swimming
                   o're
                   his
                   sight
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   seal'd
                   his
                   Eyes
                   in
                   everlasting
                   Night
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   By
                   
                     Caedicus
                     ,
                     Alcathous
                  
                   was
                   slain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sacrator
                   laid
                   Hydaspes
                   on
                   the
                   Plain
                   :
                
                 
                   Orses
                   the
                   strong
                   to
                   greater
                   Strength
                   must
                   yield
                   ;
                
                 
                   He
                   ,
                   with
                   Parthenius
                   ,
                   were
                   by
                   Rapo
                   kill'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   brave
                   
                     Messapus
                     Ericetes
                  
                   slew
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   from
                   
                   Lycaon's
                   Blood
                   his
                   Lineage
                   drew
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   from
                   his
                   headstrong
                   Horse
                   his
                   Fate
                   he
                   found
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   threw
                   his
                   Master
                   as
                   he
                   made
                   a
                   bound
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Chief
                   alighting
                   ,
                   stuck
                   him
                   to
                   the
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   Clonius
                   hand
                   to
                   hand
                   ,
                   on
                   Foot
                   assails
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Trojan
                   sinks
                   ,
                   and
                   
                   Neptune's
                   Son
                   prevails
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Agis
                   the
                   Lycian
                   stepping
                   forth
                   with
                   Pride
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   single
                   Fight
                   the
                   boldest
                   Foe
                   defy'd
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Whom
                   
                     Tuscan
                     Valerus
                  
                   by
                   Force
                   o'recame
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   not
                   bely'd
                   his
                   mighty
                   Father's
                   Fame
                   .
                
                 
                   Salius
                   to
                   Death
                   the
                   great
                   Antronius
                   fent
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   the
                   same
                   Fate
                   the
                   Victor
                   underwent
                   :
                
                 
                   Slain
                   by
                   Nealces
                   Hand
                   ,
                   well
                   skill'd
                   to
                   throw
                
                 
                   The
                   flying
                   Dart
                   ,
                   and
                   draw
                   the
                   far-deceiving
                   Bow.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Thus
                   equal
                   Deaths
                   are
                   dealt
                   with
                   equal
                   Chance
                   ;
                
                 
                   By
                   turns
                   they
                   quit
                   their
                   Ground
                   ,
                   by
                   turns
                   advance
                   :
                
                 
                   Victors
                   ,
                   and
                   vanquish'd
                   ,
                   in
                   the
                   various
                   Field
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   wholly
                   overcome
                   ,
                   nor
                   wholly
                   yield
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Gods
                   from
                   Heav'n
                   survey
                   the
                   fatal
                   Strife
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   mourn
                   the
                   Miseries
                   of
                   Human
                   Life
                   .
                
                 
                   Above
                   the
                   rest
                   two
                   Goddesses
                   appear
                
                 
                   Concern'd
                   for
                   each
                   :
                   Here
                   
                     Venus
                     ,
                     Juno
                  
                   there
                   :
                
                 
                   Amidst
                   the
                   Crowd
                   Infernal
                   Atè
                   shakes
                
                 
                   Her
                   Scourge
                   aloft
                   ,
                   and
                   Crest
                   of
                   hissing
                   Snakes
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Once
                   more
                   the
                   proud
                   Mezentius
                   ,
                   with
                   Disdain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Brandish'd
                   his
                   Spear
                   ,
                   and
                   rush'd
                   into
                   the
                   Plain
                   :
                
                 
                   Where
                   tow'ring
                   in
                   the
                   midmost
                   Ranks
                   he
                   stood
                   ,
                
                 
                   Like
                   tall
                   Orion
                   stalking
                   o're
                   the
                   Flood
                   :
                
                 
                   When
                   with
                   his
                   brawny
                   Breast
                   he
                   cuts
                   the
                   Waves
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Shoulders
                   scarce
                   the
                   topmost
                   Billow
                   laves
                   .
                
                 
                   Or
                   like
                   a
                   Mountain
                   Ash
                   ,
                   whose
                   Roots
                   are
                   spread
                   ,
                
                 
                   Deep
                   fix'd
                   in
                   Earth
                   ,
                   in
                   Clouds
                   he
                   hides
                   his
                   Head.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Trojan
                   Prince
                   beheld
                   him
                   from
                   afar
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   dauntless
                   undertook
                   the
                   doubtful
                   War.
                
                 
                   Collected
                   in
                   his
                   Strength
                   ,
                   and
                   like
                   a
                   Rock
                   ,
                
                 
                   Poiz'd
                   on
                   his
                   Base
                   ,
                   Mezentius
                   stood
                   the
                   Shock
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   stood
                   ,
                   and
                   measuring
                   first
                   with
                   careful
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   space
                   his
                   Spear
                   cou'd
                   reach
                   ,
                   aloud
                   he
                   cries
                   :
                
                 
                   My
                   strong
                   right
                   Hand
                   ,
                   and
                   Sword
                   ,
                   assist
                   my
                   Stroke
                   ;
                
                 
                   (
                   Those
                   only
                   Gods
                   Mezentius
                   will
                   invoke
                   )
                
                 
                   His
                   Armour
                   from
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Pyrate
                   torn
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   my
                   triumphant
                   Lausus
                   shall
                   be
                   worn
                   .
                
              
               
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     S
                     r
                     :
                     Charles
                     Orby
                     Baronet
                     of
                     Burton
                     Pednarden
                     in
                     y
                     e
                     County
                     of
                     Lincolne
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     10.
                     l.
                     1125.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   He
                   said
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   his
                   utmost
                   force
                   he
                   threw
                
                 
                   The
                   massy
                   Spear
                   ,
                   which
                   ,
                   hissing
                   as
                   it
                   flew
                   ,
                
                 
                   Reach'd
                   the
                   Coelestial
                   Shield
                   that
                   stop'd
                   the
                   course
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   glancing
                   thence
                   ,
                   the
                   yet
                   unbroken
                   Force
                
                 
                   Took
                   a
                   new
                   bent
                   obliquely
                   ,
                   and
                   betwixt
                
                 
                   The
                   Side
                   and
                   Bowels
                   fam'd
                   Anthores
                   fix'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Anthores
                   had
                   from
                   Argos
                   travell'd
                   far
                   ,
                
                 
                   Alcides
                   Friend
                   ,
                   and
                   Brother
                   of
                   the
                   War
                   :
                
                 
                   'Till
                   tir'd
                   with
                   Toils
                   ,
                   fair
                   Italy
                   he
                   chose
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   
                   Evander's
                   Palace
                   sought
                   Repose
                   :
                
                 
                   Now
                   falling
                   by
                   another's
                   Wound
                   ,
                   his
                   Eyes
                
                 
                   He
                   casts
                   to
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   on
                   Argos
                   thinks
                   ,
                   and
                   dyes
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   pious
                   Trojan
                   then
                   his
                   Jav'lin
                   sent
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Shield
                   gave
                   way
                   :
                   Thro'
                   treble
                   Plates
                   it
                   went
                
                 
                   Of
                   solid
                   Brass
                   ,
                   of
                   Linnen
                   trebly
                   rowl'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   three
                   Bull-hides
                   which
                   round
                   the
                   Buckler
                   rowl'd
                   .
                
                 
                   All
                   these
                   it
                   pass'd
                   ,
                   resistless
                   in
                   the
                   Course
                   ,
                
                 
                   Transpierc'd
                   his
                   Thigh
                   ,
                   and
                   spent
                   its
                   dying
                   Force
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   gaping
                   Wound
                   gush'd
                   out
                   a
                   Crimson
                   Flood
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Trojan
                   ,
                   glad
                   with
                   sight
                   of
                   hostile
                   Blood
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Fauchion
                   drew
                   ,
                   to
                   closer
                   Fight
                   address'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   new
                   Force
                   his
                   fainting
                   Foe
                   oppress'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   His
                   Father's
                   Peril
                   Lausus
                   view'd
                   with
                   Grief
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   sigh'd
                   ,
                   he
                   wept
                   ,
                   he
                   ran
                   to
                   his
                   Relief
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   here
                   ,
                   Heroick
                   Youth
                   ,
                   't
                   is
                   here
                   I
                   must
                
                 
                   To
                   thy
                   immortal
                   Memory
                   be
                   just
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   sing
                   an
                   Act
                   so
                   noble
                   and
                   so
                   new
                   ,
                
                 
                   Posterity
                   will
                   scarce
                   believe
                   't
                   is
                   true
                   .
                
                 
                   Pain'd
                   with
                   his
                   Wound
                   ,
                   and
                   useless
                   for
                   the
                   Fight
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Father
                   sought
                   to
                   save
                   himself
                   by
                   Flight
                   :
                
                 
                   Incumber'd
                   ,
                   slow
                   he
                   drag'd
                   the
                   Spear
                   along
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   pierc'd
                   his
                   thigh
                   ,
                   and
                   in
                   his
                   Buckler
                   hung
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   pious
                   Youth
                   ,
                   resolv'd
                   on
                   Death
                   ,
                   below
                
                 
                   The
                   lifted
                   Sword
                   ,
                   springs
                   forth
                   to
                   face
                   the
                   Foe
                   ;
                
                 
                   Protects
                   his
                   Parent
                   ,
                   and
                   prevents
                   the
                   Blow
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Shouts
                   of
                   Applause
                   ran
                   ringing
                   thro'
                   the
                   Field
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   see
                   the
                   Son
                   the
                   vanquish'd
                   Father
                   shield
                   :
                
                 
                   All
                   fir'd
                   with
                   gen'rous
                   Indignation
                   strive
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   a
                   storm
                   of
                   Darts
                   ,
                   to
                   distance
                   drive
                
                 
                   The
                   Trojan
                   Chief
                   ;
                   who
                   held
                   at
                   Bay
                   from
                   far
                   ,
                
                 
                   On
                   his
                   Vulcanian
                   Orb
                   sustain'd
                   the
                   War.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   As
                   when
                   thick
                   Hail
                   comes
                   ratling
                   in
                   the
                   Wind
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Plowman
                   ,
                   Passenger
                   ,
                   and
                   lab'ring
                   Hind
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   shelter
                   to
                   the
                   neighb'ring
                   Covert
                   fly
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   hous'd
                   ,
                   or
                   safe
                   in
                   hollow
                   Caverns
                   lye
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   that
                   o'reblown
                   ,
                   when
                   Heav'n
                   above
                   'em
                   smiles
                   ,
                
                 
                   Return
                   to
                   Travel
                   ,
                   and
                   renew
                   their
                   Toils
                   :
                
                 
                   Aeneas
                   thus
                   o'rewhelm'd
                   on
                   ev'ry
                   side
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   storm
                   of
                   Darts
                   ,
                   undaunted
                   ,
                   did
                   abide
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   thus
                   to
                   Lausus
                   loud
                   with
                   friendly
                   threat'ning
                   cry'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Why
                   wilt
                   thou
                   rush
                   to
                   certain
                   Death
                   ,
                   and
                   Rage
                
                 
                   In
                   rash
                   Attempts
                   ,
                   beyond
                   thy
                   tender
                   Age
                   :
                
                 
                   Betray'd
                   by
                   pious
                   Love
                   ?
                   Nor
                   thus
                   forborn
                
                 
                   The
                   Youth
                   desists
                   ,
                   but
                   with
                   insulting
                   Scorn
                
                 
                   Provokes
                   the
                   ling'ring
                   Prince
                   :
                   Whose
                   Patience
                   tyr'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Gave
                   Place
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   his
                   Breast
                   with
                   Fury
                   fir'd
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   now
                   the
                   Fates
                   prepar'd
                   their
                   cruel
                   Sheers
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   lifted
                   high
                   the
                   flaming
                   Sword
                   appears
                   :
                
                 
                   Which
                   full
                   descending
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   frightful
                   sway
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thro
                   Shield
                   and
                   Corslet
                   forc'd
                   th'
                   impetuous
                   Way
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   bury'd
                   deep
                   in
                   his
                   fair
                   Bosom
                   lay
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   purple
                   Streams
                   thro'
                   the
                   thin
                   Armour
                   strove
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   drench'd
                   th'
                   imbroider'd
                   Coat
                   his
                   Mother
                   wove
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   Life
                   at
                   length
                   forsook
                   his
                   heaving
                   Heart
                   ,
                
                 
                   Loath
                   from
                   so
                   sweet
                   a
                   Mansion
                   to
                   depart
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   when
                   ,
                   with
                   Blood
                   ,
                   and
                   Paleness
                   all
                   o'respread
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   pious
                   Prince
                   beheld
                   young
                   Lausus
                   dead
                   ;
                
                 
                   He
                   griev'd
                   ,
                   he
                   wept
                   ,
                   the
                   sight
                   an
                   Image
                   brought
                
                 
                   Of
                   his
                   own
                   filial
                   Love
                   ;
                   a
                   sadly
                   pleasing
                   Thought
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Then
                   stretch'd
                   his
                   Hand
                   to
                   hold
                   him
                   up
                   ,
                   and
                   said
                   ,
                
                 
                   Poor
                   hapless
                   Youth
                   !
                   what
                   Praises
                   can
                   be
                   paid
                
                 
                   To
                   Love
                   so
                   great
                   ,
                   to
                   such
                   transcendent
                   Store
                
                 
                   Of
                   early
                   Worth
                   ,
                   and
                   sure
                   Presage
                   of
                   more
                   ?
                
                 
                   Accept
                   what
                   e're
                   Aeneas
                   can
                   afford
                   ,
                
                 
                   Untouch'd
                   thy
                   Arms
                   ,
                   untaken
                   be
                   thy
                   Sword
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   that
                   pleas'd
                   thee
                   living
                   still
                   remain
                
                 
                   Inviolate
                   ,
                   and
                   sacred
                   to
                   the
                   slain
                   .
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Body
                   on
                   thy
                   Parents
                   I
                   bestow
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   rest
                   thy
                   Soul
                   ,
                   at
                   least
                   if
                   Shadows
                   know
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   have
                   a
                   sense
                   of
                   human
                   Things
                   below
                   .
                
                 
                   There
                   to
                   thy
                   fellow
                   Ghosts
                   with
                   Glory
                   tell
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   was
                   by
                   the
                   great
                   Aeneas
                   hand
                   I
                   fell
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   this
                   his
                   distant
                   Friends
                   he
                   beckons
                   near
                   ,
                
                 
                   Provokes
                   their
                   Duty
                   ,
                   and
                   prevents
                   their
                   Fear
                   :
                
                 
                   Himself
                   assists
                   to
                   lift
                   him
                   from
                   the
                   Ground
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   clotted
                   Locks
                   ,
                   and
                   Blood
                   that
                   well'd
                   from
                   out
                   the
                   Wound
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Mean
                   time
                   his
                   Father
                   ,
                   now
                   no
                   Father
                   ,
                   stood
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   wash'd
                   his
                   Wounds
                   by
                   
                   Tyber's
                   yellow
                   Flood
                   :
                
                 
                   Oppress'd
                   with
                   Anguish
                   ,
                   panting
                   ,
                   and
                   o'respent
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   fainting
                   Limbs
                   against
                   an
                   Oak
                   he
                   leant
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   Bough
                   his
                   Brazen
                   Helmet
                   did
                   sustain
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   heavier
                   Arms
                   lay
                   scatter'd
                   on
                   the
                   Plain
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   chosen
                   Train
                   of
                   Youth
                   around
                   him
                   stand
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   drooping
                   Head
                   was
                   rested
                   on
                   his
                   hand
                   :
                
                 
                   His
                   grisly
                   Beard
                   his
                   pensive
                   Bosom
                   sought
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   on
                   Lausus
                   ran
                   his
                   restless
                   thought
                   .
                
                 
                   Careful
                   ,
                   concern'd
                   his
                   Danger
                   to
                   prevent
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   much
                   enquir'd
                   ,
                   and
                   many
                   a
                   Message
                   sent
                
                 
                   To
                   warn
                   him
                   from
                   the
                   Field
                   :
                   Alas
                   !
                   in
                   vain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Behold
                   his
                   mournful
                   Followers
                   bear
                   him
                   slain
                   :
                
                 
                   O're
                   his
                   broad
                   Shield
                   still
                   gush'd
                   the
                   yawning
                   Wound
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   drew
                   a
                   bloody
                   Trail
                   along
                   the
                   Ground
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Far
                   off
                   he
                   heard
                   their
                   Cries
                   ,
                   far
                   off
                   divin'd
                
                 
                   The
                   dire
                   Event
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   foreboding
                   Mind
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   Dust
                   he
                   sprinkled
                   first
                   his
                   hoary
                   Head
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   both
                   his
                   lifted
                   hands
                   to
                   Heav'n
                   he
                   spread
                   ;
                
                 
                   Last
                   ,
                   the
                   dear
                   Corps
                   embracing
                   ,
                   thus
                   he
                   said
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   Joys
                   ,
                   alas
                   !
                   cou'd
                   this
                   frail
                   Being
                   give
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   I
                   have
                   been
                   so
                   covetous
                   to
                   live
                   ?
                
                 
                   To
                   see
                   my
                   Son
                   ,
                   and
                   such
                   a
                   Son
                   ,
                   resign
                
                 
                   His
                   Life
                   a
                   Ransom
                   for
                   preserving
                   mine
                   ?
                
                 
                   And
                   am
                   I
                   then
                   preserv'd
                   ,
                   and
                   art
                   thou
                   lost
                   ?
                
                 
                   How
                   much
                   too
                   dear
                   has
                   that
                   Redemption
                   cost
                   !
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   now
                   my
                   bitter
                   Banishment
                   I
                   feel
                   ;
                
                 
                   This
                   is
                   a
                   Wound
                   too
                   deep
                   for
                   time
                   to
                   heal
                   .
                
                 
                   My
                   Guilt
                   thy
                   growing
                   Virtues
                   did
                   defame
                   ;
                
                 
                   My
                   Blackness
                   blotted
                   thy
                   unblemish'd
                   Name
                   .
                
                 
                   Chas'd
                   from
                   a
                   Throne
                   ,
                   abandon'd
                   ,
                   and
                   exil'd
                
                 
                   For
                   foul
                   Misdeeds
                   ,
                   were
                   Punishments
                   too
                   mild
                   :
                
                 
                   I
                   ow'd
                   my
                   People
                   these
                   ,
                   and
                   from
                   their
                   hate
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   less
                   Resentment
                   cou'd
                   have
                   born
                   my
                   Fate
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   yet
                   I
                   live
                   ,
                   and
                   yet
                   sustain
                   the
                   sight
                
                 
                   Of
                   hated
                   Men
                   ,
                   and
                   of
                   more
                   hated
                   Light
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   will
                   not
                   long
                   .
                   With
                   that
                   he
                   rais'd
                   from
                   Ground
                
                 
                   His
                   fainting
                   Limbs
                   ,
                   that
                   stagger'd
                   with
                   his
                   Wound
                   .
                
                 
                   Yet
                   with
                   a
                   Mind
                   resolv'd
                   ,
                   and
                   unappal'd
                
                 
                   With
                   Pains
                   or
                   Perils
                   ,
                   for
                   his
                   Courser
                   call'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Well
                   mouth'd
                   ,
                   well
                   manag'd
                   ,
                   whom
                   himself
                   did
                   dress
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   daily
                   Care
                   ,
                   and
                   mounted
                   with
                   Success
                   ;
                
                 
                   His
                   Aid
                   in
                   Arms
                   ,
                   his
                   Ornament
                   in
                   Peace
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Soothing
                   his
                   Courage
                   with
                   a
                   gentle
                   Stroke
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Steed
                   seem'd
                   sensible
                   ,
                   while
                   thus
                   he
                   spoke
                   .
                
                 
                   O
                   Rhaebus
                   we
                   have
                   liv'd
                   too
                   long
                   for
                   me
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   If
                   Life
                   and
                   long
                   were
                   Terms
                   that
                   cou'd
                   agree
                   )
                
                 
                   This
                   Day
                   thou
                   either
                   shalt
                   bring
                   back
                   the
                   Head
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   bloody
                   Trophees
                   of
                   the
                   Trojan
                   dead
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   This
                   Day
                   thou
                   either
                   shalt
                   revenge
                   my
                   Woe
                
                 
                   For
                   murther'd
                   Lausus
                   ,
                   on
                   his
                   cruel
                   Foe
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   if
                   inexorable
                   Fate
                   deny
                
                 
                   Our
                   Conquest
                   ,
                   with
                   thy
                   conquer'd
                   Master
                   dye
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   after
                   such
                   a
                   Lord
                   ,
                   I
                   rest
                   secure
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thou
                   wilt
                   no
                   foreign
                   Reins
                   ,
                   or
                   Trojan
                   Load
                   endure
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   said
                   :
                   And
                   straight
                   th'
                   officious
                   Courser
                   kneels
                
                 
                   To
                   take
                   his
                   wonted
                   Weight
                   .
                   His
                   Hands
                   he
                   fills
                
                 
                   With
                   pointed
                   Jav'lins
                   :
                   On
                   his
                   Head
                   he
                   lac'd
                
                 
                   His
                   glitt'ring
                   Helm
                   ,
                   which
                   terribly
                   was
                   grac'd
                
                 
                   With
                   waving
                   Horse-hair
                   ,
                   nodding
                   from
                   afar
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   spurr'd
                   his
                   thund'ring
                   Steed
                   amidst
                   the
                   War.
                
                 
                   Love
                   ,
                   Anguish
                   ,
                   Wrath
                   ,
                   and
                   Grief
                   ,
                   to
                   Madness
                   wrought
                   ,
                
                 
                   Despair
                   ,
                   and
                   secret
                   Shame
                   ,
                   and
                   conscious
                   thought
                
                 
                   Of
                   inborn
                   Worth
                   ,
                   his
                   lab'ring
                   Soul
                   oppress'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Rowl'd
                   in
                   his
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   and
                   rag'd
                   within
                   his
                   Breast
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   loud
                   he
                   call'd
                   Aeneas
                   thrice
                   by
                   Name
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   loud
                   repeated
                   Voice
                   to
                   glad
                   Aeneas
                   came
                   .
                
                 
                   Great
                   Jove
                   ,
                   he
                   said
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   far-shooting
                   God
                   ,
                
                 
                   Inspire
                   thy
                   Mind
                   to
                   make
                   thy
                   Challenge
                   good
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   spoke
                   no
                   more
                   ,
                   but
                   hasten'd
                   ,
                   void
                   of
                   Fear
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   threaten'd
                   with
                   his
                   long
                   protended
                   Spear
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   To
                   whom
                   Mezentius
                   thus
                   .
                   Thy
                   Vaunts
                   are
                   vain
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Lausus
                   lies
                   extended
                   on
                   the
                   Plain
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   's
                   lost
                   !
                   thy
                   Conquest
                   is
                   already
                   won
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   wretched
                   Sire
                   is
                   murther'd
                   in
                   the
                   Son.
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Fate
                   I
                   fear
                   ,
                   but
                   all
                   the
                   Gods
                   defy
                   ,
                
                 
                   Forbear
                   thy
                   Threats
                   ,
                   my
                   Bus'ness
                   is
                   to
                   dye
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   first
                   receive
                   this
                   parting
                   Legacy
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   said
                   :
                   And
                   straight
                   a
                   whirling
                   Dart
                   he
                   sent
                   :
                
                 
                   Another
                   after
                   ,
                   and
                   another
                   went.
                
                 
                   Round
                   in
                   a
                   spacious
                   Ring
                   he
                   rides
                   the
                   Field
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   vainly
                   plies
                   th'
                   impenetrable
                   Shield
                   :
                
                 
                   Thrice
                   rode
                   he
                   round
                   ,
                   and
                   thrice
                   Aeneas
                   wheel'd
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Turn'd
                   as
                   he
                   turn'd
                   ;
                   the
                   Golden
                   Orb
                   withstood
                
                 
                   The
                   Strokes
                   ,
                   and
                   bore
                   about
                   an
                   Iron
                   Wood.
                
                 
                   Impatient
                   of
                   Delay
                   ,
                   and
                   weary
                   grown
                   ,
                
                 
                   Still
                   to
                   defend
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   defend
                   alone
                   :
                
                 
                   To
                   wrench
                   the
                   Darts
                   which
                   in
                   his
                   Buckler
                   light
                   ,
                
                 
                   Urg'd
                   ,
                   and
                   o're-labour'd
                   in
                   unequal
                   Fight
                   :
                
                 
                   At
                   length
                   resolv'd
                   ,
                   he
                   throws
                   with
                   all
                   his
                   Force
                   ,
                
                 
                   Full
                   at
                   the
                   Temples
                   of
                   the
                   Warrior
                   Horse
                   .
                
                 
                   Just
                   where
                   the
                   Stroke
                   was
                   aim'd
                   ,
                   th'
                   unerring
                   Spear
                
                 
                   Made
                   way
                   ,
                   and
                   stood
                   transfix'd
                   thro'
                   either
                   Ear.
                
                 
                   Seiz'd
                   with
                   unwonted
                   Pain
                   ,
                   surpriz'd
                   with
                   Fright
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   wounded
                   Steed
                   curvets
                   ;
                   and
                   ,
                   rais'd
                   upright
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lights
                   on
                   his
                   Feet
                   before
                   :
                   His
                   Hoofs
                   behind
                
                 
                   Spring
                   up
                   in
                   Air
                   aloft
                   ,
                   and
                   lash
                   the
                   Wind.
                
                 
                   Down
                   comes
                   the
                   Rider
                   headlong
                   from
                   his
                   height
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Horse
                   came
                   after
                   with
                   unweildy
                   weight
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   flound'ring
                   forward
                   ,
                   pitching
                   on
                   his
                   Head
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Lord
                   's
                   incumber'd
                   Sholuder
                   overlaid
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   From
                   either
                   Hoast
                   the
                   mingl'd
                   Shouts
                   ,
                   and
                   Cries
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   Trojans
                   and
                   Rutulians
                   rend
                   the
                   Skies
                   .
                
                 
                   Aeneas
                   hast'ning
                   ,
                   wav'd
                   his
                   fatal
                   Sword
                
                 
                   High
                   o're
                   his
                   head
                   ,
                   with
                   this
                   reproachful
                   Word
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   ,
                   where
                   are
                   now
                   thy
                   Vaunts
                   ,
                   the
                   fierce
                   Disdain
                
                 
                   Of
                   proud
                   Mezentius
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   lofty
                   Strain
                   ?
                
              
               
                 
                   Strugling
                   ,
                   and
                   wildly
                   staring
                   on
                   the
                   Skies
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   scarce
                   recover'd
                   Sight
                   ,
                   he
                   thus
                   replies
                   .
                
                 
                   Why
                   these
                   insulting
                   Words
                   ,
                   this
                   waste
                   of
                   Breath
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   Souls
                   undaunted
                   ,
                   and
                   secure
                   of
                   Death
                   ?
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   no
                   Dishonour
                   for
                   the
                   Brave
                   to
                   dye
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   came
                   I
                   here
                   with
                   hope
                   of
                   Victory
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   ask
                   I
                   Life
                   ,
                   nor
                   fought
                   with
                   that
                   design
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   I
                   had
                   us'd
                   my
                   Fortune
                   ,
                   use
                   thou
                   thine
                   .
                
                 
                   My
                   dying
                   Son
                   contracted
                   no
                   such
                   Band
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Gift
                   is
                   hateful
                   from
                   his
                   Murd'rer's
                   hand
                   .
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     Tho
                     :
                     Hopkins
                     of
                     y
                     e
                     Middle
                     Temple
                     Esq.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                 
                   For
                   this
                   ,
                   this
                   only
                   Favour
                   let
                   me
                   sue
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   If
                   Pity
                   can
                   to
                   conquer'd
                   Foes
                   be
                   due
                   )
                
                 
                   Refuse
                   it
                   not
                   :
                   But
                   let
                   my
                   Body
                   have
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   last
                   Retreat
                   of
                   Human
                   Kind
                   ,
                   a
                   Grave
                   .
                
                 
                   Too
                   well
                   I
                   know
                   th'
                   insulting
                   People's
                   Hate
                   ;
                
                 
                   Protect
                   me
                   from
                   their
                   Vengeance
                   after
                   Fate
                   :
                
                 
                   This
                   Refuge
                   for
                   my
                   poor
                   Remains
                   provide
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   lay
                   my
                   much
                   lov'd
                   Lausus
                   by
                   my
                   side
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   said
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   his
                   Throat
                   the
                   Sword
                   apply'd
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Crimson
                   Stream
                   distain'd
                   his
                   Arms
                   around
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   disdainful
                   Soul
                   came
                   rushing
                   thro'
                   the
                   Wound
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 The
                 Eleventh
                 Book
                 of
                 the
                 Aeneis
                 .
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Argument
                   .
                
                 
                   Aeneas
                   
                     erects
                     a
                     Trophy
                     of
                     the
                     Spoils
                     of
                  
                   Mezentius
                   ;
                   
                     grants
                     a
                     Truce
                     for
                     burying
                     the
                     dead
                     ;
                     and
                     sends
                     home
                     the
                     Body
                     of
                  
                   Pallas
                   
                     with
                     great
                     Solemnity
                  
                   .
                   Latinus
                   
                     calls
                     a
                     Council
                     to
                     propose
                     offers
                     of
                     Peace
                     to
                  
                   Aeneas
                   ,
                   
                     which
                     occasions
                     great
                     Animosity
                     betwixt
                  
                   Turnus
                   and
                   Drances
                   :
                   
                     In
                     the
                     mean
                     time
                     there
                     is
                     a
                     sharp
                     Engagement
                     of
                     the
                     Horse
                     ;
                     wherein
                  
                   Camilla
                   
                     signalizes
                     her self
                     ;
                     is
                     kill'd
                     :
                     And
                     the
                  
                   Latine
                   
                     Troops
                     are
                     entirely
                     defeated
                  
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   SCarce
                   had
                   the
                   rosie
                   Morning
                   rais'd
                   her
                   Head
                
                 
                   Above
                   the
                   Waves
                   ,
                   and
                   left
                   her
                   wat'ry
                   Bed
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Pious
                   Chief
                   ,
                   whom
                   double
                   Cares
                   attend
                
                 
                   For
                   his
                   unbury'd
                   Souldiers
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Friend
                   :
                
                 
                   Yet
                   first
                   to
                   Heav'n
                   perform'd
                   a
                   Victor's
                   Vows
                   ;
                
                 
                   He
                   bar'd
                   an
                   ancient
                   Oak
                   of
                   all
                   her
                   Boughs
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   on
                   a
                   rising
                   Ground
                   the
                   Trunk
                   he
                   plac'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Which
                   with
                   the
                   Spoils
                   of
                   his
                   dead
                   Foe
                   he
                   grac'd
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Coat
                   of
                   Arms
                   by
                   proud
                   Mezentius
                   worn
                   ,
                
                 
                   Now
                   on
                   a
                   naked
                   Snag
                   in
                   Triumph
                   born
                   ,
                
                 
                   Was
                   hung
                   on
                   high
                   ;
                   and
                   glitter'd
                   from
                   afar
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   Trophy
                   sacred
                   to
                   the
                   God
                   of
                   War.
                
                 
                   Above
                   his
                   Arms
                   ,
                   fix'd
                   on
                   the
                   leafless
                   Wood
                   ,
                
                 
                   Appear'd
                   his
                   Plumy
                   Crest
                   ,
                   distilling
                   Blood
                   ;
                
                 
                   His
                   brazen
                   Buckler
                   on
                   the
                   left
                   was
                   seen
                   ;
                
                 
                   Trunchions
                   of
                   shiver'd
                   Lances
                   hung
                   between
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   on
                   the
                   right
                   was
                   plac'd
                   his
                   Corslet
                   ,
                   bor'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   to
                   the
                   Neck
                   was
                   ty'd
                   his
                   unavailing
                   Sword.
                
                 
                   A
                   Crowd
                   of
                   Chiefs
                   inclose
                   the
                   Godlike
                   Man
                   :
                
                 
                   Who
                   thus
                   ,
                   conspicuous
                   in
                   the
                   midst
                   ,
                   began
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Our
                   Toils
                   ,
                   my
                   Friends
                   ,
                   are
                   crown'd
                   with
                   sure
                   Success
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   greater
                   Part
                   perform'd
                   ,
                   atchieve
                   the
                   less
                   .
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     y
                     e
                     Right
                     Noble
                     Charles
                     Duke
                     of
                     Shrensbury
                     Marquis
                     of
                     Alton
                     Earle
                     of
                     Shrensbury
                     Wexford
                     &
                     Water-ford
                     ,
                     Baron
                     Talbot
                     Strange
                     of
                     Blackmere
                     Gifford
                     of
                     Brimsfield
                     &
                     ct
                     One
                     of
                     the
                     Lords
                     of
                     his
                     Ma.
                     ties
                     most
                     Hon.
                     ble
                     Privy
                     Councill
                     Principall
                     Secretary
                     of
                     State
                     ,
                     and
                     Knight
                     of
                     y
                     e
                     most
                     Noble
                     Order
                     of
                     the
                     Garter
                     .
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     11.
                     l.
                     1.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                 
                   Now
                   follow
                   chearful
                   to
                   the
                   trembling
                   Town
                   ;
                
                 
                   Press
                   but
                   an
                   Entrance
                   ,
                   and
                   presume
                   it
                   won
                   .
                
                 
                   Fear
                   is
                   no
                   more
                   :
                   For
                   fierce
                   Mezentius
                   lies
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   the
                   first
                   Fruits
                   of
                   War
                   ,
                   a
                   Sacrifice
                   .
                
                 
                   Turnus
                   shall
                   fall
                   extended
                   on
                   the
                   Plain
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   this
                   Omen
                   is
                   already
                   slain
                   .
                
                 
                   Prepar'd
                   in
                   Arms
                   pursue
                   your
                   happy
                   Chance
                   ;
                
                 
                   That
                   none
                   unwarn'd
                   may
                   plead
                   his
                   Ignorance
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   I
                   ,
                   at
                   Heav'n's
                   appointed
                   Hour
                   ,
                   may
                   find
                
                 
                   Your
                   warlike
                   Ensigns
                   waving
                   in
                   the
                   Wind.
                
                 
                   Mean
                   time
                   the
                   Rites
                   and
                   Fun'ral
                   Pomps
                   prepare
                   ,
                
                 
                   Due
                   to
                   your
                   dead
                   Companions
                   of
                   the
                   War
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   last
                   Respect
                   the
                   living
                   can
                   bestow
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   shield
                   their
                   Shadows
                   from
                   Contempt
                   below
                   .
                
                 
                   That
                   conquer'd
                   Earth
                   be
                   theirs
                   for
                   which
                   they
                   fought
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   which
                   for
                   us
                   with
                   their
                   own
                   blood
                   they
                   bought
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   first
                   the
                   Corps
                   of
                   our
                   unhappy
                   Friend
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   the
                   sad
                   City
                   of
                   Evander
                   send
                   :
                
                 
                   Who
                   not
                   inglorious
                   in
                   his
                   Ages
                   bloom
                
                 
                   Was
                   hurry'd
                   hence
                   by
                   too
                   severe
                   a
                   Doom
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Thus
                   ,
                   weeping
                   while
                   he
                   spoke
                   ,
                   he
                   took
                   his
                   Way
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   ,
                   new
                   in
                   Death
                   ,
                   lamented
                   Pallas
                   lay
                   :
                
                 
                   Acaetes
                   watch'd
                   the
                   Corps
                   ;
                   whose
                   Youth
                   deserv'd
                
                 
                   The
                   Father's
                   Trust
                   ,
                   and
                   now
                   the
                   Son
                   he
                   serv'd
                
                 
                   With
                   equal
                   Faith
                   ,
                   but
                   less
                   auspicious
                   Care
                   :
                
                 
                   Th'
                   Attendants
                   of
                   the
                   slain
                   ,
                   his
                   Sorrow
                   share
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   Troop
                   of
                   Trojans
                   mix'd
                   with
                   these
                   appear
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   mourning
                   Matrons
                   with
                   dishevell'd
                   Hair.
                
                 
                   Soon
                   as
                   the
                   Prince
                   appears
                   ,
                   they
                   raise
                   a
                   Cry
                   ;
                
                 
                   All
                   beat
                   their
                   Breasts
                   ,
                   and
                   Echoes
                   rend
                   the
                   Sky
                   .
                
                 
                   They
                   rear
                   his
                   drooping
                   Forehead
                   from
                   the
                   Ground
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   when
                   Aeneas
                   view'd
                   the
                   grisly
                   Wound
                
                 
                   Which
                   Pallas
                   in
                   his
                   Manly
                   Bosom
                   bore
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   fair
                   Flesh
                   distain'd
                   with
                   Purple
                   Gore
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   First
                   ,
                   melting
                   into
                   Tears
                   ,
                   the
                   pious
                   Man
                
                 
                   Deplor'd
                   so
                   sad
                   a
                   sight
                   ,
                   then
                   thus
                   began
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Unhappy
                   Youth
                   !
                   When
                   Fortune
                   gave
                   the
                   rest
                
                 
                   Of
                   my
                   full
                   Wishes
                   ,
                   she
                   refus'd
                   the
                   best
                   !
                
                 
                   She
                   came
                   ;
                   but
                   brought
                   not
                   thee
                   along
                   ;
                   to
                   bless
                
                 
                   My
                   longing
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   and
                   share
                   in
                   my
                   Success
                   :
                
                 
                   She
                   grudg'd
                   thy
                   safe
                   Return
                   the
                   Triumphs
                   due
                
                 
                   To
                   prosp'rous
                   Valour
                   ,
                   in
                   the
                   publick
                   View
                   .
                
                 
                   Not
                   thus
                   I
                   promis'd
                   ,
                   when
                   thy
                   Father
                   lent
                
                 
                   Thy
                   needful
                   Succour
                   with
                   a
                   sad
                   Consent
                   ;
                
                 
                   Embrac'd
                   me
                   parting
                   for
                   th'
                   Etrurian
                   Land
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   sent
                   me
                   to
                   possess
                   a
                   large
                   Command
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   warn'd
                   ,
                   and
                   from
                   his
                   own
                   Experience
                   told
                   ,
                
                 
                   Our
                   Foes
                   were
                   warlike
                   ,
                   disciplin'd
                   ,
                   and
                   bold
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   perhaps
                   ,
                   in
                   hopes
                   of
                   thy
                   return
                   ,
                
                 
                   Rich
                   Odours
                   on
                   his
                   loaded
                   Altars
                   burn
                   ;
                
                 
                   While
                   we
                   ,
                   with
                   vain
                   officious
                   Pomp
                   ,
                   prepare
                
                 
                   To
                   send
                   him
                   back
                   his
                   Portion
                   of
                   the
                   War
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   bloody
                   breathless
                   Body
                   :
                   which
                   can
                   owe
                
                 
                   No
                   farther
                   Debt
                   ,
                   but
                   to
                   the
                   Pow'rs
                   below
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   wretched
                   Father
                   ,
                   e're
                   his
                   Race
                   is
                   run
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shall
                   view
                   the
                   Fun'ral
                   Honours
                   of
                   his
                   Son.
                
                 
                   These
                   are
                   my
                   Triumphs
                   of
                   the
                   Latian
                   War
                   ;
                
                 
                   Fruits
                   of
                   my
                   plighted
                   Faith
                   ,
                   and
                   boasted
                   Care.
                
                 
                   And
                   yet
                   ,
                   unhappy
                   Sire
                   ,
                   thou
                   shalt
                   not
                   see
                
                 
                   A
                   Son
                   ,
                   whose
                   Death
                   disgrac'd
                   his
                   Ancestry
                   :
                
                 
                   Thou
                   shalt
                   not
                   blush
                   ,
                   old
                   Man
                   ,
                   however
                   griev'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Pallas
                   no
                   dishonest
                   Wound
                   receiv'd
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   dy'd
                   no
                   Death
                   to
                   make
                   thee
                   wish
                   ,
                   too
                   late
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thou
                   hadst
                   not
                   liv'd
                   to
                   see
                   his
                   shameful
                   Fate
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   what
                   a
                   Champion
                   has
                   th'
                   Ausonian
                   Coast
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   what
                   a
                   Friend
                   hast
                   thou
                   ,
                   Ascanius
                   ,
                   lost
                   !
                
              
               
                 
                   Thus
                   having
                   mourn'd
                   ,
                   he
                   gave
                   the
                   Word
                   around
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   raise
                   the
                   lifeless
                   Body
                   from
                   the
                   Ground
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   chose
                   a
                   thousand
                   Horse
                   ,
                   the
                   flow'r
                   of
                   all
                
                 
                   His
                   warlike
                   Troops
                   ,
                   to
                   wait
                   the
                   Funeral
                   :
                
                 
                   To
                   bear
                   him
                   back
                   ,
                   and
                   share
                   
                   Evander's
                   Grief
                   ;
                
                 
                   (
                   A
                   well
                   becoming
                   ,
                   but
                   a
                   weak
                   Relief
                   .
                   )
                
                 
                   Of
                   Oaken
                   Twigs
                   they
                   twist
                   an
                   easie
                   Bier
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   on
                   their
                   Shoulders
                   the
                   sad
                   Burden
                   rear
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Body
                   on
                   this
                   Rural
                   Herse
                   is
                   born
                   ,
                
                 
                   Strewd
                   Leaves
                   and
                   Funeral
                   Greens
                   the
                   Bier
                   adorn
                   .
                
                 
                   All
                   pale
                   he
                   lies
                   ,
                   and
                   looks
                   a
                   lovely
                   Flow'r
                   ,
                
                 
                   New
                   cropt
                   by
                   Virgin
                   Hands
                   ,
                   to
                   dress
                   the
                   Bow'r
                   ;
                
                 
                   Unfaded
                   yet
                   ,
                   but
                   yet
                   unfed
                   below
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   more
                   to
                   Mother
                   Earth
                   or
                   the
                   green
                   Stem
                   shall
                   owe.
                
                 
                   Then
                   two
                   fair
                   Vests
                   ,
                   of
                   wond'rous
                   Work
                   and
                   Cost
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   Purple
                   woven
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   Gold
                   emboss'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   Ornament
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Heroe
                   brought
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   with
                   her
                   Hands
                   
                     Sidonian
                     Dido
                  
                   wrought
                   .
                
                 
                   One
                   Vest
                   array'd
                   the
                   Corps
                   ,
                   and
                   one
                   they
                   spread
                
                 
                   O're
                   his
                   clos'd
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   and
                   wrap'd
                   around
                   his
                   Head
                   :
                
                 
                   That
                   when
                   the
                   yellow
                   Hair
                   in
                   Flame
                   shou'd
                   fall
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   catching
                   Fire
                   might
                   burn
                   the
                   Golden
                   Caul
                   .
                
                 
                   Besides
                   ,
                   the
                   Spoils
                   of
                   Foes
                   in
                   Battel
                   slain
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   he
                   descended
                   on
                   the
                   Latian
                   Plain
                   :
                
                 
                   Arms
                   ,
                   Trappings
                   ,
                   Horses
                   ,
                   by
                   the
                   Herse
                   are
                   led
                
                 
                   In
                   long
                   Array
                   ,
                   (
                   th'
                   Atchievments
                   of
                   the
                   Dead
                   .
                   )
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   pinion'd
                   with
                   their
                   hands
                   behind
                   ,
                   appear
                
                 
                   Th'
                   unhappy
                   Captives
                   ,
                   marching
                   in
                   the
                   Rear
                   :
                
                 
                   Appointed
                   Off'rings
                   in
                   the
                   Victor's
                   Name
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   sprinkle
                   with
                   their
                   Blood
                   ,
                   the
                   Fun'ral
                   Flame
                   .
                
                 
                   Inferior
                   Trophees
                   by
                   the
                   Chiefs
                   are
                   born
                   ;
                
                 
                   Gantlets
                   and
                   Helms
                   ,
                   their
                   heads
                   and
                   hands
                   adorn
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   fair
                   Inscriptions
                   fix'd
                   ,
                   and
                   Titles
                   read
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   Latian
                   Leaders
                   conquer'd
                   by
                   the
                   Dead
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Acaetes
                   on
                   his
                   Pupil's
                   Corps
                   attends
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   feeble
                   Steps
                   ;
                   supported
                   by
                   his
                   Friends
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Pausing
                   at
                   ev'ry
                   Pace
                   ;
                   in
                   Sorrow
                   drown'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Betwixt
                   their
                   Arms
                   he
                   sinks
                   upon
                   the
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                   Where
                   grov'ling
                   ,
                   while
                   he
                   lies
                   in
                   deep
                   Despair
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   beats
                   his
                   Breast
                   ,
                   and
                   rends
                   his
                   hoary
                   Hair.
                
                 
                   The
                   Champion's
                   Chariot
                   next
                   is
                   seen
                   to
                   rowl
                   ,
                
                 
                   Besmear'd
                   with
                   hostile
                   blood
                   ,
                   and
                   honourably
                   foul
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   close
                   the
                   Pomp
                   ,
                   Aethon
                   ,
                   the
                   Steed
                   of
                   State
                   ,
                
                 
                   Is
                   led
                   ,
                   the
                   Fun'rals
                   of
                   his
                   Lord
                   to
                   wait
                   .
                
                 
                   Stripp'd
                   of
                   his
                   Trappings
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   sullen
                   Pace
                
                 
                   He
                   walks
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   big
                   Tears
                   run
                   rolling
                   down
                   his
                   Face
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Lance
                   of
                   Pallas
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Crimson
                   Crest
                   ,
                
                 
                   Are
                   born
                   behind
                   ;
                   the
                   Victor
                   seiz'd
                   the
                   rest
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   March
                   begins
                   :
                   The
                   Trumpets
                   hoarsly
                   sound
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Pikes
                   and
                   Lances
                   trail
                   along
                   the
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   while
                   the
                   Trojan
                   and
                   Arcadian
                   Horse
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   Pallantean
                   Tow'rs
                   direct
                   their
                   Course
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   long
                   Procession
                   rank'd
                   ;
                   the
                   pious
                   Chief
                
                 
                   Stop'd
                   in
                   the
                   Rear
                   ,
                   and
                   gave
                   a
                   vent
                   to
                   Grief
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   publick
                   Care
                   ,
                   he
                   said
                   ,
                   which
                   War
                   attends
                
                 
                   Diverts
                   our
                   present
                   Woes
                   ,
                   at
                   least
                   suspends
                   :
                
                 
                   Peace
                   with
                   the
                   Manes
                   of
                   great
                   Pallas
                   dwell
                   ;
                
                 
                   Hail
                   holy
                   Relicks
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   last
                   farewel
                   !
                
                 
                   He
                   said
                   no
                   more
                   ,
                   but
                   inly
                   though
                   he
                   mourn'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Restrain'd
                   his
                   Tears
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   the
                   Camp
                   return'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Now
                   Suppliants
                   ,
                   from
                   Laurentum
                   sent
                   ,
                   demand
                
                 
                   A
                   Truce
                   ,
                   with
                   Olive
                   Branches
                   in
                   their
                   hand
                   .
                
                 
                   Obtest
                   his
                   Clemency
                   ,
                   and
                   from
                   the
                   Plain
                
                 
                   Beg
                   leave
                   to
                   draw
                   the
                   Bodies
                   of
                   their
                   slain
                   .
                
                 
                   They
                   plead
                   ,
                   that
                   none
                   those
                   common
                   Rites
                   deny
                
                 
                   To
                   conquer'd
                   Foes
                   ,
                   that
                   in
                   fair
                   Battel
                   dye
                   .
                
                 
                   All
                   cause
                   of
                   Hate
                   was
                   ended
                   in
                   their
                   Death
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   cou'd
                   he
                   War
                   with
                   Bodies
                   void
                   of
                   Breath
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   King
                   ,
                   they
                   hop'd
                   ,
                   wou'd
                   hear
                   a
                   King's
                   Request
                   :
                
                 
                   Whose
                   Son
                   he
                   once
                   was
                   call'd
                   ,
                   and
                   once
                   his
                   Guest
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Their
                   Suit
                   ,
                   which
                   was
                   too
                   just
                   to
                   be
                   deny'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Heroe
                   grants
                   ,
                   and
                   farther
                   thus
                   reply'd
                   :
                
                 
                   O
                   Latian
                   Princes
                   ,
                   how
                   severe
                   a
                   Fate
                
                 
                   In
                   causeless
                   Quarrels
                   has
                   involv'd
                   your
                   State
                   !
                
                 
                   And
                   arm'd
                   against
                   an
                   unoffending
                   Man
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   sought
                   your
                   Friendship
                   e're
                   the
                   War
                   began
                   !
                
                 
                   You
                   beg
                   a
                   Truce
                   ,
                   which
                   I
                   wou'd
                   gladly
                   give
                   ,
                
                 
                   Not
                   only
                   for
                   the
                   slain
                   ,
                   but
                   those
                   who
                   live
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   came
                   not
                   hether
                   but
                   by
                   Heav'n's
                   Command
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   sent
                   by
                   Fate
                   to
                   share
                   the
                   Latian
                   Land.
                
                 
                   Nor
                   wage
                   I
                   Wars
                   unjust
                   ;
                   your
                   King
                   deny'd
                
                 
                   My
                   proffer'd
                   Friendship
                   ,
                   and
                   my
                   promis'd
                   Bride
                   .
                
                 
                   Left
                   me
                   for
                   
                     Turnus
                     ;
                     Turnus
                  
                   then
                   should
                   try
                
                 
                   His
                   Cause
                   in
                   Arms
                   ,
                   to
                   Conquer
                   or
                   to
                   dye
                   .
                
                 
                   My
                   Right
                   and
                   his
                   are
                   in
                   dispute
                   :
                   The
                   slain
                
                 
                   Fell
                   without
                   fault
                   ,
                   our
                   Quarrel
                   to
                   maintain
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   equal
                   Arms
                   let
                   us
                   alone
                   contend
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   let
                   him
                   vanquish
                   ,
                   whom
                   his
                   Fates
                   befriend
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   is
                   the
                   way
                   ,
                   so
                   tell
                   him
                   ,
                   to
                   possess
                
                 
                   The
                   Royal
                   Virgin
                   ,
                   and
                   restore
                   the
                   Peace
                   .
                
                 
                   Bear
                   this
                   my
                   Message
                   back
                   ;
                   with
                   ample
                   leave
                
                 
                   That
                   your
                   slain
                   Friends
                   may
                   Fun'ral
                   Rites
                   receive
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Thus
                   having
                   said
                   ,
                   th'
                   Embassadors
                   amaz'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Stood
                   mute
                   a
                   while
                   ,
                   and
                   on
                   each
                   other
                   gaz'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Drances
                   ,
                   their
                   Chief
                   ,
                   who
                   harbour'd
                   in
                   his
                   Breast
                
                 
                   Long
                   hate
                   to
                   Turnus
                   ,
                   as
                   his
                   Foe
                   profess'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Broke
                   silence
                   first
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   the
                   Godlike
                   Man
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   graceful
                   action
                   bowing
                   ,
                   thus
                   began
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Auspicious
                   Prince
                   ,
                   in
                   Arms
                   a
                   mighty
                   Name
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   yet
                   whose
                   Actions
                   far
                   transcend
                   your
                   Fame
                   ;
                
                 
                   Wou'd
                   I
                   your
                   Justice
                   or
                   your
                   Force
                   express
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thought
                   can
                   but
                   equal
                   ;
                   and
                   all
                   Words
                   are
                   less
                   :
                
                 
                   Your
                   Answer
                   we
                   shall
                   thankfully
                   relate
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Favours
                   granted
                   to
                   the
                   Latian
                   State
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   If
                   wish'd
                   Success
                   our
                   Labour
                   shall
                   attend
                   ,
                
                 
                   Think
                   Peace
                   concluded
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   King
                   your
                   Friend
                   :
                
                 
                   Let
                   Turnus
                   leave
                   the
                   Realm
                   to
                   your
                   Command
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   seek
                   Alliance
                   in
                   some
                   other
                   Land
                   :
                
                 
                   Build
                   you
                   the
                   City
                   which
                   your
                   Fates
                   assign
                   ;
                
                 
                   We
                   shall
                   be
                   proud
                   in
                   the
                   great
                   Work
                   to
                   join
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Thus
                   Drances
                   ;
                   and
                   his
                   Words
                   so
                   well
                   perswade
                
                 
                   The
                   rest
                   impower'd
                   ,
                   that
                   soon
                   a
                   Truce
                   is
                   made
                   .
                
                 
                   Twelve
                   days
                   the
                   term
                   allow'd
                   :
                   And
                   during
                   those
                   ,
                
                 
                   Latians
                   and
                   Trojans
                   ,
                   now
                   no
                   longer
                   Foes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Mix'd
                   in
                   the
                   Woods
                   ,
                   for
                   Fun'ral
                   Piles
                   prepare
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   fell
                   the
                   Timber
                   ,
                   and
                   forget
                   the
                   War.
                
                 
                   Loud
                   Axes
                   thro'
                   the
                   groaning
                   Groves
                   resound
                   :
                
                 
                   Oak
                   ,
                   Mountain
                   Ash
                   ,
                   and
                   Poplar
                   ,
                   spread
                   the
                   Ground
                   :
                
                 
                   Firrs
                   fall
                   from
                   high
                   :
                   And
                   some
                   the
                   Trunks
                   receive
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   Loaden
                   Wains
                   ,
                   with
                   Wedges
                   some
                   they
                   cleave
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   the
                   Fatal
                   News
                   ,
                   by
                   Fame
                   is
                   blown
                
                 
                   Thro'
                   the
                   short
                   Circuit
                   of
                   th'
                   Arcadian
                   Town
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   Pallas
                   slain
                   :
                   By
                   Fame
                   ,
                   which
                   just
                   before
                
                 
                   His
                   Triumphs
                   on
                   distended
                   Pinions
                   bore
                   .
                
                 
                   Rushing
                   from
                   out
                   the
                   Gate
                   ,
                   the
                   People
                   stand
                   ,
                
                 
                   Each
                   with
                   a
                   Fun'ral
                   Flambeau
                   in
                   his
                   hand
                   :
                
                 
                   Wildly
                   they
                   stare
                   ,
                   distracted
                   with
                   amaze
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Fields
                   are
                   lighten'd
                   with
                   a
                   fiery
                   blaze
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   cast
                   a
                   sullen
                   Splendor
                   on
                   their
                   Friends
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   The
                   marching
                   Troop
                   which
                   their
                   dead
                   Prince
                   attends
                   .
                   )
                
                 
                   Both
                   Parties
                   meet
                   :
                   They
                   raise
                   a
                   doleful
                   Cry
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Matrons
                   from
                   the
                   Walls
                   with
                   shrieks
                   reply
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   their
                   mix'd
                   mourning
                   rends
                   the
                   vaulted
                   Sky
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Town
                   is
                   fill'd
                   with
                   Tumult
                   and
                   with
                   Tears
                   ;
                
                 
                   Till
                   the
                   loud
                   Clamours
                   reach
                   
                   Evander's
                   Ears
                   :
                
                 
                   Forgetful
                   of
                   his
                   State
                   ,
                   he
                   runs
                   along
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   a
                   disorder'd
                   pace
                   ,
                   and
                   cleaves
                   the
                   Throng
                   :
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     Sr.
                     Walter
                     Kirkham
                     Blount
                     of
                     Sodington
                     in
                     the
                     County
                     of
                     Worcester
                     Bart.
                  
                   
                     AE
                     11.
                     l.
                     215
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                 
                   Falls
                   on
                   the
                   Corps
                   ,
                   and
                   groaning
                   there
                   he
                   lies
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   silent
                   Grief
                   that
                   speaks
                   but
                   at
                   his
                   Eyes
                   :
                
                 
                   Short
                   Sighs
                   and
                   Sobs
                   succeed
                   ;
                   'till
                   Sorrow
                   breaks
                
                 
                   A
                   Passage
                   ,
                   and
                   at
                   once
                   he
                   weeps
                   and
                   speaks
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   O
                   Pallas
                   !
                   thou
                   hast
                   fail'd
                   thy
                   plighted
                   Word
                   !
                
                 
                   To
                   fight
                   with
                   Caution
                   ,
                   not
                   to
                   tempt
                   the
                   Sword
                   :
                
                 
                   I
                   warn'd
                   thee
                   ,
                   but
                   in
                   vain
                   ;
                   for
                   well
                   I
                   knew
                
                 
                   What
                   Perils
                   youthful
                   Ardour
                   wou'd
                   pursue
                   :
                
                 
                   That
                   boiling
                   Blood
                   wou'd
                   carry
                   thee
                   too
                   far
                   ;
                
                 
                   Young
                   as
                   thou
                   wert
                   in
                   Dangers
                   ,
                   raw
                   to
                   War
                   !
                
                 
                   O
                   curst
                   Essay
                   of
                   Arms
                   ,
                   disast'rous
                   Doom
                   ,
                
                 
                   Prelude
                   of
                   bloody
                   Fields
                   ,
                   and
                   Fights
                   to
                   come
                   !
                
                 
                   Hard
                   Elements
                   of
                   unauspicious
                   War
                   ,
                
                 
                   Vain
                   Vows
                   to
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   and
                   unavailing
                   Care
                   !
                
                 
                   Thrice
                   happy
                   thou
                   ,
                   dear
                   Partner
                   of
                   my
                   Bed
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whose
                   holy
                   Soul
                   the
                   Stroke
                   of
                   Fortune
                   fled
                   :
                
                 
                   Praescious
                   of
                   Ills
                   ,
                   and
                   leaving
                   me
                   behind
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   drink
                   the
                   Dregs
                   of
                   Life
                   by
                   Fate
                   assign'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Beyond
                   the
                   Goal
                   of
                   Nature
                   I
                   have
                   gon
                   ;
                
                 
                   My
                   Pallas
                   late
                   set
                   out
                   ,
                   but
                   reach'd
                   too
                   soon
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   ,
                   for
                   my
                   League
                   against
                   th'
                   Ausonian
                   State
                   ,
                
                 
                   Amidst
                   their
                   Weapons
                   I
                   had
                   found
                   my
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   Deserv'd
                   from
                   them
                   ,
                   )
                   then
                   I
                   had
                   been
                   return'd
                
                 
                   A
                   breathless
                   Victor
                   ,
                   and
                   my
                   Son
                   had
                   mourn'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Yet
                   will
                   I
                   not
                   my
                   Trojan
                   Friend
                   upbraid
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   grudge
                   th'
                   Alliance
                   I
                   so
                   gladly
                   made
                   .
                
                 
                   'T
                   was
                   not
                   his
                   Fault
                   my
                   Pallas
                   fell
                   so
                   young
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   my
                   own
                   Crime
                   for
                   having
                   liv'd
                   too
                   long
                   .
                
                 
                   Yet
                   ,
                   since
                   the
                   Gods
                   had
                   destin'd
                   him
                   to
                   dye
                   ,
                
                 
                   At
                   least
                   he
                   led
                   the
                   way
                   to
                   Victory
                   :
                
                 
                   First
                   for
                   his
                   Friends
                   he
                   won
                   the
                   fatal
                   Shore
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   sent
                   whole
                   Herds
                   of
                   slaughter'd
                   Foes
                   before
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   Death
                   too
                   great
                   ,
                   too
                   glorious
                   to
                   deplore
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Nor
                   will
                   I
                   add
                   new
                   Honours
                   to
                   thy
                   Grave
                   ;
                
                 
                   Content
                   with
                   those
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Heroe
                   gave
                   .
                
                 
                   That
                   Funeral
                   Pomp
                   thy
                   Phrygian
                   Friends
                   design'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   In
                   which
                   the
                   Tuscan
                   Chiefs
                   ,
                   and
                   Army
                   join'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Great
                   Spoils
                   ,
                   and
                   Trophees
                   gain'd
                   by
                   thee
                   ,
                   they
                   bear
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   let
                   thy
                   own
                   Atchievments
                   be
                   thy
                   share
                   .
                
                 
                   Even
                   thou
                   ,
                   O
                   Turnus
                   ,
                   hadst
                   a
                   Trophy
                   stood
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whose
                   mighty
                   Trunk
                   had
                   better
                   grac'd
                   the
                   Wood
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   Pallas
                   had
                   arriv'd
                   ,
                   with
                   equal
                   length
                
                 
                   Of
                   Years
                   ,
                   to
                   match
                   thy
                   Bulk
                   with
                   equal
                   Strength
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   why
                   ,
                   unhappy
                   Man
                   ,
                   dost
                   thou
                   detain
                
                 
                   These
                   Troops
                   ,
                   to
                   view
                   the
                   Tears
                   thou
                   shedst
                   in
                   vain
                   !
                
                 
                   Go
                   ,
                   Friends
                   ,
                   this
                   Message
                   to
                   your
                   Lord
                   relate
                   ;
                
                 
                   Tell
                   him
                   ,
                   that
                   if
                   I
                   bear
                   my
                   bitter
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   after
                   Pallas
                   Death
                   ,
                   live
                   ling'ring
                   on
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   to
                   behold
                   his
                   Vengeance
                   for
                   my
                   Son.
                
                 
                   I
                   stay
                   for
                   Turnus
                   ;
                   whose
                   devoted
                   Head
                
                 
                   Is
                   owing
                   to
                   the
                   living
                   and
                   the
                   dead
                   :
                
                 
                   My
                   Son
                   and
                   I
                   expect
                   it
                   from
                   his
                   Hand
                   ;
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   all
                   that
                   he
                   can
                   give
                   ,
                   or
                   we
                   demand
                   .
                
                 
                   Joy
                   is
                   no
                   more
                   :
                   But
                   I
                   would
                   gladly
                   go
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   greet
                   my
                   Pallas
                   with
                   such
                   News
                   below
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Morn
                   had
                   now
                   dispell'd
                   the
                   Shades
                   of
                   Night
                   ;
                
                 
                   Restoring
                   Toils
                   ,
                   when
                   she
                   restor'd
                   the
                   Light
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Trojan
                   King
                   ,
                   and
                   Tuscan
                   Chief
                   ,
                   command
                
                 
                   To
                   raise
                   the
                   Piles
                   ,
                   along
                   the
                   winding
                   Strand
                   :
                
                 
                   Their
                   Friends
                   convey
                   the
                   dead
                   to
                   Fun'ral
                   Fires
                   ;
                
                 
                   Black
                   smould'ring
                   Smoke
                   from
                   the
                   green
                   Wood
                   expires
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Light
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   is
                   choak'd
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   new
                   Day
                   retires
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   thrice
                   around
                   the
                   kindled
                   Piles
                   they
                   go
                   :
                
                 
                   (
                   For
                   ancient
                   Custom
                   had
                   ordain'd
                   it
                   so
                   )
                
                 
                   Thrice
                   Horse
                   and
                   Foot
                   about
                   the
                   Fires
                   are
                   led
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   thrice
                   with
                   loud
                   Laments
                   they
                   hail
                   the
                   dead
                   .
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     y
                     e
                     Hon
                     ble
                     John
                     Noel
                     
                       Esq
                    
                     2
                     d
                     Son
                     to
                     y
                     e
                     R
                     t
                     Hon
                     ble
                     :
                     Baptist
                     late
                     L
                     d
                     Viscount
                     Campden
                     Baron
                     of
                     Ridlington
                     &
                     Ilmington
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     11.
                     l.
                     290.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                 
                   Tears
                   trickling
                   down
                   their
                   Breasts
                   bedew
                   the
                   Ground
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Drums
                   and
                   Trumpets
                   mix
                   their
                   mournful
                   Sound
                   .
                
                 
                   Amid
                   the
                   Blaze
                   ,
                   their
                   pious
                   Brethren
                   throw
                
                 
                   The
                   Spoils
                   ,
                   in
                   Battel
                   taken
                   from
                   the
                   Foe
                   :
                
                 
                   Helms
                   ,
                   Bitts
                   emboss'd
                   ,
                   and
                   Swords
                   of
                   shining
                   Steel
                   ;
                
                 
                   One
                   casts
                   a
                   Target
                   ,
                   one
                   a
                   Chariot
                   Wheel
                   :
                
                 
                   Some
                   to
                   their
                   Fellows
                   their
                   own
                   Arms
                   restore
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Fauchions
                   which
                   in
                   luckless
                   Fight
                   they
                   bore
                   :
                
                 
                   Their
                   Bucklers
                   pierc'd
                   ,
                   their
                   Darts
                   bestow'd
                   in
                   vain
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   shiver'd
                   Lances
                   gather'd
                   from
                   the
                   Plain
                   .
                
                 
                   Whole
                   Herds
                   of
                   offer'd
                   Bulls
                   about
                   the
                   Fire
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   bristled
                   Boars
                   ,
                   and
                   wooly
                   Sheep
                   expire
                   .
                
                 
                   Around
                   the
                   Piles
                   a
                   careful
                   Troop
                   attends
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   watch
                   the
                   wasting
                   Flames
                   ,
                   and
                   weep
                   their
                   burning
                   Friends
                   .
                
                 
                   Ling'ring
                   along
                   the
                   Shore
                   ,
                   'till
                   dewy
                   Night
                   ,
                
                 
                   New
                   decks
                   the
                   Face
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   with
                   starry
                   Light.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   conquer'd
                   Latians
                   ,
                   with
                   like
                   Pious
                   Care
                   ,
                
                 
                   Piles
                   without
                   number
                   for
                   their
                   Dead
                   prepare
                   ;
                
                 
                   Part
                   ,
                   in
                   the
                   Places
                   where
                   they
                   fell
                   ,
                   are
                   laid
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   part
                   are
                   to
                   the
                   neighb'ring
                   Fields
                   convey'd
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Corps
                   of
                   Kings
                   ,
                   and
                   Captains
                   of
                   Renown
                   ,
                
                 
                   Born
                   off
                   in
                   State
                   ,
                   are
                   bury'd
                   in
                   the
                   Town
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   rest
                   ,
                   unhonour'd
                   ,
                   and
                   without
                   a
                   Name
                   ,
                
                 
                   Are
                   cast
                   a
                   common
                   heap
                   to
                   feed
                   the
                   Flame
                   .
                
                 
                   Trojans
                   and
                   Latians
                   vie
                   with
                   like
                   desires
                   :
                
                 
                   To
                   make
                   the
                   Field
                   of
                   Battel
                   shine
                   with
                   Fires
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   promiscuous
                   Blaze
                   to
                   Heav'n
                   aspires
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Now
                   had
                   the
                   Morning
                   thrice
                   renew'd
                   the
                   Light
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   thrice
                   dispell'd
                   the
                   Shadows
                   of
                   the
                   Night
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   those
                   who
                   round
                   the
                   wasted
                   Fires
                   remain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Perform
                   the
                   last
                   sad
                   Office
                   to
                   the
                   slain
                   :
                
                 
                   They
                   rake
                   the
                   yet
                   warm
                   Ashes
                   ,
                   from
                   below
                   ;
                
                 
                   These
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Bones
                   unburn'd
                   ,
                   in
                   Earth
                   bestow
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   These
                   Relicks
                   with
                   their
                   Country
                   Rites
                   they
                   grace
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   raise
                   a
                   mount
                   of
                   Turf
                   to
                   mark
                   the
                   place
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   in
                   the
                   Palace
                   of
                   the
                   King
                   ,
                   appears
                
                 
                   A
                   Scene
                   more
                   solemn
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   Pomp
                   of
                   Tears
                   .
                
                 
                   Maids
                   ,
                   Matrons
                   ,
                   Widows
                   ,
                   mix
                   their
                   common
                   Moans
                   :
                
                 
                   Orphans
                   their
                   Sires
                   ,
                   and
                   Sires
                   lament
                   their
                   Sons
                   .
                
                 
                   All
                   in
                   that
                   universal
                   Sorrow
                   share
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   curse
                   the
                   Cause
                   of
                   this
                   unhappy
                   War.
                
                 
                   A
                   broken
                   League
                   ,
                   a
                   Bride
                   unjustly
                   sought
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Crown
                   usurp'd
                   ,
                   which
                   with
                   their
                   Blood
                   is
                   bought
                   !
                
                 
                   These
                   are
                   the
                   Crimes
                   ,
                   with
                   which
                   they
                   load
                   the
                   Name
                
                 
                   Of
                   Turnus
                   ,
                   and
                   on
                   him
                   alone
                   exclaim
                   .
                
                 
                   Let
                   him
                   ,
                   who
                   lords
                   it
                   o're
                   th'
                   Ausonian
                   Land
                   ,
                
                 
                   Engage
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Heroe
                   hand
                   to
                   hand
                   :
                
                 
                   His
                   is
                   the
                   Gain
                   ,
                   our
                   Lot
                   is
                   but
                   to
                   serve
                   :
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   just
                   ,
                   the
                   sway
                   he
                   seeks
                   ,
                   he
                   shoud
                   deserve
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   Drances
                   aggravates
                   ;
                   and
                   adds
                   ,
                   with
                   spight
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Foe
                   expects
                   ,
                   and
                   dares
                   him
                   to
                   the
                   Fight
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Turnus
                   wants
                   a
                   Party
                   to
                   support
                
                 
                   His
                   Cause
                   and
                   Credit
                   ,
                   in
                   the
                   Latian
                   Court.
                
                 
                   His
                   former
                   Acts
                   secure
                   his
                   present
                   Fame
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   Queen
                   shades
                   him
                   with
                   her
                   mighty
                   Name
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   While
                   thus
                   their
                   factious
                   Minds
                   with
                   Fury
                   burn
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Legats
                   from
                   th'
                   Aetolian
                   Prince
                   return
                   :
                
                 
                   Sad
                   News
                   they
                   bring
                   ,
                   that
                   after
                   all
                   the
                   Cost
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Care
                   employ'd
                   ,
                   their
                   Embassy
                   is
                   lost
                   :
                
                 
                   That
                   Diomede
                   refus'd
                   his
                   Aid
                   in
                   War
                   ;
                
                 
                   Unmov'd
                   with
                   Presents
                   ,
                   and
                   as
                   deaf
                   to
                   Pray'r
                   .
                
                 
                   Some
                   new
                   Alliance
                   must
                   elswhere
                   be
                   sought
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   Peace
                   with
                   Troy
                   on
                   hard
                   Conditions
                   bought
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Latinus
                   ,
                   sunk
                   in
                   Sorrow
                   ,
                   finds
                   too
                   late
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Foreign
                   Son
                   is
                   pointed
                   out
                   by
                   Fate
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   till
                   Aeneas
                   shall
                   Lavinia
                   wed
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   wrath
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   is
                   hov'ring
                   o're
                   his
                   Head.
                   
                
              
               
               
               
               
               
               
               
                 
                   
                     
                       Rem
                       nulli
                       obscuram
                       nostrae
                       nec
                       vocis
                       egentem
                    
                     
                       Consulis
                       Ô
                       bone
                       Rex
                       Cuncti
                       se
                       scire
                       fatentur
                    
                     
                       Quid
                       fortuna
                       ferat
                       populi
                       sed
                       dicere
                       mussant
                    
                     
                       Det
                       libertatem
                       fande
                       flatusque
                       remittat
                    
                     
                       Cujus
                       ob
                       auspicum
                       infaustum
                       moresque
                       sinistros
                    
                     
                       Dicam
                       equidem
                       licet
                       arma
                       mihi
                       mortemque
                       minetur
                    
                     
                       Lumina
                       tot
                       cecidisse
                       ducum
                       totamque
                       videmus
                    
                     
                       Consedisse
                       urbem
                       luctu
                    
                  
                   
                     To
                     y
                     e
                     most
                     Hon
                     ble
                     .
                     Johns
                     Marquiss
                     of
                     Normanby
                     Earle
                     of
                     Mulgrave
                     &
                     Kt.
                     of
                     y
                     e
                     most
                     noble
                     Order
                     of
                     y
                     e
                     Garter
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     11.
                     l.
                     365
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   The
                   Gods
                   ,
                   he
                   saw
                   ,
                   espous'd
                   the
                   juster
                   side
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   late
                   their
                   Titles
                   in
                   the
                   Field
                   were
                   try'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Witness
                   the
                   fresh
                   Laments
                   ,
                   and
                   Fun'ral
                   Tears
                   undry'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Thus
                   ,
                   full
                   of
                   anxious
                   Thought
                   ,
                   he
                   summons
                   all
                
                 
                   The
                   Latian
                   Senate
                   to
                   the
                   Council
                   Hall
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Princes
                   come
                   ,
                   commanded
                   by
                   their
                   Head
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   crowd
                   the
                   Paths
                   that
                   to
                   the
                   Palace
                   lead
                   .
                
                 
                   Supream
                   in
                   Pow'r
                   ,
                   and
                   reverenc'd
                   for
                   his
                   Years
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   takes
                   the
                   Throne
                   ,
                   and
                   in
                   the
                   midst
                   appears
                   :
                
                 
                   Majestically
                   sad
                   ,
                   he
                   sits
                   in
                   State
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   bids
                   his
                   Envoys
                   their
                   Success
                   relate
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   When
                   Venulus
                   began
                   ,
                   the
                   murmuring
                   Sound
                
                 
                   Was
                   hush'd
                   ,
                   and
                   sacred
                   Silence
                   reign'd
                   around
                   .
                
                 
                   We
                   have
                   ,
                   said
                   he
                   ,
                   perform'd
                   your
                   high
                   Command
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   pass'd
                   with
                   Peril
                   a
                   long
                   Tract
                   of
                   Land
                   :
                
                 
                   We
                   reach'd
                   the
                   Place
                   desir'd
                   ,
                   with
                   Wonder
                   fill'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Grecian
                   Tents
                   ,
                   and
                   rising
                   Tow'rs
                   beheld
                   .
                
                 
                   Great
                   Diomede
                   has
                   compass'd
                   round
                   with
                   Walls
                
                 
                   The
                   City
                   ,
                   which
                   Argyripa
                   he
                   calls
                   ;
                
                 
                   From
                   his
                   own
                   Argos
                   nam'd
                   :
                   We
                   touch'd
                   ,
                   with
                   Joy
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Royal
                   Hand
                   that
                   raz'd
                   unhappy
                   Troy.
                
                 
                   When
                   introduc'd
                   ,
                   our
                   Presents
                   first
                   we
                   bring
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   crave
                   an
                   instant
                   Audience
                   from
                   the
                   King
                   :
                
                 
                   His
                   Leave
                   obtain'd
                   ,
                   our
                   Native
                   Soil
                   we
                   name
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   tell
                   th'
                   important
                   Cause
                   for
                   which
                   we
                   came
                   .
                
                 
                   Attentively
                   he
                   heard
                   us
                   ,
                   while
                   we
                   spoke
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   with
                   soft
                   Accents
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   pleasing
                   Look
                   ,
                
                 
                   Made
                   this
                   return
                   .
                   Ausonian
                   Race
                   ,
                   of
                   old
                
                 
                   Renown'd
                   for
                   Peace
                   ,
                   and
                   for
                   an
                   Age
                   of
                   Gold
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   Madness
                   has
                   your
                   alter'd
                   Minds
                   possess'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   change
                   for
                   War
                   hereditary
                   Rest
                   ?
                
                 
                   Sollicite
                   Arms
                   unknown
                   ,
                   and
                   tempt
                   the
                   Sword
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   A
                   needless
                   Ill
                   your
                   Ancestors
                   abhorr'd
                   ?
                   )
                
                 
                 
                   We
                   ;
                   (
                   for
                   my self
                   I
                   speak
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   the
                   Name
                
                 
                   Of
                   Grecians
                   ,
                   who
                   to
                   
                   Troy's
                   Destruction
                   came
                   ;
                   )
                
                 
                   Omitting
                   those
                   who
                   were
                   in
                   Battel
                   slain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   born
                   by
                   rowling
                   Simois
                   to
                   the
                   Main
                   :
                
                 
                   Not
                   one
                   but
                   suffer'd
                   ,
                   and
                   too
                   dearly
                   bought
                
                 
                   The
                   Prize
                   of
                   Honour
                   which
                   in
                   Arms
                   he
                   sought
                   .
                
                 
                   Some
                   doom'd
                   to
                   Death
                   ,
                   and
                   some
                   in
                   Exile
                   driv'n
                   ,
                
                 
                   Out-casts
                   ,
                   abandon'd
                   by
                   the
                   Care
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   :
                
                 
                   So
                   worn
                   ,
                   so
                   wretched
                   ,
                   so
                   despis'd
                   a
                   Crew
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   ev'n
                   old
                   Priam
                   might
                   with
                   Pity
                   view
                   .
                
                 
                   Witness
                   the
                   Vessels
                   by
                   Minerva
                   toss'd
                
                 
                   In
                   Storms
                   ,
                   the
                   vengeful
                   Capharaean
                   Coast
                   ;
                
                 
                   Th'
                   Eubaean
                   Rocks
                   !
                   The
                   Prince
                   ,
                   whose
                   Brother
                   led
                
                 
                   Our
                   Armies
                   to
                   revenge
                   his
                   injur'd
                   Bed
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   Egypt
                   lost
                   ;
                   Ulysses
                   ,
                   with
                   his
                   Men
                   ,
                
                 
                   Have
                   seen
                   Charybdis
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Cyclops
                   Den
                   :
                
                 
                   Why
                   shou'd
                   I
                   name
                   Idomeneus
                   ,
                   in
                   vain
                
                 
                   Restor'd
                   to
                   Scepters
                   ,
                   and
                   expell'd
                   again
                   ?
                
                 
                   Or
                   young
                   Achilles
                   by
                   his
                   Rival
                   slain
                   ?
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   he
                   ,
                   the
                   King
                   of
                   Men
                   ,
                   the
                   foremost
                   Name
                
                 
                   Of
                   all
                   the
                   Greeks
                   ,
                   and
                   most
                   renown'd
                   by
                   Fame
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   proud
                   Revenger
                   of
                   another's
                   Wife
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   by
                   his
                   own
                   Adult'ress
                   lost
                   his
                   Life
                   :
                
                 
                   Fell
                   at
                   his
                   Threshold
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Spoils
                   of
                   Troy
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   foul
                   Polluters
                   of
                   his
                   Bed
                   enjoy
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Gods
                   have
                   envy'd
                   me
                   the
                   sweets
                   of
                   Life
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   much
                   lov'd
                   Country
                   ,
                   and
                   my
                   more
                   lov'd
                   Wife
                   :
                
                 
                   Banish'd
                   from
                   both
                   ,
                   I
                   mourn
                   ;
                   while
                   in
                   the
                   Sky
                
                 
                   Transform'd
                   to
                   Birds
                   ,
                   my
                   lost
                   Companions
                   fly
                   :
                
                 
                   Hov'ring
                   about
                   the
                   Coasts
                   they
                   make
                   their
                   Moan
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   cuff
                   the
                   Cliffs
                   with
                   Pinions
                   not
                   their
                   own
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   squalid
                   Spectres
                   ,
                   in
                   the
                   dead
                   of
                   Night
                   ,
                
                 
                   Break
                   my
                   short
                   Sleep
                   ,
                   and
                   skim
                   before
                   my
                   sight
                   !
                
                 
                 
                   I
                   might
                   have
                   promis'd
                   to
                   my self
                   those
                   Harms
                   ,
                
                 
                   Mad
                   as
                   I
                   was
                   ,
                   when
                   I
                   with
                   Mortal
                   Arms
                
                 
                   Presum'd
                   against
                   Immortal
                   Pow'rs
                   to
                   move
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   violate
                   with
                   Wounds
                   the
                   Queen
                   of
                   Love.
                
                 
                   Such
                   Arms
                   ,
                   this
                   Hand
                   shall
                   never
                   more
                   employ
                   ;
                
                 
                   No
                   Hate
                   remains
                   with
                   me
                   to
                   ruin'd
                   Troy.
                
                 
                   I
                   war
                   not
                   with
                   its
                   Dust
                   ;
                   nor
                   am
                   I
                   glad
                
                 
                   To
                   think
                   of
                   past
                   Events
                   ,
                   or
                   good
                   or
                   bad
                   .
                
                 
                   Your
                   Presents
                   I
                   return
                   :
                   What
                   e're
                   you
                   bring
                
                 
                   To
                   buy
                   my
                   Friendship
                   ,
                   send
                   the
                   Trojan
                   King.
                
                 
                   We
                   met
                   in
                   fight
                   ,
                   I
                   know
                   him
                   to
                   my
                   Cost
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   what
                   a
                   whirling
                   force
                   his
                   Lance
                   he
                   toss'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Heav'ns
                   what
                   a
                   spring
                   was
                   in
                   his
                   Arm
                   ,
                   to
                   throw
                   :
                
                 
                   How
                   high
                   he
                   held
                   his
                   Shield
                   ,
                   and
                   rose
                   at
                   ev'ry
                   blow
                   !
                
                 
                   Had
                   Troy
                   produc'd
                   two
                   more
                   ,
                   his
                   Match
                   in
                   Might
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   would
                   have
                   chang'd
                   the
                   Fortune
                   of
                   the
                   Fight
                   :
                
                 
                   Th'
                   Invasion
                   of
                   the
                   Greeks
                   had
                   been
                   return'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Our
                   Empire
                   wasted
                   ,
                   and
                   our
                   Cities
                   burn'd
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   long
                   Defence
                   the
                   Trojan
                   People
                   made
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   War
                   protracted
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Siege
                   delay'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Were
                   due
                   to
                   
                   Hector's
                   and
                   this
                   Heroe's
                   hand
                   :
                
                 
                   Both
                   brave
                   alike
                   ,
                   and
                   equal
                   in
                   Command
                   ;
                
                 
                   Aeneas
                   ,
                   not
                   inferior
                   in
                   the
                   Field
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   pious
                   reverence
                   to
                   the
                   Gods
                   ,
                   excell'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Make
                   peace
                   ,
                   ye
                   Latians
                   ,
                   and
                   avoid
                   with
                   Care
                
                 
                   Th'
                   impending
                   Dangers
                   of
                   a
                   fatal
                   War.
                
                 
                   He
                   said
                   no
                   more
                   ;
                   but
                   with
                   this
                   cold
                   Excuse
                   ,
                
                 
                   Refus'd
                   th'
                   Alliance
                   ,
                   and
                   advis'd
                   a
                   Truce
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Thus
                   Venulus
                   concluded
                   his
                   Report
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   Jarring
                   Murmur
                   fill'd
                   the
                   factious
                   Court
                   :
                
                 
                   As
                   when
                   a
                   Torrent
                   rowls
                   with
                   rapid
                   force
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   dashes
                   o're
                   the
                   Stones
                   that
                   stop
                   the
                   Course
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Flood
                   ,
                   constrain'd
                   within
                   a
                   scanty
                   space
                   ,
                
                 
                   Roars
                   horrible
                   along
                   th'
                   uneasie
                   race
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   White
                   foam
                   in
                   gath'ring
                   Eddies
                   floats
                   around
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   rocky
                   Shores
                   rebellow
                   to
                   the
                   sound
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Murmur
                   ceas'd
                   :
                   Then
                   from
                   his
                   lofty
                   Throne
                
                 
                   The
                   King
                   invok'd
                   the
                   Gods
                   ,
                   and
                   thus
                   begun
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   wish
                   ,
                   ye
                   Latins
                   ,
                   what
                   we
                   now
                   debate
                
                 
                   Had
                   been
                   resolv'd
                   before
                   it
                   was
                   too
                   late
                   :
                
                 
                   Much
                   better
                   had
                   it
                   been
                   for
                   you
                   and
                   me
                   ,
                
                 
                   Unforc'd
                   by
                   this
                   our
                   last
                   Necessity
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   have
                   been
                   earlier
                   wise
                   ;
                   than
                   now
                   to
                   call
                
                 
                   A
                   Council
                   ,
                   when
                   the
                   Foe
                   surrounds
                   the
                   Wall.
                
                 
                   O
                   Citizens
                   !
                   we
                   wage
                   unequal
                   War
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   men
                   ,
                   not
                   only
                   Heav'n's
                   peculiar
                   Care
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   Heav'n's
                   own
                   Race
                   :
                   Unconquer'd
                   in
                   the
                   Field
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   Conquer'd
                   ,
                   yet
                   unknowing
                   how
                   to
                   yield
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   Hopes
                   you
                   had
                   in
                   Diomede
                   ,
                   lay
                   down
                   :
                
                 
                   Our
                   Hopes
                   must
                   center
                   on
                   our selves
                   alone
                   .
                
                 
                   Yet
                   those
                   how
                   feeble
                   ,
                   and
                   ,
                   indeed
                   ,
                   how
                   vain
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   see
                   too
                   well
                   ;
                   nor
                   need
                   my
                   Words
                   explain
                   .
                
                 
                   Vanquish'd
                   without
                   ressource
                   ;
                   laid
                   flat
                   by
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Factions
                   within
                   ,
                   a
                   Foe
                   without
                   the
                   Gate
                   ;
                
                 
                   Not
                   but
                   I
                   grant
                   ,
                   that
                   all
                   perform'd
                   their
                   parts
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   manly
                   Force
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   undaunted
                   Hearts
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   our
                   united
                   Strength
                   the
                   War
                   we
                   wag'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   equal
                   Numbers
                   ,
                   equal
                   Arms
                   engag'd
                   :
                
                 
                   You
                   see
                   th'
                   Event
                   .
                   —
                   Now
                   hear
                   what
                   I
                   propose
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   save
                   our
                   Friends
                   ,
                   and
                   satisfie
                   our
                   Foes
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   Tract
                   of
                   Land
                   the
                   Latins
                   have
                   possess'd
                
                 
                   Along
                   the
                   Tyber
                   ,
                   stretching
                   to
                   the
                   West
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   now
                   Rutulians
                   and
                   Auruncans
                   till
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   their
                   mix'd
                   Cattle
                   graze
                   the
                   fruitful
                   Hill
                   ;
                
                 
                   Those
                   Mountains
                   fill'd
                   with
                   Firs
                   ,
                   that
                   lower
                   Land
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   you
                   consent
                   ,
                   the
                   Trojan
                   shall
                   Command
                   .
                
                 
                   Call'd
                   into
                   part
                   of
                   what
                   is
                   ours
                   ;
                   and
                   there
                   ,
                
                 
                   On
                   terms
                   agreed
                   ,
                   the
                   common
                   Country
                   share
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   There
                   let
                   'em
                   build
                   ,
                   and
                   settle
                   if
                   they
                   please
                   ;
                
                 
                   Unless
                   they
                   chuse
                   once
                   more
                   to
                   cross
                   the
                   Seas
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   search
                   of
                   Seats
                   remote
                   from
                   Italy
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   from
                   unwelcome
                   Inmates
                   set
                   us
                   free
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   twice
                   ten
                   Gallies
                   let
                   us
                   build
                   with
                   Speed
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   twice
                   as
                   many
                   more
                   ,
                   if
                   more
                   they
                   need
                   ;
                
                 
                   Materials
                   are
                   at
                   hand
                   :
                   A
                   well-grown
                   Wood
                
                 
                   Runs
                   equal
                   with
                   the
                   Margin
                   of
                   the
                   Flood
                   :
                
                 
                   Let
                   them
                   the
                   Number
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Form
                   assign
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Care
                   and
                   Cost
                   of
                   all
                   the
                   Stores
                   be
                   mine
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   treat
                   the
                   Peace
                   ,
                   a
                   hundred
                   Senators
                
                 
                   Shall
                   be
                   commission'd
                   hence
                   with
                   ample
                   Pow'rs
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   Olive
                   crown'd
                   :
                   The
                   Presents
                   they
                   shall
                   bear
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Purple
                   Robe
                   ,
                   a
                   Royal
                   Iv'ry
                   Chair
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   the
                   marks
                   of
                   Sway
                   that
                   Latian
                   Monarchs
                   wear
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Sums
                   of
                   Gold.
                   Among
                   your selves
                   debate
                
                 
                   This
                   great
                   Affair
                   ,
                   and
                   save
                   the
                   sinking
                   State.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   Drances
                   took
                   the
                   word
                   ;
                   who
                   grudg'd
                   ,
                   long
                   since
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   rising
                   Glories
                   of
                   the
                   Daunian
                   Prince
                   .
                
                 
                   Factious
                   and
                   rich
                   ,
                   bold
                   at
                   the
                   Council
                   Board
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   cautious
                   in
                   the
                   Field
                   ,
                   he
                   shun'd
                   the
                   Sword
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   closs
                   Caballer
                   ,
                   and
                   Tongue-valiant
                   Lord.
                
                 
                   Noble
                   his
                   Mother
                   was
                   ,
                   and
                   near
                   the
                   Throne
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   what
                   his
                   Father's
                   Parentage
                   ,
                   unknown
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   rose
                   ,
                   and
                   took
                   th'
                   Advantage
                   of
                   the
                   Times
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   load
                   young
                   Turnus
                   with
                   invidious
                   Crimes
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Such
                   Truths
                   ,
                   O
                   King
                   ,
                   said
                   he
                   ,
                   your
                   Words
                   contain
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   strike
                   the
                   Sence
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   Replies
                   are
                   vain
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   are
                   your
                   Loyal
                   Subjects
                   now
                   to
                   seek
                
                 
                   What
                   common
                   Needs
                   require
                   ;
                   but
                   fear
                   to
                   speak
                   .
                
                 
                   Let
                   him
                   give
                   leave
                   of
                   Speech
                   ,
                   that
                   haughty
                   Man
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whose
                   Pride
                   this
                   unauspicious
                   War
                   began
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   whose
                   Ambition
                   (
                   let
                   me
                   dare
                   to
                   say
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fear
                   set
                   apart
                   ,
                   tho'
                   Death
                   is
                   in
                   my
                   Way
                   )
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Plains
                   of
                   Latium
                   run
                   with
                   Blood
                   arround
                   ;
                
                 
                   So
                   many
                   Valiant
                   Heros
                   bite
                   the
                   Ground
                   :
                
                 
                   Dejected
                   Grief
                   in
                   ev'ry
                   Face
                   appears
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   Town
                   in
                   Mourning
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   Land
                   in
                   Tears
                   .
                
                 
                   While
                   he
                   th'
                   undoubted
                   Author
                   of
                   our
                   Harms
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Man
                   who
                   menaces
                   the
                   Gods
                   with
                   Arms
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   ,
                   after
                   all
                   his
                   Boasts
                   ,
                   forsook
                   the
                   Fight
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   sought
                   his
                   safety
                   in
                   ignoble
                   Flight
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Now
                   ,
                   best
                   of
                   Kings
                   ,
                   since
                   you
                   propose
                   to
                   send
                
                 
                   Such
                   bounteous
                   Presents
                   to
                   your
                   Trojan
                   Friend
                   ;
                
                 
                   Add
                   yet
                   a
                   greater
                   at
                   our
                   joint
                   Request
                   ,
                
                 
                   One
                   which
                   he
                   values
                   more
                   than
                   all
                   the
                   rest
                   ;
                
                 
                   Give
                   him
                   the
                   fair
                   Lavinia
                   for
                   his
                   Bride
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   that
                   Alliance
                   let
                   the
                   League
                   be
                   ty'd
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   for
                   the
                   bleeding
                   Land
                   a
                   lasting
                   Peace
                   provide
                   .
                
                 
                   Let
                   Insolence
                   no
                   longer
                   awe
                   the
                   Throne
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   with
                   a
                   Father's
                   Right
                   bestow
                   your
                   own
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   this
                   Maligner
                   of
                   the
                   general
                   Good
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   still
                   we
                   fear
                   his
                   Force
                   ,
                   he
                   must
                   be
                   woo'd
                   :
                
                 
                   His
                   haughty
                   Godhead
                   we
                   with
                   Pray'rs
                   implore
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   Scepter
                   to
                   release
                   ,
                   and
                   our
                   just
                   Rights
                   restore
                   .
                
                 
                   O
                   cursed
                   Cause
                   of
                   all
                   our
                   Ills
                   ,
                   must
                   we
                
                 
                   Wage
                   Wars
                   unjust
                   ,
                   and
                   fall
                   in
                   Fight
                   for
                   thee
                   !
                
                 
                   What
                   right
                   hast
                   thou
                   to
                   rule
                   the
                   Latian
                   State
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   send
                   us
                   out
                   to
                   meet
                   our
                   certain
                   Fate
                   ?
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   a
                   destructive
                   War
                   ;
                   from
                   Turnus
                   Hand
                
                 
                   Our
                   Peace
                   and
                   publick
                   safety
                   we
                   demand
                   .
                
                 
                   Let
                   the
                   fair
                   Bride
                   to
                   the
                   brave
                   Chief
                   remain
                   ;
                
                 
                   If
                   not
                   ,
                   the
                   Peace
                   without
                   the
                   Pledge
                   is
                   vain
                   .
                
                 
                   Turnus
                   ,
                   I
                   know
                   you
                   think
                   me
                   not
                   your
                   Friend
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   will
                   I
                   much
                   with
                   your
                   Belief
                   contend
                   :
                
                 
                   I
                   beg
                   your
                   Greatness
                   not
                   to
                   give
                   the
                   Law
                
                 
                   In
                   others
                   Realms
                   ,
                   but
                   ,
                   beaten
                   ,
                   to
                   withdraw
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Pity
                   your
                   own
                   ,
                   or
                   pity
                   our
                   Estate
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   twist
                   our
                   Fortunes
                   with
                   your
                   sinking
                   Fate
                   .
                
                 
                   Your
                   Interest
                   is
                   the
                   War
                   shou'd
                   never
                   cease
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   we
                   have
                   felt
                   enough
                   ,
                   to
                   wish
                   the
                   Peace
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   Land
                   exhausted
                   to
                   the
                   last
                   remains
                   ,
                
                 
                   Depopulated
                   Towns
                   ,
                   and
                   driven
                   Plains
                   .
                
                 
                   Yet
                   ,
                   if
                   desire
                   of
                   Fame
                   ,
                   and
                   thirst
                   of
                   Pow'r
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Beauteous
                   Princess
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   Crown
                   in
                   Dow'r
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   fire
                   your
                   Mind
                   ,
                   in
                   Arms
                   assert
                   your
                   Right
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   meet
                   your
                   Foe
                   ,
                   who
                   dares
                   you
                   to
                   the
                   Fight
                   .
                
                 
                   Mankind
                   ,
                   it
                   seems
                   ,
                   is
                   made
                   for
                   you
                   alone
                   ;
                
                 
                   We
                   ,
                   but
                   the
                   Slaves
                   who
                   mount
                   you
                   to
                   the
                   Throne
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   base
                   ignoble
                   Crowd
                   ,
                   without
                   a
                   Name
                   ,
                
                 
                   Unwept
                   ,
                   unworthy
                   of
                   the
                   Fun'ral
                   Flame
                   :
                
                 
                   By
                   Duty
                   bound
                   to
                   forfeit
                   each
                   his
                   Life
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   Turnus
                   may
                   possess
                   a
                   Royal
                   Wife
                   .
                
                 
                   Permit
                   not
                   ,
                   Mighty
                   Man
                   ,
                   so
                   mean
                   a
                   Crew
                
                 
                   Shou'd
                   share
                   such
                   Triumphs
                   ;
                   and
                   detain
                   from
                   you
                
                 
                   The
                   Post
                   of
                   Honour
                   ,
                   your
                   unquestion'd
                   Due
                   :
                
                 
                   Rather
                   alone
                   your
                   matchless
                   Force
                   employ
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   merit
                   ,
                   what
                   alone
                   you
                   must
                   enjoy
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   These
                   Words
                   ,
                   so
                   full
                   of
                   Malice
                   ,
                   mix'd
                   with
                   Art
                   ,
                
                 
                   Inflam'd
                   with
                   Rage
                   the
                   youthful
                   Hero's
                   Heart
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   groaning
                   from
                   the
                   bottom
                   of
                   his
                   Breast
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   heav'd
                   for
                   Wind
                   ,
                   and
                   thus
                   his
                   Wrath
                   express'd
                   .
                
                 
                   You
                   ,
                   Drances
                   ,
                   never
                   want
                   a
                   Stream
                   of
                   Words
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   when
                   the
                   Publick
                   Need
                   requires
                   our
                   Swords
                   .
                
                 
                   First
                   in
                   the
                   Council-hall
                   to
                   steer
                   the
                   State
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   ever
                   foremost
                   at
                   a
                   Tongue
                   debate
                   .
                
                 
                   While
                   our
                   strong
                   Walls
                   secure
                   us
                   from
                   the
                   Foe
                   ,
                
                 
                   E're
                   yet
                   with
                   Blood
                   our
                   Ditches
                   overflow
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   let
                   the
                   potent
                   Orator
                   declaim
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   the
                   brand
                   of
                   Coward
                   blot
                   my
                   Name
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   Free
                   Leave
                   is
                   giv'n
                   him
                   ,
                   when
                   his
                   fatal
                   Hand
                
                 
                   Has
                   cover'd
                   with
                   more
                   Corps
                   the
                   sanguine
                   Strand
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   high
                   as
                   mine
                   his
                   tow'ring
                   Trophees
                   stand
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   any
                   Doubt
                   remains
                   who
                   dares
                   the
                   most
                   ,
                
                 
                   Let
                   us
                   decide
                   it
                   at
                   the
                   Trojans
                   cost
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   issue
                   both
                   abrest
                   ,
                   where
                   Honour
                   calls
                   ;
                
                 
                   Foes
                   are
                   not
                   far
                   to
                   seek
                   without
                   the
                   Walls
                   .
                
                 
                   Unless
                   his
                   noisie
                   Tongue
                   can
                   only
                   fight
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Feet
                   were
                   giv'n
                   him
                   but
                   to
                   speed
                   his
                   Flight
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   beaten
                   from
                   the
                   Field
                   ?
                   I
                   forc'd
                   away
                   ?
                
                 
                   Who
                   ,
                   but
                   so
                   known
                   a
                   Dastard
                   ,
                   dares
                   to
                   say
                   ?
                
                 
                   Had
                   he
                   but
                   ev'n
                   beheld
                   the
                   Fight
                   ,
                   his
                   Eyes
                
                 
                   Had
                   witness'd
                   for
                   me
                   what
                   his
                   Tongue
                   denies
                   :
                
                 
                   What
                   heaps
                   of
                   Trojans
                   by
                   this
                   Hand
                   were
                   slain
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   how
                   the
                   bloody
                   Tyber
                   swell'd
                   the
                   Main
                   .
                
                 
                   All
                   saw
                   ,
                   but
                   he
                   ,
                   th'
                   Arcadian
                   Troops
                   retire
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   scatter'd
                   Squadrons
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   Prince
                   expire
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Gyant
                   Brothers
                   ,
                   in
                   their
                   Camp
                   ,
                   have
                   found
                
                 
                   I
                   was
                   not
                   forc'd
                   with
                   ease
                   to
                   quit
                   my
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                   Not
                   such
                   the
                   Trojans
                   try'd
                   me
                   ,
                   when
                   inclos'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   singly
                   their
                   united
                   Arms
                   oppos'd
                   :
                
                 
                   First
                   forc'd
                   an
                   Entrance
                   thro'
                   their
                   thick
                   Array
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   glutted
                   with
                   their
                   Slaughter
                   ,
                   freed
                   my
                   Way
                   .
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   a
                   destructive
                   War
                   ?
                   So
                   let
                   it
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   to
                   the
                   Phrygian
                   Pirate
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   thee
                   .
                
                 
                   Mean
                   time
                   proceed
                   to
                   fill
                   the
                   People's
                   Ears
                
                 
                   With
                   false
                   Reports
                   ,
                   their
                   Minds
                   with
                   panick
                   Fears
                   :
                
                 
                   Extol
                   the
                   Strength
                   of
                   a
                   twice
                   conquer'd
                   Race
                   ,
                
                 
                   Our
                   Foes
                   encourage
                   ,
                   and
                   our
                   Friends
                   debase
                   .
                
                 
                   Believe
                   thy
                   Fables
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Town
                
                 
                   Triumphant
                   stands
                   ,
                   the
                   Grecians
                   are
                   o'rethrown
                   :
                
                 
                   Suppliant
                   at
                   
                   Hector's
                   Feet
                   Achilles
                   lyes
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Diomede
                   from
                   fierce
                   Aeneas
                   flies
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Say
                   rapid
                   Aufidus
                   with
                   awful
                   Dread
                
                 
                   Runs
                   backward
                   from
                   the
                   Sea
                   ,
                   and
                   hides
                   his
                   Head
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   the
                   great
                   Trojan
                   on
                   his
                   Bank
                   appears
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   that
                   's
                   as
                   true
                   as
                   thy
                   dissembl'd
                   Fears
                
                 
                   Of
                   my
                   Revenge
                   :
                   Dismiss
                   that
                   Vanity
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thou
                   ,
                   Drances
                   ,
                   art
                   below
                   a
                   Death
                   from
                   me
                   .
                
                 
                   Let
                   that
                   vile
                   Soul
                   in
                   that
                   vile
                   Body
                   rest
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Lodging
                   is
                   well
                   worthy
                   of
                   the
                   Guest
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Now
                   ,
                   Royal
                   Father
                   ,
                   to
                   the
                   present
                   state
                
                 
                   Of
                   our
                   Affairs
                   ,
                   and
                   of
                   this
                   high
                   Debate
                   ;
                
                 
                   If
                   in
                   your
                   Arms
                   thus
                   early
                   you
                   diffide
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   think
                   your
                   Fortune
                   is
                   already
                   try'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   If
                   one
                   Defeat
                   has
                   brought
                   us
                   down
                   so
                   low
                   ;
                
                 
                   As
                   never
                   more
                   in
                   Fields
                   to
                   meet
                   the
                   Foe
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   I
                   conclude
                   for
                   Peace
                   :
                   'T
                   is
                   time
                   to
                   treat
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   lye
                   like
                   Vassals
                   at
                   the
                   Victor's
                   Feet
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   oh
                   ,
                   if
                   any
                   ancient
                   Blood
                   remains
                   ,
                
                 
                   One
                   drop
                   of
                   all
                   our
                   Father
                   's
                   in
                   our
                   Veins
                   ;
                
                 
                   That
                   Man
                   would
                   I
                   prefer
                   before
                   the
                   rest
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   dar'd
                   his
                   Death
                   with
                   an
                   undaunted
                   Breast
                   ;
                
                 
                   Who
                   comely
                   fell
                   ,
                   by
                   no
                   dishonest
                   Wound
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   shun
                   that
                   Sight
                   ;
                   and
                   dying
                   gnaw'd
                   the
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   if
                   we
                   still
                   have
                   fresh
                   Recruits
                   in
                   store
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   our
                   Confederates
                   can
                   afford
                   us
                   more
                   ;
                
                 
                   If
                   the
                   contended
                   Field
                   we
                   bravely
                   fought
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   not
                   a
                   bloodless
                   Victory
                   was
                   bought
                   :
                
                 
                   Their
                   Losses
                   equall'd
                   ours
                   ,
                   and
                   for
                   their
                   slain
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   equal
                   Fires
                   they
                   fill'd
                   the
                   shining
                   Plain
                   ;
                
                 
                   Why
                   thus
                   unforc'd
                   shou'd
                   we
                   so
                   tamely
                   yield
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   e're
                   the
                   Trumpet
                   sounds
                   ,
                   resign
                   the
                   Field
                   ?
                
                 
                   Good
                   unexpected
                   ,
                   Evils
                   unforeseen
                   ,
                
                 
                   Appear
                   by
                   Turns
                   ,
                   as
                   Fortune
                   shifts
                   the
                   Scene
                   :
                
                 
                   Some
                   ,
                   rais'd
                   aloft
                   ,
                   come
                   tumbling
                   down
                   amain
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   fall
                   so
                   hard
                   ,
                   they
                   bound
                   and
                   rise
                   again
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   If
                   Diomede
                   refuse
                   his
                   Aid
                   to
                   lend
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   great
                   Messapus
                   yet
                   remains
                   our
                   Friend
                   :
                
                 
                   Tolumnius
                   ,
                   who
                   foretels
                   Events
                   ,
                   is
                   ours
                   ;
                
                 
                   Th'
                   Italian
                   Chiefs
                   ,
                   and
                   Princes
                   ,
                   joyn
                   their
                   Pow'rs
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   least
                   in
                   Number
                   ,
                   nor
                   in
                   Name
                   the
                   last
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   own
                   brave
                   Subjects
                   have
                   your
                   Cause
                   embrac'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Above
                   the
                   rest
                   ,
                   the
                   
                     Volscian
                     Amazon
                  
                
                 
                   Contains
                   an
                   Army
                   in
                   her self
                   alone
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   heads
                   a
                   Squadron
                   ,
                   terrible
                   to
                   sight
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   glitt'ring
                   Shields
                   ,
                   in
                   Brazen
                   Armour
                   bright
                   .
                
                 
                   Yet
                   if
                   the
                   Foe
                   a
                   single
                   Fight
                   demand
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   I
                   alone
                   the
                   Publick
                   Peace
                   withstand
                   ;
                
                 
                   If
                   you
                   consent
                   ,
                   he
                   shall
                   not
                   be
                   refus'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   find
                   a
                   Hand
                   to
                   Victory
                   unus'd
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   new
                   Achilles
                   ,
                   let
                   him
                   take
                   the
                   Field
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   fated
                   Armour
                   ,
                   and
                   Vulcanian
                   Shield
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   you
                   ,
                   my
                   Royal
                   Father
                   ,
                   and
                   my
                   Fame
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   ,
                   Turnus
                   ,
                   not
                   the
                   least
                   of
                   all
                   my
                   Name
                   ,
                
                 
                   Devote
                   my
                   Soul.
                   He
                   calls
                   me
                   hand
                   to
                   hand
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   I
                   alone
                   will
                   answer
                   his
                   Demand
                   .
                
                 
                   Drances
                   shall
                   rest
                   secure
                   ,
                   and
                   neither
                   share
                
                 
                   The
                   Danger
                   ,
                   nor
                   divide
                   the
                   Prize
                   of
                   War.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   While
                   they
                   debate
                   ;
                   nor
                   these
                   nor
                   those
                   will
                   yield
                   ;
                
                 
                   Aeneas
                   draws
                   his
                   Forces
                   to
                   the
                   Field
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   moves
                   his
                   Camp.
                   The
                   Scouts
                   ,
                   with
                   flying
                   Speed
                
                 
                   Return
                   ,
                   and
                   thro'
                   the
                   frighted
                   City
                   spread
                
                 
                   Th'
                   unpleasing
                   News
                   ,
                   the
                   Trojans
                   are
                   descry'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   Battel
                   marching
                   by
                   the
                   River
                   side
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   bending
                   to
                   the
                   Town
                   .
                   They
                   take
                   th'
                   Allarm
                   ,
                
                 
                   Some
                   tremble
                   ,
                   some
                   are
                   bold
                   ,
                   all
                   in
                   Confusion
                   arm
                   .
                
                 
                   Th'
                   impetuous
                   Youth
                   press
                   forward
                   to
                   the
                   Field
                   ;
                
                 
                   They
                   clash
                   the
                   Sword
                   ,
                   and
                   clatter
                   on
                   the
                   Shield
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   fearful
                   Matrons
                   raise
                   a
                   screaming
                   Cry
                   ;
                
                 
                   Old
                   feeble
                   Men
                   with
                   fainter
                   Groans
                   reply
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   jarring
                   Sound
                   results
                   ,
                   and
                   mingles
                   in
                   the
                   Sky
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Like
                   that
                   of
                   Swans
                   remurm'ring
                   to
                   the
                   Floods
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   Birds
                   of
                   diff'ring
                   kinds
                   in
                   hollow
                   Woods
                   .
                
                 
                   Turnus
                   th'
                   occasion
                   takes
                   ,
                   and
                   cries
                   aloud
                   ,
                
                 
                   Talk
                   on
                   ,
                   ye
                   quaint
                   Haranguers
                   of
                   the
                   Crowd
                   :
                
                 
                   Declaim
                   in
                   praise
                   of
                   Peace
                   ,
                   when
                   Danger
                   calls
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   fierce
                   Foes
                   in
                   Arms
                   approach
                   the
                   Walls
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   said
                   ,
                   and
                   turning
                   short
                   ,
                   with
                   speedy
                   Pace
                   ,
                
                 
                   Casts
                   back
                   a
                   scornful
                   Glance
                   ,
                   and
                   quits
                   the
                   Place
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Thou
                   ,
                   Volusus
                   ,
                   the
                   Volscian
                   Troops
                   command
                
                 
                   To
                   mount
                   ;
                   and
                   lead
                   thy self
                   our
                   Ardean
                   Band.
                
                 
                   Messapus
                   ,
                   and
                   Catillus
                   ,
                   post
                   your
                   Force
                
                 
                   Along
                   the
                   Fields
                   ,
                   to
                   charge
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Horse
                   .
                
                 
                   Some
                   guard
                   the
                   Passes
                   ,
                   others
                   man
                   the
                   Wall
                   ;
                
                 
                   Drawn
                   up
                   in
                   Arms
                   ,
                   the
                   rest
                   attend
                   my
                   Call.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   They
                   swarm
                   from
                   ev'ry
                   Quarter
                   of
                   the
                   Town
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   disorder'd
                   haste
                   the
                   Rampires
                   crown
                   .
                
                 
                   Good
                   old
                   Latinus
                   ,
                   when
                   he
                   saw
                   ,
                   too
                   late
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   gath'ring
                   Storm
                   ,
                   just
                   breaking
                   on
                   the
                   State
                   ,
                
                 
                   Dismiss'd
                   the
                   Council
                   ,
                   'till
                   a
                   fitter
                   time
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   own'd
                   his
                   easie
                   Temper
                   as
                   his
                   Crime
                   :
                
                 
                   Who
                   ,
                   forc'd
                   against
                   his
                   reason
                   ,
                   had
                   comply'd
                
                 
                   To
                   break
                   the
                   Treaty
                   for
                   the
                   promis'd
                   Bride
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Some
                   help
                   to
                   sink
                   new
                   Trenches
                   ,
                   others
                   aid
                
                 
                   To
                   ram
                   the
                   Stones
                   ,
                   or
                   raise
                   the
                   Palisade
                   .
                
                 
                   Hoarse
                   Trumpets
                   sound
                   th'
                   Alarm
                   :
                   Around
                   the
                   Walls
                
                 
                   Runs
                   a
                   distracted
                   Crew
                   ,
                   whom
                   their
                   last
                   Labour
                   calls
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   sad
                   Procession
                   in
                   the
                   Streets
                   is
                   seen
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   Matrons
                   that
                   attend
                   the
                   Mother
                   Queen
                   :
                
                 
                   High
                   in
                   her
                   Chair
                   she
                   sits
                   ,
                   and
                   at
                   her
                   side
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   downcast
                   Eyes
                   appears
                   the
                   fatal
                   Bride
                   .
                
                 
                   They
                   mount
                   the
                   Cliff
                   ,
                   where
                   
                   Pallas's
                   Temple
                   stands
                   ;
                
                 
                   Pray'rs
                   in
                   their
                   Mouths
                   ,
                   and
                   Presents
                   in
                   their
                   Hands
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   Censers
                   ,
                   first
                   they
                   fume
                   the
                   sacred
                   Shrine
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   in
                   this
                   common
                   Supplication
                   joyn
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   O
                   Patroness
                   of
                   Arms
                   ,
                   unspotted
                   Maid
                   ,
                
                 
                   Propitious
                   hear
                   ,
                   and
                   lend
                   thy
                   Latins
                   Aid
                   :
                
                 
                   Break
                   short
                   the
                   Pirat's
                   Lance
                   ;
                   pronounce
                   his
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   lay
                   the
                   Phrygian
                   low
                   before
                   the
                   Gate
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   Turnus
                   arms
                   for
                   Fight
                   :
                   His
                   Back
                   and
                   Breast
                   ,
                
                 
                   Well
                   temper'd
                   Steel
                   ,
                   and
                   scaly
                   Brass
                   invest
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Cuishes
                   ,
                   which
                   his
                   brawny
                   Thighs
                   infold
                   ,
                
                 
                   Are
                   mingled
                   Metal
                   damask'd
                   o're
                   with
                   Gold.
                
                 
                   His
                   faithful
                   Fauchion
                   sits
                   upon
                   his
                   side
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Casque
                   ,
                   nor
                   Crest
                   ,
                   his
                   manly
                   Features
                   hide
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   bare
                   to
                   view
                   ,
                   amid
                   surrounding
                   Friends
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Godlike
                   Grace
                   ,
                   he
                   from
                   the
                   Tow'r
                   descends
                   .
                
                 
                   Exulting
                   in
                   his
                   Strength
                   ,
                   he
                   seems
                   to
                   dare
                
                 
                   His
                   absent
                   Rival
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   promise
                   War.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Freed
                   from
                   his
                   Keepers
                   ,
                   thus
                   with
                   broken
                   Reins
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   wanton
                   Courser
                   prances
                   o're
                   the
                   Plains
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   in
                   the
                   Pride
                   of
                   Youth
                   o'releaps
                   the
                   Mounds
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   snuffs
                   the
                   Females
                   in
                   forbidden
                   Grounds
                   .
                
                 
                   Or
                   seeks
                   his
                   wat'ring
                   in
                   the
                   well
                   known
                   Flood
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   quench
                   his
                   Thirst
                   ,
                   and
                   cool
                   his
                   fiery
                   Blood
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   swims
                   luxuriant
                   ,
                   in
                   the
                   liquid
                   Plain
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   o're
                   his
                   Shoulder
                   flows
                   his
                   waving
                   Mane
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   neighs
                   ,
                   he
                   snorts
                   ,
                   he
                   bears
                   his
                   Head
                   on
                   high
                   ;
                
                 
                   Before
                   his
                   ample
                   Chest
                   the
                   frothy
                   Waters
                   fly
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Soon
                   as
                   the
                   Prince
                   appears
                   without
                   the
                   Gate
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Volcians
                   ,
                   with
                   their
                   Virgin
                   Leader
                   ,
                   wait
                
                 
                   His
                   last
                   Commands
                   .
                   Then
                   with
                   a
                   graceful
                   Meen
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lights
                   from
                   her
                   lofty
                   Steed
                   ,
                   the
                   Warrior
                   Queen
                   :
                
                 
                   Her
                   Squadron
                   imitates
                   ,
                   and
                   each
                   descends
                   ;
                
                 
                   Whose
                   common
                   Sute
                   Camilla
                   thus
                   commends
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   If
                   Sence
                   of
                   Honour
                   ,
                   if
                   a
                   Soul
                   secure
                
                 
                   Of
                   inborn
                   Worth
                   ,
                   that
                   can
                   all
                   Tests
                   endure
                   ,
                
                 
                   Can
                   promise
                   ought
                   ;
                   or
                   on
                   it self
                   rely
                   ,
                
                 
                   Greatly
                   to
                   dare
                   ,
                   to
                   conquer
                   or
                   to
                   dye
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   I
                   alone
                   ,
                   sustain'd
                   by
                   these
                   ,
                   will
                   meet
                
                 
                   The
                   Tyrrhene
                   Troops
                   ,
                   and
                   promise
                   their
                   Defeat
                   .
                
                 
                   Ours
                   be
                   the
                   Danger
                   ,
                   ours
                   the
                   sole
                   Renown
                   ;
                
                 
                   You
                   ,
                   Gen'ral
                   ,
                   stay
                   behind
                   ,
                   and
                   guard
                   the
                   Town
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Turnus
                   a
                   while
                   stood
                   mute
                   ,
                   with
                   glad
                   Surprize
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   on
                   the
                   fierce
                   Virago
                   fix'd
                   his
                   Eyes
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   thus
                   return'd
                   :
                   O
                   Grace
                   of
                   Italy
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   what
                   becoming
                   Thanks
                   can
                   I
                   reply
                   !
                
                 
                   Not
                   only
                   Words
                   lye
                   lab'ring
                   in
                   my
                   Breast
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   Thought
                   it self
                   is
                   by
                   thy
                   Praise
                   opprest
                   .
                
                 
                   Yet
                   rob
                   me
                   not
                   of
                   all
                   ,
                   but
                   let
                   me
                   join
                
                 
                   My
                   Toils
                   ,
                   my
                   Hazard
                   ,
                   and
                   my
                   Fame
                   ,
                   with
                   thine
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Trojan
                   ,
                   (
                   not
                   in
                   Stratagem
                   unskill'd
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                   Sends
                   his
                   light
                   Foot
                   before
                   to
                   scour
                   the
                   Field
                   :
                
                 
                   Himself
                   ,
                   thro'
                   steep
                   Ascents
                   ,
                   and
                   thorny
                   Brakes
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   larger
                   Compass
                   to
                   the
                   City
                   takes
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   news
                   my
                   Scouts
                   confirm
                   :
                   And
                   I
                   prepare
                
                 
                   To
                   foil
                   his
                   Cunning
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Force
                   to
                   dare
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   chosen
                   Foot
                   his
                   Passage
                   to
                   forelay
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   place
                   an
                   Ambush
                   in
                   the
                   winding
                   way
                   .
                
                 
                   Thou
                   ,
                   with
                   thy
                   Volscians
                   ,
                   face
                   the
                   Tuscan
                   Horse
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   brave
                   Messapus
                   shall
                   thy
                   Troops
                   inforce
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   those
                   of
                   Tibur
                   ;
                   and
                   the
                   Latian
                   Band
                   :
                
                 
                   Subjected
                   all
                   to
                   thy
                   Supream
                   Command
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   This
                   said
                   ,
                   he
                   warns
                   Messapus
                   to
                   the
                   War
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   ev'ry
                   Chief
                   exhorts
                   ,
                   with
                   equal
                   Care.
                
                 
                   All
                   thus
                   encourag'd
                   ,
                   his
                   own
                   Troops
                   he
                   joins
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   hastes
                   to
                   prosecute
                   his
                   deep
                   Designs
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Inclos'd
                   with
                   Hills
                   ,
                   a
                   winding
                   Valley
                   lies
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   Nature
                   form'd
                   for
                   Fraud
                   ,
                   and
                   fitted
                   for
                   Surprize
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   narrow
                   Track
                   ,
                   by
                   Human
                   Steps
                   untrode
                   ,
                
                 
                   Leads
                   ,
                   thro'
                   perplexing
                   Thorns
                   ,
                   to
                   this
                   obscure
                   abode
                   .
                
                 
                   High
                   o're
                   the
                   Vale
                   a
                   steepy
                   Mountain
                   stands
                   ;
                
                 
                   Whence
                   the
                   surveying
                   Sight
                   the
                   neather
                   Ground
                   commands
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   top
                   is
                   level
                   :
                   an
                   offensive
                   Seat
                
                 
                   Of
                   War
                   ;
                   and
                   from
                   the
                   War
                   a
                   safe
                   Retreat
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   ,
                   on
                   the
                   right
                   ,
                   and
                   left
                   ,
                   is
                   room
                   to
                   press
                
                 
                   The
                   Foes
                   at
                   hand
                   ,
                   or
                   from
                   afar
                   distress
                   :
                
                 
                   To
                   drive
                   'em
                   headlong
                   downward
                   ;
                   and
                   to
                   pour
                
                 
                   On
                   their
                   descending
                   backs
                   ,
                   a
                   stony
                   show'r
                   .
                
                 
                   Thither
                   young
                   Turnus
                   took
                   the
                   well
                   known
                   way
                   ;
                
                 
                   Possess'd
                   the
                   Pass
                   ,
                   and
                   in
                   blind
                   Ambush
                   lay
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Mean
                   time
                   ,
                   
                     Latonian
                     Phoebe
                  
                   from
                   the
                   Skies
                   ,
                
                 
                   Beheld
                   th'
                   approaching
                   War
                   with
                   hateful
                   Eies
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   call'd
                   the
                   light-foot
                   Opis
                   ,
                   to
                   her
                   aid
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   most
                   belov'd
                   ,
                   and
                   ever
                   trusty
                   Maid
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   with
                   a
                   sigh
                   began
                   :
                   Camilla
                   goes
                
                 
                   To
                   meet
                   her
                   Death
                   ,
                   amidst
                   her
                   Fatal
                   Foes
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Nymph
                   I
                   lov'd
                   of
                   all
                   my
                   Mortal
                   Train
                   ;
                
                 
                   Invested
                   with
                   
                   Diana's
                   Arms
                   ,
                   in
                   vain
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   is
                   my
                   kindness
                   for
                   the
                   Virgin
                   ,
                   new
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   was
                   born
                   with
                   Her
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   her
                   Years
                   it
                   grew
                   :
                
                 
                   Her
                   Father
                   Metabus
                   ,
                   when
                   forc'd
                   away
                
                 
                   From
                   old
                   Privernum
                   ,
                   for
                   Tyrannick
                   sway
                   ;
                
                 
                   Snatch'd
                   up
                   ,
                   and
                   sav'd
                   from
                   his
                   prevailing
                   Foes
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   tender
                   Babe
                   ,
                   Companion
                   of
                   his
                   Woes
                   .
                
                 
                   Casmilla
                   was
                   her
                   Mother
                   ;
                   but
                   he
                   drown'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   One
                   hissing
                   Letter
                   in
                   a
                   softer
                   sound
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   call'd
                   Camilla
                   .
                   Thro
                   the
                   Woods
                   ,
                   he
                   flies
                   ;
                
                 
                   Wrap'd
                   in
                   his
                   Robe
                   the
                   Royal
                   Infant
                   lies
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   Foes
                   in
                   sight
                   ,
                   he
                   mends
                   his
                   weary
                   pace
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   shouts
                   and
                   clamours
                   they
                   pursue
                   the
                   Chace
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Banks
                   of
                   Amasene
                   at
                   length
                   he
                   gains
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   raging
                   Flood
                   his
                   farther
                   flight
                   restrains
                   :
                
                 
                   Rais'd
                   o're
                   the
                   Borders
                   with
                   unusual
                   Rains.
                
                 
                   Prepar'd
                   to
                   Plunge
                   into
                   the
                   Stream
                   ,
                   He
                   fears
                   :
                
                 
                   Not
                   for
                   himself
                   ,
                   but
                   for
                   the
                   Charge
                   he
                   bears
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Anxious
                   he
                   stops
                   a
                   while
                   ;
                   and
                   thinks
                   in
                   haste
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   desp'rate
                   in
                   Distress
                   ,
                   resolves
                   at
                   last
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   knotty
                   Lance
                   of
                   well-boil'd
                   Oak
                   he
                   bore
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   middle
                   part
                   with
                   Cork
                   he
                   cover'd
                   o're
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   clos'd
                   the
                   Child
                   within
                   the
                   hollow
                   Space
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   Twigs
                   of
                   bending
                   Osier
                   bound
                   the
                   Case
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   pois'd
                   the
                   Spear
                   ,
                   heavy
                   with
                   Human
                   Weight
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   thus
                   invok'd
                   my
                   Favour
                   for
                   the
                   Freight
                   .
                
                 
                   Accept
                   ,
                   great
                   Goddess
                   of
                   the
                   Woods
                   ,
                   he
                   said
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sent
                   by
                   her
                   Sire
                   ,
                   this
                   dedicated
                   Maid
                   :
                
                 
                   Thro'
                   Air
                   she
                   flies
                   a
                   Suppliant
                   to
                   thy
                   Shrine
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   first
                   Weapons
                   that
                   she
                   knows
                   ,
                   are
                   thine
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   said
                   ;
                   and
                   with
                   full
                   Force
                   the
                   Spear
                   he
                   threw
                   :
                
                 
                   Above
                   the
                   sounding
                   Waves
                   Camilla
                   flew
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   press'd
                   by
                   Foes
                   ,
                   he
                   stemm'd
                   the
                   stormy
                   Tyde
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   gain'd
                   ,
                   by
                   stress
                   of
                   Arms
                   ,
                   the
                   farther
                   Side
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   fasten'd
                   Spear
                   he
                   pull'd
                   from
                   out
                   the
                   Ground
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   Victor
                   of
                   his
                   Vows
                   ,
                   his
                   Infant
                   Nymph
                   unbound
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   after
                   that
                   ,
                   in
                   Towns
                   which
                   Walls
                   inclose
                   ,
                
                 
                   Wou'd
                   trust
                   his
                   hunted
                   Life
                   amidst
                   his
                   Foes
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   rough
                   ,
                   in
                   open
                   Air
                   he
                   chose
                   to
                   lye
                   :
                
                 
                   Earth
                   was
                   his
                   Couch
                   ,
                   his
                   Cov'ring
                   was
                   the
                   Sky
                   .
                
                 
                   On
                   Hills
                   unshorn
                   ,
                   or
                   in
                   a
                   desart
                   Den
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   shunn'd
                   the
                   dire
                   Society
                   of
                   Men.
                
                 
                   A
                   Shepherd's
                   solitary
                   Life
                   he
                   led
                   :
                
                 
                   His
                   Daughter
                   with
                   the
                   Milk
                   of
                   Mares
                   he
                   fed
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Dugs
                   of
                   Bears
                   ,
                   and
                   ev'ry
                   Salvage
                   Beast
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   drew
                   ,
                   and
                   thro'
                   her
                   Lips
                   the
                   Liquor
                   press'd
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   little
                   Amazon
                   cou'd
                   scarcely
                   go
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   loads
                   her
                   with
                   a
                   Quiver
                   and
                   a
                   Bow
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   that
                   she
                   might
                   her
                   stagg'ring
                   Steps
                   command
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   with
                   a
                   slender
                   Jav'lin
                   fills
                   her
                   Hand
                   :
                
                 
                   Her
                   flowing
                   Hair
                   no
                   golden
                   Fillet
                   bound
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   swept
                   her
                   trayling
                   Robe
                   the
                   dusty
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Instead
                   of
                   these
                   ,
                   a
                   Tyger's
                   Hide
                   o'respread
                
                 
                   Her
                   Back
                   and
                   Shoulders
                   ,
                   fasten'd
                   to
                   her
                   Head.
                
                 
                   The
                   flying
                   Dart
                   she
                   first
                   attempts
                   to
                   fling
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   round
                   her
                   tender
                   Temples
                   toss'd
                   the
                   Sling
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   as
                   her
                   Strength
                   with
                   Years
                   increas'd
                   ,
                   began
                
                 
                   To
                   pierce
                   aloft
                   in
                   Air
                   the
                   soaring
                   Swan
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   from
                   the
                   Clouds
                   to
                   fetch
                   the
                   Heron
                   and
                   the
                   Crane
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   
                   TuscanMatrons
                   with
                   each
                   other
                   vy'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   bless
                   their
                   Rival
                   Sons
                   with
                   such
                   a
                   Bride
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   she
                   disdains
                   their
                   Love
                   ;
                   to
                   share
                   with
                   me
                
                 
                   The
                   Silvan
                   Shades
                   ,
                   and
                   vow'd
                   Virginity
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   oh
                   !
                   I
                   wish
                   ,
                   contented
                   with
                   my
                   Cares
                
                 
                   Of
                   Salvage
                   Spoils
                   ,
                   she
                   had
                   not
                   sought
                   the
                   Wars
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   had
                   she
                   been
                   of
                   my
                   Coelestial
                   Train
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   shun'd
                   the
                   Fate
                   that
                   dooms
                   her
                   to
                   be
                   slain
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   ,
                   since
                   opposing
                   Heav'n's
                   Decree
                   ,
                   she
                   goes
                
                 
                   To
                   find
                   her
                   Death
                   among
                   forbidden
                   Foes
                   ;
                
                 
                   Haste
                   with
                   these
                   Arms
                   ,
                   and
                   take
                   thy
                   steepy
                   flight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   ,
                   with
                   the
                   Gods
                   averse
                   ,
                   the
                   Latins
                   fight
                   :
                
                 
                   This
                   Bow
                   to
                   thee
                   ,
                   this
                   Quiver
                   ,
                   I
                   bequeath
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   chosen
                   Arrow
                   to
                   revenge
                   her
                   Death
                   .
                
                 
                   By
                   what
                   e're
                   Hand
                   Camilla
                   shall
                   be
                   slain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   of
                   the
                   Trojan
                   ,
                   or
                   Italian
                   Train
                   ,
                
                 
                   Let
                   him
                   not
                   pass
                   unpunish'd
                   from
                   the
                   Plain
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   in
                   a
                   hollow
                   Cloud
                   ,
                   my self
                   will
                   Aid
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   bear
                   the
                   breathless
                   Body
                   of
                   my
                   Maid
                   :
                
                 
                   Unspoil'd
                   shall
                   be
                   her
                   Arms
                   ,
                   and
                   unprofan'd
                
                 
                   Her
                   holy
                   Limbs
                   with
                   any
                   Human
                   Hand
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   a
                   Marble
                   Tomb
                   laid
                   in
                   her
                   Native
                   Land.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   She
                   said
                   :
                   The
                   faithful
                   Nymph
                   descends
                   from
                   high
                
                 
                   With
                   rapid
                   flight
                   ,
                   and
                   cuts
                   the
                   sounding
                   Sky
                   ;
                
                 
                   Black
                   Clouds
                   and
                   stormy
                   Winds
                   around
                   her
                   Body
                   fly
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   By
                   this
                   ,
                   the
                   Trojan
                   and
                   the
                   Tuscan
                   Horse
                   ,
                
                 
                   Drawn
                   up
                   in
                   Squadrons
                   ,
                   with
                   united
                   Force
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Approach
                   the
                   Walls
                   ;
                   the
                   sprightly
                   Coursers
                   bound
                   ;
                
                 
                   Press
                   forward
                   on
                   their
                   Bitts
                   ,
                   and
                   shift
                   their
                   Ground
                   :
                
                 
                   Shields
                   ,
                   Arms
                   ,
                   and
                   Spears
                   ,
                   flash
                   horrible
                   from
                   far
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   Fields
                   glitter
                   with
                   a
                   waving
                   War.
                
                 
                   Oppos'd
                   to
                   these
                   ,
                   come
                   on
                   with
                   furious
                   Force
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     Messapus
                     ,
                     Coras
                  
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Latian
                   Horse
                   ;
                
                 
                   These
                   in
                   the
                   Body
                   plac'd
                   ;
                   on
                   either
                   hand
                
                 
                   Sustain'd
                   ,
                   and
                   clos'd
                   by
                   fair
                   
                   Camilla's
                   Band.
                
                 
                   Advancing
                   in
                   a
                   Line
                   ,
                   they
                   couch
                   their
                   Spears
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   less
                   and
                   less
                   the
                   middle
                   Space
                   appears
                   .
                
                 
                   Thick
                   Smoak
                   obscures
                   the
                   Field
                   :
                   And
                   scarce
                   are
                   seen
                
                 
                   The
                   neighing
                   Coursers
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   shouting
                   Men.
                
                 
                   In
                   distance
                   of
                   their
                   Darts
                   they
                   stop
                   their
                   Course
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   Man
                   to
                   Man
                   they
                   rush
                   ,
                   and
                   Horse
                   to
                   Horse
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   face
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   their
                   flying
                   Jav'lins
                   hide
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Deaths
                   unseen
                   are
                   dealt
                   on
                   either
                   side
                   .
                
                 
                   Tyrrhenus
                   ,
                   and
                   Aconteus
                   ,
                   void
                   of
                   Fear
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   metled
                   Coursers
                   born
                   in
                   full
                   Carreer
                   ,
                
                 
                   Meet
                   first
                   oppos'd
                   :
                   and
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   mighty
                   Shock
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   Horses
                   Heads
                   against
                   each
                   other
                   knock
                   .
                
                 
                   Far
                   from
                   his
                   Steed
                   is
                   fierce
                   Aconteus
                   cast
                   ;
                
                 
                   As
                   with
                   an
                   Engin
                   's
                   force
                   ,
                   or
                   Lightning's
                   blast
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   rowls
                   along
                   in
                   Blood
                   ,
                   and
                   breathes
                   his
                   last
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Latin
                   Squadrons
                   take
                   a
                   sudden
                   fright
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   sling
                   their
                   Shields
                   behind
                   ,
                   to
                   save
                   their
                   Backs
                   in
                   flight
                   .
                
                 
                   Spurring
                   at
                   speed
                   to
                   their
                   own
                   Walls
                   they
                   drew
                   ;
                
                 
                   Close
                   in
                   the
                   rear
                   the
                   Tuscan
                   Troops
                   pursue
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   urge
                   their
                   flight
                   .
                   Asylas
                   leads
                   the
                   Chase
                   ;
                
                 
                   'Till
                   seiz'd
                   with
                   Shame
                   they
                   wheel
                   about
                   and
                   face
                   :
                
                 
                   Receive
                   their
                   Foes
                   ,
                   and
                   raise
                   a
                   threat'ning
                   Cry
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Tuscans
                   take
                   their
                   turn
                   to
                   fear
                   and
                   fly
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   So
                   swelling
                   Surges
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   thund'ring
                   Roar
                   ,
                
                 
                   Driv'n
                   on
                   each
                   others
                   Backs
                   ,
                   insult
                   the
                   Shoar
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   Bound
                   o're
                   the
                   Rocks
                   ,
                   incroach
                   upon
                   the
                   Land
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   far
                   upon
                   the
                   Beach
                   eject
                   the
                   Sand.
                
                 
                   Then
                   backward
                   with
                   a
                   Swing
                   ,
                   they
                   take
                   their
                   Way
                   ;
                
                 
                   Repuls'd
                   from
                   upper
                   Ground
                   ,
                   and
                   seek
                   their
                   Mother
                   Sea
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   equal
                   hurry
                   quit
                   th'
                   invaded
                   Shore
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   swallow
                   back
                   the
                   Sand
                   ,
                   and
                   Stones
                   they
                   spew'd
                   before
                   .
                
                 
                   Twice
                   were
                   the
                   Tuscans
                   Masters
                   of
                   the
                   Field
                   ,
                
                 
                   Twice
                   by
                   the
                   Latins
                   ,
                   in
                   their
                   turn
                   repell'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Asham'd
                   at
                   length
                   ,
                   to
                   the
                   third
                   Charge
                   they
                   ran
                
                 
                   Both
                   Hoasts
                   resolv'd
                   ,
                   and
                   mingled
                   Man
                   to
                   Man
                   :
                
                 
                   Now
                   dying
                   Groans
                   are
                   heard
                   ,
                   the
                   Fields
                   are
                   strow'd
                
                 
                   With
                   falling
                   Bodies
                   ,
                   and
                   are
                   drunk
                   with
                   Blood
                   :
                
                 
                   Arms
                   ,
                   Horses
                   ,
                   Men
                   ,
                   on
                   heaps
                   together
                   lye
                   :
                
                 
                   Confus'd
                   the
                   Fight
                   ,
                   and
                   more
                   confus'd
                   the
                   Cry.
                
                 
                   Orsilochus
                   ,
                   who
                   durst
                   not
                   press
                   too
                   near
                
                 
                   Strong
                   Remulus
                   ,
                   at
                   distance
                   drove
                   his
                   Spear
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   stuck
                   the
                   Steel
                   beneath
                   his
                   Horses
                   Ear
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   fiery
                   Steed
                   ,
                   impatient
                   of
                   the
                   Wound
                   ,
                
                 
                   Curvets
                   ,
                   and
                   springing
                   upward
                   with
                   a
                   Bound
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   helpless
                   Lord
                   cast
                   backward
                   on
                   the
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                   Catillus
                   pierc'd
                   Iolas
                   first
                   ;
                   then
                   drew
                
                 
                   His
                   reeking
                   Lance
                   ,
                   and
                   at
                   Herminius
                   threw
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   mighty
                   Champion
                   of
                   the
                   Tuscan
                   Crew
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   Neck
                   and
                   Throat
                   unarm'd
                   ,
                   his
                   Head
                   was
                   bare
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   shaded
                   with
                   a
                   length
                   of
                   yellow
                   Hair
                   :
                
                 
                   Secure
                   ,
                   he
                   fought
                   ,
                   expos'd
                   on
                   ev'ry
                   part
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   spacious
                   mark
                   for
                   Swords
                   ,
                   and
                   for
                   the
                   Dart
                   :
                
                 
                   Across
                   the
                   Shoulders
                   came
                   the
                   flying
                   Wound
                   ;
                
                 
                   Transfix'd
                   ,
                   he
                   fell
                   ,
                   and
                   doubled
                   to
                   the
                   Ground
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Sands
                   with
                   streaming
                   Blood
                   are
                   sanguine
                   dy'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Death
                   with
                   Honour
                   ,
                   sought
                   on
                   either
                   side
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Resistless
                   through
                   the
                   War
                   ,
                   Camilla
                   rode
                   ;
                
                 
                   In
                   Danger
                   unappall'd
                   ,
                   and
                   pleas'd
                   with
                   Blood.
                
                 
                 
                   One
                   side
                   was
                   bare
                   for
                   her
                   exerted
                   Brest
                   ;
                
                 
                   One
                   Shoulder
                   with
                   her
                   painted
                   Quiver
                   press'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   from
                   afar
                   her
                   Fatal
                   Jav'lins
                   play
                   ;
                
                 
                   Now
                   with
                   her
                   Axe's
                   edge
                   she
                   hews
                   her
                   Way
                   :
                
                 
                   Diana's
                   Arms
                   upon
                   her
                   Shoulder
                   found
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   when
                   ,
                   too
                   closely
                   press'd
                   ,
                   she
                   quits
                   the
                   Ground
                   ;
                
                 
                   From
                   her
                   bent
                   Bow
                   she
                   sends
                   a
                   backward
                   Wound
                   .
                
                 
                   Her
                   Maids
                   ,
                   in
                   Martial
                   Pomp
                   ,
                   on
                   either
                   side
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     Larina
                     ,
                     Tulla
                  
                   ,
                   fierce
                   Tarpeia
                   ride
                   ;
                
                 
                   Italians
                   all
                   :
                   in
                   Peace
                   ,
                   their
                   Queen's
                   delight
                   :
                
                 
                   In
                   War
                   the
                   bold
                   Companions
                   of
                   the
                   Fight
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   So
                   march'd
                   the
                   
                     Thracian
                     Amazons
                  
                   of
                   old
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   Thermodon
                   with
                   bloody
                   Billows
                   rowl'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Such
                   Troops
                   as
                   these
                   in
                   shining
                   Arms
                   were
                   seen
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   Theseus
                   met
                   in
                   Fight
                   their
                   Maiden
                   Queen
                   .
                
                 
                   Such
                   to
                   the
                   Field
                   Penthisilea
                   led
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   the
                   fierce
                   Virgin
                   when
                   the
                   Grecians
                   fled
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   such
                   ,
                   return'd
                   Triumphant
                   from
                   the
                   War
                   ;
                
                 
                   Her
                   Maids
                   with
                   Cries
                   attend
                   the
                   lofty
                   Carr
                   :
                
                 
                   They
                   clash
                   with
                   manly
                   force
                   their
                   Moony
                   Shields
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   Female
                   Showts
                   refound
                   the
                   Phrygian
                   Fields
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Who
                   formost
                   ,
                   and
                   who
                   last
                   ,
                   Heroick
                   Maid
                   ,
                
                 
                   On
                   the
                   cold
                   Earth
                   were
                   by
                   thy
                   Courage
                   laid
                   ?
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Spear
                   ,
                   of
                   Mountain
                   Ash
                   ,
                   Eumenius
                   first
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   fury
                   driv'n
                   ,
                   from
                   side
                   to
                   side
                   transpierc'd
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   purple
                   Stream
                   came
                   spowting
                   from
                   the
                   Wound
                   ;
                
                 
                   Bath'd
                   in
                   his
                   Blood
                   he
                   lies
                   ,
                   and
                   bites
                   the
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                   Lyris
                   and
                   Pagasus
                   at
                   once
                   she
                   slew
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   former
                   ,
                   as
                   the
                   slacken'd
                   Reins
                   he
                   drew
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   his
                   faint
                   steed
                   :
                   the
                   latter
                   ,
                   as
                   he
                   stretch'd
                
                 
                   His
                   Arm
                   to
                   prop
                   his
                   Friend
                   ,
                   the
                   Jav'lin
                   reach'd
                   .
                
                 
                   By
                   the
                   same
                   Weapon
                   ,
                   sent
                   from
                   the
                   same
                   Hand
                   ,
                
                 
                   Both
                   fall
                   together
                   ,
                   and
                   both
                   spurn
                   the
                   Sand.
                
                 
                 
                   Amastrus
                   next
                   is
                   added
                   to
                   the
                   slain
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   rest
                   in
                   Rout
                   she
                   follows
                   o're
                   the
                   Plain
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     Tereus
                     ,
                     Harpalicus
                     ,
                     Demophoon
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Chromys
                   ,
                   at
                   full
                   Speed
                   her
                   Fury
                   shun
                   .
                
                 
                   Of
                   all
                   her
                   deadly
                   Darts
                   ,
                   not
                   one
                   she
                   lost
                   ;
                
                 
                   Each
                   was
                   attended
                   with
                   a
                   Trojan
                   Ghost
                   .
                
                 
                   Young
                   Ornithus
                   bestrode
                   a
                   Hunter
                   Steed
                   ,
                
                 
                   Swift
                   for
                   the
                   Chase
                   ,
                   and
                   of
                   Apulian
                   Breed
                   :
                
                 
                   Him
                   ,
                   from
                   afar
                   ,
                   she
                   spy'd
                   in
                   Arms
                   unknown
                   ;
                
                 
                   O're
                   his
                   broad
                   Back
                   an
                   Oxes
                   hide
                   was
                   thrown
                   :
                
                 
                   His
                   Helm
                   a
                   Wolf
                   ,
                   whose
                   gaping
                   Jaws
                   were
                   spread
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   cov'ring
                   for
                   his
                   Cheeks
                   ,
                   and
                   grinn'd
                   around
                   his
                   Head.
                
                 
                   He
                   clench'd
                   within
                   his
                   Hand
                   an
                   Iron
                   Prong
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   tow'rd
                   above
                   the
                   rest
                   ,
                   conspicuous
                   in
                   the
                   Throng
                   .
                
                 
                   Him
                   soon
                   she
                   singled
                   from
                   the
                   flying
                   Train
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   slew
                   with
                   ease
                   :
                   Then
                   thus
                   insults
                   the
                   slain
                   .
                
                 
                   Vain
                   Hunter
                   didst
                   thou
                   think
                   thro'
                   Woods
                   to
                   chase
                
                 
                   The
                   Salvage
                   Herd
                   ,
                   a
                   vile
                   and
                   trembling
                   Race
                   :
                
                 
                   Here
                   cease
                   thy
                   Vaunts
                   ,
                   and
                   own
                   my
                   Victory
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   Woman-Warrior
                   was
                   too
                   strong
                   for
                   thee
                   .
                
                 
                   Yet
                   if
                   the
                   Ghosts
                   demand
                   the
                   Conqu'ror's
                   Name
                   ,
                
                 
                   Confessing
                   great
                   Camilla
                   ,
                   save
                   thy
                   Shame
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   Butes
                   ,
                   and
                   Orsilochus
                   ,
                   she
                   slew
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   bulkiest
                   Bodies
                   of
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Crew
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   Butes
                   Breast
                   to
                   Breast
                   :
                   the
                   Spear
                   descends
                
                 
                   Above
                   the
                   Gorget
                   ,
                   where
                   his
                   Helmet
                   ends
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   o're
                   the
                   Shield
                   which
                   his
                   left
                   Side
                   defends
                   .
                
                 
                   Orsilochus
                   and
                   she
                   ,
                   their
                   Coursers
                   ply
                   ;
                
                 
                   He
                   seems
                   to
                   follow
                   ,
                   and
                   she
                   seems
                   to
                   fly
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   in
                   a
                   narrower
                   Ring
                   she
                   makes
                   the
                   Race
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   then
                   he
                   flies
                   ,
                   and
                   she
                   pursues
                   the
                   Chase
                   .
                
                 
                   Gath'ring
                   at
                   length
                   on
                   her
                   deluded
                   Foe
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   swings
                   her
                   Axe
                   ,
                   and
                   rises
                   to
                   the
                   Blow
                   :
                
              
               
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     the
                     Right
                     Hon
                     ble
                     ▪
                     William
                     Berkley
                     Baron
                     Berkley
                     of
                     Stratton
                     &
                     ct
                     .
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     11.
                     l.
                     1035.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Full
                   on
                   the
                   Helm
                   behind
                   ,
                   with
                   such
                   a
                   sway
                
                 
                   The
                   Weapon
                   falls
                   ,
                   the
                   riven
                   Steel
                   gives
                   way
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   groans
                   ,
                   he
                   roars
                   ,
                   he
                   sues
                   in
                   vain
                   for
                   Grace
                   ;
                
                 
                   Brains
                   ,
                   mingled
                   with
                   his
                   Blood
                   ,
                   besmear
                   his
                   Face
                   .
                
                 
                   Astonish'd
                   Aunus
                   just
                   arrives
                   by
                   Chance
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   see
                   his
                   Fall
                   ,
                   nor
                   farther
                   dares
                   advance
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   fixing
                   on
                   the
                   horrid
                   Maid
                   his
                   Eye
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   stares
                   ,
                   and
                   shakes
                   ,
                   and
                   finds
                   it
                   vain
                   to
                   fly
                   .
                
                 
                   Yet
                   like
                   a
                   true
                   Ligurian
                   ,
                   born
                   to
                   cheat
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   At
                   least
                   while
                   Fortune
                   favour'd
                   his
                   Deceit
                   )
                
                 
                   Cries
                   out
                   aloud
                   ,
                   what
                   Courage
                   have
                   you
                   shown
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   trust
                   your
                   Coursers
                   Strength
                   ,
                   and
                   not
                   your
                   own
                   ?
                
                 
                   Forego
                   the
                   vantage
                   of
                   your
                   Horse
                   ,
                   alight
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   then
                   on
                   equal
                   Terms
                   begin
                   the
                   Fight
                   :
                
                 
                   It
                   shall
                   be
                   seen
                   ,
                   weak
                   Woman
                   ,
                   what
                   you
                   can
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   Foot
                   to
                   Foot
                   ,
                   you
                   combat
                   with
                   a
                   Man.
                
                 
                   He
                   said
                   :
                   She
                   glows
                   with
                   Anger
                   and
                   Disdain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Dismounts
                   with
                   speed
                   to
                   dare
                   him
                   on
                   the
                   Plain
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   leaves
                   her
                   Horse
                   at
                   large
                   among
                   her
                   Train
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   her
                   drawn
                   Sword
                   defies
                   him
                   to
                   the
                   Field
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   marching
                   ,
                   lifts
                   aloft
                   her
                   maiden
                   Shield
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Youth
                   ,
                   who
                   thought
                   his
                   Cunning
                   did
                   succeed
                   ,
                
                 
                   Reins
                   round
                   his
                   Horse
                   ,
                   and
                   urges
                   all
                   his
                   Speed.
                
                 
                   Adds
                   the
                   remembrance
                   of
                   the
                   Spur
                   ,
                   and
                   hides
                
                 
                   The
                   goring
                   Rowels
                   in
                   his
                   bleeding
                   Sides
                   .
                
                 
                   Vain
                   Fool
                   ,
                   and
                   Coward
                   ,
                   cries
                   the
                   lofty
                   Maid
                   ,
                
                 
                   Caught
                   in
                   the
                   Train
                   ,
                   which
                   thou
                   thy self
                   hast
                   laid
                   !
                
                 
                   On
                   others
                   practise
                   thy
                   Ligurian
                   Arts
                   ;
                
                 
                   Thin
                   Stratagems
                   ,
                   and
                   Tricks
                   of
                   little
                   Hearts
                
                 
                   Are
                   lost
                   on
                   me
                   .
                   Nor
                   shalt
                   thou
                   safe
                   retire
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   vaunting
                   Lyes
                   to
                   thy
                   fallacious
                   Sire
                   .
                
                 
                   At
                   this
                   ,
                   so
                   fast
                   her
                   flying
                   Feet
                   she
                   sped
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   soon
                   she
                   strain'd
                   beyond
                   his
                   Horse's
                   Head
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Then
                   turning
                   short
                   ,
                   at
                   once
                   she
                   seiz'd
                   the
                   Rein
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   laid
                   the
                   Boaster
                   grov'ling
                   on
                   the
                   Plain
                   .
                
                 
                   Not
                   with
                   more
                   ease
                   the
                   Falcon
                   from
                   above
                   ,
                
                 
                   Trusses
                   ,
                   in
                   middle
                   Air
                   ,
                   the
                   trembling
                   Drove
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   Plumes
                   the
                   Prey
                   ,
                   in
                   her
                   strong
                   Pounces
                   bound
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Feathers
                   foul
                   with
                   Blood
                   come
                   tumbling
                   to
                   the
                   ground
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Now
                   mighty
                   Jove
                   ,
                   from
                   his
                   superior
                   height
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   his
                   broad
                   Eye
                   surveys
                   th'
                   unequal
                   Fight
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   fires
                   the
                   Breast
                   of
                   Tarchon
                   with
                   Disdain
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   sends
                   him
                   to
                   redeem
                   th'
                   abandon'd
                   Plain
                   .
                
                 
                   Betwixt
                   the
                   broken
                   Ranks
                   the
                   Tuscan
                   rides
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   these
                   encourages
                   ,
                   and
                   those
                   he
                   chides
                   :
                
                 
                   Recalls
                   each
                   Leader
                   ,
                   by
                   his
                   Name
                   ,
                   from
                   flight
                   ;
                
                 
                   Renews
                   their
                   Ardour
                   ;
                   and
                   restores
                   the
                   Fight
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   Panick
                   Fear
                   has
                   seiz'd
                   your
                   Souls
                   ,
                   O
                   shame
                   ,
                
                 
                   O
                   Brand
                   perpetual
                   of
                   th'
                   Etrurian
                   Name
                   ;
                
                 
                   Cowards
                   incurable
                   ,
                   a
                   Woman's
                   Hand
                
                 
                   Drives
                   ,
                   breaks
                   ,
                   and
                   scatters
                   your
                   ignoble
                   Band
                   !
                
                 
                   Now
                   cast
                   away
                   the
                   Sword
                   ,
                   and
                   quit
                   the
                   Shield
                   :
                
                 
                   What
                   use
                   of
                   Weapons
                   which
                   you
                   dare
                   not
                   wield
                   ?
                
                 
                   Not
                   thus
                   you
                   fly
                   your
                   Female
                   Foes
                   ,
                   by
                   Night
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   shun
                   the
                   Feast
                   ,
                   when
                   the
                   full
                   Bowls
                   invite
                   :
                
                 
                   When
                   to
                   fat
                   Off'rings
                   the
                   glad
                   Augur
                   calls
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   shrill
                   Horn-pipe
                   sounds
                   to
                   Bacchanals
                   .
                
                 
                   These
                   are
                   your
                   study'd
                   Cares
                   ;
                   your
                   lewd
                   Delight
                   ;
                
                 
                   Swift
                   to
                   debauch
                   ;
                   but
                   slow
                   to
                   Manly
                   Fight
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   having
                   said
                   ,
                   he
                   spurs
                   amid
                   the
                   Foes
                   ;
                
                 
                   Not
                   managing
                   the
                   Life
                   he
                   meant
                   to
                   lose
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   first
                   he
                   found
                   he
                   seiz'd
                   ,
                   with
                   headlong
                   haste
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   his
                   strong
                   Gripe
                   ;
                   and
                   clasp'd
                   around
                   the
                   Waste
                   :
                
                 
                   'T
                   was
                   Venulus
                   ;
                   whom
                   from
                   his
                   Horse
                   he
                   tore
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   (
                   laid
                   athwart
                   his
                   own
                   ,
                   )
                   in
                   Triumph
                   bore
                   .
                
                 
                   Loud
                   Shouts
                   ensue
                   :
                   The
                   Latins
                   turn
                   their
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   view
                   th'
                   unusual
                   sight
                   with
                   vast
                   Surprize
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   fiery
                   Tarchon
                   ,
                   flying
                   o're
                   the
                   Plains
                   ,
                
                 
                   Press'd
                   in
                   his
                   Arms
                   the
                   pond'rous
                   Prey
                   sustains
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   with
                   his
                   shorten'd
                   Spear
                   ,
                   explores
                   around
                
                 
                   His
                   jointed
                   Arms
                   ,
                   to
                   fix
                   a
                   deadly
                   Wound
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   less
                   the
                   Captive
                   struggles
                   for
                   his
                   Life
                   ;
                
                 
                   He
                   writhes
                   his
                   Body
                   to
                   prolong
                   the
                   Strife
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   fencing
                   for
                   his
                   naked
                   Throat
                   ,
                   exerts
                
                 
                   His
                   utmost
                   Vigour
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   point
                   averts
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   So
                   stoops
                   the
                   yellow
                   Eagle
                   from
                   on
                   high
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   bears
                   a
                   speckled
                   Serpent
                   thro'
                   the
                   Sky
                   ;
                
                 
                   Fast'ning
                   his
                   crooked
                   Tallons
                   on
                   the
                   Prey
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Pris'ner
                   hisses
                   thro'
                   the
                   liquid
                   Way
                   ,
                
                 
                   Resists
                   the
                   Royal
                   Hawk
                   ,
                   and
                   tho'
                   opprest
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   fights
                   in
                   Volumes
                   ,
                   and
                   erects
                   her
                   Crest
                   :
                
                 
                   Turn'd
                   to
                   her
                   Foe
                   ,
                   she
                   stiffens
                   ev'ry
                   Scale
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   shoots
                   her
                   forky
                   Tongue
                   ,
                   and
                   whisks
                   her
                   threat'ning
                   Tail.
                
                 
                   Against
                   the
                   Victour
                   all
                   Defence
                   is
                   weak
                   ;
                
                 
                   Th'
                   imperial
                   Bird
                   still
                   plies
                   her
                   with
                   his
                   Beak
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   tears
                   her
                   Bowels
                   ,
                   and
                   her
                   Breast
                   he
                   gores
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   claps
                   his
                   Pinions
                   ,
                   and
                   securely
                   soars
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Thus
                   ,
                   thro'
                   the
                   midst
                   of
                   circling
                   Enemies
                   ,
                
                 
                   Strong
                   Tarchon
                   snatch'd
                   and
                   bore
                   away
                   his
                   Prize
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Tyrrhene
                   Troops
                   ,
                   that
                   shrunk
                   before
                   ,
                   now
                   press
                
                 
                   The
                   Latins
                   ,
                   and
                   presume
                   the
                   like
                   Success
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   Aruns
                   doom'd
                   to
                   Death
                   ,
                   his
                   Arts
                   assay'd
                
                 
                   To
                   murther
                   ,
                   unespy'd
                   ,
                   the
                   Volscian
                   Maid
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   way
                   ,
                   and
                   that
                   his
                   winding
                   Course
                   he
                   bends
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   wheresoe're
                   she
                   turns
                   ,
                   her
                   Steps
                   attends
                   .
                
                 
                   When
                   she
                   retires
                   victorious
                   from
                   the
                   Chase
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   wheels
                   about
                   with
                   Care
                   ,
                   and
                   shifts
                   his
                   place
                   :
                
                 
                   When
                   rushing
                   on
                   ,
                   she
                   seeks
                   her
                   Foes
                   in
                   Fight
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   keeps
                   aloof
                   ,
                   but
                   keeps
                   her
                   still
                   in
                   sight
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   threats
                   ,
                   and
                   trembles
                   ,
                   trying
                   ev'ry
                   Way
                
                 
                   Unseen
                   to
                   kill
                   ,
                   and
                   safely
                   to
                   betray
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Chloreus
                   ,
                   the
                   Priest
                   of
                   Cybele
                   ,
                   from
                   far
                   ,
                
                 
                   Glitt'ring
                   in
                   Phrygian
                   Arms
                   amidst
                   the
                   War
                   ,
                
                 
                   Was
                   by
                   the
                   Virgin
                   view'd
                   :
                   The
                   Steed
                   he
                   press'd
                
                 
                   Was
                   proud
                   with
                   Trappings
                   ;
                   and
                   his
                   brawny
                   Chest
                
                 
                   With
                   Scales
                   of
                   guilded
                   Brass
                   was
                   cover'd
                   o're
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   Robe
                   of
                   Tyrian
                   Dye
                   the
                   Rider
                   wore
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   deadly
                   Wounds
                   he
                   gaul'd
                   the
                   distant
                   Eoe
                   ;
                
                 
                   Gnossian
                   his
                   Shafts
                   ,
                   and
                   Lycian
                   was
                   his
                   Bow
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   Golden
                   Helm
                   his
                   Front
                   ,
                   and
                   head
                   surrounds
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   guilded
                   Quiver
                   from
                   his
                   Shoulder
                   sounds
                   .
                
                 
                   Gold
                   ,
                   weav'd
                   with
                   Linen
                   ,
                   on
                   his
                   Thighs
                   he
                   wore
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   Flowers
                   of
                   Needlework
                   distinguish'd
                   o're
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   Golden
                   Buckles
                   bound
                   ,
                   and
                   gather'd
                   up
                   before
                   .
                
                 
                   Him
                   ,
                   the
                   fierce
                   Maid
                   beheld
                   with
                   ardent
                   Eyes
                   ;
                
                 
                   Fond
                   and
                   Ambitious
                   of
                   so
                   Rich
                   a
                   Prize
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   that
                   the
                   Temple
                   might
                   his
                   Trophees
                   hold
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   else
                   to
                   shine
                   her self
                   in
                   Trojan
                   Gold
                   :
                
                 
                   Blind
                   in
                   her
                   haste
                   ,
                   she
                   chases
                   him
                   alone
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   seeks
                   his
                   Life
                   ,
                   regardless
                   of
                   her
                   own
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   lucky
                   Moment
                   the
                   slye
                   Traytor
                   chose
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   starting
                   from
                   his
                   Ambush
                   up
                   he
                   rose
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   threw
                   ,
                   but
                   first
                   to
                   Heav'n
                   address'd
                   his
                   Vows
                   .
                
                 
                   O
                   Patron
                   of
                   Soractes
                   high
                   Abodes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Phoebus
                   the
                   Ruling
                   Pow'r
                   among
                   the
                   Gods
                   ;
                
                 
                   Whom
                   first
                   we
                   serve
                   ,
                   whole
                   Woods
                   of
                   unctuous
                   Pine
                
                 
                   Are
                   fell'd
                   for
                   thee
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   thy
                   Glory
                   shine
                   ;
                
                 
                   By
                   thee
                   protected
                   ,
                   with
                   our
                   naked
                   Soles
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thro'
                   Flames
                   unsing'd
                   we
                   march
                   ,
                   and
                   tread
                   the
                   kindled
                   Coals
                   :
                
                 
                   Give
                   me
                   ,
                   propitious
                   Pow'r
                   ,
                   to
                   wash
                   away
                
                 
                   The
                   Stains
                   of
                   this
                   dishonourable
                   Day
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Spoils
                   ,
                   nor
                   Triumph
                   ,
                   from
                   the
                   Fact
                   I
                   claim
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   with
                   my
                   future
                   Actions
                   trust
                   my
                   Fame
                   .
                
                 
                   Let
                   me
                   ,
                   by
                   stealth
                   ;
                   this
                   Female
                   Plague
                   o'recome
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   from
                   the
                   Field
                   ,
                   return
                   inglorious
                   home
                   .
                
              
               
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     Arthur
                     Manwaringe
                     of
                     Ightfield
                     in
                     the
                     County
                     of
                     Salop
                     Esq
                     r
                     :
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     11.
                     l.
                     1150.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Apollo
                   heard
                   ,
                   and
                   granting
                   half
                   his
                   Pray'r
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shuffled
                   in
                   Winds
                   the
                   rest
                   ,
                   and
                   toss'd
                   in
                   empty
                   Air.
                
                 
                   He
                   gives
                   the
                   Death
                   desir'd
                   ;
                   his
                   safe
                   return
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   Southern
                   Tempests
                   to
                   the
                   Seas
                   is
                   born
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Now
                   ,
                   when
                   the
                   Jav'lin
                   whizz'd
                   along
                   the
                   Skies
                   ,
                
                 
                   Both
                   Armies
                   on
                   Camilla
                   turn'd
                   their
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Directed
                   by
                   the
                   Sound
                   :
                   Of
                   either
                   Host
                   ,
                
                 
                   Th'
                   unhappy
                   Virgin
                   ,
                   tho'
                   concern'd
                   the
                   most
                   ,
                
                 
                   Was
                   only
                   deaf
                   ;
                   so
                   greedy
                   was
                   she
                   bent
                
                 
                   On
                   Golden
                   Spoils
                   ,
                   and
                   on
                   her
                   Prey
                   intent
                   :
                
                 
                   Till
                   in
                   her
                   Pap
                   the
                   winged
                   Weapon
                   stood
                
                 
                   Infix'd
                   ;
                   and
                   deeply
                   drunk
                   the
                   purple
                   Blood.
                
                 
                   Her
                   sad
                   Attendants
                   hasten
                   to
                   sustain
                
                 
                   Their
                   dying
                   Lady
                   drooping
                   on
                   the
                   Plain
                   .
                
                 
                   Far
                   from
                   their
                   sight
                   the
                   trembling
                   Aruns
                   flies
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   beating
                   Heart
                   ,
                   and
                   Fear
                   confus'd
                   with
                   Joys
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   dares
                   he
                   farther
                   to
                   pursue
                   his
                   Blow
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   ev'n
                   to
                   bear
                   the
                   sight
                   of
                   his
                   expiring
                   Foe
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   As
                   when
                   the
                   Wolf
                   has
                   torn
                   a
                   Bullocks
                   Hide
                   ,
                
                 
                   At
                   unawares
                   ,
                   or
                   ranch'd
                   the
                   Shepherd's
                   Side
                   :
                
                 
                   Conscious
                   of
                   his
                   audacious
                   deed
                   ,
                   he
                   flies
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   claps
                   his
                   quiv'ring
                   Tail
                   between
                   his
                   Thighs
                   :
                
                 
                   So
                   ,
                   speeding
                   once
                   ,
                   the
                   Wretch
                   no
                   more
                   attends
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   spurring
                   forward
                   herds
                   among
                   his
                   Friends
                   .
                
                 
                   She
                   wrench'd
                   the
                   Jav'lin
                   with
                   her
                   dying
                   Hands
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   wedg'd
                   within
                   her
                   Breast
                   the
                   Weapon
                   stands
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Wood
                   she
                   draws
                   ,
                   the
                   steely
                   Point
                   remains
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   staggers
                   in
                   her
                   Seat
                   ,
                   with
                   agonizing
                   Pains
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   gath'ring
                   Mist
                   o'reclouds
                   her
                   chearful
                   Eyes
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   from
                   her
                   Cheeks
                   the
                   rosie
                   Colour
                   flies
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   turns
                   to
                   her
                   ,
                   whom
                   ,
                   of
                   her
                   Female
                   Train
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   trusted
                   most
                   ,
                   and
                   thus
                   she
                   speaks
                   with
                   Pain
                   .
                
                 
                   Acca
                   ,
                   't
                   is
                   past
                   !
                   He
                   swims
                   before
                   my
                   sight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Inexorable
                   Death
                   ;
                   and
                   claims
                   his
                   right
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Bear
                   my
                   last
                   Words
                   to
                   Turnus
                   ,
                   fly
                   with
                   speed
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   bid
                   him
                   timely
                   to
                   my
                   Charge
                   succeed
                   :
                
                 
                   Repel
                   the
                   Trojans
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Town
                   relieve
                   :
                
                 
                   Farewel
                   ;
                   and
                   in
                   this
                   Kiss
                   my
                   parting
                   Breath
                   receive
                   .
                
                 
                   She
                   said
                   ;
                   and
                   sliding
                   ,
                   sunk
                   upon
                   the
                   Plain
                   ;
                
                 
                   Dying
                   ,
                   her
                   open'd
                   Hand
                   forsakes
                   the
                   Rein
                   ;
                
                 
                   Short
                   ,
                   and
                   more
                   short
                   ,
                   she
                   pants
                   :
                   By
                   slow
                   degrees
                
                 
                   Her
                   Mind
                   the
                   Passage
                   from
                   her
                   Body
                   frees
                   .
                
                 
                   She
                   drops
                   her
                   Sword
                   ,
                   she
                   nods
                   her
                   plumy
                   Crest
                   ;
                
                 
                   Her
                   drooping
                   Head
                   declining
                   on
                   her
                   Breast
                   :
                
                 
                   In
                   the
                   last
                   Sigh
                   her
                   strugling
                   Soul
                   expires
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   murm'ring
                   with
                   Disdain
                   ,
                   to
                   Stygian
                   Sounds
                   retires
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   A
                   Shout
                   ,
                   that
                   struck
                   the
                   Golden
                   Stars
                   ,
                   ensu'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Despair
                   and
                   Rage
                   ,
                   the
                   languish'd
                   Fight
                   renew'd
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Trojan
                   Troops
                   ,
                   and
                   Tuscans
                   in
                   a
                   Line
                   ,
                
                 
                   Advance
                   to
                   charge
                   ;
                   the
                   mix'd
                   Arcadians
                   join
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   
                   Cynthia's
                   Maid
                   ,
                   high
                   seated
                   ,
                   from
                   afar
                
                 
                   Surveys
                   the
                   Field
                   ,
                   and
                   fortune
                   of
                   the
                   War
                   :
                
                 
                   Unmov'd
                   a
                   while
                   ,
                   'till
                   prostrate
                   on
                   the
                   Plain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Welt'ring
                   in
                   Blood
                   ,
                   she
                   sees
                   Camilla
                   slain
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   round
                   her
                   Corps
                   ,
                   of
                   Friends
                   and
                   Foes
                   a
                   fighting
                   Train
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   from
                   the
                   bottom
                   of
                   her
                   Breast
                   ,
                   she
                   drew
                
                 
                   A
                   mournful
                   Sigh
                   ,
                   and
                   these
                   sad
                   Words
                   ensue
                   :
                
                 
                   Too
                   dear
                   a
                   Fine
                   ,
                   ah
                   much
                   lamented
                   Maid
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   warring
                   with
                   the
                   Trojans
                   ,
                   thou
                   hast
                   paid
                   !
                
                 
                   Nor
                   ought
                   avail'd
                   ,
                   in
                   this
                   unhappy
                   Strife
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                   Diana's
                   sacred
                   Arms
                   ,
                   to
                   save
                   thy
                   Life
                   .
                
                 
                   Yet
                   unreveng'd
                   thy
                   Goddess
                   will
                   not
                   leave
                
                 
                   Her
                   Vot'rys
                   Death
                   ,
                   nor
                   with
                   vain
                   Sorrow
                   grieve
                   .
                
                 
                   Branded
                   the
                   Wretch
                   ,
                   and
                   be
                   his
                   Name
                   abhorr'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   after
                   Ages
                   shall
                   thy
                   Praise
                   record
                   .
                
                 
                   Th'
                   inglorious
                   Coward
                   soon
                   shall
                   press
                   the
                   Plain
                   ;
                
                 
                   Thus
                   vows
                   thy
                   Queen
                   ,
                   and
                   thus
                   the
                   Fates
                   ordain
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   High
                   o're
                   the
                   Field
                   ,
                   there
                   stood
                   a
                   hilly
                   Mound
                   ;
                
                 
                   Sacred
                   the
                   Place
                   ,
                   and
                   spread
                   with
                   Oaks
                   around
                   ;
                
                 
                   Where
                   ,
                   in
                   a
                   Marble
                   Tomb
                   ,
                   Dercennus
                   lay
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   King
                   that
                   once
                   in
                   Latium
                   bore
                   the
                   Sway.
                
                 
                   The
                   beauteous
                   Opis
                   thither
                   bent
                   her
                   flight
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   mark
                   the
                   Traytor
                   Aruns
                   ,
                   from
                   the
                   height
                   .
                
                 
                   Him
                   ,
                   in
                   refulgent
                   Arms
                   she
                   soon
                   espy'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Swoln
                   with
                   success
                   ,
                   and
                   loudly
                   thus
                   she
                   cry'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Thy
                   backward
                   steps
                   ,
                   vain
                   boaster
                   ,
                   are
                   too
                   late
                   ;
                
                 
                   Turn
                   ,
                   like
                   a
                   Man
                   at
                   length
                   ,
                   and
                   meet
                   thy
                   Fate
                   .
                
                 
                   Charg'd
                   with
                   my
                   Message
                   to
                   Camilla
                   go
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   say
                   I
                   sent
                   thee
                   to
                   the
                   Shades
                   below
                   ;
                
                 
                   An
                   Honour
                   undeserv'd
                   from
                   
                   Cynthia's
                   Bow.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   She
                   said
                   :
                   and
                   from
                   her
                   Quiver
                   chose
                   with
                   speed
                
                 
                   The
                   winged
                   Shaft
                   ,
                   predestin'd
                   for
                   the
                   Deed
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   to
                   the
                   stubborn
                   Eugh
                   her
                   strength
                   apply'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Till
                   the
                   far
                   distant
                   Horns
                   approach'd
                   on
                   either
                   side
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Bow-string
                   touch'd
                   her
                   Breast
                   ,
                   so
                   strong
                   she
                   drew
                   ;
                
                 
                   Whizzing
                   in
                   Air
                   the
                   fatal
                   Arrow
                   flew
                   .
                
                 
                   At
                   once
                   the
                   twanging
                   Bow
                   ,
                   and
                   sounding
                   Dart
                
                 
                   The
                   Traytor
                   heard
                   ,
                   and
                   felt
                   the
                   point
                   within
                   his
                   heart
                   .
                
                 
                   Him
                   ,
                   beating
                   with
                   his
                   heels
                   ,
                   in
                   pangs
                   of
                   death
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   flying
                   Friends
                   to
                   foreign
                   Fields
                   bequeath
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Conqu'ring
                   Damsel
                   ,
                   with
                   expanded
                   Wings
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   welcome
                   Message
                   to
                   her
                   Mistress
                   brings
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Their
                   Leader
                   lost
                   ,
                   the
                   Volscians
                   quit
                   the
                   Field
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   unsustain'd
                   ,
                   the
                   Chiefs
                   of
                   Turnus
                   yield
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   frighted
                   Souldiers
                   ,
                   when
                   their
                   Captains
                   fly
                   ,
                
                 
                   More
                   on
                   their
                   speed
                   than
                   on
                   their
                   Strength
                   rely
                   .
                
                 
                   Confus'd
                   in
                   flight
                   ,
                   they
                   bear
                   each
                   other
                   down
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   spur
                   their
                   Horses
                   headlong
                   to
                   the
                   Town
                   .
                
                 
                   Driv'n
                   by
                   their
                   Foes
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   their
                   Fears
                   resign'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Not
                   once
                   they
                   turn
                   ;
                   but
                   take
                   their
                   Wounds
                   behind
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   These
                   drop
                   the
                   Shield
                   ,
                   and
                   those
                   the
                   Lance
                   forego
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   on
                   their
                   Shoulders
                   bear
                   the
                   slacken'd
                   Bow.
                
                 
                   The
                   Hoofs
                   of
                   Horses
                   with
                   a
                   ratling
                   sound
                   ,
                
                 
                   Beat
                   short
                   ,
                   and
                   thick
                   ,
                   and
                   shake
                   the
                   rotten
                   ground
                   .
                
                 
                   Black
                   clouds
                   of
                   dust
                   ,
                   come
                   rowling
                   in
                   the
                   Sky
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   o're
                   the
                   darken'd
                   Walls
                   ,
                   and
                   Rampires
                   fly
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   trembling
                   Matrons
                   ,
                   from
                   their
                   lofty
                   Stands
                   ,
                
                 
                   Rend
                   Heav'n
                   with
                   Female
                   Shrieks
                   ;
                   and
                   wring
                   their
                   Hands
                
                 
                   All
                   pressing
                   on
                   ,
                   Pursuers
                   and
                   pursu'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Are
                   crush'd
                   in
                   Crowds
                   ,
                   a
                   Mingled
                   multitude
                   .
                
                 
                   Some
                   happy
                   few
                   escape
                   :
                   the
                   Throng
                   too
                   late
                
                 
                   Rush
                   on
                   for
                   Entrance
                   ,
                   till
                   they
                   choak
                   the
                   Gate
                   .
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   in
                   the
                   sight
                   of
                   home
                   ,
                   the
                   wretched
                   Sire
                
                 
                   Looks
                   on
                   ,
                   and
                   sees
                   his
                   helpless
                   Son
                   expire
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   in
                   a
                   fright
                   ,
                   the
                   folding
                   Gates
                   they
                   close
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   leave
                   their
                   Friends
                   excluded
                   with
                   their
                   Foes
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   vanquish'd
                   cry
                   ;
                   the
                   Victors
                   loudly
                   shout
                   ;
                
                 
                   T
                   is
                   Terror
                   all
                   within
                   ;
                   and
                   Slaughter
                   all
                   without
                   .
                
                 
                   Blind
                   in
                   their
                   Fear
                   ,
                   they
                   bounce
                   against
                   the
                   wall
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   to
                   their
                   Moats
                   pursu'd
                   ,
                   precipitate
                   their
                   fall
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Latian
                   Virgins
                   ,
                   valiant
                   with
                   despair
                   ,
                
                 
                   Arm'd
                   on
                   the
                   Towr's
                   the
                   Common
                   Danger
                   share
                   :
                
                 
                   So
                   much
                   of
                   Zeal
                   their
                   Country's
                   Cause
                   inspir'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   So
                   much
                   
                   Camilla's
                   great
                   Example
                   fir'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Poles
                   ,
                   sharpen'd
                   in
                   the
                   flames
                   ,
                   from
                   high
                   they
                   throw
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   imitated
                   Darts
                   to
                   gaul
                   the
                   Foe
                   .
                
                 
                   Their
                   Lives
                   ,
                   for
                   Godlike
                   freedom
                   they
                   bequeath
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   crowd
                   each
                   other
                   to
                   be
                   first
                   in
                   death
                   .
                
                 
                   Mean
                   time
                   ,
                   to
                   Turnus
                   ,
                   ambush'd
                   in
                   the
                   shade
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   heavy
                   tydings
                   ,
                   came
                   th'
                   Unhappy
                   Maid
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Volscians
                   overthrown
                   ,
                   Camilla
                   kill'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Foes
                   entirely
                   Masters
                   of
                   the
                   Field
                   ,
                
                 
                   Like
                   a
                   resistless
                   Flood
                   ,
                   come
                   rowling
                   on
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   cry
                   goes
                   off
                   the
                   Plain
                   ,
                   and
                   thickens
                   to
                   the
                   Town
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Inflam'd
                   with
                   Rage
                   ,
                   (
                   for
                   so
                   the
                   Furies
                   fire
                
                 
                   The
                   
                   Daunian's
                   Breast
                   ,
                   and
                   so
                   the
                   Fates
                   require
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                   He
                   leaves
                   the
                   hilly
                   Pass
                   ,
                   the
                   Woods
                   in
                   vain
                
                 
                   Possess'd
                   ,
                   and
                   downward
                   issues
                   on
                   the
                   Plain
                   :
                
                 
                   Scarce
                   was
                   he
                   gone
                   ,
                   when
                   to
                   the
                   Streights
                   ,
                   now
                   freed
                
                 
                   From
                   secret
                   Foes
                   ,
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Troops
                   succeed
                   .
                
                 
                   Thro'
                   the
                   black
                   Forest
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   ferny
                   Brake
                   ,
                
                 
                   Unknowingly
                   secure
                   ,
                   their
                   Way
                   they
                   take
                   .
                
                 
                   From
                   the
                   rough
                   Mountains
                   to
                   the
                   Plain
                   descend
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   there
                   ,
                   in
                   Order
                   drawn
                   ,
                   their
                   Line
                   extend
                   .
                
                 
                   Both
                   Armies
                   ,
                   now
                   ,
                   in
                   open
                   Fields
                   are
                   seen
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   far
                   the
                   distance
                   of
                   the
                   Space
                   between
                   .
                
                 
                   Both
                   to
                   the
                   City
                   bend
                   :
                   Aeneas
                   sees
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thro'
                   smoaking
                   Fields
                   ,
                   his
                   hast'ning
                   Enemies
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   Turnus
                   views
                   the
                   Trojans
                   in
                   Array
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   hears
                   th'
                   approaching
                   Horses
                   proudly
                   neigh.
                
                 
                   Soon
                   had
                   their
                   Hoasts
                   in
                   bloody
                   Battel
                   join'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   westward
                   to
                   the
                   Sea
                   the
                   Sun
                   declin'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Intrench'd
                   before
                   the
                   Town
                   ,
                   both
                   Armies
                   lye
                   :
                
                 
                   While
                   Night
                   with
                   sable
                   Wings
                   o'respreads
                   the
                   Sky
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 The
                 Twelfth
                 Book
                 of
                 the
                 Aeneis
                 .
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Argument
                   .
                
                 
                   Turnus
                   challenges
                   Aeneas
                   
                     to
                     a
                     single
                     Combat
                     :
                     Articles
                     are
                     agreed
                     on
                     ,
                     but
                     broken
                     by
                     the
                  
                   Rutili
                   ,
                   
                     who
                     wound
                  
                   Aeneas
                   :
                   
                     He
                     is
                     miraculously
                     cur'd
                     by
                  
                   Venus
                   ,
                   forces
                   Turnus
                   
                     to
                     a
                     Duel
                     ,
                     and
                     concludes
                     the
                     Poem
                     with
                     his
                     Death
                     .
                  
                
              
               
                 
                   WHen
                   Turnus
                   saw
                   the
                   Latins
                   leave
                   the
                   Field
                   ;
                
                 
                   Their
                   Armies
                   broken
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   Courage
                   quell'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Himself
                   become
                   the
                   Mark
                   of
                   publick
                   Spight
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Honour
                   question'd
                   for
                   the
                   promis'd
                   Fight
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   more
                   he
                   was
                   with
                   Vulgar
                   hate
                   oppress'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   more
                   his
                   Fury
                   boil'd
                   within
                   his
                   Breast
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   rowz'd
                   his
                   Vigour
                   for
                   the
                   last
                   Debate
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   rais'd
                   his
                   haughty
                   Soul
                   ,
                   to
                   meet
                   his
                   Fate
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   As
                   when
                   the
                   Swains
                   the
                   Lybian
                   Lion
                   chase
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   makes
                   a
                   sour
                   Retreat
                   ,
                   nor
                   mends
                   his
                   Pace
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   if
                   the
                   pointed
                   Jav'lin
                   pierce
                   his
                   Side
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   lordly
                   Beast
                   returns
                   with
                   double
                   Pride
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   wrenches
                   out
                   the
                   Steel
                   ,
                   he
                   roars
                   for
                   Pain
                   ;
                
                 
                   His
                   sides
                   he
                   lashes
                   ,
                   and
                   erects
                   his
                   Mane.
                
                 
                   So
                   Turnus
                   fares
                   ;
                   his
                   Eye-balls
                   flash
                   with
                   Fire
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   his
                   wide
                   Nostrils
                   Clouds
                   of
                   Smoke
                   expire
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Trembling
                   with
                   Rage
                   ,
                   around
                   the
                   Court
                   he
                   ran
                   ;
                
                 
                   At
                   length
                   approach'd
                   the
                   King
                   ,
                   and
                   thus
                   began
                   .
                
                 
                   No
                   more
                   excuses
                   or
                   Delays
                   :
                   I
                   stand
                
                 
                   In
                   Arms
                   prepar'd
                   to
                   Combat
                   ,
                   hand
                   to
                   hand
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   base
                   Deserter
                   of
                   his
                   Native
                   Land.
                
                 
                   The
                   Trojan
                   ,
                   by
                   his
                   Word
                   ,
                   is
                   bound
                   to
                   take
                
                 
                   The
                   same
                   Conditions
                   which
                   himself
                   did
                   make
                   .
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     y
                     e
                     Right
                     Hon
                     ble
                     :
                     Phillip
                     Lord
                     Stanhope
                     Earle
                     of
                     Chesterfield
                     Baron
                     of
                     Shelford
                     in
                     the
                     Kingdom
                     of
                     England
                  
                   
                     AE
                     .
                     12.
                     l.
                     1.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                 
                   Renew
                   the
                   Truce
                   ,
                   the
                   solemn
                   Rites
                   prepare
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   to
                   my
                   single
                   Virtue
                   trust
                   the
                   War.
                
                 
                   The
                   Latians
                   unconcern'd
                   shall
                   see
                   the
                   Fight
                   ;
                
                 
                   This
                   Arm
                   unaided
                   shall
                   assert
                   your
                   Right
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   if
                   my
                   prostrate
                   Body
                   press
                   the
                   Plain
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   him
                   the
                   Crown
                   ,
                   and
                   beauteous
                   Bride
                   remain
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   To
                   whom
                   the
                   King
                   sedately
                   thus
                   reply'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Brave
                   Youth
                   ,
                   the
                   more
                   your
                   Valour
                   has
                   been
                   try'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   more
                   becomes
                   it
                   us
                   ,
                   with
                   due
                   Respect
                
                 
                   To
                   weigh
                   the
                   chance
                   of
                   War
                   ,
                   which
                   you
                   neglect
                   .
                
                 
                   You
                   want
                   not
                   Wealth
                   ,
                   or
                   a
                   successive
                   Throne
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   Cities
                   ,
                   which
                   your
                   Arms
                   have
                   made
                   your
                   own
                   ;
                
                 
                   My
                   Towns
                   and
                   Treasures
                   are
                   at
                   your
                   Command
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   stor'd
                   with
                   blooming
                   Beauties
                   is
                   my
                   Land
                   :
                
                 
                   Laurentum
                   more
                   than
                   one
                   Lavinia
                   sees
                   ,
                
                 
                   Unmarry'd
                   ,
                   fair
                   ,
                   of
                   Noble
                   Families
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   let
                   me
                   speak
                   ;
                   and
                   you
                   with
                   Patience
                   hear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Things
                   which
                   perhaps
                   may
                   grate
                   a
                   Lover's
                   Ear
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   sound
                   Advice
                   ,
                   proceeding
                   from
                   a
                   heart
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sincerely
                   yours
                   ,
                   and
                   free
                   from
                   fraudful
                   Art.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Gods
                   ,
                   by
                   Signs
                   ,
                   have
                   manifestly
                   shown
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   Prince
                   ,
                   Italian
                   born
                   ,
                   shou'd
                   heir
                   my
                   Throne
                   :
                
                 
                   Oft
                   have
                   our
                   Augurs
                   ,
                   in
                   Prediction
                   skill'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   oft
                   our
                   Priests
                   ,
                   a
                   Foreign
                   Son
                   reveal'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Yet
                   ,
                   won
                   by
                   Worth
                   ,
                   that
                   cannot
                   be
                   withstood
                   ,
                
                 
                   Brib'd
                   by
                   my
                   Kindness
                   to
                   my
                   kindred
                   Blood
                   ,
                
                 
                   Urg'd
                   by
                   my
                   Wife
                   ,
                   who
                   wou'd
                   not
                   be
                   deny'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   I
                   promis'd
                   my
                   Lavinia
                   for
                   your
                   Bride
                   :
                
                 
                   Her
                   from
                   her
                   plighted
                   Lord
                   by
                   force
                   I
                   took
                   ;
                
                 
                   All
                   tyes
                   of
                   Treaties
                   ,
                   and
                   of
                   Honour
                   broke
                   :
                
                 
                   On
                   your
                   Account
                   I
                   wag'd
                   an
                   impious
                   War
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   what
                   Success
                   't
                   is
                   needless
                   to
                   declare
                   ;
                
                 
                   I
                   ,
                   and
                   my
                   Subjects
                   feel
                   ;
                   and
                   you
                   have
                   had
                   your
                   Share
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Twice
                   vanquish'd
                   ,
                   while
                   in
                   bloody
                   Fields
                   we
                   strive
                   ,
                
                 
                   Scarce
                   in
                   our
                   Walls
                   ,
                   we
                   keep
                   our
                   Hopes
                   alive
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   rowling
                   Flood
                   runs
                   warm
                   with
                   human
                   Gore
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Bones
                   of
                   Latians
                   ,
                   blanch
                   the
                   neighb'ring
                   Shore
                   :
                
                 
                   Why
                   put
                   I
                   not
                   an
                   end
                   to
                   this
                   Debate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Still
                   unresolv'd
                   ,
                   and
                   still
                   a
                   Slave
                   to
                   Fate
                   ?
                
                 
                   If
                   
                   Turnus's
                   Death
                   a
                   lasting
                   Peace
                   can
                   give
                   ,
                
                 
                   Why
                   shou'd
                   I
                   not
                   procure
                   it
                   ,
                   while
                   you
                   live
                   .
                
                 
                   Shou'd
                   I
                   to
                   doubtful
                   Arms
                   your
                   Youth
                   betray
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   wou'd
                   my
                   Kinsmen
                   ,
                   the
                   Rutulians
                   ,
                   say
                   ?
                
                 
                   And
                   shou'd
                   you
                   fall
                   in
                   Fight
                   ,
                   (
                   which
                   Heav'n
                   defend
                   )
                
                 
                   How
                   curse
                   the
                   Cause
                   ,
                   which
                   hasten'd
                   to
                   his
                   end
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Daughter's
                   Lover
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Father's
                   Friend
                   ?
                
                 
                   Weigh
                   in
                   your
                   Mind
                   ,
                   the
                   various
                   Chance
                   of
                   War
                   ,
                
                 
                   Pity
                   your
                   Parent
                   's
                   Age
                   ;
                   and
                   ease
                   his
                   Care.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Such
                   balmy
                   Words
                   he
                   pour'd
                   ,
                   but
                   all
                   in
                   vain
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   proffer'd
                   Med'cine
                   but
                   provok'd
                   the
                   Pain
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   wrathful
                   Youth
                   disdaining
                   the
                   Relief
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   intermitting
                   Sobs
                   ,
                   thus
                   vents
                   his
                   Grief
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   care
                   ,
                   O
                   best
                   of
                   Fathers
                   ,
                   which
                   you
                   take
                
                 
                   For
                   my
                   Concerns
                   ,
                   at
                   my
                   Desire
                   ,
                   forsake
                   .
                
                 
                   Permit
                   me
                   not
                   to
                   languish
                   out
                   my
                   Days
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   make
                   the
                   best
                   exchange
                   of
                   Life
                   for
                   Praise
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   Arm
                   ,
                   this
                   Lance
                   ,
                   can
                   well
                   dispute
                   the
                   Prize
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   Blood
                   follows
                   ,
                   where
                   the
                   Weapon
                   flies
                   :
                
                 
                   His
                   Goddess
                   Mother
                   is
                   not
                   near
                   ,
                   to
                   shrowd
                
                 
                   The
                   flying
                   Coward
                   ,
                   with
                   an
                   empty
                   Cloud
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   now
                   the
                   Queen
                   ,
                   who
                   fear'd
                   for
                   Turnus
                   Life
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   loath'd
                   the
                   hard
                   Conditions
                   of
                   the
                   Strife
                   ,
                
                 
                   Held
                   him
                   by
                   Force
                   ;
                   and
                   ,
                   dying
                   in
                   his
                   Death
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   these
                   sad
                   Accents
                   gave
                   her
                   Sorrow
                   breath
                   .
                
                 
                   O
                   Turnus
                   I
                   adjure
                   thee
                   by
                   these
                   Tears
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   what
                   e're
                   price
                   
                   Amata's
                   Honour
                   bears
                
                 
                 
                   Within
                   thy
                   Breast
                   ,
                   since
                   thou
                   art
                   all
                   my
                   hope
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   sickly
                   Mind's
                   repose
                   ,
                   my
                   sinking
                   Age's
                   Prop
                   ;
                
                 
                   Since
                   on
                   the
                   safety
                   of
                   thy
                   Life
                   alone
                   ,
                
                 
                   Depends
                   Latinus
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Latian
                   Throne
                   :
                
                 
                   Refuse
                   me
                   not
                   this
                   one
                   ,
                   this
                   only
                   Pray'r
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   wave
                   the
                   Combat
                   ,
                   and
                   pursue
                   the
                   War.
                
                 
                   Whatever
                   chance
                   attends
                   this
                   fatal
                   Strife
                   ,
                
                 
                   Think
                   it
                   includes
                   in
                   thine
                   
                   Amata's
                   Life
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   cannot
                   live
                   a
                   Slave
                   ;
                   or
                   see
                   my
                   Throne
                
                 
                   Usurp'd
                   by
                   Strangers
                   ,
                   or
                   a
                   Trojan
                   Son.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   At
                   this
                   ,
                   a
                   Flood
                   of
                   Tears
                   Lavinia
                   shed
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   crimson
                   Blush
                   her
                   beauteous
                   Face
                   o'respread
                   ;
                
                 
                   Varying
                   her
                   Cheeks
                   by
                   Turns
                   ,
                   with
                   white
                   and
                   red
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   driving
                   Colours
                   ,
                   never
                   at
                   a
                   stay
                   ,
                
                 
                   Run
                   here
                   and
                   there
                   ;
                   and
                   flush
                   ,
                   and
                   fade
                   away
                   .
                
                 
                   Delightful
                   change
                   !
                   Thus
                   Indian
                   Iv'ry
                   shows
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   with
                   the
                   bord'ring
                   Paint
                   of
                   Purple
                   glows
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   Lillies
                   damask'd
                   by
                   the
                   neighb'ring
                   Rose
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Lover
                   gaz'd
                   ,
                   and
                   burning
                   with
                   desire
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   more
                   he
                   look'd
                   ,
                   the
                   more
                   he
                   fed
                   the
                   Fire
                   :
                
                 
                   Revenge
                   ,
                   and
                   jealous
                   Rage
                   ,
                   and
                   secret
                   Spight
                   ;
                
                 
                   Rowl
                   in
                   his
                   Breast
                   ,
                   and
                   rowze
                   him
                   to
                   the
                   Fight
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   fixing
                   on
                   the
                   Queen
                   his
                   ardent
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Firm
                   to
                   his
                   first
                   intent
                   ,
                   he
                   thus
                   replies
                   .
                
                 
                   O
                   Mother
                   ,
                   do
                   not
                   by
                   your
                   Tears
                   prepare
                
                 
                   Such
                   boding
                   Omens
                   ,
                   and
                   prejudge
                   the
                   War.
                
                 
                   Resolv'd
                   on
                   Fight
                   ,
                   I
                   am
                   no
                   longer
                   free
                
                 
                   To
                   shun
                   my
                   Death
                   ,
                   if
                   Heav'n
                   my
                   Death
                   decree
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   turning
                   to
                   the
                   Herald
                   ,
                   thus
                   pursues
                   ;
                
                 
                   Go
                   ,
                   greet
                   the
                   Trojan
                   with
                   ungrateful
                   News
                   ,
                
                 
                   Denounce
                   from
                   me
                   ,
                   that
                   when
                   to
                   Morrow's
                   Light
                
                 
                   Shall
                   guild
                   the
                   Heav'ns
                   ,
                   he
                   need
                   not
                   urge
                   the
                   Fight
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Trojan
                   and
                   Rutulian
                   Troops
                   ,
                   no
                   more
                
                 
                   Shall
                   dye
                   ,
                   with
                   mutual
                   Blood
                   ,
                   the
                   Latian
                   Shore
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Our
                   single
                   Swords
                   the
                   Quarrel
                   shall
                   decide
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   to
                   the
                   Victor
                   be
                   the
                   beauteous
                   Bride
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   He
                   said
                   ,
                   and
                   striding
                   on
                   ,
                   with
                   speedy
                   Pace
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   sought
                   his
                   Coursers
                   of
                   the
                   Thracian
                   Race
                   .
                
                 
                   At
                   his
                   Approach
                   ,
                   they
                   toss
                   their
                   Heads
                   on
                   high
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   proudly
                   neighing
                   ,
                   promise
                   Victory
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Sires
                   of
                   these
                   Orythia
                   sent
                   from
                   far
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   grace
                   Pilumnus
                   ,
                   when
                   he
                   went
                   to
                   War.
                
                 
                   The
                   drifts
                   of
                   Thracian
                   Snows
                   were
                   scarce
                   so
                   white
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Northern
                   Winds
                   in
                   fleetness
                   match'd
                   their
                   Flight
                   .
                
                 
                   Officious
                   Grooms
                   stand
                   ready
                   by
                   his
                   Side
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   some
                   with
                   Combs
                   their
                   flowing
                   Manes
                   divide
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   others
                   stroke
                   their
                   Chests
                   ,
                   and
                   gently
                   sooth
                   their
                   Pride
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   He
                   sheath'd
                   his
                   Limbs
                   in
                   Arms
                   ;
                   a
                   temper'd
                   Mass
                
                 
                   Of
                   golden
                   Metal
                   those
                   ,
                   and
                   Mountain
                   Brass
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   to
                   his
                   Head
                   his
                   glitt'ring
                   Helm
                   he
                   ty'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   girt
                   his
                   faithful
                   Fauchion
                   to
                   his
                   side
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   his
                   Aetnean
                   Forge
                   ,
                   the
                   God
                   of
                   Fire
                
                 
                   That
                   Fauchion
                   labour'd
                   sor
                   the
                   Hero's
                   Sire
                   :
                
                 
                   Immortal
                   Keenness
                   on
                   the
                   Blade
                   bestow'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   plung'd
                   it
                   hissing
                   in
                   the
                   Stygian
                   Flood
                   .
                
                 
                   Prop'd
                   on
                   a
                   Pillar
                   ,
                   which
                   the
                   Ceiling
                   bore
                   ,
                
                 
                   Was
                   plac'd
                   the
                   Lance
                   
                     Auruncan
                     Actor
                  
                   wore
                   ;
                
                 
                   Which
                   with
                   such
                   Force
                   he
                   brandish'd
                   in
                   his
                   Hand
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   tough
                   Ash
                   trembled
                   like
                   an
                   Osyer
                   Wand
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   cry'd
                   ,
                   O
                   pond'rous
                   Spoil
                   of
                   Actor
                   slain
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   never
                   yet
                   by
                   Turnus
                   toss'd
                   in
                   vain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fail
                   not
                   this
                   Day
                   thy
                   wonted
                   Force
                   :
                   But
                   go
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sent
                   by
                   this
                   Hand
                   ,
                   to
                   pierce
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Foe
                   :
                
                 
                   Give
                   me
                   to
                   tear
                   his
                   Corslet
                   from
                   his
                   Breast
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   from
                   that
                   Eunuch
                   Head
                   ,
                   to
                   rend
                   the
                   Crest
                   :
                
                 
                   Drag'd
                   in
                   the
                   Dust
                   ,
                   his
                   frizled
                   Hair
                   to
                   soil
                   ;
                
                 
                   Hot
                   from
                   the
                   vexing
                   Ir'n
                   ,
                   and
                   smear'd
                   with
                   fragrant
                   Oyl
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Thus
                   while
                   he
                   raves
                   ,
                   from
                   his
                   wide
                   Nostrils
                   flies
                
                 
                   A
                   fiery
                   Steam
                   ,
                   and
                   Sparkles
                   from
                   his
                   Eyes
                   .
                
                 
                   So
                   fares
                   the
                   Bull
                   in
                   his
                   lov'd
                   Female's
                   sight
                   ;
                
                 
                   Proudly
                   he
                   bellows
                   ,
                   and
                   preludes
                   the
                   fight
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   tries
                   his
                   goring
                   Horns
                   against
                   a
                   Tree
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   meditates
                   his
                   absent
                   Enemy
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   pushes
                   at
                   the
                   Winds
                   ,
                   he
                   digs
                   the
                   Strand
                
                 
                   With
                   his
                   black
                   Hoofs
                   ,
                   and
                   spurns
                   the
                   yellow
                   Sand.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Nor
                   less
                   the
                   Trojan
                   ,
                   in
                   his
                   Lemnian
                   Arms
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   future
                   Fight
                   his
                   Manly
                   Courage
                   warms
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   whets
                   his
                   Fury
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   Joy
                   prepares
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   terminate
                   at
                   once
                   the
                   ling'ring
                   Wars
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   chear
                   his
                   Cheifs
                   ,
                   and
                   tender
                   Son
                   ,
                   relates
                
                 
                   What
                   Heav'n
                   had
                   promis'd
                   ,
                   and
                   expounds
                   the
                   Fates
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   to
                   the
                   Latian
                   King
                   he
                   sends
                   ,
                   to
                   cease
                
                 
                   The
                   Rage
                   of
                   Arms
                   ,
                   and
                   ratifies
                   the
                   Peace
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Morn
                   ensuing
                   from
                   the
                   Mountain's
                   height
                   ,
                
                 
                   Had
                   scarcely
                   spread
                   the
                   Skies
                   with
                   rosie
                   Light
                   ;
                
                 
                   Th'
                   Etherial
                   Coursers
                   bounding
                   from
                   the
                   Sea
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   out
                   their
                   flaming
                   Nostrils
                   breath'd
                   the
                   Day
                   :
                
                 
                   When
                   now
                   the
                   Trojan
                   and
                   Rutulian
                   Guard
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   friendly
                   Labour
                   join'd
                   ,
                   the
                   List
                   prepar'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Beneath
                   the
                   Walls
                   ,
                   they
                   measure
                   out
                   the
                   Space
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   sacred
                   Altars
                   rear
                   ,
                   on
                   sods
                   of
                   Grass
                   ;
                
                 
                   Where
                   ,
                   with
                   Religious
                   Rites
                   ,
                   their
                   common
                   Gods
                   they
                   place
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   purest
                   white
                   ,
                   the
                   Priests
                   their
                   Heads
                   attire
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   living
                   Waters
                   bear
                   ,
                   and
                   holy
                   Fire
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   o're
                   their
                   Linnen
                   Hoods
                   ,
                   and
                   shaded
                   Hair
                   ,
                
                 
                   Long
                   twisted
                   Wreaths
                   of
                   sacred
                   Vervain
                   wear
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   In
                   Order
                   issuing
                   from
                   the
                   Town
                   ,
                   appears
                
                 
                   The
                   Latin
                   Legion
                   ,
                   arm'd
                   with
                   pointed
                   Spears
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   from
                   the
                   Fields
                   ,
                   advancing
                   on
                   a
                   Line
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Trojan
                   and
                   the
                   Tuscan
                   Forces
                   join
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Their
                   various
                   Arms
                   afford
                   a
                   pleasing
                   Sight
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   peaceful
                   Train
                   they
                   seem
                   ,
                   in
                   Peace
                   prepar'd
                   for
                   Fight
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Betwixt
                   the
                   Ranks
                   the
                   proud
                   Commanders
                   ride
                   ,
                
                 
                   Glitt'ring
                   with
                   Gold
                   ,
                   and
                   Vests
                   in
                   Purple
                   dy'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Here
                   Mnestheus
                   Author
                   of
                   the
                   Memmian
                   Line
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   there
                   Messapus
                   born
                   of
                   Seed
                   Divine
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Sign
                   is
                   giv'n
                   ,
                   and
                   round
                   the
                   listed
                   Space
                   ,
                
                 
                   Each
                   Man
                   in
                   order
                   fills
                   his
                   proper
                   Place
                   .
                
                 
                   Reclining
                   on
                   their
                   ample
                   Shields
                   ,
                   they
                   stand
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   fix
                   their
                   pointed
                   Lances
                   in
                   the
                   Sand.
                
                 
                   Now
                   ,
                   studious
                   of
                   the
                   sight
                   ,
                   a
                   num'rous
                   Throng
                
                 
                   Of
                   either
                   Sex
                   promiscuous
                   ,
                   old
                   and
                   young
                   ,
                
                 
                   Swarm
                   from
                   the
                   Town
                   :
                   By
                   those
                   who
                   rest
                   behind
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Gates
                   and
                   Walls
                   ,
                   and
                   Houses
                   tops
                   are
                   lin'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Mean
                   time
                   the
                   Queen
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   beheld
                   the
                   sight
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Eyes
                   unpleas'd
                   ,
                   from
                   Mount
                   
                   Albano's
                   height
                   :
                
                 
                   (
                   Since
                   call'd
                   Albano
                   ,
                   by
                   succeeding
                   Fame
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   then
                   an
                   empty
                   Hill
                   ,
                   without
                   a
                   Name
                   .
                   )
                
                 
                   She
                   thence
                   survey'd
                   the
                   Field
                   ,
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Pow'rs
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Latian
                   Squadrons
                   ,
                   and
                   Laurentine
                   Tow'rs
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   thus
                   the
                   Goddess
                   of
                   the
                   Skies
                   bespake
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Sighs
                   and
                   Tears
                   ,
                   the
                   Goddess
                   of
                   the
                   Lake
                   ;
                
                 
                   King
                   Turnus
                   Sister
                   ,
                   once
                   a
                   lovely
                   Maid
                   ,
                
                 
                   E're
                   to
                   the
                   Lust
                   of
                   lawless
                   Jove
                   betray'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Compress'd
                   by
                   Force
                   ,
                   but
                   by
                   the
                   grateful
                   God
                   ,
                
                 
                   Now
                   made
                   the
                   Nais
                   of
                   the
                   neighb'ring
                   Flood
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   O
                   Nymph
                   ,
                   the
                   Pride
                   of
                   living
                   Lakes
                   ,
                   said
                   she
                   ,
                
                 
                   O
                   most
                   renown'd
                   ,
                   and
                   most
                   belov'd
                   by
                   me
                   ,
                
                 
                   Long
                   hast
                   thou
                   known
                   ,
                   nor
                   need
                   I
                   to
                   record
                
                 
                   The
                   wanton
                   sallies
                   of
                   my
                   wand'ring
                   Lord
                   :
                
                 
                   Of
                   ev'ry
                   Latian
                   fair
                   ,
                   whom
                   Jove
                   mis-led
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   mount
                   by
                   Stealth
                   my
                   violated
                   Bed
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   thee
                   alone
                   I
                   grudg'd
                   not
                   his
                   Embrace
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   gave
                   a
                   part
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   and
                   an
                   unenvy'd
                   Place
                   .
                
              
               
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     y
                     e
                     Hon
                     ble
                     .
                     Brigadier
                     Edward
                     Fitzpatrick
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Now
                   learn
                   from
                   me
                   ,
                   thy
                   near
                   approaching
                   Grief
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   think
                   my
                   Wishes
                   want
                   to
                   thy
                   Relief
                   .
                
                 
                   While
                   fortune
                   favour'd
                   ,
                   nor
                   Heav'n's
                   King
                   deny'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   lend
                   my
                   Succour
                   to
                   the
                   Latian
                   side
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   sav'd
                   thy
                   Brother
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   sinking
                   State
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   now
                   he
                   struggles
                   with
                   unequal
                   Fate
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   goes
                   with
                   Gods
                   averse
                   ,
                   o'rematch'd
                   in
                   Might
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   meet
                   inevitable
                   Death
                   in
                   Fight
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   must
                   I
                   break
                   the
                   Truce
                   ,
                   nor
                   can
                   sustain
                   the
                   sight
                   .
                
                 
                   Thou
                   ,
                   if
                   thou
                   dar'st
                   ,
                   thy
                   present
                   Aid
                   supply
                   ;
                
                 
                   It
                   well
                   becomes
                   a
                   Sister's
                   Care
                   to
                   try
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   At
                   this
                   the
                   lovely
                   Nymph
                   ,
                   with
                   Grief
                   oppress'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thrice
                   tore
                   her
                   Hair
                   ,
                   and
                   beat
                   her
                   comely
                   Breast
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   whom
                   Saturnia
                   thus
                   ;
                   thy
                   Tears
                   are
                   late
                   ;
                
                 
                   Haste
                   ,
                   snatch
                   him
                   ,
                   if
                   he
                   can
                   be
                   snatch'd
                   from
                   Fate
                   :
                
                 
                   New
                   Tumults
                   kindle
                   ,
                   violate
                   the
                   Truce
                   ;
                
                 
                   Who
                   knows
                   what
                   changeful
                   Fortune
                   may
                   produce
                   ?
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   not
                   a
                   Crime
                   t'
                   attempt
                   what
                   I
                   decree
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   if
                   it
                   were
                   ,
                   discharge
                   the
                   Crime
                   on
                   me
                   .
                
                 
                   She
                   said
                   ,
                   and
                   ,
                   sailing
                   on
                   the
                   winged
                   Wind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Left
                   the
                   sad
                   Nymph
                   suspended
                   in
                   her
                   Mind
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   now
                   in
                   Pomp
                   the
                   peaceful
                   Kings
                   appear
                   :
                
                 
                   Four
                   Steeds
                   the
                   Chariot
                   of
                   Latinus
                   bear
                   :
                
                 
                   Twelve
                   golden
                   Beams
                   around
                   his
                   Temples
                   play
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   mark
                   his
                   Lineage
                   from
                   the
                   God
                   of
                   Day
                   .
                
                 
                   Two
                   snowy
                   Coursers
                   
                   Turnus's
                   Chariot
                   yoke
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   his
                   Hand
                   two
                   Massy
                   Spears
                   he
                   shook
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   issu'd
                   from
                   the
                   Camp
                   ,
                   in
                   Arms
                   Divine
                   ,
                
                 
                   Aeneas
                   ,
                   Author
                   of
                   the
                   Roman
                   Line
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   by
                   his
                   side
                   Ascanius
                   took
                   his
                   Place
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   second
                   Hope
                   of
                   
                   Rome's
                   Immortal
                   Race
                   .
                
                 
                   Adorn'd
                   in
                   white
                   ,
                   a
                   rev'rend
                   Priest
                   appears
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Off'rings
                   to
                   the
                   flaming
                   Altars
                   bears
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   Porket
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   Lamb
                   ,
                   that
                   never
                   suffer'd
                   Shears
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   to
                   the
                   rising
                   Sun
                   he
                   turns
                   his
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   strews
                   the
                   Beasts
                   ,
                   design'd
                   for
                   Sacrifice
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Salt
                   ,
                   and
                   Meal
                   :
                   With
                   like
                   officious
                   Care
                
                 
                   He
                   marks
                   their
                   Foreheads
                   ,
                   and
                   he
                   clips
                   their
                   Hair.
                
                 
                   Betwixt
                   their
                   Horns
                   the
                   Purple
                   Wine
                   he
                   sheds
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   the
                   same
                   gen'rous
                   Juice
                   the
                   Flame
                   he
                   feeds
                   .
                
                 
                   Aeneas
                   then
                   unsheath'd
                   his
                   shining
                   Sword
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   thus
                   with
                   pious
                   Pray'rs
                   the
                   Gods
                   ador'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   All-seeing
                   Sun
                   ,
                   and
                   thou
                   Ausonian
                   Soil
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   which
                   I
                   have
                   sustain'd
                   so
                   long
                   a
                   Toil
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thou
                   King
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   and
                   thou
                   the
                   Queen
                   of
                   Air
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   Propitious
                   now
                   ,
                   and
                   reconcil'd
                   by
                   Pray'r
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                   Thou
                   God
                   of
                   War
                   ,
                   whose
                   unresisted
                   Sway
                
                 
                   The
                   Labours
                   and
                   Events
                   of
                   Arms
                   obey
                   ;
                
                 
                   Ye
                   living
                   Fountains
                   ,
                   and
                   ye
                   running
                   Floods
                   ,
                
                 
                   All
                   Pow'rs
                   of
                   Ocean
                   ,
                   all
                   Etherial
                   Gods
                   ,
                
                 
                   Hear
                   ,
                   and
                   bear
                   Record
                   :
                   if
                   I
                   fall
                   in
                   Field
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   Recreant
                   in
                   the
                   Fight
                   ,
                   to
                   Turnus
                   yield
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Trojans
                   shall
                   encrease
                   
                   Evander's
                   Town
                   ;
                
                 
                   Ascanius
                   shall
                   renounce
                   th'
                   Ausonian
                   Crown
                   :
                
                 
                   All
                   Claims
                   ,
                   all
                   Questions
                   of
                   Debate
                   shall
                   cease
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   he
                   ,
                   nor
                   they
                   ,
                   with
                   Force
                   infringe
                   the
                   Peace
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   if
                   my
                   juster
                   Arms
                   prevail
                   in
                   Fight
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   sure
                   they
                   shall
                   ,
                   if
                   I
                   divine
                   aright
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Trojans
                   shall
                   not
                   o're
                   th'
                   Italians
                   Reign
                   ;
                
                 
                   Both
                   equal
                   ,
                   both
                   unconquer'd
                   shall
                   remain
                   :
                
                 
                   Join'd
                   in
                   their
                   Laws
                   ,
                   their
                   Lands
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   Abodes
                   ;
                
                 
                   I
                   ask
                   but
                   Altars
                   for
                   my
                   weary
                   Gods
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Care
                   of
                   those
                   Religious
                   Rites
                   be
                   mine
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Crown
                   to
                   King
                   Latinus
                   I
                   resign
                   :
                
                 
                   His
                   be
                   the
                   Sov'raign
                   Sway.
                   Nor
                   will
                   I
                   share
                
                 
                   His
                   Pow'r
                   in
                   Peace
                   ,
                   or
                   his
                   Command
                   in
                   War.
                
                 
                   For
                   me
                   ,
                   my
                   Friends
                   another
                   Town
                   shall
                   frame
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   bless
                   the
                   rising
                   Tow'rs
                   ,
                   with
                   fair
                   
                   Lavinia's
                   Name
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Thus
                   he
                   .
                   Then
                   with
                   erected
                   Eyes
                   and
                   Hands
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Latian
                   King
                   before
                   his
                   Altar
                   stands
                   .
                
                 
                   By
                   the
                   same
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   said
                   he
                   ,
                   and
                   Earth
                   ,
                   and
                   Main
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   the
                   Pow'rs
                   ,
                   that
                   all
                   the
                   three
                   contain
                   ;
                
                 
                   By
                   Hell
                   below
                   ,
                   and
                   by
                   that
                   upper
                   God
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whose
                   Thunder
                   signs
                   the
                   Peace
                   ,
                   who
                   seals
                   it
                   with
                   his
                   Nod
                   ;
                
                 
                   So
                   let
                   
                   Latona's
                   double
                   Offspring
                   hear
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   double
                   fronted
                   Janus
                   ,
                   what
                   I
                   swear
                   ;
                
                 
                   I
                   touch
                   the
                   sacred
                   Altars
                   ,
                   touch
                   the
                   Flames
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   those
                   Pow'rs
                   attest
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   their
                   Names
                   :
                
                 
                   Whatever
                   Chance
                   befall
                   on
                   either
                   Side
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   term
                   of
                   time
                   this
                   Union
                   shall
                   divide
                   :
                
                 
                   No
                   Force
                   ,
                   no
                   Fortune
                   ,
                   shall
                   my
                   Vows
                   unbind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   shake
                   the
                   stedfast
                   Tenour
                   of
                   my
                   Mind
                   :
                
                 
                   Not
                   tho'
                   the
                   circling
                   Seas
                   shou'd
                   break
                   their
                   Bound
                   ,
                
                 
                   O'reflow
                   the
                   Shores
                   ,
                   or
                   sap
                   the
                   solid
                   Ground
                   ;
                
                 
                   Not
                   tho'
                   the
                   Lamps
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   their
                   Spheres
                   forsake
                   ,
                
                 
                   Hurl'd
                   down
                   ,
                   and
                   hissing
                   in
                   the
                   neather
                   Lake
                   :
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   as
                   this
                   Royal
                   Scepter
                   ,
                   (
                   for
                   he
                   bore
                
                 
                   A
                   Scepter
                   in
                   his
                   Hand
                   )
                   shall
                   never
                   more
                
                 
                   Shoot
                   out
                   in
                   Branches
                   ,
                   or
                   renew
                   the
                   Birth
                   ;
                
                 
                   (
                   An
                   Orphan
                   now
                   ,
                   cut
                   from
                   the
                   Mother
                   Earth
                
                 
                   By
                   the
                   keen
                   Axe
                   ,
                   dishonour'd
                   of
                   its
                   Hair
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   cas'd
                   in
                   Brass
                   ,
                   for
                   Latian
                   Kings
                   to
                   bear
                   .
                   )
                
              
               
                 
                   When
                   thus
                   in
                   publick
                   view
                   the
                   Peace
                   was
                   ty'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   solemn
                   Vows
                   ,
                   and
                   sworn
                   on
                   either
                   side
                   ,
                
                 
                   All
                   dues
                   perform'd
                   which
                   holy
                   Rites
                   require
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Victim
                   Beasts
                   are
                   slain
                   before
                   the
                   Fire
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   trembling
                   Entrails
                   from
                   their
                   Bodies
                   torn
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   to
                   the
                   fatten'd
                   Flames
                   in
                   Chargers
                   born
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Already
                   the
                   Rutulians
                   deem'd
                   their
                   Man
                
                 
                   O'rematch'd
                   in
                   Arms
                   ,
                   before
                   the
                   Fight
                   began
                   .
                
                 
                   First
                   rising
                   Fears
                   are
                   whisper'd
                   thro'
                   the
                   Crowd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   gath'ring
                   sound
                   ,
                   they
                   murmur
                   more
                   aloud
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Now
                   side
                   to
                   side
                   ,
                   they
                   measure
                   with
                   their
                   Eyes
                
                 
                   The
                   Champions
                   bulk
                   ,
                   their
                   Sinews
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   Sise
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   nearer
                   they
                   approach
                   ,
                   the
                   more
                   is
                   known
                
                 
                   Th'
                   apparent
                   Disadvantage
                   of
                   their
                   own
                   .
                
                 
                   Turnus
                   himself
                   ,
                   appears
                   in
                   publick
                   sight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Conscious
                   of
                   Fate
                   ,
                   desponding
                   of
                   the
                   Fight
                   .
                
                 
                   Slowly
                   he
                   moves
                   ;
                   and
                   at
                   his
                   Altar
                   stands
                
                 
                   With
                   eyes
                   dejected
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   trembling
                   hands
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   while
                   he
                   mutters
                   undistinguish'd
                   Pray'rs
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   livid
                   deadness
                   in
                   his
                   Cheeks
                   appears
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   With
                   anxious
                   Pleasure
                   when
                   Juturna
                   view'd
                
                 
                   Th'
                   increasing
                   Fright
                   of
                   the
                   mad
                   Multitude
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   their
                   short
                   Sighs
                   ,
                   and
                   thickning
                   Sobs
                   she
                   heard
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   found
                   their
                   ready
                   Minds
                   for
                   Change
                   prepar'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Dissembling
                   her
                   immortal
                   Form
                   ,
                   she
                   took
                
                 
                   Camertus
                   Meen
                   ,
                   his
                   Habit
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Look
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   Chief
                   of
                   ancient
                   Blood
                   :
                   in
                   Arms
                   well
                   known
                
                 
                   Was
                   his
                   great
                   Sire
                   ,
                   and
                   he
                   ,
                   his
                   greater
                   Son.
                
                 
                   His
                   Shape
                   assum'd
                   ,
                   amid
                   the
                   Ranks
                   she
                   ran
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   humouring
                   their
                   first
                   Motions
                   ,
                   thus
                   began
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   For
                   shame
                   ,
                   Rutulians
                   ,
                   can
                   you
                   bear
                   the
                   sight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   one
                   expos'd
                   for
                   all
                   ,
                   in
                   single
                   Fight
                   ?
                
                 
                   Can
                   we
                   ,
                   before
                   the
                   Face
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   confess
                
                 
                   Our
                   Courage
                   colder
                   ,
                   or
                   our
                   Numbers
                   less
                   ?
                
                 
                   View
                   all
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Hoast
                   ,
                   th'
                   Arcadian
                   Band
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Tuscan
                   Army
                   ;
                   count
                   'em
                   as
                   they
                   stand
                   ,
                
                 
                   Undaunted
                   to
                   the
                   Battel
                   ,
                   if
                   we
                   goe
                   ,
                
                 
                   Scarce
                   ev'ry
                   second
                   Man
                   will
                   share
                   a
                   Foe
                   .
                
                 
                   Turnus
                   ,
                   't
                   is
                   true
                   ,
                   in
                   this
                   unequal
                   Strife
                
                 
                   Shall
                   lose
                   ,
                   with
                   Honour
                   ,
                   his
                   devoted
                   Life
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   change
                   it
                   rather
                   for
                   immortal
                   Fame
                   ,
                
                 
                   Succeeding
                   to
                   the
                   Gods
                   ,
                   from
                   whence
                   he
                   came
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   you
                   ,
                   a
                   servile
                   ,
                   and
                   inglorious
                   Band
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   Foreign
                   Lords
                   shall
                   sow
                   your
                   Native
                   Land
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Those
                   fruitful
                   Fields
                   ,
                   your
                   fighting
                   Fathers
                   gain'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   have
                   so
                   long
                   their
                   lazy
                   Sons
                   sustain'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   With
                   Words
                   like
                   these
                   ,
                   she
                   carry'd
                   her
                   Design
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   rising
                   Murmur
                   runs
                   along
                   the
                   Line
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ev'n
                   the
                   City
                   Troops
                   ,
                   and
                   Latians
                   ,
                   tir'd
                
                 
                   With
                   tedious
                   War
                   ,
                   seem
                   with
                   new
                   Souls
                   inspir'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Their
                   Champion's
                   Fate
                   with
                   Pity
                   they
                   lament
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   of
                   the
                   League
                   ,
                   so
                   lately
                   sworn
                   ,
                   repent
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Nor
                   fails
                   the
                   Goddess
                   to
                   foment
                   the
                   Rage
                
                 
                   With
                   lying
                   Wonders
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   false
                   Presage
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   adds
                   a
                   Sign
                   ,
                   which
                   ,
                   present
                   to
                   their
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Inspires
                   new
                   Courage
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   glad
                   Surprize
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   ,
                   sudden
                   ,
                   in
                   the
                   fiery
                   Tracts
                   above
                   ,
                
                 
                   Appears
                   in
                   Pomp
                   th'
                   Imperial
                   Bird
                   of
                   Jove
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   plump
                   of
                   Fowl
                   he
                   spies
                   ,
                   that
                   swim
                   the
                   Lakes
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   o're
                   their
                   Heads
                   his
                   sounding
                   Pinions
                   shakes
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   stooping
                   on
                   the
                   fairest
                   of
                   the
                   Train
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   his
                   strong
                   Tallons
                   truss'd
                   a
                   silver
                   Swan
                   .
                
                 
                   Th'
                   Italians
                   wonder
                   at
                   th'
                   unusual
                   sight
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   while
                   he
                   lags
                   ,
                   and
                   labours
                   in
                   his
                   flight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Behold
                   the
                   Dastard
                   Fowl
                   return
                   anew
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   united
                   force
                   the
                   Foe
                   pursue
                   :
                
                 
                   Clam'rous
                   around
                   the
                   Royal
                   Hawk
                   they
                   fly
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   thick'ning
                   in
                   a
                   Cloud
                   ,
                   o'reshade
                   the
                   Sky
                   .
                
                 
                   They
                   cuff
                   ,
                   they
                   scratch
                   ,
                   they
                   cross
                   his
                   airy
                   Course
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   can
                   th'
                   incumber'd
                   Bird
                   sustain
                   their
                   Force
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   vex'd
                   ,
                   not
                   vanquish'd
                   ,
                   drops
                   the
                   pond'rous
                   Prey
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   lighten'd
                   of
                   his
                   Burthen
                   ,
                   wings
                   his
                   Way
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Th'
                   Ausonian
                   Bands
                   with
                   Shouts
                   salute
                   the
                   sight
                   :
                
                 
                   Eager
                   of
                   Action
                   ,
                   and
                   demand
                   the
                   Fight
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   King
                   Tolumnius
                   ,
                   vers'd
                   in
                   Augur's
                   Arts
                   ,
                
                 
                   Cries
                   out
                   ,
                   and
                   thus
                   his
                   boasted
                   Skill
                   imparts
                   .
                
                 
                   At
                   length
                   't
                   is
                   granted
                   ,
                   what
                   I
                   long
                   desir'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   This
                   ,
                   this
                   is
                   what
                   my
                   frequent
                   Vows
                   requir'd
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Ye
                   Gods
                   ,
                   I
                   take
                   your
                   Omen
                   ,
                   and
                   obey
                   ;
                
                 
                   Advance
                   ,
                   my
                   Friends
                   ,
                   and
                   charge
                   ,
                   I
                   lead
                   the
                   Way
                   .
                
                 
                   These
                   are
                   the
                   Foreign
                   Foes
                   ,
                   whose
                   impious
                   Band
                   ,
                
                 
                   Like
                   that
                   rapacious
                   Bird
                   ,
                   infest
                   our
                   Land
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   soon
                   ,
                   like
                   him
                   ,
                   they
                   shall
                   be
                   forc'd
                   to
                   Sea
                
                 
                   By
                   Strength
                   united
                   ,
                   and
                   forego
                   the
                   Prey
                   :
                
                 
                   Your
                   timely
                   Succour
                   to
                   your
                   Country
                   bring
                   ;
                
                 
                   Haste
                   to
                   the
                   Rescue
                   ;
                   and
                   redeem
                   your
                   King.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   He
                   said
                   :
                   And
                   pressing
                   onward
                   ,
                   thro'
                   the
                   Crew
                   ,
                
                 
                   Poiz'd
                   in
                   his
                   lifted
                   Arm
                   ,
                   his
                   Lance
                   he
                   threw
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   winged
                   Weapon
                   ,
                   whistling
                   in
                   the
                   Wind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Came
                   driving
                   on
                   ;
                   nor
                   miss'd
                   the
                   Mark
                   design'd
                   .
                
                 
                   At
                   once
                   the
                   Cornel
                   rattled
                   in
                   the
                   Skies
                   ;
                
                 
                   At
                   once
                   tumultuous
                   Shouts
                   ,
                   and
                   Clamours
                   rise
                   .
                
                 
                   Nine
                   Brothers
                   in
                   a
                   goodly
                   Band
                   there
                   stood
                   ,
                
                 
                   Born
                   of
                   Arcadian
                   mix'd
                   with
                   Tuscan
                   Blood
                   :
                
                 
                   Gylippus
                   Sons
                   :
                   The
                   fatal
                   Jav'lin
                   flew
                   ,
                
                 
                   Aim'd
                   at
                   the
                   midmost
                   of
                   the
                   friendly
                   Crew
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   Passage
                   thro'
                   the
                   jointed
                   Arms
                   it
                   found
                   ,
                
                 
                   Just
                   where
                   the
                   Belt
                   was
                   to
                   the
                   Body
                   bound
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   struck
                   the
                   gentle
                   Youth
                   ,
                   extended
                   on
                   the
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   fir'd
                   with
                   pious
                   Rage
                   ,
                   the
                   gen'rous
                   Train
                
                 
                   Run
                   madly
                   forward
                   ,
                   to
                   revenge
                   the
                   slain
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   some
                   with
                   eager
                   haste
                   their
                   Jav'lins
                   throw
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   some
                   ,
                   with
                   Sword
                   in
                   hand
                   ,
                   assault
                   the
                   Foe
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   wish'd
                   Insult
                   the
                   Latine
                   Troops
                   embrace
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   meet
                   their
                   Ardour
                   in
                   the
                   middle
                   Space
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   
                     Trojans
                     ,
                     Tuscans
                  
                   ,
                   and
                   Arcadian
                   Line
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   equal
                   Courage
                   obviate
                   their
                   Design
                   .
                
                 
                   Peace
                   leaves
                   the
                   violated
                   Fields
                   ;
                   and
                   Hate
                
                 
                   Both
                   Armies
                   urges
                   to
                   their
                   mutual
                   Fate
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   impious
                   Haste
                   their
                   Altars
                   are
                   o'return'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Sacrifice
                   half
                   broil'd
                   ,
                   and
                   half
                   unburn'd
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Thick
                   Storms
                   of
                   Steel
                   from
                   either
                   Army
                   fly
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Clouds
                   of
                   clashing
                   Darts
                   obscure
                   the
                   Sky
                   :
                
                 
                   Brands
                   from
                   the
                   Fire
                   ,
                   are
                   missive
                   Weapons
                   made
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   Chargers
                   ,
                   Bowls
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   the
                   Priestly
                   Trade
                   .
                
                 
                   Latinus
                   frighted
                   ,
                   hastens
                   from
                   the
                   Fray
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   bears
                   his
                   unregarded
                   Gods
                   away
                   .
                
                 
                   These
                   on
                   their
                   Horses
                   vault
                   ,
                   those
                   yoke
                   the
                   Car
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   rest
                   with
                   Swords
                   on
                   high
                   ,
                   run
                   headlong
                   to
                   the
                   War.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Messapus
                   ,
                   eager
                   to
                   confound
                   the
                   Peace
                   ,
                
                 
                   Spurr'd
                   his
                   hot
                   Courser
                   thro'
                   the
                   fighting
                   Preace
                   ,
                
                 
                   At
                   King
                   Aulestes
                   ;
                   by
                   his
                   Purple
                   known
                
                 
                   A
                   Tuscan
                   Prince
                   ,
                   and
                   by
                   his
                   Regal
                   Crown
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   a
                   Shock
                   encount'ring
                   ,
                   bore
                   him
                   down
                   .
                
                 
                   Backward
                   he
                   fell
                   ;
                   and
                   as
                   his
                   Fate
                   design'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Ruins
                   of
                   an
                   Altar
                   were
                   behind
                   :
                
                 
                   There
                   pitching
                   on
                   his
                   Shoulders
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Head
                   ,
                
                 
                   Amid
                   the
                   scatt'ring
                   Fires
                   he
                   lay
                   supinely
                   spread
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   beamy
                   Spear
                   ,
                   descending
                   from
                   above
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Cuirass
                   pierc'd
                   ,
                   and
                   thro'
                   his
                   Body
                   drove
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   scornful
                   Smile
                   ,
                   the
                   Victor
                   cries
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Gods
                   have
                   found
                   a
                   fitter
                   Sacrifice
                   .
                
                 
                   Greedy
                   of
                   Spoils
                   ,
                   th'
                   Italians
                   strip
                   the
                   dead
                
                 
                   Of
                   his
                   rich
                   Armour
                   ;
                   and
                   uncrown
                   his
                   Head.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Priest
                   Chorinaeus
                   arm'd
                   his
                   better
                   Hand
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   his
                   own
                   Altar
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   blazing
                   Brand
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   as
                   Ebusus
                   with
                   a
                   thund'ring
                   Pace
                
                 
                   Advanc'd
                   to
                   Battel
                   ,
                   dash'd
                   it
                   on
                   his
                   Face
                   :
                
                 
                   His
                   bristly
                   Beard
                   shines
                   out
                   with
                   sudden
                   Fires
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   crackling
                   Crop
                   a
                   noisom
                   scent
                   expires
                   .
                
                 
                   Following
                   the
                   blow
                   ,
                   he
                   seiz'd
                   his
                   curling
                   Crown
                
                 
                   With
                   his
                   left
                   Hand
                   ;
                   his
                   other
                   cast
                   him
                   down
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   prostrate
                   Body
                   with
                   his
                   Knees
                   he
                   press'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   plung'd
                   his
                   holy
                   Ponyard
                   in
                   his
                   Breast
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   While
                   Podalirius
                   ,
                   with
                   his
                   Sword
                   ,
                   pursu'd
                
                 
                   The
                   Shepherd
                   Alsus
                   thro'
                   the
                   flying
                   Crowd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Swiftly
                   he
                   turns
                   ;
                   and
                   aims
                   a
                   deadly
                   blow
                   ,
                
                 
                   Full
                   on
                   the
                   Front
                   of
                   his
                   unwary
                   Foe
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   broad
                   Axe
                   enters
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   crashing
                   Sound
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   cleaves
                   the
                   Chin
                   ,
                   with
                   one
                   continu'd
                   Wound
                   :
                
                 
                   Warm
                   Blood
                   ,
                   and
                   mingled
                   Brains
                   ,
                   besmear
                   his
                   Arms
                   around
                   .
                
                 
                   An
                   Iron
                   Sleep
                   his
                   stupid
                   Eyes
                   oppress'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   seal'd
                   their
                   heavy
                   Lids
                   in
                   endless
                   rest
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   good
                   Aeneas
                   rush'd
                   amid
                   the
                   Bands
                   ,
                
                 
                   Bare
                   was
                   his
                   Head
                   ,
                   and
                   naked
                   were
                   his
                   Hands
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   sign
                   of
                   Truce
                   :
                   Then
                   thus
                   he
                   cries
                   aloud
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   sudden
                   Rage
                   ,
                   what
                   new
                   Desire
                   of
                   Blood
                
                 
                   Inflames
                   your
                   alter'd
                   Minds
                   ?
                   O
                   Trojans
                   cease
                
                 
                   From
                   impious
                   Arms
                   ,
                   nor
                   violate
                   the
                   Peace
                   .
                
                 
                   By
                   Human
                   Sanctions
                   ,
                   and
                   by
                   Laws
                   Divine
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Terms
                   are
                   all
                   agreed
                   ,
                   the
                   War
                   is
                   mine
                   .
                
                 
                   Dismiss
                   your
                   Fears
                   ,
                   and
                   let
                   the
                   Fight
                   ensue
                   ;
                
                 
                   This
                   Hand
                   alone
                   shall
                   right
                   the
                   Gods
                   and
                   you
                   :
                
                 
                   Our
                   injur'd
                   Altars
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   broken
                   Vow
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   this
                   avenging
                   Sword
                   the
                   faithless
                   Turnus
                   owe.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Thus
                   while
                   he
                   spoke
                   ,
                   unmindful
                   of
                   Defence
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   winged
                   Arrow
                   struck
                   the
                   Pious
                   Prince
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   whether
                   from
                   some
                   Human
                   Hand
                   it
                   came
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   Hostile
                   God
                   ,
                   is
                   left
                   unknown
                   by
                   Fame
                   :
                
                 
                   No
                   Human
                   Hand
                   ,
                   or
                   Hostile
                   God
                   was
                   found
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   boast
                   the
                   Triumph
                   of
                   so
                   base
                   a
                   Wound
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   When
                   Turnus
                   saw
                   the
                   Trojan
                   quit
                   the
                   Plain
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Chiefs
                   dismay'd
                   ,
                   his
                   Troops
                   a
                   fainting
                   Train
                   :
                
                 
                   Th'
                   unhop'd
                   Event
                   his
                   heighten'd
                   Soul
                   inspires
                   ,
                
                 
                   At
                   once
                   his
                   Arms
                   and
                   Coursers
                   he
                   requires
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   leap
                   ,
                   his
                   lofty
                   Chariot
                   gains
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   a
                   ready
                   hand
                   assumes
                   the
                   Reins
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   He
                   drives
                   impetuous
                   ,
                   and
                   where
                   e're
                   he
                   goes
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   leaves
                   behind
                   a
                   Lane
                   of
                   slaughter'd
                   Foes
                   .
                
                 
                   These
                   his
                   Lance
                   reaches
                   ,
                   over
                   those
                   he
                   rowls
                
                 
                   His
                   rapid
                   Car
                   ,
                   and
                   crushes
                   out
                   their
                   Souls
                   :
                
                 
                   In
                   vain
                   the
                   vanquish'd
                   fly
                   ;
                   the
                   Victor
                   sends
                
                 
                   The
                   dead
                   Mens
                   Weapons
                   at
                   their
                   living
                   Friends
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Thus
                   on
                   the
                   Banks
                   of
                   Hebrus
                   freezing
                   Flood
                
                 
                   The
                   God
                   of
                   Battel
                   's
                   in
                   his
                   angry
                   Mood
                   ,
                
                 
                   Clashing
                   his
                   Sword
                   against
                   his
                   brazen
                   Shield
                   ,
                
                 
                   Le
                   ts
                   loose
                   the
                   Reins
                   ,
                   and
                   scours
                   along
                   the
                   Field
                   :
                
                 
                   Before
                   the
                   Wind
                   his
                   fiery
                   Coursers
                   fly
                   ,
                
                 
                   Groans
                   the
                   sad
                   Earth
                   ,
                   resounds
                   the
                   ratling
                   Sky
                   .
                
                 
                   Wrath
                   ,
                   Terror
                   ,
                   Treason
                   ,
                   Tumult
                   ,
                   and
                   Despair
                   ,
                
                 
                   Dire
                   Faces
                   ,
                   and
                   deform'd
                   ,
                   surround
                   the
                   Car
                   ;
                
                 
                   Friends
                   of
                   the
                   God
                   ,
                   and
                   Followers
                   of
                   the
                   War.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   With
                   Fury
                   not
                   unlike
                   ,
                   nor
                   less
                   Disdain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Exulting
                   Turnus
                   flies
                   along
                   the
                   Plain
                   :
                
                 
                   His
                   smoaking
                   Horses
                   ,
                   at
                   their
                   utmost
                   Speed
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   lashes
                   on
                   ;
                   and
                   urges
                   o're
                   the
                   dead
                   .
                
                 
                   Their
                   Fetlocks
                   run
                   with
                   Blood
                   ;
                   and
                   when
                   they
                   bound
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Gore
                   ,
                   and
                   gath'ring
                   Dust
                   ,
                   are
                   dash'd
                   around
                   .
                
                 
                   Thamyris
                   and
                   Pholus
                   ,
                   Masters
                   of
                   the
                   War
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   kill'd
                   at
                   hand
                   ,
                   but
                   Sthelenus
                   afar
                   :
                
                 
                   From
                   far
                   the
                   Sons
                   of
                   Imbracus
                   he
                   slew
                   ,
                
                 
                   Glaucus
                   ,
                   and
                   Lades
                   ,
                   of
                   the
                   Lycian
                   Crew
                   :
                
                 
                   Both
                   taught
                   to
                   fight
                   on
                   Foot
                   ,
                   in
                   Battel
                   join'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   mount
                   the
                   Courser
                   that
                   outstrips
                   the
                   Wind.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Mean
                   time
                   Eumedes
                   ,
                   vaunting
                   in
                   the
                   Field
                   ,
                
                 
                   New
                   fir'd
                   the
                   Trojans
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   Foes
                   repell'd
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   Son
                   of
                   Dolon
                   bore
                   his
                   Grandsire's
                   Name
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   emulated
                   more
                   his
                   Father's
                   Fame
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   guileful
                   Father
                   ,
                   sent
                   a
                   nightly
                   Spy
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Grecian
                   Camp
                   and
                   Order
                   to
                   descry
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Hard
                   Enterprise
                   ,
                   and
                   well
                   he
                   might
                   require
                
                 
                   Achilles
                   Carr
                   ,
                   and
                   Horses
                   for
                   his
                   hire
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   ,
                   met
                   upon
                   the
                   Scout
                   ,
                   th'
                   Etolian
                   Prince
                
                 
                   In
                   Death
                   bestow'd
                   a
                   juster
                   Recompence
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Fierce
                   Turnus
                   view'd
                   the
                   Trojan
                   from
                   afar
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   lanch'd
                   his
                   Jav'lin
                   from
                   his
                   lofty
                   Carr
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   lightly
                   leaping
                   down
                   pursu'd
                   the
                   Blow
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   pressing
                   with
                   his
                   Foot
                   ,
                   his
                   prostrate
                   Foe
                   ,
                
                 
                   Wrench'd
                   from
                   his
                   feeble
                   hold
                   the
                   shining
                   Sword
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   plung'd
                   it
                   in
                   the
                   Bosom
                   of
                   its
                   Lord.
                
                 
                   Possess
                   ,
                   said
                   he
                   ,
                   the
                   fruit
                   of
                   all
                   thy
                   Pains
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   measure
                   ,
                   at
                   thy
                   length
                   ,
                   our
                   Latian
                   Plains
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   are
                   my
                   Foes
                   rewarded
                   by
                   my
                   hand
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thus
                   may
                   they
                   build
                   their
                   Town
                   ,
                   and
                   thus
                   enjoy
                   the
                   Land.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   
                     Dares
                     ,
                     Butes
                     ,
                     Sybaris
                  
                   he
                   slew
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whom
                   o're
                   his
                   Neck
                   his
                   flound'ring
                   Courser
                   threw
                   .
                
                 
                   As
                   when
                   loud
                   Boreas
                   with
                   his
                   blust'ring
                   Train
                   ,
                
                 
                   Stoops
                   from
                   above
                   ,
                   incumbent
                   on
                   the
                   Main
                   ;
                
                 
                   Where
                   e're
                   he
                   flies
                   ,
                   he
                   drives
                   the
                   Rack
                   before
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   rowls
                   the
                   Billows
                   on
                   th'
                   Aegean
                   Shore
                   :
                
                 
                   So
                   where
                   resistless
                   Turnus
                   takes
                   his
                   Course
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   scatter'd
                   Squadrons
                   bend
                   before
                   his
                   force
                   :
                
                 
                   His
                   Crest
                   of
                   Horses
                   Hair
                   is
                   blown
                   behind
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   adverse
                   Air
                   ;
                   and
                   rustles
                   in
                   the
                   Wind.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   This
                   ,
                   haughty
                   Phegeus
                   saw
                   with
                   high
                   Disdain
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   as
                   the
                   Chariot
                   rowl'd
                   along
                   the
                   Plain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Light
                   from
                   the
                   Ground
                   he
                   leapt
                   ,
                   and
                   seiz'd
                   the
                   Rein.
                
                 
                   Thus
                   hung
                   in
                   Air
                   ,
                   he
                   still
                   retain'd
                   his
                   hold
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Coursers
                   frighted
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   Course
                   control'd
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Lance
                   of
                   Turnus
                   reach'd
                   him
                   as
                   he
                   hung
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   pierc'd
                   his
                   plated
                   Arms
                   ;
                   but
                   pass'd
                   along
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   only
                   raz'd
                   the
                   Skin
                   :
                   he
                   turn'd
                   ,
                   and
                   held
                
                 
                   Against
                   his
                   threat'ning
                   Foe
                   his
                   ample
                   Shield
                   :
                
              
               
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     Thomas
                     Hobbs
                     D
                     r
                     :
                     in
                     Phisic
                  
                   
                     En
                     :
                     12.
                     l
                     570.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Then
                   call'd
                   for
                   Aid
                   :
                   but
                   while
                   he
                   cry'd
                   in
                   vain
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Chariot
                   bore
                   him
                   backward
                   on
                   the
                   Plain
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   lies
                   revers'd
                   ;
                   the
                   Victor
                   King
                   descends
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   strikes
                   so
                   justly
                   where
                   his
                   Helmet
                   ends
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   lops
                   the
                   Head.
                   The
                   Latian
                   Fields
                   are
                   drunk
                
                 
                   With
                   streams
                   that
                   issue
                   from
                   the
                   bleeding
                   Trunk
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   While
                   he
                   triumphs
                   ,
                   and
                   while
                   the
                   Trojans
                   yield
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   wounded
                   Prince
                   is
                   forc'd
                   to
                   leave
                   the
                   Field
                   :
                
                 
                   Strong
                   Mnestheus
                   ,
                   and
                   Achates
                   often
                   try'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   young
                   Ascanius
                   ,
                   weeping
                   by
                   his
                   side
                   ,
                
                 
                   Conduct
                   him
                   to
                   his
                   Tent
                   :
                   Scarce
                   can
                   he
                   rear
                
                 
                   His
                   Limbs
                   from
                   Earth
                   ,
                   supported
                   on
                   his
                   Spear
                   .
                
                 
                   Resolv'd
                   in
                   Mind
                   ,
                   regardless
                   of
                   the
                   Smart
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   tugs
                   with
                   both
                   his
                   Hands
                   ,
                   and
                   breaks
                   the
                   Dart.
                
                 
                   The
                   Steel
                   remains
                   .
                   No
                   readier
                   way
                   he
                   found
                
                 
                   To
                   draw
                   the
                   Weapon
                   ,
                   than
                   t'
                   inlarge
                   the
                   Wound
                   .
                
                 
                   Eager
                   of
                   Fight
                   ,
                   impatient
                   of
                   delay
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   begs
                   ;
                   and
                   his
                   unwilling
                   Friends
                   obey
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Iapis
                   was
                   at
                   hand
                   to
                   prove
                   his
                   Art
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whose
                   blooming
                   Youth
                   so
                   fir'd
                   
                   Apollo's
                   Heart
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   for
                   his
                   Love
                   he
                   proffer'd
                   to
                   bestow
                
                 
                   His
                   tuneful
                   Harp
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   unerring
                   Bow.
                
                 
                   The
                   pious
                   Youth
                   ,
                   more
                   studious
                   how
                   to
                   save
                
                 
                   His
                   aged
                   Sire
                   ,
                   now
                   sinking
                   to
                   the
                   Grave
                   ,
                
                 
                   Pr●ferr'd
                   the
                   pow'r
                   of
                   Plants
                   ,
                   and
                   silent
                   Praise
                
                 
                   Of
                   healing
                   Arts
                   ,
                   before
                   Phoebeian
                   Bays
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Prop'd
                   on
                   his
                   Lance
                   the
                   pensive
                   Heroe
                   stood
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   heard
                   ,
                   and
                   saw
                   unmov'd
                   ,
                   the
                   mourning
                   Crowd
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   fam'd
                   Physician
                   tucks
                   his
                   Robes
                   around
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   ready
                   Hands
                   ,
                   and
                   hastens
                   to
                   the
                   Wound
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   gentle
                   Touches
                   he
                   performs
                   his
                   part
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   way
                   and
                   that
                   ,
                   solliciting
                   the
                   Dart
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   exercises
                   all
                   his
                   Heav'nly
                   Art.
                
                 
                 
                   All
                   softning
                   Simples
                   ,
                   known
                   of
                   Sov'raign
                   Use
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   presses
                   out
                   ,
                   and
                   pours
                   their
                   noble
                   Juice
                   ;
                
                 
                   These
                   first
                   infus'd
                   ,
                   to
                   lenifie
                   the
                   Pain
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   tugs
                   with
                   Pincers
                   ,
                   but
                   he
                   tugs
                   in
                   vain
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   to
                   the
                   Patron
                   of
                   his
                   Art
                   he
                   pray'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Patron
                   of
                   his
                   Art
                   refus'd
                   his
                   Aid
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Mean
                   time
                   the
                   War
                   approaches
                   to
                   the
                   Tents
                   ;
                
                 
                   Th'
                   Allarm
                   grows
                   hotter
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Noise
                   augments
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   driving
                   Dust
                   proclaims
                   the
                   Danger
                   near
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   first
                   their
                   Friends
                   ,
                   and
                   then
                   their
                   Foes
                   appear
                   ;
                
                 
                   Their
                   Friends
                   retreat
                   ,
                   their
                   Foes
                   pursue
                   the
                   Rear
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Camp
                   is
                   fill'd
                   with
                   Terror
                   and
                   Affright
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   hissing
                   Shafts
                   within
                   the
                   Trench
                   alight
                   :
                
                 
                   An
                   undistinguish'd
                   Noise
                   ascends
                   the
                   Sky
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Shouts
                   of
                   those
                   who
                   kill
                   ,
                   and
                   Groans
                   of
                   those
                   who
                   dye
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   now
                   the
                   Goddess
                   Mother
                   ,
                   mov'd
                   with
                   Grief
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   pierc'd
                   with
                   Pity
                   ,
                   hastens
                   her
                   Relief
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   Branch
                   of
                   healing
                   Dittany
                   she
                   brought
                   ;
                
                 
                   Which
                   in
                   the
                   Cretan
                   Fields
                   with
                   Care
                   she
                   sought
                   :
                
                 
                   Rough
                   is
                   the
                   Stem
                   ,
                   which
                   woolly
                   Leafs
                   surround
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Leafs
                   with
                   Flow'rs
                   ,
                   the
                   Flow'rs
                   with
                   Purple
                   crown'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Well
                   known
                   to
                   wounded
                   Goats
                   ;
                   a
                   sure
                   Relief
                
                 
                   To
                   draw
                   the
                   pointed
                   Steel
                   ,
                   and
                   ease
                   the
                   Grief
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   Venus
                   brings
                   ,
                   in
                   Clouds
                   involv'd
                   ;
                   and
                   brews
                
                 
                   Th'
                   extracted
                   Liquor
                   with
                   Ambrosian
                   Dews
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   od'rous
                   Panacee
                   :
                   Unseen
                   she
                   stands
                   ,
                
                 
                   Temp'ring
                   the
                   mixture
                   with
                   her
                   Heav'nly
                   Hands
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   pours
                   it
                   in
                   a
                   Bowl
                   ,
                   already
                   crown'd
                
                 
                   With
                   Juice
                   of
                   medc'nal
                   herbs
                   prepar'd
                   to
                   bathe
                   the
                   Wound
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Leech
                   ,
                   unknowing
                   of
                   superior
                   Art
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   aids
                   the
                   Cure
                   ,
                   with
                   this
                   foments
                   the
                   part
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   a
                   Moment
                   ceas'd
                   the
                   raging
                   smart
                   .
                
                 
                   Stanch'd
                   is
                   the
                   Blood
                   ,
                   and
                   in
                   the
                   bottom
                   stands
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Steel
                   ,
                   but
                   scarcely
                   touch'd
                   with
                   tender
                   Hands
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Moves
                   up
                   ,
                   and
                   follows
                   of
                   its
                   own
                   Accord
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Health
                   and
                   Vigour
                   are
                   at
                   once
                   restor'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Iapis
                   first
                   perceiv'd
                   the
                   closing
                   Wound
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   first
                   the
                   Footsteps
                   of
                   a
                   God
                   he
                   found
                   .
                
                 
                   Arms
                   ,
                   Arms
                   ,
                   he
                   cries
                   ,
                   the
                   Sword
                   and
                   Shield
                   prepare
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   send
                   the
                   willing
                   Chief
                   ,
                   renew'd
                   to
                   War.
                
                 
                   This
                   is
                   no
                   Mortal
                   Work
                   ,
                   no
                   Cure
                   of
                   mine
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Art's
                   effect
                   ,
                   but
                   done
                   by
                   Hands
                   Divine
                   :
                
                 
                   Some
                   God
                   our
                   General
                   to
                   the
                   Battel
                   fends
                   ;
                
                 
                   Some
                   God
                   preserves
                   his
                   Life
                   for
                   greater
                   Ends.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Heroe
                   arms
                   in
                   haste
                   :
                   His
                   hands
                   infold
                
                 
                   His
                   Thighs
                   with
                   Cuisses
                   of
                   refulgent
                   Gold
                   :
                
                 
                   Inflam'd
                   to
                   fight
                   ,
                   and
                   rushing
                   to
                   the
                   Field
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   Hand
                   sustaining
                   the
                   Coelestial
                   Shield
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   gripes
                   the
                   Lance
                   ;
                   and
                   with
                   such
                   Vigour
                   shakes
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   to
                   the
                   Rest
                   the
                   beamy
                   Weapon
                   quakes
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   close
                   Embrace
                   he
                   strain'd
                   his
                   Son
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   kissing
                   thro'
                   his
                   Helmet
                   ,
                   thus
                   begun
                   .
                
                 
                   My
                   Son
                   ,
                   from
                   my
                   Example
                   learn
                   the
                   War
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   Camps
                   to
                   suffer
                   ,
                   and
                   in
                   Fields
                   to
                   dare
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   happier
                   Chance
                   than
                   mine
                   attend
                   thy
                   Care.
                
                 
                   This
                   Day
                   my
                   hand
                   thy
                   tender
                   Age
                   shall
                   shield
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   crown
                   with
                   Honours
                   of
                   the
                   conquer'd
                   Field
                   :
                
                 
                   Thou
                   ,
                   when
                   thy
                   riper
                   Years
                   shall
                   send
                   thee
                   forth
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   toils
                   of
                   War
                   ,
                   be
                   mindful
                   of
                   my
                   Worth
                   :
                
                 
                   Assert
                   thy
                   birthright
                   ;
                   and
                   in
                   Arms
                   be
                   known
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   
                   Hector's
                   Nephew
                   ,
                   and
                   
                   Aeneas's
                   Son.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   He
                   said
                   ,
                   and
                   ,
                   striding
                   ,
                   issu'd
                   on
                   the
                   Plain
                   ;
                
                 
                   Anteus
                   ,
                   and
                   Mnestheus
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   num'rous
                   Train
                
                 
                   Attend
                   his
                   Steps
                   :
                   The
                   rest
                   their
                   Weapons
                   take
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   crowding
                   to
                   the
                   Field
                   ,
                   the
                   Camp
                   forsake
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   cloud
                   of
                   blinding
                   Dust
                   is
                   rais'd
                   around
                   ;
                
                 
                   Labours
                   beneath
                   their
                   Feet
                   the
                   trembling
                   ground
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Now
                   Turnus
                   ,
                   posted
                   on
                   a
                   Hill
                   ,
                   from
                   far
                
                 
                   Beheld
                   the
                   progress
                   of
                   the
                   moving
                   War
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   him
                   the
                   Latins
                   view'd
                   the
                   cover'd
                   Plains
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   chill
                   Blood
                   ran
                   backward
                   in
                   their
                   Veins
                   .
                
                 
                   Juturna
                   saw
                   th'
                   advancing
                   Troops
                   appear
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   heard
                   the
                   hostile
                   Sound
                   ,
                   and
                   fled
                   for
                   Fear
                   .
                
                 
                   Aeneas
                   leads
                   ;
                   and
                   draws
                   a
                   sweeping
                   Train
                   ,
                
                 
                   Clos'd
                   in
                   their
                   Ranks
                   ,
                   and
                   pouring
                   on
                   the
                   Plain
                   .
                
                 
                   As
                   when
                   a
                   Whirlwind
                   rushing
                   to
                   the
                   Shore
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   the
                   mid
                   Ocean
                   ,
                   drives
                   the
                   Waves
                   before
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   painful
                   Hind
                   ,
                   with
                   heavy
                   Heart
                   foresees
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   flatted
                   Fields
                   ,
                   and
                   slaughter
                   of
                   the
                   Trees
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   like
                   impetuous
                   Rage
                   the
                   Prince
                   appears
                   ,
                
                 
                   Before
                   his
                   doubled
                   Front
                   ;
                   nor
                   less
                   Destruction
                   bears
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   both
                   Armies
                   shock
                   ,
                   in
                   open
                   Field
                   ;
                
                 
                   Osyris
                   is
                   by
                   strong
                   Thymbraeus
                   kill'd
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     Archetius
                     ,
                     Ufens
                     ,
                     Epulon
                  
                   ,
                   are
                   slain
                   ;
                
                 
                   (
                   All
                   fam'd
                   in
                   Arms
                   ,
                   and
                   of
                   the
                   Latian
                   Train
                   ;
                   )
                
                 
                   By
                   
                     Gyas
                     ,
                     Mnestheus
                  
                   ,
                   and
                   Achates
                   Hand
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   fatal
                   Augur
                   falls
                   ,
                   by
                   whofe
                   command
                
                 
                   The
                   Truce
                   was
                   broken
                   ,
                   and
                   whose
                   Lance
                   embru'd
                
                 
                   With
                   Trojan
                   Blood
                   ,
                   th'
                   unhappy
                   Fight
                   renew'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Loud
                   Shouts
                   and
                   Clamours
                   rend
                   the
                   liquid
                   Sky
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   o're
                   the
                   Field
                   the
                   frighted
                   Latins
                   fly
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Prince
                   disdains
                   the
                   Dastards
                   to
                   pursue
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   moves
                   to
                   meet
                   in
                   Arms
                   the
                   fighting
                   few
                   :
                
                 
                   Turnus
                   alone
                   ,
                   amid
                   the
                   dusky
                   Plain
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   seeks
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   the
                   Combat
                   calls
                   in
                   vain
                   .
                
                 
                   Juturna
                   heard
                   ,
                   and
                   seiz'd
                   with
                   Mortal
                   Fear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Forc'd
                   from
                   the
                   Beam
                   her
                   Brother's
                   Charioteer
                   ;
                
                 
                   Assumes
                   his
                   Shape
                   ,
                   his
                   Armour
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Meen
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   like
                   Metiscus
                   ,
                   in
                   his
                   Seat
                   is
                   seen
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   As
                   the
                   black
                   Swallow
                   near
                   the
                   Palace
                   plies
                   ;
                
                 
                   O're
                   empty
                   Courts
                   ,
                   and
                   under
                   Arches
                   flies
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   Now
                   hawks
                   aloft
                   ,
                   now
                   skims
                   along
                   the
                   Flood
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   furnish
                   her
                   loquacious
                   Nest
                   with
                   Food
                   :
                
                 
                   So
                   drives
                   the
                   rapid
                   Goddess
                   o're
                   the
                   Plains
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   smoaking
                   Horses
                   run
                   with
                   loosen'd
                   Reins
                   .
                
                 
                   She
                   steers
                   a
                   various
                   Course
                   among
                   the
                   Foes
                   ;
                
                 
                   Now
                   here
                   ,
                   now
                   there
                   ,
                   her
                   conqu'ring
                   Brother
                   shows
                   :
                
                 
                   Now
                   with
                   a
                   straight
                   ,
                   now
                   with
                   a
                   wheeling
                   flight
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   turns
                   ,
                   and
                   bends
                   ,
                   but
                   shuns
                   the
                   single
                   Fight
                   .
                
                 
                   Aeneas
                   ,
                   fir'd
                   with
                   Fury
                   ,
                   breaks
                   the
                   Crowd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   seeks
                   his
                   Foe
                   ,
                   and
                   calls
                   by
                   name
                   aloud
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   runs
                   within
                   a
                   narrower
                   Ring
                   ,
                   and
                   tries
                
                 
                   To
                   stop
                   the
                   Chariot
                   ,
                   but
                   the
                   Chariot
                   flies
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   he
                   but
                   gain
                   a
                   glimps
                   ,
                   Juturna
                   fears
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   far
                   away
                   the
                   Daunian
                   Heroe
                   bears
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   What
                   shou'd
                   he
                   do
                   !
                   nor
                   Arts
                   nor
                   Arms
                   avail
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   various
                   Cares
                   in
                   vain
                   his
                   Mind
                   assail
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   great
                   Messapus
                   thund'ring
                   thro'
                   the
                   Field
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   his
                   left
                   hand
                   two
                   pointed
                   Jav'lins
                   held
                   ;
                
                 
                   Encountring
                   on
                   the
                   Prince
                   ,
                   one
                   Dart
                   he
                   drew
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   unerring
                   aim
                   ,
                   and
                   utmost
                   Vigour
                   threw
                   .
                
                 
                   Aeneas
                   saw
                   it
                   come
                   ,
                   and
                   stooping
                   low
                
                 
                   Beneath
                   his
                   Buckler
                   ,
                   shunn'd
                   the
                   threatning
                   blow
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Weapon
                   hiss'd
                   above
                   his
                   Head
                   ,
                   and
                   tore
                
                 
                   The
                   waving
                   Plume
                   ,
                   which
                   on
                   his
                   Helm
                   he
                   wore
                   .
                
                 
                   Forc'd
                   by
                   this
                   hostile
                   Act
                   ,
                   and
                   fir'd
                   with
                   spight
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   flying
                   Turnus
                   still
                   declin'd
                   the
                   Fight
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Prince
                   ,
                   whose
                   Piety
                   had
                   long
                   repell'd
                
                 
                   His
                   inborn
                   ardour
                   ,
                   now
                   invades
                   the
                   Field
                   :
                
                 
                   Invokes
                   the
                   Pow'rs
                   of
                   violated
                   Peace
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   Rites
                   ,
                   and
                   injur'd
                   Altars
                   to
                   redress
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   to
                   his
                   Rage
                   abandoning
                   the
                   Rein
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Blood
                   and
                   slaughter'd
                   Bodies
                   fills
                   the
                   Plain
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   What
                   God
                   can
                   tell
                   ,
                   what
                   Numbers
                   can
                   display
                
                 
                   The
                   various
                   Labours
                   of
                   that
                   fatal
                   Day
                   !
                
                 
                 
                   What
                   Chiefs
                   ,
                   and
                   Champions
                   fell
                   on
                   either
                   side
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   Combat
                   slain
                   ,
                   or
                   by
                   what
                   Deaths
                   they
                   dy'd
                   ?
                
                 
                   Whom
                   Turnus
                   ,
                   whom
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Heroe
                   kill'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Who
                   shar'd
                   the
                   Fame
                   ,
                   and
                   fortune
                   of
                   the
                   Field
                   ?
                
                 
                   Jove
                   ,
                   cou'dst
                   thou
                   view
                   ,
                   and
                   not
                   avert
                   thy
                   sight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Two
                   jarring
                   Nations
                   join'd
                   in
                   cruel
                   fight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whom
                   Leagues
                   of
                   lasting
                   Love
                   so
                   shortly
                   shall
                   unite
                   !
                
              
               
                 
                   Aeneas
                   first
                   
                     Rutulian
                     Sucro
                  
                   found
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whose
                   Valour
                   made
                   the
                   Trojans
                   quit
                   their
                   Ground
                   :
                
                 
                   Betwixt
                   his
                   Ribs
                   the
                   Jav'lin
                   drove
                   so
                   just
                   ,
                
                 
                   It
                   reach'd
                   his
                   Heart
                   ,
                   nor
                   needs
                   a
                   second
                   Thrust
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   Turnus
                   ,
                   at
                   two
                   blows
                   ,
                   two
                   Brethren
                   slew
                   ;
                
                 
                   First
                   from
                   his
                   Horse
                   fierce
                   Amycus
                   he
                   threw
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   leaping
                   on
                   the
                   Ground
                   ,
                   on
                   Foot
                   assail'd
                
                 
                   Diores
                   ,
                   and
                   in
                   equal
                   Fight
                   prevail'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Their
                   lifeless
                   Trunks
                   he
                   leaves
                   upon
                   the
                   place
                   ;
                
                 
                   Their
                   Heads
                   distilling
                   Gore
                   ,
                   his
                   Chariot
                   grace
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Three
                   cold
                   on
                   Earth
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Heroe
                   threw
                   ;
                
                 
                   Whom
                   without
                   respite
                   at
                   one
                   Charge
                   he
                   slew
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     Cethegus
                     ,
                     Tanais
                     ,
                     Tagus
                  
                   ,
                   fell
                   oppress'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   sad
                   Onythes
                   ,
                   added
                   to
                   the
                   rest
                   ;
                
                 
                   Of
                   Theban
                   Blood
                   ,
                   whom
                   Peridia
                   bore
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Turnus
                   ,
                   two
                   Brothers
                   from
                   the
                   Lycian
                   Shore
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   from
                   
                   Apollo's
                   Fane
                   to
                   Battel
                   sent
                   ,
                
                 
                   O'rethrew
                   ,
                   nor
                   Phoebus
                   cou'd
                   their
                   Fate
                   prevent
                   .
                
                 
                   Peaceful
                   Menaetes
                   after
                   these
                   he
                   kill'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   long
                   had
                   shunn'd
                   the
                   Dangers
                   of
                   the
                   Field
                   :
                
                 
                   On
                   
                   Lerna's
                   Lake
                   a
                   silent
                   Life
                   he
                   led
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   his
                   Nets
                   and
                   Angle
                   earn'd
                   his
                   Bread.
                
                 
                   Nor
                   pompous
                   Cares
                   ,
                   nor
                   Palaces
                   he
                   knew
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   wisely
                   from
                   th'
                   infectious
                   World
                   withdrew
                   .
                
                 
                   Poor
                   was
                   his
                   House
                   ;
                   his
                   Father
                   's
                   painful
                   Hand
                
                 
                   Discharg'd
                   his
                   Rent
                   ,
                   and
                   plough'd
                   another's
                   Land.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   As
                   Flames
                   among
                   the
                   lofty
                   Woods
                   are
                   thrown
                   ,
                
                 
                   On
                   diff'rent
                   sides
                   ,
                   and
                   both
                   by
                   Winds
                   are
                   blown
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Laurels
                   crackle
                   in
                   the
                   sputt'ring
                   Fire
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   frighted
                   Silvans
                   from
                   their
                   Shades
                   retire
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   as
                   two
                   neighb'ring
                   Torrents
                   fall
                   from
                   high
                   ,
                
                 
                   Rapid
                   they
                   run
                   ;
                   the
                   foamy
                   Waters
                   fry
                   :
                
                 
                   They
                   rowl
                   to
                   Sea
                   with
                   unresisted
                   Force
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   down
                   the
                   Rocks
                   precipitate
                   their
                   Course
                   :
                
                 
                   Not
                   with
                   less
                   rage
                   the
                   Rival
                   Heroes
                   take
                
                 
                   Their
                   diff'rent
                   Ways
                   ;
                   nor
                   less
                   Destruction
                   make
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   Spears
                   afar
                   ,
                   with
                   Swords
                   at
                   hand
                   they
                   strike
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   zeal
                   of
                   Slaughter
                   fires
                   their
                   Souls
                   alike
                   .
                
                 
                   Like
                   them
                   ,
                   their
                   dauntless
                   Men
                   maintain
                   the
                   Field
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Hearts
                   are
                   pierc'd
                   unknowing
                   how
                   to
                   yield
                   :
                
                 
                   They
                   blow
                   for
                   blow
                   return
                   ,
                   and
                   wound
                   for
                   wound
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   heaps
                   of
                   Bodies
                   raise
                   the
                   level
                   Ground
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Murranus
                   ,
                   boasting
                   of
                   his
                   Blood
                   ,
                   that
                   springs
                
                 
                   From
                   a
                   long
                   Royal
                   Race
                   of
                   Latian
                   Kings
                   ,
                
                 
                   Is
                   by
                   the
                   Trojan
                   from
                   his
                   Chariot
                   thrown
                   ,
                
                 
                   Crush'd
                   with
                   the
                   weight
                   of
                   an
                   unweildy
                   Stone
                   :
                
                 
                   Betwixt
                   the
                   Wheels
                   he
                   fell
                   ;
                   the
                   Wheels
                   that
                   bore
                
                 
                   His
                   living
                   Load
                   ,
                   his
                   dying
                   Body
                   tore
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   starting
                   Steeds
                   ,
                   to
                   shun
                   the
                   glitt'ring
                   Sword
                   ,
                
                 
                   Paw
                   down
                   his
                   trampled
                   Limbs
                   ,
                   forgetful
                   of
                   their
                   Lord.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Fierce
                   Hillus
                   threaten'd
                   high
                   ;
                   and
                   face
                   to
                   face
                
                 
                   Affronted
                   Turnus
                   in
                   the
                   middle
                   space
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Prince
                   encounter'd
                   him
                   in
                   full
                   Carreer
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   at
                   his
                   Temples
                   aim'd
                   his
                   deadly
                   Spear
                   :
                
                 
                   So
                   fatally
                   the
                   flying
                   Weapon
                   sped
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   thro'
                   his
                   Brazen
                   Helm
                   it
                   pierc'd
                   his
                   Head.
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Cisseus
                   coud'st
                   thou
                   scape
                   from
                   Turnus
                   hand
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   vain
                   the
                   strongest
                   of
                   th'
                   Arcadian
                   Band
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   to
                   Cupentus
                   cou'd
                   his
                   Gods
                   afford
                   ,
                
                 
                   Availing
                   Aid
                   against
                   th'
                   Aenean
                   Sword
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Which
                   to
                   his
                   naked
                   Heart
                   pursu'd
                   the
                   Course
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   could
                   his
                   plated
                   Shield
                   sustain
                   the
                   Force
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Iolas
                   fell
                   ,
                   whom
                   not
                   the
                   Grecian
                   Pow'rs
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   great
                   Subvertor
                   of
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Tow'rs
                   ,
                
                 
                   Were
                   doom'd
                   to
                   kill
                   ,
                   while
                   Heav'n
                   prolong'd
                   his
                   Date
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   who
                   can
                   pass
                   the
                   Bounds
                   prefix'd
                   by
                   Fate
                   ?
                
                 
                   In
                   high
                   Lyrnessus
                   ,
                   and
                   in
                   Troy
                   ,
                   he
                   held
                
                 
                   Two
                   Palaces
                   ,
                   and
                   was
                   from
                   each
                   expell'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Of
                   all
                   the
                   mighty
                   Man
                   ,
                   the
                   last
                   Remains
                
                 
                   A
                   little
                   spot
                   of
                   Foreign
                   Earth
                   contains
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   now
                   both
                   Hosts
                   their
                   broken
                   Troops
                   unite
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   equal
                   Ranks
                   ,
                   and
                   mix
                   in
                   mortal
                   Fight
                   .
                
                 
                   Seresthus
                   ,
                   and
                   undaunted
                   Mnestheus
                   join
                
                 
                   The
                   
                     Trojan
                     ,
                     Tuscan
                  
                   ,
                   and
                   Arcadian
                   Line
                   :
                
                 
                   Sea-born
                   Messapus
                   ,
                   with
                   Atinas
                   ,
                   heads
                
                 
                   The
                   Latin
                   Squadrons
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   Battel
                   leads
                   .
                
                 
                   They
                   strike
                   ,
                   they
                   push
                   ,
                   they
                   throng
                   the
                   scanty
                   space
                   ;
                
                 
                   Resolv'd
                   on
                   Death
                   ,
                   impatient
                   of
                   Disgrace
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   where
                   one
                   falls
                   ,
                   another
                   fills
                   his
                   Place
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Cyprian
                   Goddess
                   now
                   inspires
                   her
                   Son
                
                 
                   To
                   leave
                   th'
                   unfinish'd
                   Fight
                   ,
                   and
                   storm
                   the
                   Town
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   while
                   he
                   rowls
                   his
                   Eyes
                   around
                   the
                   Plain
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   quest
                   of
                   Turnus
                   ,
                   whom
                   he
                   seeks
                   in
                   vain
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   views
                   th'
                   ungarded
                   City
                   from
                   afar
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   careless
                   quiet
                   ,
                   and
                   secure
                   of
                   War
                   :
                
                 
                   Occasion
                   offers
                   ,
                   and
                   excites
                   his
                   Mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   dare
                   beyond
                   the
                   Task
                   he
                   first
                   design'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Resolv'd
                   ,
                   he
                   calls
                   his
                   Chiefs
                   :
                   they
                   leave
                   the
                   Fight
                   ;
                
                 
                   Attended
                   thus
                   ,
                   he
                   takes
                   a
                   neighb'ring
                   Height
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   crowding
                   Troops
                   about
                   their
                   Gen'ral
                   stand
                   ,
                
                 
                   All
                   under
                   Arms
                   ,
                   and
                   wait
                   his
                   high
                   Command
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   thus
                   the
                   lofty
                   Prince
                   :
                   Hear
                   and
                   obey
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ye
                   Trojan
                   Bands
                   ,
                   without
                   the
                   least
                   delay
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Jove
                   is
                   with
                   us
                   ,
                   and
                   what
                   I
                   have
                   decreed
                
                 
                   Requires
                   our
                   utmost
                   Vigour
                   ,
                   and
                   our
                   Speed.
                
                 
                   Your
                   instant
                   Arms
                   against
                   the
                   Town
                   prepare
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   source
                   of
                   Mischief
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Seat
                   of
                   War.
                
                 
                   This
                   Day
                   the
                   Latian
                   Tow'rs
                   ,
                   that
                   mate
                   the
                   Sky
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shall
                   level
                   with
                   the
                   Plain
                   in
                   Ashes
                   lye
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   People
                   shall
                   be
                   Slaves
                   ;
                   unless
                   in
                   time
                
                 
                   They
                   kneel
                   for
                   Pardon
                   ,
                   and
                   repent
                   their
                   Crime
                   .
                
                 
                   Twice
                   have
                   our
                   Foes
                   been
                   vanquish'd
                   on
                   the
                   Plain
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   shall
                   I
                   wait
                   till
                   Turnus
                   will
                   be
                   slain
                   ?
                
                 
                   Your
                   Force
                   against
                   the
                   perjur'd
                   City
                   bend
                   :
                
                 
                   There
                   it
                   began
                   ,
                   and
                   there
                   the
                   War
                   shall
                   end
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Peace
                   profan'd
                   our
                   rightful
                   Arms
                   requires
                   :
                
                 
                   Cleanse
                   the
                   polluted
                   Place
                   with
                   purging
                   Fires
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   He
                   finish'd
                   ;
                   and
                   one
                   Soul
                   inspiring
                   all
                   ,
                
                 
                   Form'd
                   in
                   a
                   Wedge
                   ,
                   the
                   Foot
                   approach
                   the
                   Wall.
                
                 
                   Without
                   the
                   Town
                   ,
                   an
                   unprovided
                   Train
                
                 
                   Of
                   gaping
                   ,
                   gazing
                   Citizens
                   are
                   slain
                   .
                
                 
                   Some
                   Firebrands
                   ,
                   others
                   scaling
                   Ladders
                   bear
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   those
                   they
                   toss
                   aloft
                   ,
                   and
                   these
                   they
                   rear
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Flames
                   now
                   lanch'd
                   ,
                   the
                   feather'd
                   Arrows
                   fly
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Clouds
                   of
                   missive
                   Arms
                   obscure
                   the
                   Sky
                   .
                
                 
                   Advancing
                   to
                   the
                   Front
                   ,
                   the
                   Heroe
                   stands
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   stretching
                   out
                   to
                   Heav'n
                   his
                   Pious
                   Hands
                   ;
                
                 
                   Attests
                   the
                   Gods
                   ,
                   asserts
                   his
                   Innocence
                   ,
                
                 
                   Upbraids
                   with
                   breach
                   of
                   Faith
                   th'
                   Ausonian
                   Prince
                   :
                
                 
                   Declares
                   the
                   Royal
                   Honour
                   doubly
                   stain'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   twice
                   the
                   Rites
                   of
                   holy
                   Peace
                   profan'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Dissenting
                   Clamours
                   in
                   the
                   Town
                   arise
                   ;
                
                 
                   Each
                   will
                   be
                   heard
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   at
                   once
                   advise
                   .
                
                 
                   One
                   part
                   for
                   Peace
                   ,
                   and
                   one
                   for
                   War
                   contends
                   :
                
                 
                   Some
                   wou'd
                   exclude
                   their
                   Foes
                   ,
                   and
                   some
                   admit
                   their
                   Friends
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   helpless
                   King
                   is
                   hurry'd
                   in
                   the
                   Throng
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   what
                   e're
                   Tide
                   prevails
                   ,
                   is
                   born
                   along
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Thus
                   when
                   the
                   Swain
                   ,
                   within
                   a
                   hollow
                   Rock
                   ,
                
                 
                   Invades
                   the
                   Bees
                   ,
                   with
                   suffocating
                   Smoke
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   run
                   around
                   ,
                   or
                   labour
                   on
                   their
                   Wings
                   ,
                
                 
                   Disus'd
                   to
                   flight
                   ;
                   and
                   shoot
                   their
                   sleepy
                   Stings
                   :
                
                 
                   To
                   shun
                   the
                   bitter
                   Fumes
                   in
                   vain
                   they
                   try
                   ;
                
                 
                   Black
                   Vapours
                   ,
                   issuing
                   from
                   the
                   Vent
                   ,
                   involve
                   the
                   Sky
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   Fate
                   ,
                   and
                   envious
                   Fortune
                   ,
                   now
                   prepare
                
                 
                   To
                   plunge
                   the
                   Latins
                   in
                   the
                   last
                   despair
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Queen
                   ,
                   who
                   saw
                   the
                   Foes
                   invade
                   the
                   Town
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   brands
                   on
                   tops
                   of
                   burning
                   Houses
                   thrown
                   :
                
                 
                   Cast
                   round
                   her
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   distracted
                   with
                   her
                   Fear
                   ;
                
                 
                   No
                   Troops
                   of
                   Turnus
                   in
                   the
                   Field
                   appear
                   .
                
                 
                   Once
                   more
                   she
                   stares
                   abroad
                   ,
                   but
                   still
                   in
                   vain
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   then
                   concludes
                   the
                   Royal
                   Youth
                   is
                   slain
                   .
                
                 
                   Mad
                   with
                   her
                   Anguish
                   ,
                   impotent
                   to
                   bear
                
                 
                   The
                   mighty
                   Grief
                   ,
                   she
                   loaths
                   the
                   vital
                   Air.
                
                 
                   She
                   calls
                   her self
                   the
                   Cause
                   of
                   all
                   this
                   Ill
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   owns
                   the
                   dire
                   Effects
                   of
                   her
                   ungovern'd
                   Will
                   :
                
                 
                   She
                   raves
                   against
                   the
                   Gods
                   ,
                   she
                   beats
                   her
                   Breast
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   tears
                   with
                   both
                   her
                   hands
                   her
                   Purple
                   Vest
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   round
                   a
                   Beam
                   a
                   running
                   Noose
                   she
                   ty'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   fasten'd
                   by
                   the
                   Neck
                   ,
                   obscenely
                   dy'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Soon
                   as
                   the
                   fatal
                   News
                   by
                   Fame
                   was
                   blown
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   to
                   her
                   Dames
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   her
                   Daughter
                   known
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   sad
                   Lavinia
                   rends
                   her
                   yellow
                   Hair
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   rosie
                   Cheeks
                   ;
                   the
                   rest
                   her
                   Sorrow
                   share
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   Shrieks
                   the
                   Palace
                   rings
                   ,
                   and
                   Madness
                   of
                   Despair
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   spreading
                   Rumor
                   fills
                   the
                   Publick
                   Place
                   ;
                
                 
                   Confusion
                   ,
                   Fear
                   ,
                   Distraction
                   ,
                   and
                   Disgrace
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   silent
                   shame
                   ,
                   are
                   seen
                   in
                   ev'ry
                   Face
                   .
                
                 
                   Latinus
                   tears
                   his
                   Garments
                   as
                   he
                   goes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Both
                   for
                   his
                   publick
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   private
                   Woes
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   Filth
                   his
                   venerable
                   Beard
                   besmears
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   sordid
                   Dust
                   deforms
                   his
                   Silver
                   Hairs
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   much
                   he
                   blames
                   the
                   softness
                   of
                   his
                   Mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Obnoxious
                   to
                   the
                   Charms
                   of
                   Womankind
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   soon
                   seduc'd
                   to
                   change
                   ,
                   what
                   he
                   so
                   well
                   design'd
                   :
                
                 
                   To
                   break
                   the
                   solemn
                   League
                   so
                   long
                   desir'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   finish
                   what
                   his
                   Fates
                   ,
                   and
                   those
                   of
                   Troy
                   requir'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Now
                   Turnus
                   rowls
                   aloof
                   o're
                   empty
                   Plains
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   here
                   and
                   there
                   some
                   stragling
                   Foes
                   he
                   gleans
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   flying
                   Coursers
                   please
                   him
                   less
                   and
                   less
                   ,
                
                 
                   Asham'd
                   of
                   easie
                   Fight
                   ,
                   and
                   cheap
                   Success
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   half
                   contented
                   ,
                   anxious
                   in
                   his
                   Mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   distant
                   Cries
                   come
                   driving
                   in
                   the
                   Wind
                   :
                
                 
                   Shouts
                   from
                   the
                   Walls
                   ,
                   but
                   Shouts
                   in
                   Murmurs
                   drown'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   jarring
                   mixture
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   boding
                   sound
                   .
                
                 
                   Alas
                   ,
                   said
                   he
                   ,
                   what
                   mean
                   these
                   dismal
                   Cries
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   doleful
                   Clamours
                   from
                   the
                   Town
                   arise
                   ?
                
                 
                   Confus'd
                   he
                   stops
                   ,
                   and
                   backward
                   pulls
                   the
                   Reins
                   :
                
                 
                   She
                   ,
                   who
                   the
                   Driver's
                   Office
                   now
                   sustains
                   ,
                
                 
                   Replies
                   ;
                   Neglect
                   ,
                   my
                   Lord
                   ,
                   these
                   new
                   Alarms
                   ;
                
                 
                   Here
                   fight
                   ,
                   and
                   urge
                   the
                   Fortune
                   of
                   your
                   Arms
                   :
                
                 
                   There
                   want
                   not
                   others
                   to
                   defend
                   the
                   Wall
                   :
                
                 
                   If
                   by
                   your
                   Rival's
                   Hand
                   th'
                   Italians
                   fall
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   shall
                   your
                   fatal
                   Sword
                   his
                   Friends
                   oppress
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   Honour
                   equal
                   ,
                   equal
                   in
                   Success
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   To
                   this
                   ,
                   the
                   Prince
                   ;
                   O
                   Sister
                   ,
                   (
                   for
                   I
                   knew
                
                 
                   The
                   Peace
                   infring'd
                   ,
                   proceeded
                   first
                   from
                   you
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                   I
                   knew
                   you
                   ,
                   when
                   you
                   mingled
                   first
                   in
                   Fight
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   in
                   vain
                   you
                   wou'd
                   deceive
                   my
                   Sight
                   :
                
                 
                   Why
                   ,
                   Goddess
                   ,
                   this
                   unprofitable
                   Care
                   ?
                
                 
                   Who
                   sent
                   you
                   down
                   from
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   involv'd
                   in
                   Air
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   share
                   of
                   Mortal
                   Sorrows
                   to
                   sustain
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   see
                   your
                   Brother
                   bleeding
                   on
                   the
                   Plain
                   ?
                
                 
                   For
                   ,
                   to
                   what
                   Pow'r
                   can
                   Turnus
                   have
                   recourse
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   how
                   resist
                   his
                   Fates
                   prevailing
                   force
                   !
                
                 
                 
                   These
                   Eyes
                   beheld
                   Murranus
                   bite
                   the
                   Ground
                   ,
                
                 
                   Mighty
                   the
                   Man
                   ,
                   and
                   mighty
                   Was
                   the
                   Wound
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   heard
                   my
                   dearest
                   Friend
                   ,
                   with
                   dying
                   Breath
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Name
                   invoking
                   to
                   revenge
                   his
                   Death
                   :
                
                 
                   Brave
                   Ufens
                   fell
                   with
                   Honour
                   on
                   the
                   Place
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   shun
                   the
                   shameful
                   sight
                   of
                   my
                   disgrace
                   .
                
                 
                   On
                   Earth
                   supine
                   ,
                   a
                   Manly
                   Corps
                   he
                   lies
                   ;
                
                 
                   His
                   Vest
                   and
                   Armour
                   are
                   the
                   Victor's
                   Prize
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   shall
                   I
                   see
                   Laurentum
                   in
                   a
                   flame
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   only
                   wanted
                   to
                   compleat
                   my
                   shame
                   ?
                
                 
                   How
                   will
                   the
                   Latins
                   hoot
                   their
                   Champion's
                   flight
                   ;
                
                 
                   How
                   Drances
                   will
                   be
                   pleas'd
                   ,
                   and
                   point
                   them
                   to
                   the
                   sight
                   !
                
                 
                   Is
                   Death
                   so
                   hard
                   to
                   bear
                   ?
                   Ye
                   Gods
                   below
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   Since
                   those
                   above
                   so
                   small
                   Compassion
                   show
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                   Receive
                   a
                   Soul
                   unsully'd
                   yet
                   with
                   shame
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   not
                   belies
                   my
                   great
                   Forefather's
                   Name
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   He
                   said
                   :
                   And
                   while
                   he
                   spoke
                   ,
                   with
                   flying
                   speed
                   ,
                
                 
                   Came
                   Sages
                   urging
                   on
                   his
                   foamy
                   Steed
                   ;
                
                 
                   Fix'd
                   on
                   his
                   wounded
                   Face
                   a
                   Shaft
                   he
                   bore
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   seeking
                   Turnus
                   sent
                   his
                   Voice
                   before
                   :
                
                 
                   Turnus
                   ,
                   on
                   you
                   ,
                   on
                   you
                   alone
                   depends
                
                 
                   Our
                   last
                   Relief
                   ;
                   compassionate
                   your
                   Friends
                   .
                
                 
                   Like
                   Lightning
                   ,
                   fierce
                   Aeneas
                   ,
                   rowling
                   on
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Arms
                   invests
                   ,
                   with
                   Flames
                   invades
                   the
                   Town
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Brands
                   are
                   toss'd
                   on
                   high
                   ;
                   the
                   Winds
                   conspire
                
                 
                   To
                   drive
                   along
                   the
                   Deluge
                   of
                   the
                   Fire
                   :
                
                 
                   All
                   Eyes
                   are
                   fix'd
                   on
                   you
                   ;
                   your
                   Foes
                   rejoice
                   ;
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   the
                   King
                   staggers
                   ,
                   and
                   suspends
                   his
                   Choice
                   :
                
                 
                   Doubts
                   to
                   deliver
                   ,
                   or
                   defend
                   the
                   Town
                   ;
                
                 
                   Whom
                   to
                   reject
                   ,
                   or
                   whom
                   to
                   call
                   his
                   Son.
                
                 
                   The
                   Queen
                   ,
                   on
                   whom
                   your
                   utmost
                   hopes
                   were
                   plac'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her self
                   suborning
                   Death
                   ,
                   has
                   breath'd
                   her
                   last
                   .
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   true
                   ,
                   Messapus
                   ,
                   fearless
                   of
                   his
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   fierce
                   Atinas
                   Aid
                   ,
                   defends
                   the
                   Gate
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   On
                   ev'ry
                   side
                   surrounded
                   by
                   the
                   Foe
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   more
                   they
                   kill
                   ,
                   the
                   greater
                   Numbers
                   grow
                   ;
                
                 
                   An
                   Iron
                   Harvest
                   mounts
                   ,
                   and
                   still
                   remains
                   to
                   mow
                   .
                
                 
                   You
                   ,
                   far
                   aloof
                   from
                   your
                   forsaken
                   Bands
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   rowling
                   Chariot
                   drive
                   o're
                   empty
                   Sands
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Stupid
                   he
                   sate
                   ,
                   his
                   Eyes
                   on
                   Earth
                   declin'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   various
                   Cares
                   revolving
                   in
                   his
                   Mind
                   :
                
                 
                   Rage
                   boiling
                   from
                   the
                   bottom
                   of
                   his
                   Breast
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Sorrow
                   mix'd
                   with
                   Shame
                   ,
                   his
                   Soul
                   oppress'd
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   conscious
                   Worth
                   lay
                   lab'ring
                   in
                   his
                   Thought
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Love
                   by
                   Jealousie
                   to
                   Madness
                   wrought
                   .
                
                 
                   By
                   slow
                   degrees
                   his
                   Reason
                   drove
                   away
                
                 
                   The
                   Mists
                   of
                   Passion
                   ,
                   and
                   resum'd
                   her
                   Sway.
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   rising
                   on
                   his
                   Car
                   ,
                   he
                   turn'd
                   his
                   Look
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   saw
                   the
                   Town
                   involv'd
                   in
                   Fire
                   and
                   Smoke
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   wooden
                   Tow'r
                   with
                   Flames
                   already
                   blaz'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   his
                   own
                   Hands
                   on
                   Beams
                   and
                   Rafters
                   rais'd
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   Bridges
                   laid
                   above
                   to
                   join
                   the
                   Space
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Wheels
                   below
                   to
                   rowl
                   from
                   place
                   to
                   place
                   .
                
                 
                   Sister
                   ,
                   the
                   Fates
                   have
                   vanquish'd
                   :
                   Let
                   us
                   go
                
                 
                   The
                   way
                   which
                   Heav'n
                   and
                   my
                   hard
                   Fortune
                   show
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Fight
                   is
                   fix'd
                   :
                   Nor
                   shall
                   the
                   branded
                   Name
                
                 
                   Of
                   a
                   base
                   Coward
                   blot
                   your
                   Brother's
                   Fame
                   .
                
                 
                   Death
                   is
                   my
                   choice
                   ;
                   but
                   suffer
                   me
                   to
                   try
                
                 
                   My
                   Force
                   ,
                   and
                   vent
                   my
                   Rage
                   before
                   I
                   dye
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   said
                   ,
                   and
                   leaping
                   down
                   without
                   delay
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thro
                   Crowds
                   of
                   scatter'd
                   Foes
                   he
                   free'd
                   his
                   way
                   .
                
                 
                   Striding
                   he
                   pass'd
                   ,
                   impetuous
                   as
                   the
                   Wind
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   left
                   the
                   grieving
                   Goddess
                   far
                   behind
                   .
                
                 
                   As
                   when
                   a
                   Fragment
                   ,
                   from
                   a
                   Mountain
                   torn
                
                 
                   By
                   raging
                   Tempests
                   ,
                   or
                   by
                   Torrents
                   born
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   sapp'd
                   by
                   time
                   ,
                   or
                   loosen'd
                   from
                   the
                   Roots
                   ,
                
                 
                   Prone
                   thro'
                   the
                   Void
                   the
                   Rocky
                   Ruine
                   shoots
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Rowling
                   from
                   Crag
                   to
                   Crag
                   ,
                   from
                   Steep
                   to
                   Steep
                   ;
                
                 
                   Down
                   sink
                   ,
                   at
                   once
                   the
                   Shepherds
                   and
                   their
                   Sheep
                   ,
                
                 
                   Involv'd
                   alike
                   ,
                   they
                   rush
                   to
                   neather
                   Ground
                   ,
                
                 
                   Stun'd
                   with
                   the
                   shock
                   they
                   fall
                   ,
                   and
                   stun'd
                   from
                   Earth
                   rebound
                   :
                
                 
                   So
                   Turnus
                   ,
                   hasting
                   headlong
                   to
                   the
                   Town
                   ,
                
                 
                   Should'ring
                   and
                   shoving
                   ,
                   bore
                   the
                   Squadrons
                   down
                   .
                
                 
                   Still
                   pressing
                   onward
                   ,
                   to
                   the
                   Walls
                   he
                   drew
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   Shafts
                   ,
                   and
                   Spears
                   ,
                   and
                   Darts
                   promiscuous
                   flew
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   sanguine
                   Streams
                   the
                   slipp'ry
                   Ground
                   embrew
                   .
                
                 
                   First
                   stretching
                   out
                   his
                   Arm
                   ,
                   in
                   sign
                   of
                   Peace
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   cries
                   aloud
                   ,
                   to
                   make
                   the
                   Combat
                   cease
                   :
                
                 
                   Rutulians
                   hold
                   ,
                   and
                   Latin
                   Troops
                   retire
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Fight
                   is
                   mine
                   ,
                   and
                   me
                   the
                   Gods
                   require
                   .
                
                 
                   T
                   is
                   just
                   that
                   I
                   shou'd
                   vindicate
                   alone
                
                 
                   The
                   broken
                   Truce
                   ,
                   or
                   for
                   the
                   Breach
                   atone
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   Day
                   shall
                   free
                   from
                   Wars
                   th'
                   Ausonian
                   State
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   finish
                   my
                   Misfortunes
                   in
                   my
                   Fate
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Both
                   Armies
                   from
                   their
                   bloody
                   Work
                   desist
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   bearing
                   backward
                   ,
                   form
                   a
                   spacious
                   List
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Trojan
                   Heroe
                   who
                   receiv'd
                   from
                   Fame
                
                 
                   The
                   welcome
                   Sound
                   ,
                   and
                   heard
                   the
                   Champion's
                   Name
                   ,
                
                 
                   Soon
                   leaves
                   the
                   taken
                   Works
                   ,
                   and
                   mounted
                   Walls
                   ,
                
                 
                   Greedy
                   of
                   War
                   ,
                   where
                   greater
                   Glory
                   calls
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   springs
                   to
                   Fight
                   ,
                   exulting
                   in
                   his
                   Force
                   ;
                
                 
                   His
                   jointed
                   Armour
                   rattles
                   in
                   the
                   Course
                   .
                
                 
                   Like
                   Eryx
                   ,
                   or
                   like
                   Athos
                   ,
                   great
                   he
                   shows
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   Father
                   Apennine
                   ,
                   when
                   white
                   with
                   Snows
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Head
                   Divine
                   ,
                   obscure
                   in
                   Clouds
                   he
                   hides
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   shakes
                   the
                   sounding
                   Forest
                   on
                   his
                   sides
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Nations
                   over-aw'd
                   ,
                   surcease
                   the
                   Fight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Immoveable
                   their
                   Bodies
                   ,
                   fix'd
                   their
                   sight
                   :
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   Death
                   stands
                   still
                   ;
                   nor
                   from
                   above
                   they
                   throw
                
                 
                   Their
                   Darts
                   ,
                   nor
                   drive
                   their
                   batt'ring
                   Rams
                   below
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   In
                   silent
                   Order
                   either
                   Army
                   stands
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   drop
                   their
                   Swords
                   ,
                   unknowing
                   ,
                   from
                   their
                   Hands
                   .
                
                 
                   Th'
                   Ausonian
                   King
                   beholds
                   ,
                   with
                   wond'ring
                   sight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Two
                   mighty
                   Champions
                   match'd
                   in
                   single
                   Fight
                   :
                
                 
                   Born
                   under
                   Climes
                   remote
                   ;
                   and
                   brought
                   by
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Swords
                   to
                   try
                   their
                   Titles
                   to
                   the
                   State.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Now
                   in
                   clos'd
                   Field
                   ,
                   each
                   other
                   from
                   afar
                
                 
                   They
                   view
                   ;
                   and
                   rushing
                   on
                   ,
                   begin
                   the
                   War.
                
                 
                   They
                   launch
                   their
                   Spears
                   ,
                   then
                   hand
                   to
                   hand
                   they
                   meet
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   trembling
                   Soil
                   resounds
                   beneath
                   their
                   Feet
                   :
                
                 
                   Their
                   Bucklers
                   clash
                   ;
                   thick
                   blows
                   descend
                   from
                   high
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   flakes
                   of
                   Fire
                   from
                   their
                   hard
                   Helmets
                   fly
                   .
                
                 
                   Courage
                   conspires
                   with
                   Chance
                   ;
                   and
                   both
                   ingage
                
                 
                   With
                   equal
                   Fortune
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   mutual
                   Rage
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   As
                   when
                   two
                   Bulls
                   for
                   their
                   fair
                   Female
                   fight
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   
                   Sila's
                   Shades
                   ,
                   or
                   on
                   Taburnus
                   height
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   Horns
                   adverse
                   they
                   meet
                   :
                   the
                   Keeper
                   flies
                   ;
                
                 
                   Mute
                   stands
                   the
                   Herd
                   ,
                   the
                   Heifars
                   rowl
                   their
                   Eyes
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   wait
                   th'
                   Event
                   ;
                   which
                   Victor
                   they
                   shall
                   bear
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   who
                   shall
                   be
                   the
                   Lord
                   ,
                   to
                   rule
                   the
                   lusty
                   Year
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   rage
                   of
                   Love
                   the
                   jealous
                   Rivals
                   burn
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Push
                   for
                   Push
                   ,
                   and
                   Wound
                   for
                   Wound
                   return
                   :
                
                 
                   Their
                   Dewlaps
                   gor'd
                   ,
                   their
                   sides
                   are
                   lav'd
                   in
                   Blood
                   ;
                
                 
                   Loud
                   Cries
                   and
                   roaring
                   Sounds
                   rebellow
                   thro'
                   the
                   Wood
                   :
                
                 
                   Such
                   was
                   the
                   Combat
                   in
                   the
                   listed
                   Ground
                   ;
                
                 
                   So
                   clash
                   their
                   Swords
                   and
                   so
                   their
                   Shields
                   resound
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Jove
                   sets
                   the
                   Beam
                   ;
                   in
                   either
                   Scale
                   he
                   lays
                
                 
                   The
                   Champions
                   Fate
                   ,
                   and
                   each
                   exactly
                   weighs
                   .
                
                 
                   On
                   this
                   side
                   Life
                   ,
                   and
                   lucky
                   Chance
                   ascends
                   :
                
                 
                   Loaded
                   with
                   Death
                   ,
                   that
                   other
                   Scale
                   descends
                   .
                
                 
                   Rais'd
                   on
                   the
                   Stretch
                   ,
                   young
                   Turnus
                   aims
                   a
                   blow
                   ,
                
                 
                   Full
                   on
                   the
                   Helm
                   of
                   his
                   unguarded
                   Foe
                   :
                
                 
                   Shrill
                   Shouts
                   and
                   Clamours
                   ring
                   on
                   either
                   side
                   ;
                
                 
                   As
                   Hopes
                   and
                   Fears
                   their
                   panting
                   Hearts
                   divide
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   But
                   all
                   in
                   pieces
                   flies
                   the
                   Traytor
                   Sword
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   in
                   the
                   middle
                   Stroke
                   deserts
                   his
                   Lord.
                
                 
                   Now
                   't
                   is
                   but
                   Death
                   ,
                   or
                   Flight
                   :
                   disarm'd
                   he
                   flies
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   in
                   his
                   Hand
                   ,
                   an
                   unknown
                   Hilt
                   he
                   spies
                   .
                
                 
                   Fame
                   says
                   that
                   Turnus
                   ,
                   when
                   his
                   Steeds
                   he
                   join'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Hurrying
                   to
                   War
                   ,
                   disorder'd
                   in
                   his
                   Mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Snatch'd
                   the
                   first
                   Weapon
                   ,
                   which
                   his
                   haste
                   cou'd
                   find
                   .
                
                 
                   'T
                   was
                   not
                   the
                   fated
                   Sword
                   his
                   Father
                   bore
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   that
                   his
                   Charioteer
                   Metiscus
                   wore
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   ,
                   while
                   the
                   Trojans
                   fled
                   ,
                   the
                   Toughness
                   held
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   vain
                   against
                   the
                   great
                   Vulcanian
                   Shield
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   mortal-temper'd
                   Steel
                   deceiv'd
                   his
                   Hand
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   shiver'd
                   fragments
                   shone
                   amid
                   the
                   Sand.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Surpris'd
                   with
                   fear
                   ,
                   he
                   fled
                   along
                   the
                   Field
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   forthright
                   ,
                   and
                   now
                   in
                   Orbits
                   wheel'd
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   here
                   the
                   Trojan
                   Troops
                   the
                   List
                   surround
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   there
                   the
                   Pass
                   is
                   clos'd
                   with
                   Pools
                   and
                   marshy
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                   Aeneas
                   hastens
                   ,
                   tho'
                   with
                   heavier
                   Pace
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Wound
                   so
                   newly
                   knit
                   ,
                   retards
                   the
                   Chase
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   oft
                   his
                   trembling
                   Knees
                   their
                   Aid
                   refuse
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   pressing
                   foot
                   by
                   foot
                   his
                   Foe
                   pursues
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Thus
                   ,
                   when
                   a
                   fearful
                   Stag
                   is
                   clos'd
                   around
                
                 
                   With
                   Crimson
                   Toils
                   ,
                   or
                   in
                   a
                   River
                   found
                   ;
                
                 
                   High
                   on
                   the
                   Bank
                   the
                   deep-mouth'd
                   Hound
                   appears
                   ;
                
                 
                   Still
                   opening
                   ,
                   following
                   still
                   ,
                   where
                   e're
                   he
                   steers
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   persecuted
                   Creature
                   ,
                   to
                   ,
                   and
                   fro
                   ,
                
                 
                   Turns
                   here
                   and
                   there
                   ,
                   to
                   scape
                   his
                   Vmbrian
                   Foe
                   :
                
                 
                   Steep
                   is
                   th'
                   Ascent
                   ;
                   and
                   if
                   he
                   gains
                   the
                   Land
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Purple
                   Death
                   is
                   pitch'd
                   along
                   the
                   Strand
                   :
                
                 
                   His
                   eager
                   Foe
                   determin'd
                   to
                   the
                   Chace
                   ,
                
                 
                   Stretch'd
                   at
                   his
                   length
                   gains
                   Ground
                   at
                   ev'ry
                   Pace
                   :
                
                 
                   Now
                   to
                   his
                   beamy
                   Head
                   he
                   makes
                   his
                   way
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   he
                   holds
                   ,
                   or
                   thinks
                   he
                   holds
                   his
                   Prey
                   :
                
              
               
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     the
                     Right
                     Hon
                     ble
                     :
                     Francis
                     North
                     Baron
                     of
                     Guilford
                  
                   
                     Aen
                     :
                     12.
                     
                     L
                     1120.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Just
                   at
                   the
                   pinch
                   the
                   Stag
                   springs
                   out
                   with
                   fear
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   bites
                   the
                   Wind
                   ,
                   and
                   fills
                   his
                   sounding
                   Jaws
                   with
                   Air.
                
                 
                   The
                   Rocks
                   ,
                   the
                   Lakes
                   ,
                   the
                   Meadows
                   ring
                   with
                   Cries
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   mortal
                   Tumult
                   mounts
                   ,
                   and
                   thunders
                   in
                   the
                   Skies
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Thus
                   flies
                   the
                   Daunian
                   Prince
                   :
                   and
                   ,
                   flying
                   ,
                   blames
                
                 
                   His
                   tardy
                   Troops
                   ;
                   and
                   calling
                   by
                   their
                   Names
                   ,
                
                 
                   Demands
                   his
                   trusty
                   Sword.
                   The
                   Trojan
                   threats
                
                 
                   The
                   Realm
                   with
                   Ruin
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   ancient
                   Seats
                
                 
                   To
                   lay
                   in
                   Ashes
                   ,
                   if
                   they
                   dare
                   supply
                
                 
                   With
                   Arms
                   or
                   Aid
                   ,
                   his
                   vanquish'd
                   Enemy
                   :
                
                 
                   Thus
                   menacing
                   ,
                   he
                   still
                   pursues
                   the
                   Course
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Vigour
                   ,
                   tho'
                   diminish'd
                   of
                   his
                   Force
                   .
                
                 
                   Ten
                   times
                   ,
                   already
                   ,
                   round
                   the
                   listed
                   place
                   ,
                
                 
                   One
                   Chief
                   had
                   fled
                   ,
                   and
                   t'other
                   giv'n
                   the
                   Chace
                   :
                
                 
                   No
                   trivial
                   Prize
                   is
                   play'd
                   ;
                   for
                   on
                   the
                   Life
                
                 
                   Or
                   Death
                   of
                   Turnus
                   ,
                   now
                   depends
                   the
                   Strife
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Within
                   the
                   space
                   ,
                   an
                   Olive
                   Tree
                   had
                   stood
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   sacred
                   Shade
                   ,
                   a
                   venerable
                   Wood
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   Vows
                   to
                   Faunus
                   paid
                   ,
                   the
                   Latins
                   Guardian
                   God.
                
                 
                   Here
                   hung
                   the
                   Vests
                   ,
                   and
                   Tablets
                   were
                   ingrav'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   sinking
                   Mariners
                   ,
                   from
                   Shipwrack
                   sav'd
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   heedless
                   Hands
                   the
                   Trojans
                   fell'd
                   the
                   Tree
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   make
                   the
                   Ground
                   inclos'd
                   for
                   Combat
                   free
                   .
                
                 
                   Deep
                   in
                   the
                   Root
                   ,
                   whether
                   by
                   Fate
                   ,
                   or
                   Chance
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   erring
                   haste
                   ,
                   the
                   Trojan
                   drove
                   his
                   Lance
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   stoop'd
                   ,
                   and
                   tug'd
                   with
                   Force
                   immense
                   to
                   free
                
                 
                   Th'
                   incumber'd
                   Spear
                   from
                   the
                   tenacious
                   Tree
                   :
                
                 
                   That
                   whom
                   his
                   fainting
                   Limbs
                   pursu'd
                   in
                   vain
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   flying
                   Weapon
                   might
                   from
                   far
                   attain
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Confus'd
                   with
                   Fear
                   ,
                   bereft
                   of
                   Human
                   Aid
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   Turnus
                   to
                   the
                   Gods
                   ,
                   and
                   first
                   to
                   Faunus
                   pray'd
                   .
                
                 
                   O
                   Faunus
                   pity
                   ,
                   and
                   thou
                   Mother
                   Earth
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   I
                   thy
                   foster
                   Son
                   receiv'd
                   my
                   Birth
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Hold
                   fast
                   the
                   Steel
                   ;
                   if
                   my
                   Religious
                   Hand
                
                 
                   Your
                   Plant
                   has
                   honour'd
                   ,
                   which
                   your
                   Foes
                   profan'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Propitious
                   hear
                   my
                   pious
                   Pray'r
                   !
                   He
                   said
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   with
                   successless
                   Vows
                   invok'd
                   their
                   Aid
                   .
                
                 
                   Th'
                   incumbent
                   Heroe
                   ,
                   wrench'd
                   ,
                   and
                   pull'd
                   ,
                   and
                   strain'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   still
                   the
                   stubborn
                   Earth
                   the
                   Steel
                   detain'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Juturna
                   took
                   her
                   time
                   ;
                   and
                   while
                   in
                   vain
                
                 
                   He
                   strove
                   ,
                   assum'd
                   Metiscus
                   Form
                   again
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   in
                   that
                   imitated
                   Shape
                   ,
                   restor'd
                
                 
                   To
                   the
                   despairing
                   Prince
                   ,
                   his
                   Daunian
                   Sword.
                
                 
                   The
                   Queen
                   of
                   Love
                   ,
                   who
                   ,
                   with
                   Disdain
                   and
                   Grief
                   ,
                
                 
                   Saw
                   the
                   bold
                   Nymph
                   afford
                   this
                   prompt
                   Relief
                   ;
                
                 
                   T'
                   assert
                   her
                   Off-spring
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   greater
                   Deed
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   the
                   tough
                   Root
                   the
                   ling'ring
                   Weapon
                   freed
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Once
                   more
                   erect
                   ,
                   the
                   Rival
                   Chiefs
                   advance
                   ;
                
                 
                   One
                   trusts
                   the
                   Sword
                   ,
                   and
                   one
                   the
                   pointed
                   Lance
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   both
                   resolv'd
                   alike
                   ,
                   to
                   try
                   their
                   fatal
                   Chance
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Mean
                   time
                   Imperial
                   Jove
                   to
                   Juno
                   spoke
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   from
                   a
                   shining
                   Cloud
                   beheld
                   the
                   shock
                   ;
                
                 
                   What
                   new
                   Arrest
                   ,
                   O
                   Queen
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   is
                   sent
                
                 
                   To
                   stop
                   the
                   Fates
                   now
                   lab'ring
                   in
                   th'
                   Event
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   farther
                   hopes
                   are
                   left
                   thee
                   to
                   pursue
                
                 
                   Divine
                   Aeneas
                   ,
                   (
                   and
                   thou
                   know'st
                   it
                   too
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                   Fore-doom'd
                   to
                   these
                   Coelestial
                   Seats
                   is
                   due
                   ?
                
                 
                   What
                   more
                   Attempts
                   for
                   Turnus
                   can
                   be
                   made
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   thus
                   thou
                   ling'rest
                   in
                   this
                   lonely
                   Shade
                   !
                
                 
                   Is
                   it
                   becoming
                   of
                   the
                   due
                   Respect
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   awful
                   Honour
                   of
                   a
                   God
                   Elect
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Wound
                   unworthy
                   of
                   our
                   State
                   to
                   feel
                   ;
                
                 
                   Patient
                   of
                   Human
                   Hands
                   ,
                   and
                   earthly
                   Steel
                   ?
                
                 
                   Or
                   seems
                   it
                   Just
                   ,
                   the
                   Sister
                   shou'd
                   restore
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   second
                   Sword
                   ,
                   when
                   one
                   was
                   lost
                   before
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   arm
                   a
                   conquer'd
                   Wretch
                   ,
                   against
                   his
                   Conqueror
                   ?
                
                 
                 
                   For
                   what
                   without
                   thy
                   knowledge
                   and
                   avow
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nay
                   more
                   ,
                   thy
                   Dictate
                   ,
                   durst
                   Juturna
                   do
                   ?
                
                 
                   At
                   last
                   ,
                   in
                   deference
                   to
                   my
                   Love
                   ,
                   forbear
                
                 
                   To
                   lodge
                   within
                   thy
                   Soul
                   this
                   anxious
                   Care
                   :
                
                 
                   Reclin'd
                   upon
                   my
                   Breast
                   ,
                   thy
                   Grief
                   unload
                   ;
                
                 
                   Who
                   shou'd
                   relieve
                   the
                   Goddess
                   ,
                   but
                   the
                   God
                   ?
                
                 
                   Now
                   ,
                   all
                   things
                   to
                   their
                   utmost
                   Issue
                   tend
                   ;
                
                 
                   Push'd
                   by
                   the
                   Fates
                   to
                   their
                   appointed
                   End
                   :
                
                 
                   While
                   leave
                   was
                   giv'n
                   thee
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   lawful
                   Hour
                
                 
                   For
                   Vengeance
                   ,
                   Wrath
                   ,
                   and
                   unresisted
                   Pow'r
                   :
                
                 
                   Toss'd
                   on
                   the
                   Seas
                   thou
                   cou'd'st
                   thy
                   Foes
                   distress
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   driv'n
                   ashore
                   ,
                   with
                   Hostile
                   Arms
                   oppress
                   :
                
                 
                   Deform
                   the
                   Royal
                   House
                   ;
                   and
                   from
                   the
                   side
                
                 
                   Of
                   the
                   Just
                   Bridegroom
                   ,
                   tear
                   the
                   plighted
                   Bride
                   :
                
              
               
                 
                   Now
                   cease
                   at
                   my
                   Command
                   .
                   The
                   Thund'rer
                   said
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   dejected
                   Eyes
                   this
                   Answer
                   Juno
                   made
                   .
                
                 
                   Because
                   your
                   dread
                   Decree
                   too
                   well
                   I
                   knew
                   ;
                
                 
                   From
                   Turnus
                   ,
                   and
                   from
                   Earth
                   unwilling
                   I
                   withdrew
                   .
                
                 
                   Else
                   shou'd
                   you
                   not
                   behold
                   me
                   here
                   alone
                   ,
                
                 
                   Involv'd
                   in
                   empty
                   Clouds
                   ,
                   my
                   Friends
                   bemoan
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   girt
                   with
                   vengeful
                   Flames
                   ,
                   in
                   open
                   sight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Engag'd
                   against
                   my
                   Foes
                   in
                   Mortal
                   Fight
                   .
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   true
                   Juturna
                   mingled
                   in
                   the
                   Strife
                
                 
                   By
                   my
                   Command
                   ,
                   to
                   save
                   her
                   Brother's
                   Life
                   ;
                
                 
                   At
                   least
                   to
                   try
                   :
                   But
                   by
                   the
                   Stygian
                   Lake
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   The
                   most
                   Religious
                   Oath
                   the
                   Gods
                   can
                   take
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                   With
                   this
                   restriction
                   ,
                   not
                   to
                   bend
                   the
                   Bow
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   toss
                   the
                   Spear
                   ,
                   or
                   trembling
                   Dart
                   to
                   throw
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   resign'd
                   to
                   your
                   Superior
                   Might
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   tir'd
                   with
                   fruitless
                   Toils
                   ,
                   I
                   loath
                   the
                   Fight
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   let
                   me
                   beg
                   ,
                   (
                   and
                   this
                   no
                   Fates
                   withstand
                   )
                
                 
                   Both
                   for
                   my self
                   ,
                   and
                   for
                   your
                   Fathers
                   Land
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   when
                   the
                   Nuptial
                   Bed
                   shall
                   bind
                   the
                   Peace
                   ;
                
                 
                   (
                   Which
                   I
                   ,
                   since
                   you
                   ordain
                   ,
                   consent
                   to
                   bless
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Laws
                   of
                   either
                   Nation
                   be
                   the
                   same
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   let
                   the
                   Latins
                   still
                   retain
                   their
                   Name
                   :
                
                 
                   Speak
                   the
                   same
                   Language
                   which
                   they
                   spoke
                   before
                   ;
                
                 
                   Wear
                   the
                   same
                   Habits
                   ,
                   which
                   their
                   Grandsires
                   wore
                   :
                
                 
                   Call
                   them
                   not
                   Trojans
                   :
                   Perish
                   the
                   Renown
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Name
                   of
                   Troy
                   ,
                   with
                   that
                   detested
                   Town
                   .
                
                 
                   Latium
                   be
                   Latium
                   still
                   ;
                   let
                   Alba
                   reign
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   
                   Rome's
                   immortal
                   Majesty
                   remain
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   thus
                   the
                   Founder
                   of
                   Mankind
                   replies
                   :
                
                 
                   (
                   Unruffled
                   was
                   his
                   Front
                   ,
                   serene
                   his
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                   Can
                   
                   Saturn's
                   Issue
                   ,
                   and
                   Heav'ns
                   other
                   Heir
                   ,
                
                 
                   Such
                   endless
                   Anger
                   in
                   her
                   Bosom
                   bear
                   ?
                
                 
                   Be
                   Mistress
                   ,
                   and
                   your
                   full
                   Desires
                   obtain
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   quench
                   the
                   Choler
                   you
                   foment
                   in
                   vain
                   .
                
                 
                   From
                   ancient
                   Blood
                   th'
                   Ausonian
                   People
                   sprung
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shall
                   keep
                   their
                   Name
                   ,
                   their
                   Habit
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   Tongue
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Trojans
                   to
                   their
                   Customs
                   shall
                   be
                   ty'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   will
                   ,
                   my self
                   ,
                   their
                   common
                   Rites
                   provide
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Natives
                   shall
                   command
                   ,
                   the
                   Foreigners
                   subside
                   .
                
                 
                   All
                   shall
                   be
                   
                     Latium
                     ;
                     Troy
                  
                   without
                   a
                   Name
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   her
                   lost
                   Sons
                   forget
                   from
                   whence
                   they
                   came
                   .
                
                 
                   From
                   Blood
                   so
                   mix'd
                   ,
                   a
                   pious
                   Race
                   shall
                   flow
                   ,
                
                 
                   Equal
                   to
                   Gods
                   ,
                   excelling
                   all
                   below
                   .
                
                 
                   No
                   Nation
                   more
                   Respect
                   to
                   you
                   shall
                   pay
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   greater
                   Off'rings
                   on
                   your
                   Altars
                   lay
                   .
                
                 
                   Juno
                   consents
                   ,
                   well
                   pleas'd
                   that
                   her
                   Desires
                
                 
                   Had
                   found
                   Success
                   ,
                   and
                   from
                   the
                   Cloud
                   retires
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Peace
                   thus
                   made
                   ,
                   the
                   Thund'rer
                   next
                   prepares
                
                 
                   To
                   force
                   the
                   wat'ry
                   Goddess
                   from
                   the
                   Wars
                   .
                
                 
                   Deep
                   in
                   the
                   dismal
                   Regions
                   ,
                   void
                   of
                   Light
                   ,
                
                 
                   Three
                   Daughters
                   at
                   a
                   Birth
                   were
                   born
                   to
                   Night
                   :
                
                 
                   These
                   their
                   brown
                   Mother
                   ,
                   brooding
                   on
                   her
                   Care
                   ,
                
                 
                   Indu'd
                   with
                   windy
                   Wings
                   to
                   flit
                   in
                   Air
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   Serpents
                   girt
                   alike
                   ;
                   and
                   crown'd
                   with
                   hissing
                   Hair.
                
                 
                 
                   In
                   Heav'n
                   the
                   Dirae
                   call'd
                   ,
                   and
                   still
                   at
                   hand
                   ,
                
                 
                   Before
                   the
                   Throne
                   of
                   angry
                   Jove
                   they
                   stand
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   Ministers
                   of
                   Wrath
                   ;
                   and
                   ready
                   still
                
                 
                   The
                   Minds
                   of
                   Mortal
                   Men
                   with
                   Fears
                   to
                   fill
                   :
                
                 
                   When
                   e're
                   the
                   moody
                   Sire
                   ,
                   to
                   wreak
                   his
                   Hate
                
                 
                   On
                   Realms
                   ,
                   or
                   Towns
                   deserving
                   of
                   their
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Hurls
                   down
                   Diseases
                   ,
                   Death
                   ,
                   and
                   deadly
                   Care
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   terrifies
                   the
                   guilty
                   World
                   with
                   War.
                
                 
                   One
                   Sister
                   Plague
                   of
                   these
                   from
                   Heav'n
                   he
                   sent
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   fright
                   Juturna
                   with
                   a
                   dire
                   Portent
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Pest
                   comes
                   whirling
                   down
                   :
                   by
                   far
                   more
                   slow
                
                 
                   Springs
                   the
                   swift
                   Arrow
                   from
                   the
                   Parthian
                   Bow
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   Cydon
                   Eugh
                   ;
                   when
                   traversing
                   the
                   Skies
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   drench'd
                   in
                   pois'nous
                   Juice
                   ,
                   the
                   sure
                   Destruction
                   flies
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   such
                   a
                   sudden
                   ,
                   and
                   unseen
                   a
                   flight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shot
                   thro'
                   the
                   Clouds
                   the
                   Daughter
                   of
                   the
                   Night
                   .
                
                 
                   Soon
                   as
                   the
                   Field
                   inclos'd
                   she
                   had
                   in
                   view
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   from
                   afar
                   her
                   destin'd
                   Quarry
                   knew
                   :
                
                 
                   Contracted
                   ,
                   to
                   the
                   boding
                   Bird
                   she
                   turns
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   haunts
                   the
                   ruin'd
                   Piles
                   ,
                   and
                   hallow'd
                   Urns
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   beats
                   about
                   the
                   Tombs
                   with
                   nightly
                   Wings
                   ;
                
                 
                   Where
                   Songs
                   obsence
                   on
                   Sepulchres
                   she
                   sings
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   lessen'd
                   in
                   her
                   Form
                   ,
                   with
                   frightful
                   Cries
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Fury
                   round
                   unhappy
                   Turnus
                   flies
                   ,
                
                 
                   Flaps
                   on
                   his
                   Shield
                   ,
                   and
                   flutters
                   o're
                   his
                   Eyes
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   A
                   lazy
                   Chilness
                   crept
                   along
                   his
                   Blood
                   ,
                
                 
                   Choak'd
                   was
                   his
                   Voice
                   ,
                   his
                   Hair
                   with
                   Horror
                   stood
                   .
                
                 
                   Juturna
                   from
                   afar
                   beheld
                   her
                   fly
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   knew
                   th'
                   ill
                   Omen
                   ,
                   by
                   her
                   screaming
                   Cry
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   stridour
                   of
                   her
                   Wings
                   .
                   Amaz'd
                   with
                   Fear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   comely
                   Breast
                   she
                   beat
                   ,
                   and
                   rent
                   her
                   flowing
                   Hair.
                
                 
                   Ah
                   me
                   ,
                   she
                   cries
                   ,
                   in
                   this
                   unequal
                   Strife
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   can
                   thy
                   Sister
                   more
                   to
                   save
                   thy
                   Life
                   !
                
                 
                 
                   Weak
                   as
                   I
                   am
                   ,
                   can
                   I
                   ,
                   alas
                   ,
                   contend
                
                 
                   In
                   Arms
                   ,
                   with
                   that
                   inexorable
                   Fiend
                   !
                
                 
                   Now
                   ,
                   now
                   ,
                   I
                   quit
                   the
                   Field
                   !
                   forbear
                   to
                   fright
                
                 
                   My
                   tender
                   Soul
                   ,
                   ye
                   baleful
                   Birds
                   of
                   Night
                   !
                
                 
                   The
                   lashing
                   of
                   your
                   Wings
                   I
                   know
                   too
                   well
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   sounding
                   Flight
                   ,
                   and
                   Fun'ral
                   Screams
                   of
                   Hell
                   !
                
                 
                   These
                   are
                   the
                   Gifts
                   you
                   bring
                   from
                   haughty
                   Jove
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   worthy
                   Recompence
                   of
                   ravish'd
                   Love
                   !
                
                 
                   Did
                   he
                   for
                   this
                   exempt
                   my
                   Life
                   from
                   Fate
                   ?
                
                 
                   O
                   hard
                   Conditions
                   of
                   Immortal
                   State
                   !
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   born
                   to
                   Death
                   ,
                   not
                   priviledg'd
                   to
                   dye
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   forc'd
                   to
                   bear
                   impos'd
                   Eternity
                   !
                
                 
                   Take
                   back
                   your
                   envious
                   Bribes
                   ,
                   and
                   let
                   me
                   go
                
                 
                   Companion
                   to
                   my
                   Brother's
                   Ghost
                   below
                   !
                
                 
                   The
                   Joys
                   are
                   vanish'd
                   :
                   Nothing
                   now
                   remains
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   Life
                   Immortal
                   ,
                   but
                   Immortal
                   Pains
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   Earth
                   will
                   open
                   her
                   devouring
                   Womb
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   rest
                   a
                   weary
                   Goddess
                   in
                   the
                   Tomb
                   !
                
                 
                   She
                   drew
                   a
                   length
                   of
                   Sighs
                   ;
                   nor
                   more
                   she
                   said
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   in
                   her
                   Azure
                   Mantle
                   wrap'd
                   her
                   Head
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   plung'd
                   into
                   her
                   Stream
                   ,
                   with
                   deep
                   Despair
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   her
                   last
                   Sobs
                   came
                   bubling
                   up
                   in
                   Air.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Now
                   stern
                   Aeneas
                   waves
                   his
                   weighty
                   Spear
                
                 
                   Against
                   his
                   Foe
                   ,
                   and
                   thus
                   upbraids
                   his
                   Fear
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   farther
                   Subterfuge
                   can
                   Turnus
                   find
                   ;
                
                 
                   What
                   empty
                   Hopes
                   are
                   harbour'd
                   in
                   his
                   Mind
                   ?
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   not
                   thy
                   Swiftness
                   can
                   secure
                   thy
                   Flight
                   :
                
                 
                   Not
                   with
                   their
                   Feet
                   ,
                   but
                   Hands
                   ,
                   the
                   Valiant
                   fight
                   .
                
                 
                   Vary
                   thy
                   Shape
                   in
                   thousand
                   Forms
                   ,
                   and
                   dare
                
                 
                   What
                   Skill
                   and
                   Courage
                   can
                   attempt
                   in
                   War
                   :
                
                 
                   Wish
                   for
                   the
                   Wings
                   of
                   Winds
                   ,
                   to
                   mount
                   the
                   Sky
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   hid
                   ,
                   within
                   the
                   hollow
                   Earth
                   to
                   lye
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Champion
                   shook
                   his
                   Head
                   ;
                   and
                   made
                   this
                   short
                   reply
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   No
                   threats
                   of
                   thine
                   ,
                   my
                   manly
                   Mind
                   can
                   move
                   :
                
                 
                   T
                   is
                   Hostile
                   Heav'n
                   I
                   dread
                   ;
                   and
                   Partial
                   Jove
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   ,
                   said
                   no
                   more
                   :
                   but
                   with
                   a
                   Sigh
                   ,
                   repress'd
                
                 
                   The
                   mighty
                   Sorrow
                   ,
                   in
                   his
                   swelling
                   Breast
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   as
                   he
                   rowld
                   his
                   troubled
                   Eyes
                   around
                   ,
                
                 
                   An
                   Antique
                   Stone
                   he
                   saw
                   :
                   the
                   Common
                   Bound
                
                 
                   Of
                   Neighb'ring
                   Fields
                   ;
                   and
                   Barrier
                   of
                   the
                   Ground
                   :
                
                 
                   So
                   vast
                   ,
                   that
                   Twelve
                   strong
                   Men
                   of
                   modern
                   Days
                   ,
                
                 
                   Th'
                   enormous
                   weight
                   from
                   Earth
                   cou'd
                   hardly
                   raise
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   heav'd
                   it
                   at
                   a
                   Lift
                   :
                   and
                   poiz'd
                   on
                   high
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ran
                   stagg'ring
                   on
                   ,
                   against
                   his
                   Enemy
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   so
                   disorder'd
                   ,
                   that
                   he
                   scarcely
                   knew
                
                 
                   His
                   Way
                   :
                   or
                   what
                   unwieldy
                   weight
                   he
                   threw
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   knocking
                   Knees
                   are
                   bent
                   beneath
                   the
                   Load
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   shiv'ring
                   Cold
                   congeals
                   his
                   vital
                   Blood.
                
                 
                   The
                   Stone
                   drops
                   from
                   his
                   arms
                   :
                   and
                   falling
                   short
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   want
                   of
                   Vigour
                   ,
                   mocks
                   his
                   vain
                   Effort
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   as
                   ,
                   when
                   heavy
                   Sleep
                   has
                   clos'd
                   the
                   sight
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   sickly
                   Fancy
                   labours
                   in
                   the
                   Night
                   :
                
                 
                   We
                   seem
                   to
                   run
                   ;
                   and
                   destitute
                   of
                   Force
                
                 
                   Our
                   sinking
                   Limbs
                   forsake
                   us
                   in
                   the
                   Course
                   :
                
                 
                   In
                   vain
                   we
                   heave
                   for
                   Breath
                   ;
                   in
                   vain
                   we
                   cry
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Nerves
                   unbrac'd
                   ,
                   their
                   usual
                   Strength
                   deny
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   on
                   the
                   Tongue
                   the
                   falt'ring
                   Accents
                   dye
                   :
                
                 
                   So
                   Turnus
                   far'd
                   :
                   what
                   ever
                   means
                   he
                   try'd
                
                 
                   All
                   force
                   of
                   Arms
                   ,
                   and
                   points
                   of
                   Art
                   employ'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Fury
                   flew
                   athwart
                   ;
                   and
                   made
                   th'
                   Endeavour
                   void
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   A
                   thousand
                   various
                   Thoughts
                   his
                   Soul
                   confound
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   star'd
                   about
                   ;
                   nor
                   Aid
                   nor
                   Issue
                   found
                   :
                
                 
                   His
                   own
                   Men
                   stop
                   the
                   Pass
                   ;
                   and
                   his
                   own
                   Walls
                   surround
                   .
                
                 
                   Once
                   more
                   he
                   pauses
                   ;
                   and
                   looks
                   out
                   again
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   seeks
                   the
                   Goddess
                   Charioteer
                   in
                   vain
                   .
                
                 
                   Trembling
                   he
                   views
                   the
                   Thund'ring
                   Chief
                   advance
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   brandishing
                   aloft
                   the
                   deadly
                   Lance
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Amaz'd
                   he
                   cow'rs
                   beneath
                   his
                   conqu'ring
                   Foe
                   ,
                
                 
                   Forgets
                   to
                   ward
                   ;
                   and
                   waits
                   the
                   coming
                   Blow
                   .
                
                 
                   Astonish'd
                   while
                   he
                   stands
                   ,
                   and
                   fix'd
                   with
                   Fear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Aim'd
                   at
                   his
                   Shield
                   he
                   sees
                   th'
                   impending
                   Spear
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Heroe
                   measur'd
                   first
                   ,
                   with
                   narrow
                   view
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   destin'd
                   Mark
                   :
                   And
                   rising
                   as
                   he
                   threw
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   its
                   full
                   swing
                   the
                   fatal
                   Weapon
                   flew
                   .
                
                 
                   Not
                   with
                   less
                   Rage
                   the
                   rattling
                   Thunder
                   falls
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   Stones
                   from
                   batt'ring
                   Engins
                   break
                   the
                   Walls
                   :
                
                 
                   Swift
                   as
                   a
                   Whirlwind
                   ,
                   from
                   an
                   Arm
                   so
                   strong
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Lance
                   drove
                   on
                   ;
                   and
                   bore
                   the
                   Death
                   along
                   .
                
                 
                   Nought
                   cou'd
                   his
                   sev'n-fold
                   Shield
                   the
                   Prince
                   avail
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   ought
                   beneath
                   his
                   Arms
                   the
                   Coat
                   of
                   Mail
                   ;
                
                 
                   It
                   pierc'd
                   thro'
                   all
                   ;
                   and
                   with
                   a
                   grizly
                   Wound
                   ,
                
                 
                   Transfix'd
                   his
                   Thigh
                   ,
                   and
                   doubled
                   him
                   to
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   Groans
                   the
                   Latins
                   rend
                   the
                   vaulted
                   Sky
                   :
                
                 
                   Woods
                   ,
                   Hills
                   ,
                   and
                   Valleys
                   ,
                   to
                   the
                   Voice
                   reply
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Now
                   low
                   on
                   Earth
                   the
                   lofty
                   Chief
                   is
                   laid
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   Eyes
                   cast
                   upward
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   Arms
                   display'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Recreant
                   thus
                   to
                   the
                   proud
                   Victor
                   pray'd
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   know
                   my
                   Death
                   deserv'd
                   ,
                   nor
                   hope
                   to
                   live
                   :
                
                 
                   Use
                   what
                   the
                   Gods
                   ,
                   and
                   thy
                   good
                   Fortune
                   give
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Yet
                   think
                   ;
                   oh
                   think
                   ,
                   if
                   Mercy
                   may
                   be
                   shown
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   Thou
                   hadst
                   a
                   Father
                   once
                   ;
                   and
                   hast
                   a
                   Son
                   :
                   )
                
                 
                   Pity
                   my
                   Sire
                   ,
                   now
                   sinking
                   to
                   the
                   Grave
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   for
                   Anchises
                   sake
                   ,
                   old
                   Daunus
                   save
                   !
                
                 
                   Or
                   ,
                   if
                   thy
                   vow'd
                   Revenge
                   pursue
                   my
                   Death
                   ;
                
                 
                   Give
                   to
                   my
                   Friends
                   my
                   Body
                   void
                   of
                   Breath
                   !
                
                 
                   The
                   Latian
                   Chiefs
                   have
                   seen
                   me
                   beg
                   my
                   Life
                   ;
                
                 
                   Thine
                   is
                   the
                   Conquest
                   ,
                   thine
                   the
                   Royal
                   Wife
                   :
                
                 
                   Against
                   a
                   yielded
                   Man
                   ,
                   't
                   is
                   mean
                   ignoble
                   Strife
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   In
                   deep
                   Suspence
                   the
                   Trojan
                   seem'd
                   to
                   stand
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   just
                   prepar'd
                   to
                   strike
                   repress'd
                   his
                   Hand
                   .
                
              
               
               
                 
                   
                     To
                     his
                     Grace
                     James
                     Duke
                     of
                     Ormond
                     Chancellor
                     of
                     the
                     Vniversitys
                     of
                     Oxford
                     and
                     Dublin
                     Knight
                     of
                     the
                     most
                     Noble
                     Order
                     of
                     the
                     Garter
                     &c
                     :
                  
                   
                     Aen
                     :
                     12.
                     
                     L.
                     1360.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                 
                   He
                   rowl'd
                   his
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   and
                   ev'ry
                   Moment
                   felt
                
                 
                   His
                   manly
                   Soul
                   with
                   more
                   Compassion
                   melt
                   .
                
                 
                   When
                   ,
                   casting
                   down
                   a
                   casual
                   Glance
                   ,
                   he
                   spy'd
                
                 
                   The
                   Golden
                   Belt
                   that
                   glitter'd
                   on
                   his
                   side
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   fatal
                   Spoils
                   which
                   haughty
                   Turnus
                   tore
                
                 
                   From
                   dying
                   Pallas
                   ,
                   and
                   in
                   Triumph
                   wore
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   rowz'd
                   anew
                   to
                   Wrath
                   ,
                   he
                   loudly
                   cries
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   Flames
                   ,
                   while
                   he
                   spoke
                   ,
                   came
                   flashing
                   from
                   his
                   Eyes
                   :
                   )
                
                 
                   Traytor
                   ,
                   dost
                   thou
                   ,
                   dost
                   thou
                   to
                   Grace
                   pretend
                   ,
                
                 
                   Clad
                   ,
                   as
                   thou
                   art
                   ,
                   in
                   Trophees
                   of
                   my
                   Friend
                   ?
                
                 
                   To
                   his
                   sad
                   Soul
                   a
                   grateful
                   Off'ring
                   go
                   ;
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   
                     Pallas
                     ,
                     Pallas
                  
                   gives
                   this
                   deadly
                   Blow
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   rais'd
                   his
                   Arm
                   aloft
                   ;
                   and
                   at
                   the
                   Word
                   ,
                
                 
                   Deep
                   in
                   his
                   Bosom
                   drove
                   the
                   shining
                   Sword.
                
                 
                   The
                   streaming
                   Blood
                   distain'd
                   his
                   Arms
                   around
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   disdainful
                   Soul
                   came
                   rushing
                   thro'
                   the
                   Wound
                   .
                
              
            
             
               FINIS
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             
             
             
               POSTSCRIPT
               TO
               THE
               READER
               .
            
             
               WHAT
               Virgil
               wrote
               in
               the
               vigour
               of
               his
               Age
               ,
               in
               Plenty
               and
               at
               Ease
               ,
               I
               have
               undertaken
               to
               Translate
               in
               my
               Declining
               Years
               :
               strugling
               with
               Wants
               ,
               oppress'd
               with
               Sickness
               ,
               curb'd
               in
               my
               Genius
               ,
               lyable
               to
               be
               misconstrued
               in
               all
               I
               write
               ;
               and
               my
               Judges
               ,
               if
               they
               are
               not
               very
               equitable
               ,
               already
               prejudic'd
               against
               me
               ,
               by
               the
               
                 Lying
                 Character
              
               which
               has
               been
               given
               them
               of
               my
               Morals
               .
               Yet
               steady
               to
               my
               Principles
               ,
               and
               not
               dispirited
               with
               my
               Afflictions
               ,
               I
               have
               ,
               by
               the
               Blessing
               of
               God
               on
               my
               Endeavours
               ,
               overcome
               all
               difficulties
               ;
               and
               ,
               in
               some
               measure
               ,
               acquitted
               my self
               of
               the
               Debt
               which
               I
               ow'd
               the
               Publick
               ,
               when
               I
               undertook
               this
               Work.
               In
               the
               first
               place
               therefore
               ,
               I
               thankfully
               acknowledge
               to
               the
               Almighty
               Power
               ,
               the
               Assistance
               he
               has
               given
               me
               in
               the
               beginning
               ,
               the
               Prosecution
               ,
               and
               Conclusion
               of
               my
               present
               Studies
               ,
               which
               are
               more
               happily
               perform'd
               than
               I
               could
               have
               promis'd
               to
               my self
               ,
               when
               I
               labour'd
               under
               such
               Discouragements
               .
               For
               ,
               what
               I
               have
               done
               ,
               Imperfect
               as
               it
               is
               ,
               for
               want
               of
               Health
               and
               leisure
               to
               Correct
               it
               ,
               will
               be
               judg'd
               in
               after
               Ages
               ,
               and
               possibly
               in
               the
               present
               ,
               to
               be
               no
               dishonour
               to
               my
               Native
               Country
               ;
               whose
               Language
               and
               Poetry
               wou'd
               be
               more
               esteem'd
               abroad
               ,
               if
               they
               were
               better
               understood
               .
               Somewhat
               (
               give
               me
               leave
               to
               say
               )
               I
               have
               added
               to
               both
               of
               them
               in
               the
               choice
               of
               Words
               ;
               and
               Harmony
               of
               Numbers
               which
               were
               wanting
               ,
               especially
               the
               last
               ,
               in
               all
               our
               Poets
               ,
               even
               in
               those
               who
               being
               endu'd
               with
               Genius
               ,
               yet
               have
               not
               Cultivated
               their
               Mother-Tongue
               with
               sufficient
               Care
               ;
               or
               relying
               on
               the
               Beauty
               of
               their
               Thoughts
               ,
               have
               judg'd
               the
               Ornament
               of
               Words
               ,
               and
               sweetness
               of
               Sound
               unnecessary
               .
               One
               is
               for
               raking
               in
               Chaucer
               (
               our
               
                 English
                 Ennius
              
               )
               for
               antiquated
               Words
               ,
               which
               are
               never
               to
               be
               reviv'd
               ,
               but
               when
               Sound
               or
               Significancy
               is
               wanting
               in
               the
               present
               Language
               .
               But
               many
               of
               his
               deserve
               not
               this
               Redemption
               ,
               any
               more
               than
               the
               Crouds
               of
               Men
               who
               daily
               die
               ,
               or
               are
               slain
               for
               Six-pence
               in
               a
               Battel
               ,
               merit
               to
               be
               restor'd
               to
               Life
               ,
               if
               a
               Wish
               cou'd
               revive
               them
               .
               Others
               have
               no
               Ear
               for
               Verse
               ,
               nor
               choice
               of
               Words
               ;
               nor
               distinction
               of
               Thoughts
               ;
               but
               mingle
               Farthings
               with
               their
               Gold
               to
               make
               up
               the
               Sum.
               Here
               is
               a
               Field
               of
               Satire
               open'd
               to
               me
               :
               But
               since
               the
               Revolution
               ,
               I
               have
               wholly
               renounc'd
               that
               Talent
               .
               For
               who
               wou'd
               give
               Physick
               to
               the
               Great
               when
               he
               is
               uncall'd
               ?
               To
               do
               his
               Patient
               no
               good
               ,
               and
               indanger
               himself
               for
               his
               Prescription
               ?
               Neither
               am
               I
               ignorant
               ,
               but
               I
               may
               justly
               be
               Condemn'd
               for
               many
               of
               those
               Faults
               ,
               of
               which
               I
               have
               too
               liberally
               Arraign'd
               others
               .
            
             
               Cynthias
               Aurem
               vellit
               ,
               &
               admonuit
               .
            
             
             
               'T
               is
               enough
               for
               me
               ,
               if
               the
               Government
               will
               let
               me
               pass
               unquestion'd
               .
               In
               the
               mean
               time
               ,
               I
               am
               oblig'd
               in
               gratitude
               ,
               to
               return
               my
               Thanks
               to
               many
               of
               them
               ,
               who
               have
               not
               only
               distinguish'd
               me
               from
               others
               of
               the
               same
               Party
               ,
               by
               a
               particular
               exception
               of
               Grace
               ,
               but
               without
               considering
               the
               Man
               ,
               have
               been
               Bountiful
               to
               the
               Poet
               :
               Have
               encourag'd
               Virgil
               to
               speak
               such
               English
               ,
               as
               I
               could
               teach
               him
               ,
               and
               rewarded
               his
               Interpreter
               ,
               for
               the
               pains
               he
               has
               taken
               in
               bringing
               him
               over
               into
               Britain
               ,
               by
               defraying
               the
               Charges
               of
               his
               Voyage
               .
               Even
               Cerberus
               ,
               when
               he
               had
               receiv'd
               the
               Sop
               ,
               permitted
               Aeneas
               to
               pass
               freely
               to
               Elysium
               .
               Had
               it
               been
               offer'd
               me
               ,
               and
               I
               had
               refus'd
               it
               ,
               yet
               still
               some
               gratitude
               is
               due
               to
               such
               who
               were
               willing
               to
               oblige
               me
               .
               But
               how
               much
               more
               to
               those
               from
               whom
               I
               have
               receiv'd
               the
               Favours
               which
               they
               have
               offer'd
               to
               one
               of
               a
               different
               Perswasion
               .
               Amongst
               whom
               I
               cannot
               omit
               naming
               the
               Earls
               of
               Darby
               and
               of
               Peterborough
               .
               To
               the
               first
               of
               these
               ,
               I
               have
               not
               the
               Honour
               to
               be
               known
               ;
               and
               therefore
               his
               liberality
               as
               much
               unexpected
               ,
               as
               it
               was
               undeserv'd
               .
               The
               present
               Earl
               of
               Peterborough
               has
               been
               pleas'd
               long
               since
               to
               accept
               the
               tenders
               of
               my
               Service
               :
               His
               Favours
               are
               so
               frequent
               to
               me
               ,
               that
               I
               receive
               them
               almost
               by
               prescription
               .
               No
               difference
               of
               Interests
               or
               Opinion
               have
               been
               able
               to
               withdraw
               his
               Protection
               from
               me
               :
               And
               I
               might
               justly
               be
               condemn'd
               for
               the
               most
               unthankful
               of
               Mankind
               ,
               if
               I
               did
               not
               always
               preserve
               for
               him
               a
               most
               profound
               Respect
               and
               inviolable
               Gratitude
               .
               I
               must
               also
               add
               ,
               that
               if
               the
               last
               Aeneid
               shine
               amongst
               its
               Fellows
               ,
               't
               is
               owing
               to
               the
               Commands
               of
               Sir
               
                 William
                 Trumball
              
               ,
               one
               of
               the
               Principal
               Secretaries
               of
               State
               ,
               who
               recommended
               it
               ,
               as
               his
               Favourite
               ,
               to
               my
               Care
               :
               and
               for
               his
               sake
               particularly
               I
               have
               made
               it
               mine
               .
               For
               who
               wou'd
               confess
               weariness
               ,
               when
               he
               enjoin'd
               a
               fresh
               Labour
               ?
               I
               cou'd
               not
               but
               invoke
               the
               assistance
               of
               a
               Muse
               ,
               for
               this
               last
               Office.
               
            
             
               
                 Extremum
                 hunc
                 Arethusa
                 :
                 —
              
               
                 Negat
                 quis
                 Carmina
                 Gallo
                 ?
              
            
             
               Neither
               am
               I
               to
               forget
               the
               Noble
               Present
               which
               was
               made
               me
               by
               
                 Gilbert
                 Dolben
              
               
                 Esq
              
               the
               worthy
               Son
               of
               the
               late
               Arch-Bishop
               of
               York
               :
               who
               ,
               when
               I
               began
               this
               Work
               ,
               enrich'd
               me
               with
               all
               the
               several
               Editions
               of
               Virgil
               ,
               and
               all
               the
               Commentaries
               of
               those
               Editions
               in
               Latine
               .
               Amongst
               which
               ,
               I
               cou'd
               not
               but
               prefer
               the
               Dolphins
               ;
               as
               the
               last
               ,
               the
               shortest
               ,
               and
               the
               most
               Judicious
               .
               Fabrini
               I
               had
               also
               sent
               me
               from
               Italy
               ;
               but
               either
               he
               understands
               Virgil
               very
               imperfectly
               ,
               or
               I
               have
               no
               knowledge
               of
               my
               Author
               .
            
             
               Being
               Invited
               by
               that
               worthy
               Gentleman
               ,
               Sir
               
                 William
                 Bowyer
              
               ,
               to
               Denham-Court
               ,
               I
               Translated
               the
               first
               Georgic
               at
               his
               House
               ,
               and
               the
               greatest
               part
               of
               the
               last
               Aeneid
               .
               A
               more
               friendly
               Entertainment
               no
               Man
               ever
               found
               .
               No
               wonder
               therefore
               if
               both
               those
               Versions
               surpass
               the
               rest
               ,
               and
               own
               the
               satisfaction
               I
               receiv'd
               in
               his
               Converse
               ,
               with
               whom
               I
               had
               the
               honour
               to
               be
               bred
               in
               Cambridge
               ,
               and
               in
               the
               same
               College
               .
               The
               Seventh
               Aeneid
               was
               made
               English
               at
               Burleigh
               ,
               the
               Magnificent
               Abode
               of
               the
               Earl
               of
               Exeter
               :
               In
               a
               Village
               belonging
               to
               his
               Family
               I
               was
               born
               ,
               and
               under
               his
               Roof
               I
               endeavour'd
               to
               make
               that
               Aeneid
               appear
               in
               English
               with
               as
               much
               lustre
               as
               I
               cou'd
               :
               though
               my
               Author
               has
               not
               given
               the
               finishing
               strokes
               either
               to
               it
               ,
               or
               to
               the
               Eleventh
               ,
               as
               I
               perhaps
               cou'd
               prove
               in
               both
               ,
               if
               I
               durst
               presume
               to
               Criticise
               my
               Master
               .
            
             
               By
               a
               Letter
               from
               
                 Will.
                 Walsh
              
               of
               Abberley
               
                 Esq
              
               (
               who
               has
               so
               long
               honour'd
               me
               with
               his
               Friendship
               ,
               and
               who
               ,
               without
               flattery
               ,
               is
               the
               best
               Critick
               of
               our
               Nation
               ,
               )
               I
               have
               been
               inform'd
               that
               his
               Grace
               the
               
               Duke
               of
               Shrewsbury
               has
               procur'd
               a
               Printed
               Copy
               of
               the
               
                 Pastorals
                 ,
                 Georgics
              
               ,
               and
               six
               first
               Aeneids
               ,
               from
               my
               Bookseller
               ,
               and
               has
               read
               them
               in
               the
               Country
               ,
               together
               with
               my
               Friend
               .
               This
               Noble
               Person
               having
               been
               pleas'd
               to
               give
               them
               a
               Commendation
               ,
               which
               I
               presume
               not
               to
               insert
               ;
               has
               made
               me
               vain
               enough
               to
               boast
               of
               so
               great
               a
               favour
               ,
               and
               to
               think
               I
               have
               succeeded
               beyond
               my
               hopes
               ;
               the
               Character
               of
               his
               Excellent
               Judgment
               ,
               the
               acuteness
               of
               his
               Wit
               ,
               and
               his
               general
               Knowledge
               of
               good
               Letters
               ,
               being
               known
               as
               well
               to
               all
               the
               World
               ,
               as
               the
               sweetness
               of
               his
               disposition
               ,
               his
               Humanity
               ,
               his
               easiness
               of
               access
               ,
               and
               desire
               of
               obliging
               those
               who
               stand
               in
               need
               of
               his
               protection
               ,
               are
               known
               to
               all
               who
               have
               approach'd
               him
               ;
               and
               to
               me
               in
               particular
               ,
               who
               have
               formerly
               had
               the
               honour
               of
               his
               Conversation
               .
               Whoever
               has
               given
               the
               World
               the
               Translation
               of
               part
               of
               the
               third
               Georgic
               ,
               which
               he
               calls
               
                 The
                 Power
                 of
                 Love
              
               ,
               has
               put
               me
               to
               sufficient
               pains
               to
               make
               my
               own
               not
               inferiour
               to
               his
               :
               As
               my
               Lord
               
               Roscommon's
               Silenus
               had
               formerly
               given
               me
               the
               same
               trouble
               .
               The
               most
               Ingenious
               Mr.
               Addison
               of
               Oxford
               has
               also
               been
               as
               troublesome
               to
               me
               as
               the
               other
               two
               ,
               and
               on
               the
               same
               account
               .
               After
               his
               Bees
               ,
               my
               latter
               Swarm
               is
               scarcely
               worth
               the
               hiving
               .
               Mr.
               
               Cowley's
               praise
               of
               a
               Countrey
               Life
               is
               Excellent
               ;
               but
               't
               is
               rather
               an
               imitation
               of
               Virgil
               ,
               than
               a
               Version
               .
               That
               I
               have
               recover'd
               in
               some
               measure
               the
               health
               which
               I
               had
               lost
               by
               too
               much
               application
               to
               this
               Work
               ,
               is
               owing
               ,
               next
               to
               God's
               Mercy
               ,
               to
               the
               Skill
               and
               Care
               of
               Dr.
               Guibbons
               ,
               and
               Dr.
               Hobbs
               ,
               the
               two
               Ornaments
               of
               their
               Profession
               ;
               whom
               I
               can
               only
               pay
               by
               this
               Acknowledgment
               .
               The
               whole
               Faculty
               has
               always
               been
               ready
               to
               oblige
               me
               :
               and
               the
               only
               one
               of
               them
               who
               endeavour'd
               to
               defame
               me
               ,
               had
               it
               not
               in
               his
               power
               .
               I
               desire
               pardon
               from
               my
               Readers
               for
               saying
               so
               much
               in
               relation
               to
               my self
               ,
               which
               concerns
               not
               them
               :
               and
               with
               my
               acknowledgements
               to
               all
               my
               Subscribers
               ,
               have
               only
               to
               add
               ,
               that
               the
               few
               Notes
               which
               follow
               ,
               are
               
                 par
                 maniere
                 d'acquit
              
               ,
               because
               I
               had
               oblig'd
               my self
               by
               Articles
               ,
               to
               do
               somewhat
               of
               that
               kind
               .
               These
               scattering
               Observations
               are
               rather
               guesses
               at
               my
               Author's
               meaning
               in
               some
               passages
               ,
               than
               proofs
               that
               so
               he
               meant
               .
               The
               Unlearn'd
               may
               have
               recourse
               to
               any
               Poetical
               Dictionary
               in
               English
               ,
               for
               the
               Names
               of
               Persons
               ,
               Places
               ,
               or
               Fables
               ,
               which
               the
               Learned
               need
               not
               :
               But
               that
               little
               which
               I
               say
               ,
               is
               either
               new
               or
               necessary
               .
               And
               the
               first
               of
               these
               qualifications
               never
               fails
               to
               invite
               a
               Reader
               ,
               if
               not
               to
               please
               him
               .
            
          
           
             
             
             
               NOTES
               and
               OBSERVATIONS
               ON
               Virgil's
               Works
               IN
               ENGLISH
               .
            
             
               PAstoral
               1.
               
               Line
               6.
               
               
                 There
                 first
                 the
                 Youth
                 of
                 Heavenly
                 Birth
                 I
                 view'd
                 .
                 Virgil
              
               means
               
                 Octavius
                 Caesar
              
               :
               Heir
               to
               Julius
               :
               who
               perhaps
               had
               not
               arriv'd
               to
               his
               Twentieth
               Year
               ,
               when
               Virgil
               saw
               him
               first
               .
               Vide
               his
               Life
               .
               Of
               Heavenly
               Birth
               or
               Heavenly
               Blood
               ;
               because
               the
               Julian
               Family
               was
               deriv'd
               from
               Julus
               ,
               Son
               to
               Aeneas
               ,
               and
               Grand-Son
               to
               Venus
               .
            
             
               Pastoral
               2d
               .
               Line
               65.
               
               
                 The
                 Short
              
               Narcissus
               ,
               That
               is
               ,
               of
               short
               continuance
               .
            
             
               Pastoral
               3d.
               Line
               95.
               
               
                 For
                 him
                 ,
                 the
                 God
                 of
                 Shepherds
                 and
                 their
                 Sheep
                 ,
                 Phoebus
                 ,
              
               not
               Pan
               ,
               is
               here
               call'd
               the
               God
               of
               Shepherds
               :
               The
               Poet
               alludes
               to
               the
               same
               Story
               ,
               which
               he
               touches
               in
               the
               beginning
               of
               the
               Second
               Georgic
               ,
               where
               he
               calls
               Phoebus
               the
               Amphrysian
               Shepherd
               ,
               because
               he
               fed
               the
               Sheep
               and
               Oxen
               of
               Admetus
               (
               with
               whom
               he
               was
               in
               Love
               )
               on
               the
               Hill
               Amphrysus
               .
            
             
               Pastoral
               4th
               .
               Line
               73.
               
               
                 Begin
                 Auspicious
                 Boy
              
               ,
               &c.
               In
               Latin
               thus
               .
               
                 Incipe
                 parve
                 Puer
                 ,
                 risu
                 cognoscere
                 Matrem
                 ,
              
               &c.
               
               I
               have
               Translated
               the
               Passage
               to
               this
               Sense
               ;
               that
               the
               Infant
               smiling
               on
               his
               Mother
               ,
               singles
               her
               out
               from
               the
               rest
               of
               the
               Company
               about
               him
               .
               
                 Erythraeus
                 ,
                 Bembus
              
               ,
               and
               
                 Joseph
                 Scaliger
              
               ,
               are
               of
               this
               Opinion
               .
               Yet
               they
               and
               I
               may
               be
               mistaken
               .
               For
               immediately
               after
               ,
               we
               find
               these
               words
               ,
               
                 Cui
                 non
                 risere
                 Parentes
              
               ,
               which
               imply
               another
               Sense
               ,
               as
               if
               the
               Parents
               smil'd
               on
               the
               New-born
               Infant
               :
               And
               that
               the
               Babe
               on
               whom
               they
               vouchsaf'd
               not
               to
               smile
               ,
               was
               born
               to
               ill
               Fortune
               .
               For
               they
               tell
               a
               Story
               ,
               that
               when
               Vulcan
               ,
               the
               only
               Son
               of
               Jupiter
               and
               Juno
               came
               into
               the
               World
               ,
               he
               was
               so
               hard
               favour'd
               ,
               that
               both
               his
               Parents
               frown'd
               on
               him
               :
               And
               Jupiter
               threw
               him
               out
               of
               Heaven
               ;
               he
               fell
               on
               the
               Island
               Lemnos
               ,
               and
               was
               Lame
               ever
               afterwards
               .
               The
               last
               Line
               of
               the
               Pastoral
               seems
               to
               justify
               this
               Sense
               ,
               
                 Nec
                 Deus
                 hunc
                 Mensâ
                 ,
                 Dea
                 nec
                 dignata
                 Cubili
                 est
                 .
              
               For
               though
               he
               married
               Venus
               ,
               yet
               his
               Mother
               Juno
               was
               not
               present
               at
               the
               Nuptials
               to
               bless
               them
               ;
               as
               appears
               by
               his
               Wife's
               Incontinence
               .
               They
               say
               also
               ,
               that
               he
               was
               banish'd
               from
               the
               Banquets
               of
               the
               Gods
               :
               If
               so
               ,
               that
               Punishment
               could
               be
               of
               no
               long
               continuance
               ,
               for
               Homer
               makes
               him
               present
               at
               their
               Feasts
               ;
               and
               composing
               a
               Quarrel
               betwixt
               his
               Parents
               ,
               with
               a
               Bowl
               of
               Nectar
               .
               The
               matter
               is
               of
               no
               great
               Consequence
               ;
               and
               therefore
               
               I
               adhere
               to
               my
               Translation
               ,
               for
               these
               two
               Reasons
               :
               First
               ,
               Virgil
               has
               this
               following
               Line
               .
               
                 Matri
                 long
                 a
                 docem
                 tulerunt
                 fastidia
                 Menses
                 ,
              
               as
               if
               the
               Infants
               smiling
               on
               his
               Mother
               ,
               was
               a
               Reward
               to
               her
               for
               bearing
               him
               ten
               Months
               in
               her
               Body
               ,
               four
               Weeks
               longer
               than
               the
               usual
               time
               .
               Secondly
               ,
               Catullus
               is
               cited
               by
               
                 Joseph
                 Scaliger
              
               ,
               as
               favouring
               this
               Opinion
               ,
               in
               his
               Epithalamium
               of
               
                 Manlius
                 Torquatus
              
               .
            
             
               
                 
                   Torquatus
                   ,
                   volo
                   parvolus
                
              
               
                 
                   Matris
                   è
                   gremio
                   suae
                
              
               
                 
                   Porrigens
                   teneras
                   Manus
                
              
               
                 
                   Dulcè
                   rideat
                   ad
                   Patrem
                
                 ,
                 &c.
                 
              
            
             
               What
               if
               I
               shou'd
               steer
               betwixt
               the
               two
               Extreams
               ,
               and
               conclude
               ,
               that
               the
               Infant
               ,
               who
               was
               to
               be
               happy
               ,
               must
               not
               only
               smile
               on
               his
               Parents
               ,
               but
               also
               they
               on
               him
               ?
               For
               Scaliger
               notes
               that
               the
               Infants
               who
               smil'd
               not
               at
               their
               Birth
               ,
               were
               observ'd
               to
               be
               
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
              
               ,
               or
               sullen
               (
               as
               I
               have
               Translated
               it
               )
               during
               all
               their
               Life
               :
               And
               Servius
               ,
               and
               almost
               all
               the
               Modern
               Commentators
               affirm
               ,
               that
               no
               Child
               was
               thought
               Fortunate
               on
               whom
               his
               Parents
               smil'd
               not
               ,
               at
               his
               Birth
               .
               I
               observe
               farther
               ,
               that
               the
               Ancients
               thought
               the
               Infant
               who
               came
               into
               the
               World
               at
               the
               end
               of
               the
               Tenth
               Month
               ,
               was
               Born
               to
               some
               extraordinary
               Fortune
               ,
               good
               or
               Bad.
               Such
               was
               the
               Birth
               of
               the
               late
               Prince
               of
               Condé
               ,
               of
               whom
               his
               Mother
               was
               not
               brought
               to
               Bed
               ,
               'till
               almost
               Eleven
               Months
               were
               expir'd
               after
               his
               Fathers
               Death
               :
               Yet
               the
               College
               of
               Physicians
               at
               Paris
               ,
               concluded
               he
               was
               Lawfully
               begotten
               .
               My
               Ingenious
               Friend
               ,
               
                 Anthony
                 Henley
              
               
                 Esq
              
               desir'd
               me
               to
               make
               a
               Note
               on
               this
               Passage
               of
               Virgil
               :
               Adding
               what
               I
               had
               not
               Read
               ;
               that
               the
               Jews
               have
               been
               so
               Superstitious
               ,
               as
               to
               observe
               not
               only
               the
               first
               Look
               or
               Action
               of
               an
               Infant
               ,
               but
               also
               the
               first
               Word
               which
               the
               Parent
               ,
               or
               any
               of
               the
               Assistants
               spoke
               after
               the
               Birth
               :
               And
               from
               thence
               they
               gave
               a
               Name
               to
               the
               Child
               alluding
               to
               it
               .
            
             
               Pastoral
               6.
               
               My
               Lord
               
               Roscommon's
               Notes
               on
               this
               Pastoral
               ,
               are
               equal
               to
               his
               excellent
               Translation
               of
               it
               ;
               and
               thither
               I
               refer
               the
               Reader
               .
            
             
               The
               Eighth
               and
               Tenth
               Pastorals
               are
               already
               Translated
               to
               all
               manner
               of
               advantage
               ,
               by
               my
               excellent
               Friend
               ,
               Mr.
               Stafford
               .
               So
               is
               the
               Episode
               of
               Camilla
               ,
               in
               the
               Eleventh
               Eneid
               .
            
             
               This
               Eight
               Pastoral
               is
               Copied
               by
               our
               Author
               from
               two
               Bucolicks
               of
               
                 Theocritus
                 .
                 Spencer
              
               has
               follow'd
               both
               Virgil
               and
               Theocritus
               ,
               in
               the
               Charms
               which
               he
               employs
               for
               Curing
               Britomartis
               of
               her
               Love.
               But
               he
               had
               also
               our
               Poet
               's
               Ceiris
               in
               his
               Eye
               :
               For
               there
               not
               only
               the
               Inchantments
               are
               to
               be
               found
               ;
               but
               also
               the
               very
               Name
               of
               Britomartis
               .
            
             
               In
               the
               Ninth
               Pastoral
               ,
               Virgil
               has
               made
               a
               Collection
               of
               many
               scattering
               Passages
               ,
               which
               he
               had
               Translated
               from
               Theocritus
               :
               And
               here
               he
               has
               bound
               them
               into
               a
               Nosegay
               .
            
             
               Georgic
               the
               First
               .
               The
               Poetry
               of
               this
               Book
               is
               more
               sublime
               than
               any
               part
               of
               Virgil
               ,
               if
               I
               have
               any
               Taste
               .
               And
               if
               ever
               I
               have
               Copied
               his
               Majestick
               Stile
               't
               is
               here
               .
               The
               Compliment
               he
               makes
               Augustus
               almost
               in
               the
               beginning
               ,
               is
               ill
               imitated
               by
               his
               Successors
               Lucan
               and
               Statius
               .
               They
               Dedicated
               to
               Tyrants
               ;
               and
               their
               Flatteries
               are
               gross
               and
               fulsome
               .
               
               Virgil's
               Address
               is
               both
               more
               lofty
               and
               more
               just
               .
               In
               the
               three
               last
               Lines
               of
               this
               Georgic
               ,
               I
               think
               I
               have
               discover'd
               a
               secret
               Compliment
               to
               the
               Emperour
               ,
               which
               none
               of
               the
               Commentators
               have
               observ'd
               .
               Virgil
               had
               just
               before
               describ'd
               the
               Miseries
               which
               Rome
               had
               undergone
               betwixt
               the
               Triumvirs
               and
               the
               Commonwealth-Party
               :
               In
               the
               close
               of
               all
               ,
               he
               seems
               to
               excuse
               the
               Crimes
               committed
               by
               his
               Patron
               
               Caesar
               ,
               as
               if
               he
               were
               constrain'd
               against
               his
               own
               Temper
               to
               those
               violent
               Proceedings
               ,
               by
               the
               necessity
               of
               the
               Times
               in
               general
               ,
               but
               more
               particularly
               by
               his
               two
               Partners
               ,
               Anthony
               and
               
                 Lepidus
                 .
                 Fertur
                 Equis
                 Auriga
                 ,
                 nec
                 audit
                 Currus
                 habenas
                 .
              
               They
               were
               the
               Head-strong
               Horses
               ,
               who
               hurried
               Octavius
               ,
               the
               trembling
               Charioteer
               along
               ,
               and
               were
               deaf
               to
               his
               ▪
               reclaiming
               them
               .
               I
               observe
               farther
               ;
               that
               the
               present
               Wars
               ,
               in
               which
               all
               Europe
               ,
               and
               part
               of
               Asia
               are
               ingag'd
               at
               present
               ;
               are
               wag'd
               in
               the
               same
               places
               here
               describ'd
               :
               
                 Atque
                 hinc
              
               Euphrates
               ,
               illinc
               Germania
               Bellum
               ,
               &c.
               
               As
               if
               Virgil
               had
               Prophecy'd
               of
               this
               Age.
               
            
             
               
                 Georgic
                 .
                 2d
              
               .
               The
               Praises
               of
               Italy
               ,
               (
               Translated
               by
               the
               Learned
               ,
               and
               every
               way
               Excellent
               Mr.
               Chetwood
               )
               which
               are
               Printed
               in
               one
               of
               the
               Miscellany
               Poems
               ,
               are
               the
               greatest
               Ornament
               of
               this
               Book
               .
               Wherein
               for
               want
               of
               sufficient
               skill
               in
               Gardening
               ,
               Agriculture
               ,
               &c.
               
               I
               may
               possibly
               be
               mistaken
               in
               some
               Terms
               .
               But
               concerning
               Grafting
               ,
               my
               Honour'd
               Friend
               Sir
               
                 William
                 Bowyer
              
               has
               assur'd
               me
               ,
               that
               Virgil
               has
               shewn
               more
               of
               Poetry
               than
               Skill
               ,
               at
               least
               in
               relation
               to
               our
               more
               Northern
               Climates
               .
               And
               that
               many
               of
               our
               Stocks
               will
               not
               receive
               such
               Grafts
               ,
               as
               our
               Po●t
               tells
               us
               would
               Bear
               in
               Italy
               .
               Nature
               has
               consir'd
               with
               Art
               to
               make
               the
               Garden
               at
               Denham-Court
               ,
               of
               Sir
               
               William's
               own
               Plantation
               ,
               one
               of
               the
               most
               delicious
               Spots
               of
               Ground
               in
               England
               :
               It
               contains
               not
               above
               Five
               Acres
               ,
               (
               just
               the
               compass
               of
               Alcinous
               his
               Garden
               ,
               describ'd
               in
               the
               
                 Odysses
                 :
              
               )
               But
               Virgil
               says
               in
               this
               very
               
                 Georgic
                 ,
                 Laudato
                 ingentia
                 Rura
                 ;
                 Exiguum
                 colito
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Georgic
                 3d.
              
               Line
               the
               
                 45th
                 .
                 Next
                 him
              
               ,
               Niphates
               
                 with
                 inverted
                 Vrn
              
               ,
               &c.
               
               It
               has
               been
               objected
               to
               me
               ,
               that
               I
               understood
               not
               this
               Passage
               of
               Virgil
               ,
               because
               I
               call
               Niphates
               a
               River
               ,
               which
               is
               a
               Mountain
               in
               Armenia
               .
               But
               the
               River
               arising
               from
               the
               same
               Mountain
               ,
               is
               also
               called
               Niphates
               .
               And
               having
               spoken
               of
               Nile
               before
               ,
               I
               might
               reasonably
               think
               ,
               that
               Virgil
               rather
               meant
               to
               couple
               two
               Rivers
               ,
               than
               a
               River
               and
               a
               Mountain
               .
            
             
               Line
               224.
               
               
                 The
                 Male
                 has
                 done
              
               ,
               &c.
               
               The
               transition
               is
               obscure
               in
               Virgil
               .
               He
               began
               with
               Cows
               ,
               then
               proceeds
               to
               treat
               of
               Horses
               :
               Now
               returns
               to
               Cows
               ▪
            
             
               Line
               476.
               
               
                 'Till
                 the
                 new
                 Ram
                 receives
                 th'
                 Exalted
                 Sun.
              
               Astrologers
               tell
               us
               ,
               that
               the
               Sun
               receives
               his
               Exaltation
               in
               the
               Sign
               
                 Aries
                 :
                 Virgil
              
               perfectly
               understood
               both
               Astronomy
               and
               Astrology
               .
            
             
               Georgic
               4.
               
               Line
               27.
               
               
                 That
                 when
                 the
                 Youthful
                 Prince
              
               .
               My
               most
               Ingenious
               Friend
               Sir
               
                 Henry
                 Shere
              
               ,
               has
               observ'd
               through
               a
               Glass-Hive
               ,
               that
               the
               Young
               Prince
               of
               the
               Bees
               ,
               or
               Heir
               presumptive
               of
               the
               Crown
               ,
               approaches
               the
               King's
               Apartment
               with
               great
               Reverence
               ;
               and
               for
               three
               successive
               Mornings
               demands
               permission
               ,
               to
               lead
               forth
               a
               Colony
               of
               that
               Years
               Bees
               .
               If
               his
               Petition
               be
               granted
               ,
               which
               he
               seems
               to
               make
               by
               humble
               hummings
               ;
               the
               Swarm
               arises
               under
               his
               Conduct
               :
               If
               the
               Answer
               be
               ,
               
                 le
                 Roy
                 s'avisera
              
               ,
               that
               is
               ,
               if
               the
               Old
               Monarch
               think
               it
               not
               convenient
               for
               the
               Publick
               good
               ,
               to
               part
               with
               so
               many
               of
               his
               Subjects
               ;
               the
               next
               Morning
               the
               Prince
               is
               found
               dead
               ,
               before
               the
               Threshold
               of
               the
               Palace
               .
            
             
               Line
               477.
               
               The
               Poet
               here
               records
               the
               Names
               of
               Fifty
               River
               Nymphs
               .
               And
               for
               once
               I
               have
               Translated
               them
               all
               .
               But
               in
               the
               Aeneis
               I
               thought
               not
               my self
               oblig'd
               to
               be
               so
               exact
               ;
               for
               in
               naming
               many
               Men
               who
               were
               kill'd
               by
               Heroes
               ,
               I
               have
               omitted
               some
               ,
               which
               wou'd
               not
               sound
               in
               English
               Verse
               .
            
             
               Line
               660.
               
               The
               Episode
               of
               Orpheus
               and
               Eurydice
               begins
               here
               .
               And
               
               contains
               the
               only
               Machine
               which
               Virgil
               uses
               in
               the
               Georgics
               .
               I
               have
               observ'd
               in
               the
               Epistle
               before
               the
               Aeneis
               ,
               that
               our
               Author
               seldom
               employs
               Machines
               but
               to
               adorn
               his
               Poem
               :
               And
               that
               the
               Action
               which
               they
               seemingly
               perform
               ,
               is
               really
               produc'd
               without
               them
               .
               Of
               this
               Nature
               is
               the
               Legend
               of
               the
               Bees
               restor'd
               by
               Miracle
               ;
               when
               the
               Receipt
               which
               the
               Poet
               gives
               ,
               wou'd
               do
               the
               Work
               without
               one
               .
               The
               only
               Beautiful
               Machine
               which
               I
               remember
               in
               the
               Modern
               Poets
               ,
               is
               in
               Ariosto
               .
               Where
               God
               commands
               St.
               Michael
               to
               take
               care
               ,
               that
               Paris
               then
               Besieg'd
               by
               the
               Saracens
               ,
               should
               be
               succour'd
               by
               Rinaldo
               .
               In
               order
               to
               this
               ,
               he
               enjoins
               the
               Arch-Angel
               to
               find
               Silence
               and
               Discord
               .
               The
               first
               to
               Conduct
               the
               Christian
               Army
               to
               relieve
               the
               Town
               ,
               with
               so
               much
               secrecy
               ,
               that
               their
               March
               shou'd
               not
               be
               discover'd
               ;
               the
               latter
               to
               enter
               the
               Camp
               of
               the
               Infidels
               ,
               and
               there
               to
               sow
               Dissention
               among
               the
               Principal
               Commanders
               .
               The
               Heavenly
               Messenger
               takes
               his
               way
               to
               an
               Ancient
               Monastery
               ;
               not
               doubting
               there
               to
               find
               Silence
               in
               her
               primitive
               Abode
               .
               But
               instead
               of
               Silence
               finds
               Discord
               :
               The
               Monks
               ,
               being
               divided
               into
               Factions
               ,
               about
               the
               choice
               of
               some
               New
               Officer
               ,
               were
               at
               Snic
               and
               Snee
               with
               their
               drawn
               Knifes
               .
               The
               Satyr
               needs
               no
               Explanation
               .
               And
               here
               it
               may
               be
               also
               observ'd
               ,
               that
               Ambition
               ,
               Jealousie
               ,
               and
               Worldly
               Interest
               ,
               and
               point
               of
               Honour
               ,
               had
               made
               variance
               both
               in
               the
               Cloyster
               and
               the
               Camp
               ;
               and
               strict
               Discipline
               had
               done
               the
               Work
               of
               Silence
               ,
               in
               Conducting
               the
               Christian
               Army
               to
               surprise
               the
               Turks
               .
            
             
               Aeneid
               1.
               
               Line
               111.
               
               
                 
                   And
                   make
                   thee
                   Father
                   of
                   a
                   happy
                   Line
                   .
                
              
               This
               was
               an
               obliging
               Promise
               to
               Eolus
               ;
               who
               had
               been
               so
               unhappy
               in
               his
               former
               Children
               ,
               Macareus
               and
               Canacè
               .
            
             
               Line
               196.
               
               
                 
                   
                     The
                     Realms
                     of
                     Ocean
                     ,
                     and
                     the
                     Fields
                     of
                     Air
                  
                
                 
                   
                     Are
                     mine
                     ,
                     not
                     his
                  
                   .
                
              
            
             
               Poetically
               speaking
               ,
               the
               
                 Fields
                 of
                 Air
              
               ,
               are
               under
               the
               Command
               of
               Juno
               ;
               and
               her
               Vicegerent
               Eolus
               .
               Why
               then
               does
               Neptune
               call
               them
               His
               ?
               I
               answer
               ,
               because
               being
               God
               of
               the
               Seas
               ,
               Eolus
               could
               raise
               no
               Tempests
               in
               the
               Atmosphere
               above
               them
               without
               his
               leave
               .
               But
               why
               does
               Juno
               Address
               to
               her
               own
               Substitute
               ?
               I
               answer
               ,
               He
               had
               an
               immediate
               Power
               over
               the
               Winds
               ,
               whom
               Juno
               desires
               to
               employ
               on
               her
               Revenge
               .
               That
               Power
               was
               absolute
               by
               Land
               ;
               which
               Virgil
               plainly
               insinuates
               :
               For
               when
               Boreas
               and
               his
               Brethren
               were
               let
               loose
               ,
               he
               says
               at
               first
               
                 terras
                 turbine
                 perflant
              
               :
               Then
               adds
               ,
               
                 Incubuere
                 Mari
              
               :
               To
               raise
               a
               Tempest
               on
               the
               Sea
               was
               Usurpation
               on
               the
               Prerogative
               of
               Neptune
               ;
               who
               had
               given
               him
               no
               leave
               ,
               and
               therefore
               was
               inrag'd
               at
               his
               Attempt
               .
               I
               may
               also
               add
               ,
               that
               they
               who
               are
               in
               Passion
               ,
               as
               Neptune
               then
               was
               ,
               are
               apt
               to
               assume
               to
               themselves
               ,
               more
               than
               is
               properly
               their
               due
               .
            
             
               Line
               450.
               
               
                 
                   
                     O
                     Virgin
                  
                   —
                   &c.
                
                 
                   
                     If
                     as
                     you
                     seem
                     the
                     Sister
                     of
                     the
                     Day
                     ,
                  
                
                 
                   
                     Or
                     one
                     at
                     least
                     of
                     Chast
                  
                   Diana's
                   Train
                   .
                
              
            
             
               Thus
               ,
               in
               the
               Original
               .
            
             
               
                 O
                 Quam
                 te
                 memorem
                 Virgo
                 —
              
               
                 Aut
                 Phoebi
                 Soror
                 ,
                 aut
                 Nympharum
                 Sanguinis
                 Vna
                 .
              
            
             
               This
               is
               a
               Family
               Complement
               ,
               which
               Aeneas
               here
               bestows
               on
               Venus
               .
               His
               Father
               Anchises
               had
               us'd
               the
               very
               same
               to
               that
               Goddess
               when
               he
               Courted
               her
               .
               This
               appears
               by
               that
               very
               Ancient
               Greek
               Poem
               ,
               in
               which
               that
               Amour
               is
               so
               beautifully
               describ'd
               ,
               and
               which
               is
               thought
               
               Homer's
               :
               Though
               it
               seems
               to
               be
               Written
               before
               his
               Age.
               
            
             
             
               Line
               980.
               
               
                 
                   
                     Her
                     Princely
                     Guest
                     was
                     next
                     her
                     side
                     .
                  
                
              
            
             
               This
               ,
               I
               confess
               ,
               is
               improperly
               Translated
               ;
               and
               according
               to
               the
               Modern
               Fashion
               of
               sitting
               at
               Table
               .
               But
               the
               Ancient
               custom
               of
               lying
               on
               Beds
               ,
               had
               not
               been
               understood
               by
               the
               Unlearn'd
               Reader
               .
            
             
               Aeneid
               the
               Second
               .
               The
               Destruction
               of
               Veii
               is
               here
               shadow'd
               under
               that
               of
               
                 Troy
                 :
                 Livy
              
               in
               his
               Description
               of
               it
               ,
               seems
               to
               have
               emulated
               in
               his
               Prose
               ,
               and
               almost
               equal'd
               the
               Beauty
               of
               
               Virgil's
               Verse
               .
            
             
               Aeneid
               the
               3d.
               Verse
               132.
               
               
                 
                   
                     And
                     Childrens
                     Children
                     shall
                     the
                     Crown
                     sustain
                     .
                     Et
                     Nati
                     Natorum
                     ,
                     &
                     qui
                     nascentur
                     ab
                     illis
                     .
                  
                
              
            
             
               Virgil
               Translated
               this
               Verse
               from
               
                 Homer
                 :
                 Homer
              
               had
               it
               from
               Orpheus
               ;
               and
               Orpheus
               from
               an
               Ancient
               Oracle
               of
               Apollo
               .
               On
               this
               Account
               it
               is
               ,
               that
               Virgil
               immediately
               Subjoins
               these
               Words
               ,
               
                 Haec
                 Phoebus
                 ,
                 &c.
                 
                 Eustathius
              
               takes
               notice
               ,
               that
               the
               Old
               Poets
               were
               wont
               to
               take
               whole
               Paragraphs
               from
               one
               another
               ,
               which
               justifies
               our
               Poet
               for
               what
               he
               borrows
               from
               
                 Homer
                 .
                 Bochartus
              
               in
               his
               Letter
               to
               Segrais
               ,
               mentions
               an
               Oracle
               which
               he
               found
               in
               the
               fragments
               of
               an
               Old
               Greek
               Historian
               :
               The
               Sense
               whereof
               is
               this
               in
               English
               ;
               that
               when
               the
               Empire
               of
               the
               Priamidae
               should
               be
               destroy'd
               ,
               the
               Line
               of
               Anchises
               should
               succeed
               .
               Venus
               therefore
               ,
               says
               the
               Historian
               ,
               was
               desirous
               to
               have
               a
               Son
               by
               Anchises
               ,
               tho'
               he
               was
               then
               in
               his
               decrepid
               Age
               :
               Accordingly
               she
               had
               Aeneas
               .
               After
               this
               she
               sought
               occasion
               to
               ruin
               the
               Race
               of
               Priam
               ;
               and
               set
               on
               foot
               the
               Intrigue
               of
               Alexander
               ,
               (
               or
               Paris
               )
               with
               Helena
               :
               She
               being
               ravish'd
               ,
               Venus
               pretended
               still
               to
               favour
               the
               Trojans
               ;
               lest
               they
               should
               restore
               Helen
               ,
               in
               case
               they
               should
               be
               reduc'd
               to
               the
               last
               Necessity
               .
               Whence
               it
               appears
               ,
               that
               the
               Controversie
               betwixt
               Juno
               and
               Venus
               ,
               was
               on
               no
               trivial
               account
               ;
               but
               concern'd
               the
               Succession
               to
               a
               great
               Empire
               .
            
             
               Aeneid
               the
               4th
               .
               Li.
               945.
               
               
                 
                   
                     And
                     must
                     I
                     dye
                     ,
                     she
                     said
                     ,
                  
                
                 
                   
                     And
                     unreveng'd
                     ?
                     't
                     is
                     doubly
                     to
                     be
                     dead
                     !
                  
                
                 
                   
                     Yet
                     even
                     this
                     Death
                     with
                     pleasure
                     I
                     receive
                     :
                  
                
                 
                   
                     On
                     any
                     Terms
                     ,
                     't
                     is
                     better
                     than
                     to
                     live
                     .
                  
                
              
            
             
               This
               is
               certainly
               the
               Sense
               of
               Virgil
               ;
               on
               which
               I
               have
               paraphras'd
               ,
               to
               make
               it
               plain
               .
               His
               Words
               are
               these
               ;
               
                 Moriemur
                 Inultae
              
               ?
            
             
               Sed
               Moriamur
               ait
               ;
               sic
               ,
               sic
               juvat
               ire
               sub
               Vmbras
               .
            
             
               Servius
               makes
               an
               Interrogation
               at
               the
               Word
               sic
               ;
               thus
               ,
               
                 sic
                 ?
                 Sic
                 juvat
                 ire
                 sub
                 Vmbras
              
               Which
               Mr.
               Cowley
               justly
               Censures
               :
               But
               his
               own
               judgment
               may
               perhaps
               be
               question'd
               :
               For
               he
               wou'd
               retrench
               the
               latter
               part
               of
               the
               Verse
               ,
               and
               leave
               it
               a
               
                 Hemystic
                 .
                 Sed
                 Moriamur
                 ait
              
               .
               That
               Virgil
               never
               intended
               to
               have
               left
               any
               Hemystic
               ,
               I
               have
               prov'd
               already
               in
               the
               Preface
               .
               That
               this
               Verse
               was
               fill'd
               up
               by
               him
               ,
               with
               these
               words
               ,
               
                 sic
                 ,
                 juvat
                 ire
                 sub
                 Vmbras
                 ,
              
               is
               very
               probable
               ;
               if
               we
               consider
               the
               weight
               of
               them
               .
               For
               this
               procedure
               of
               Dido
               ,
               does
               not
               only
               contain
               ,
               that
               ,
               
                 dira
                 Execratio
                 ,
                 quae
                 nullo
                 expiatur
                 Carmine
              
               (
               as
               
                 Horace
                 observes
              
               in
               his
               Canidia
               )
               but
               besides
               that
               ,
               Virgil
               ,
               who
               is
               full
               of
               Allusions
               to
               History
               ,
               under
               another
               Name
               ,
               describes
               the
               Decii
               ,
               devoting
               themselves
               to
               Death
               this
               way
               ,
               though
               in
               a
               better
               Cause
               ,
               in
               order
               to
               the
               Destruction
               of
               the
               Enemy
               .
               The
               Reader
               ,
               who
               will
               take
               the
               pains
               to
               Consult
               Livy
               ,
               in
               his
               accurate
               
               Description
               of
               those
               Decii
               ,
               thus
               devoting
               themselves
               ,
               will
               find
               a
               great
               resemblance
               betwixt
               these
               two
               Passages
               .
               And
               't
               is
               judiciously
               observ'd
               upon
               that
               Verse
               ,
               
                 
                   —
                   Nulla
                   fides
                   populis
                   nec
                   foedera
                   sunto
                   .
                
              
               That
               Virgil
               uses
               in
               the
               word
               sunto
               a
               
                 verbum
                 juris
              
               ,
               a
               form
               of
               speaking
               on
               Solemn
               and
               Religious
               Occasions
               :
               Livy
               does
               the
               like
               .
               Note
               also
               that
               Dido
               puts
               her self
               into
               the
               
                 Habitus
                 Gabinus
              
               ,
               which
               was
               the
               girding
               her self
               round
               with
               one
               Sleeve
               of
               her
               Vest
               ,
               which
               is
               also
               according
               to
               the
               
                 Roman
                 Pontifical
              
               ,
               in
               this
               dreadful
               Ceremony
               ,
               as
               Livy
               has
               observ'd
               :
               which
               is
               a
               farther
               confirmation
               of
               this
               Conjecture
               .
               So
               that
               upon
               the
               whole
               matter
               ,
               Dido
               only
               doubts
               whether
               she
               shou'd
               die
               before
               she
               had
               taken
               her
               Revenge
               ,
               which
               she
               rather
               wish'd
               :
               But
               considering
               that
               this
               devoting
               her self
               was
               the
               most
               certain
               and
               infallible
               way
               of
               compassing
               her
               Vengeance
               ,
               she
               thus
               exclaims
               ;
               
                 
                   
                     Sic
                     ,
                     sic
                     juvat
                     ire
                     sub
                     umbras
                     :
                  
                
                 
                   
                     Hauriat
                     hunc
                     oculis
                     ignem
                     crudelis
                     ab
                     alto
                  
                
                 
                   
                     Dardanus
                     ,
                     &
                     nostrae
                     secum
                     ferat
                     omnia
                     mortis
                     .
                  
                
                 
                   
                     Those
                     Flames
                     from
                     far
                     ,
                     may
                     the
                     false
                  
                   Trojan
                   view
                   ;
                
                 
                   
                     Those
                     boding
                     Omens
                     his
                     base
                     Flight
                     pursue
                     .
                  
                
              
            
             
               Which
               Translation
               I
               take
               to
               be
               according
               to
               the
               Sense
               of
               Virgil.
               I
               should
               have
               added
               a
               Note
               on
               that
               former
               Verse
               .
            
             
               Infelix
               Dido
               ,
               
                 nunc
                 te
                 fata
                 impia
                 tangunt
              
               .
            
             
               Which
               in
               the
               Edition
               of
               Heinsius
               is
               thus
               Printed
               .
               
                 Nunc
                 te
                 facta
                 impia
                 tangunt
              
               ?
               The
               word
               facta
               instead
               of
               fata
               ,
               is
               reasonably
               alter'd
               .
               For
               Virgil
               says
               afterwards
               ,
               she
               dy'd
               not
               by
               Fate
               ,
               nor
               by
               any
               deserv'd
               Death
               .
               
                 Nec
                 Fato
                 ,
                 meritâ
                 nec
                 morte
                 peribat
                 ,
              
               &c.
               When
               I
               Translated
               that
               Passage
               ,
               I
               doubted
               of
               the
               Sense
               :
               And
               therefore
               omitted
               that
               
                 Hemystic
                 ;
                 Nunc
                 te
                 fata
                 impia
                 tangunt
                 .
              
               But
               Heinsius
               is
               mistaken
               only
               in
               making
               an
               Interrogation
               point
               ,
               instead
               of
               a
               Period
               .
               The
               words
               
                 facta
                 impia
              
               ,
               I
               suppose
               are
               genuine
               :
               For
               she
               had
               perjur'd
               her self
               in
               her
               second
               Marriage
               .
               Having
               firmly
               resolv'd
               ,
               as
               she
               told
               her
               Sister
               ,
               in
               the
               beginning
               of
               this
               Aeneid
               ,
               never
               to
               love
               again
               ,
               after
               the
               Death
               of
               her
               first
               Husband
               ;
               and
               had
               confirm'd
               this
               Resolution
               ,
               by
               a
               Curse
               on
               her self
               ,
               if
               she
               shou'd
               alter
               it
               .
            
             
               
                 
                   Sed
                   mihi
                   vel
                   tellus
                   optem
                   ,
                   prius
                   ima
                   dehiscat
                   ,
                
                 &c.
              
               
                 
                   Ante
                   ,
                   pudor
                   ,
                   quàm
                   te
                   violem
                   ,
                   aut
                   tua
                   jura
                   resolvam
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Ille
                   meos
                   ,
                   primus
                   ,
                   qui
                   me
                   sibi
                   junxit
                   ,
                   amores
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Abstulit
                   :
                   Ille
                   habeat
                   secum
                   ,
                   servetque
                   sepulcro
                   .
                
              
            
             
               Aeneid
               the
               5th
               .
               A
               great
               part
               of
               this
               Book
               is
               borrow'd
               from
               
                 Apollonius
                 Rhodius
              
               .
               And
               the
               Reader
               may
               observe
               the
               great
               Judgment
               and
               distinction
               of
               our
               Author
               in
               what
               he
               borrows
               from
               the
               Ancients
               ,
               by
               comparing
               them
               .
               I
               conceive
               the
               Reason
               why
               he
               omits
               the
               Horse-race
               in
               the
               Funeral
               Games
               ,
               was
               because
               he
               shews
               Ascanius
               afterwards
               on
               Horseback
               ,
               with
               his
               Troops
               of
               Boys
               ,
               and
               would
               not
               wear
               that
               Subject
               thread-bare
               ;
               which
               Statius
               ,
               in
               the
               next
               Age
               describ'd
               so
               happily
               .
               Virgil
               seems
               to
               me
               ,
               to
               have
               excell'd
               Homer
               in
               all
               those
               Sports
               ,
               and
               to
               
               have
               labour'd
               them
               the
               more
               ,
               in
               Honour
               of
               Octavius
               ,
               his
               Patron
               ;
               who
               instituted
               the
               like
               Games
               for
               perpetuating
               the
               Memory
               of
               his
               Uncle
               Julius
               .
               Piety
               ,
               as
               Virgil
               calls
               it
               ,
               or
               dutifulness
               to
               Parents
               ,
               being
               a
               most
               popular
               Vertue
               among
               the
               Romans
               .
            
             
               Aeneid
               the
               6th
               .
               Line
               586.
               
            
             
               
                 
                   The
                   next
                   in
                   place
                   and
                   Punishment
                   are
                   they
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Who
                   prodigally
                   throw
                   their
                   Lives
                   away
                   ,
                
                 &c.
                 
              
               
                 
                   Proxima
                   sorte
                   tenent
                   maesti
                   loca
                   ,
                   qui
                   sibi
                   letum
                
              
               
                 
                   Insontes
                   peperere
                   manu
                   ,
                   lucemque
                   perosi
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Projecere
                   animas
                
                 ,
                 &c.
                 
              
            
             
               This
               was
               taken
               ,
               amongst
               many
               other
               things
               ,
               from
               the
               Tenth
               Book
               of
               
                 Plato
                 de
                 Republicâ
              
               :
               No
               Commentator
               besides
               Fabrini
               ,
               has
               taken
               notice
               of
               it
               .
               Self-Murther
               was
               accounted
               a
               great
               Crime
               by
               that
               Divine
               Philosopher
               :
               But
               the
               Instances
               which
               he
               brings
               ,
               are
               too
               many
               to
               be
               inserted
               in
               these
               short
               Notes
               .
               Sir
               
                 Robert
                 Howard
              
               in
               his
               Translation
               of
               this
               Aeneid
               ,
               which
               was
               Printed
               with
               his
               Poems
               in
               the
               Year
               1660
               ;
               has
               given
               us
               the
               most
               Learned
               ,
               and
               the
               most
               Judicious
               Observations
               on
               this
               Book
               ,
               which
               are
               extant
               in
               our
               Language
               .
            
             
               Line
               734.
               
               
                 
                   
                     Lo
                     to
                     the
                     secret
                     Shadows
                     I
                     retire
                     ,
                  
                
                 
                   
                     To
                     pay
                     my
                     Penance
                     ,
                     'till
                     my
                     Years
                     expire
                     .
                  
                
              
            
             
               These
               two
               Verses
               in
               English
               seem
               very
               different
               from
               the
               Latine
               .
               
                 Discedam
                 ;
                 explebo
                 numerum
                 ,
                 reddarque
                 tenebris
                 .
              
            
             
               Yet
               they
               are
               the
               Sense
               of
               Virgil
               ;
               at
               least
               ,
               according
               to
               the
               common
               Interpretation
               of
               this
               place
               :
               I
               will
               withdraw
               from
               your
               Company
               ;
               retire
               to
               the
               Shades
               ,
               and
               perform
               my
               Penance
               of
               a
               Thousand
               Years
               .
               But
               I
               must
               confess
               the
               Interpretation
               of
               those
               two
               words
               ,
               
                 explebo
                 numerum
              
               is
               somewhat
               Violent
               ,
               if
               it
               be
               thus
               understood
               ,
               
                 minuam
                 numerum
              
               ;
               that
               is
               ,
               I
               will
               lessen
               your
               Company
               by
               my
               departure
               .
               For
               Deiphobus
               being
               a
               Ghost
               ,
               can
               hardly
               be
               said
               to
               be
               of
               their
               Number
               .
               Perhaps
               the
               Poet
               means
               by
               
                 explebo
                 numerum
                 ,
                 absolvam
                 sententiam
              
               :
               As
               if
               Deiphobus
               reply'd
               to
               the
               Sibil
               ,
               who
               was
               angry
               at
               his
               long
               Visit
               :
               I
               will
               only
               take
               my
               last
               leave
               of
               Aeneas
               ,
               my
               Kinsman
               and
               my
               Friend
               ,
               with
               one
               hearty
               good-wish
               for
               his
               Health
               and
               Well-fare
               ,
               and
               then
               leave
               you
               to
               prosecute
               your
               Voyage
               .
               That
               Wish
               is
               express'd
               in
               the
               words
               immediately
               following
               .
               
                 I
                 Decus
                 ,
                 I
                 nostrum
              
               ,
               &c.
               
               Which
               contain
               a
               direct
               Answer
               to
               what
               the
               Sibill
               said
               before
               :
               When
               she
               upbraided
               their
               long
               Discourse
               ,
               
                 Nos
                 flendo
                 ducimus
                 horas
              
               .
               This
               Conjecture
               is
               new
               ,
               and
               therefore
               left
               to
               the
               discretion
               of
               the
               Reader
               .
            
             
               L.
               981.
               
               
                 
                   
                     Know
                     first
                     that
                     Heav'n
                     ,
                     and
                     Earth's
                     compacted
                     Frame
                     ,
                  
                
                 
                   
                     And
                     flowing
                     Waters
                     ,
                     and
                     the
                     Starry
                     Flame
                     ,
                  
                
                 
                   
                     And
                     both
                     the
                     radiant
                     Lights
                  
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
                 
                   
                     Principio
                     Coelum
                     ,
                     &
                     terras
                     ,
                     composque
                     liquentes
                     ,
                  
                
                 
                   
                     Lucentemque
                     globum
                     Lunae
                     ,
                     Titaniaque
                     Astra
                     ,
                  
                   &c.
                   
                
              
            
             
               Here
               the
               Sun
               is
               not
               express'd
               ,
               but
               the
               Moon
               only
               ;
               though
               a
               less
               ,
               and
               also
               a
               less
               radiant
               Light.
               Perhaps
               the
               Copies
               of
               Virgil
               are
               all
               false
               ;
               and
               that
               instead
               of
               
                 Titaniaque
                 Astra
              
               ,
               he
               writ
               
                 Titanaque
                 &
                 Astra
              
               ;
               and
               according
               
               to
               those
               words
               I
               have
               made
               my
               Translation
               .
               'T
               is
               most
               certain
               ,
               that
               the
               Sun
               ought
               not
               to
               be
               omitted
               ;
               for
               he
               is
               frequently
               call'd
               the
               Life
               and
               Soul
               of
               all
               the
               World
               :
               And
               nothing
               bids
               so
               fair
               for
               a
               visible
               Divinity
               to
               those
               who
               know
               no
               better
               ,
               than
               that
               glorious
               Luminary
               .
               The
               Platonists
               call
               God
               the
               Archetypall
               Sun
               ,
               and
               the
               Sun
               the
               visible
               Deity
               ,
               the
               inward
               vital
               Spirit
               in
               the
               Center
               of
               the
               Universe
               ,
               or
               that
               Body
               to
               which
               that
               Spirit
               is
               united
               ,
               and
               by
               which-it
               exerts
               it self
               most
               powerfully
               .
               Now
               it
               was
               the
               receiv'd
               Hypothesis
               amongst
               the
               Pythagoreans
               ,
               that
               the
               Sun
               was
               scituate
               in
               the
               Center
               of
               the
               World
               :
               Plato
               had
               it
               from
               them
               ,
               and
               was
               himself
               of
               the
               same
               Opinion
               ;
               as
               appears
               by
               a
               passage
               in
               the
               Timaeus
               :
               From
               which
               Noble
               Dialogue
               is
               this
               part
               of
               
               Virgil's
               Poem
               taken
               .
            
             
               L.
               1157.
               
               
                 
                   Great
                   Cato
                   
                     there
                     ,
                     for
                     gravity
                     renown'd
                  
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
                 
                   
                     Quis
                     te
                     Magne
                  
                   Cato
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
            
             
               There
               is
               no
               Question
               but
               Virgil
               here
               means
               Cato
               Major
               ,
               or
               the
               Censor
               .
               But
               the
               Name
               of
               
                 Cato
                 being
              
               also
               mention'd
               in
               the
               Eighth
               Aeneid
               ,
               I
               doubt
               whether
               he
               means
               the
               same
               Man
               in
               both
               places
               .
               I
               have
               said
               in
               the
               Preface
               ,
               that
               our
               Poet
               was
               of
               Republican
               Principles
               ;
               and
               have
               given
               this
               for
               one
               Reason
               of
               my
               Opinion
               ,
               that
               he
               prais'd
               Cato
               in
               that
               Line
               ,
               
                 
                   Secretisque
                   piis
                   ,
                   his
                   dantem
                   jura
                
                 Catonem
                 .
              
               And
               accordingly
               plac'd
               him
               in
               the
               Elysian
               Fields
               .
               Montaign
               thinks
               this
               was
               Cato
               the
               Vtican
               ,
               the
               great
               Enemy
               of
               Arbitrary
               Power
               ,
               and
               a
               profess'd
               Foe
               to
               
                 Julius
                 Caesar
                 .
                 Ruaeus
              
               wou'd
               perswade
               us
               that
               Virgil
               meant
               the
               Censor
               .
               But
               why
               shou'd
               the
               Poet
               name
               Cato
               twice
               ,
               if
               he
               intended
               the
               same
               person
               ?
               Our
               Author
               is
               too
               frugal
               of
               his
               Words
               and
               Sense
               ,
               to
               commit
               Tautologies
               in
               either
               .
               His
               Memory
               was
               not
               likely
               to
               betray
               him
               into
               such
               an
               Errour
               .
               Nevertheless
               I
               continue
               in
               the
               same
               Opinion
               ,
               concerning
               the
               Principles
               of
               our
               Poet.
               He
               declares
               them
               sufficiently
               in
               this
               Book
               :
               Where
               he
               praises
               the
               first
               Brutus
               for
               expelling
               the
               Tarquins
               ,
               giving
               Liberty
               to
               Rome
               ,
               and
               putting
               to
               Death
               his
               own
               Children
               ,
               who
               conspir'd
               to
               restore
               Tyranny
               :
               He
               calls
               him
               only
               an
               unhappy
               Man
               ,
               for
               being
               forc'd
               to
               that
               severe
               Action
               .
            
             
               
                 Infelix
                 ,
                 utcunque
                 ferent
                 ea
                 facta
                 Minores
                 ,
              
               
                 Vincet
                 amor
                 Patriae
                 ,
                 laudumque
                 immensa
                 Cupido
                 .
              
            
             
               Let
               the
               Reader
               weigh
               these
               two
               Verses
               ,
               and
               he
               must
               be
               convinc'd
               that
               I
               am
               in
               the
               right
               :
               And
               that
               I
               have
               not
               much
               injur'd
               my
               Master
               in
               my
               Translation
               of
               them
               .
            
             
               Line
               1140.
               
               
                 
                   
                     Embrace
                     again
                     ,
                     my
                     Sons
                     ;
                     be
                     Foes
                     no
                     more
                  
                   ;
                
                 
                   
                     Nor
                     stain
                     your
                     Country
                     with
                     her
                     Childrens
                     gore
                     :
                  
                
                 
                   
                     And
                     thou
                     the
                     first
                     ,
                     lay
                     down
                     thy
                     lawless
                     claim
                  
                   ;
                
                 
                   
                     Thou
                     of
                     my
                     Blood
                     ,
                     who
                     bear'st
                     the
                  
                   Julian
                   Name
                   .
                
              
            
             
               This
               Note
               ,
               which
               is
               out
               of
               its
               proper
               place
               ,
               I
               deferr'd
               on
               purpose
               ,
               to
               place
               it
               here
               :
               Because
               it
               discovers
               the
               Principles
               of
               our
               Poet
               more
               plainly
               than
               any
               of
               the
               rest
               .
            
             
             
               
                 
                   Tuque
                   prior
                   ,
                   tu
                   parce
                   ,
                   genus
                   qui
                   ducis
                   Olympo
                   ,
                
                 
                   Projice
                   tela
                   manu
                   ,
                   Sanguis
                   meus
                   !
                
              
               Anchises
               here
               speaks
               to
               
                 Julius
                 Caesar
              
               ;
               And
               commands
               him
               first
               to
               lay
               down
               Arms
               ;
               which
               is
               a
               plain
               condemnation
               of
               his
               Cause
               .
               Yet
               observe
               our
               Poet
               's
               incomparable
               Address
               :
               For
               though
               he
               shews
               himself
               sufficiently
               to
               be
               a
               Common-wealth's-man
               ;
               yet
               in
               respect
               to
               Augustus
               ,
               who
               was
               his
               Patron
               ,
               he
               uses
               the
               Authority
               of
               a
               Parent
               ,
               in
               the
               Person
               of
               Anchises
               ;
               who
               had
               more
               right
               to
               lay
               this
               Injunction
               on
               Caesar
               than
               on
               Pompey
               ;
               because
               the
               latter
               was
               not
               of
               his
               Blood.
               Thus
               our
               Author
               cautiously
               veils
               his
               own
               opinion
               ,
               and
               takes
               Sanctuary
               under
               Anchises
               ;
               as
               if
               that
               Ghost
               wou'd
               have
               laid
               the
               same
               Command
               on
               Pompey
               also
               ,
               had
               he
               been
               lineally
               descended
               from
               him
               .
               What
               cou'd
               be
               more
               judiciously
               contriv'd
               ,
               when
               this
               was
               the
               Aeneid
               which
               he
               chose
               to
               read
               before
               his
               Master
               ?
            
             
               Line
               1222.
               
               
                 
                   
                     A
                     new
                  
                   Marcellus
                   
                     shall
                     arise
                     in
                     thee
                  
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   Virgil
                   thus
                   .
                   
                     Tu
                     Marcellus
                     eris
                  
                   .
                
              
            
             
               How
               unpoetically
               and
               baldly
               had
               this
               been
               translated
               ;
               
                 Thou
                 shalt
              
               Marcellus
               be
               !
               Yet
               some
               of
               my
               Friends
               were
               of
               Opinion
               ,
               that
               I
               mistook
               the
               Sense
               of
               Virgil
               in
               my
               Translation
               .
               The
               French
               Interpreter
               ,
               observes
               nothing
               on
               this
               place
               ;
               but
               that
               it
               appears
               by
               it
               ,
               the
               Mourning
               of
               Octavia
               was
               yet
               fresh
               ,
               for
               the
               loss
               of
               her
               Son
               Marcellus
               ,
               whom
               she
               had
               by
               her
               first
               Husband
               :
               And
               who
               dyed
               in
               the
               Year
               
                 aburbe
                 conditâ
              
               ,
               731.
               
               And
               collects
               from
               thence
               that
               Virgil
               ,
               reading
               this
               Aeneid
               before
               her
               ,
               in
               the
               same
               Year
               ,
               had
               just
               finish'd
               it
               :
               That
               from
               this
               time
               to
               that
               of
               the
               Poet's
               Death
               ,
               was
               little
               more
               than
               four
               Years
               .
               So
               that
               supposing
               him
               to
               have
               written
               the
               whole
               Aeneis
               in
               eleven
               Years
               ;
               the
               first
               six
               Books
               must
               have
               taken
               up
               seven
               of
               those
               Years
               :
               On
               which
               Account
               the
               six
               last
               ,
               must
               of
               necessity
               be
               less
               correct
               .
            
             
               Now
               for
               the
               false
               judgment
               of
               my
               Friends
               ,
               there
               is
               but
               this
               little
               to
               be
               said
               for
               them
               ;
               the
               words
               of
               Virgil
               ,
               in
               the
               Verse
               preceding
               are
               these
               ,
               
                 
                   —
                   Siqua
                   fata
                   aspera
                   rumpas
                
                 .
              
               As
               if
               the
               Poet
               had
               meant
               ,
               if
               you
               break
               through
               your
               hard
               Destiny
               ,
               so
               as
               to
               be
               born
               ,
               you
               shall
               be
               call'd
               Marcellus
               :
               But
               this
               cannot
               be
               the
               Sense
               :
               for
               though
               Marcellus
               was
               born
               ,
               yet
               he
               broke
               not
               through
               those
               hard
               Decrees
               ,
               which
               doom'd
               him
               to
               so
               immature
               a
               death
               .
               Much
               less
               can
               Virgil
               mean
               ,
               you
               shall
               be
               the
               same
               Marcellus
               by
               the
               Transmigration
               of
               his
               Soul.
               For
               according
               to
               the
               System
               of
               our
               Author
               ,
               a
               Thousand
               Years
               must
               be
               first
               elaps'd
               ,
               before
               the
               Soul
               can
               return
               into
               a
               Humane
               Body
               ;
               but
               the
               first
               Marcellus
               was
               slain
               in
               the
               second
               Punick
               War.
               And
               how
               many
               hundred
               Years
               were
               yet
               wanting
               ,
               to
               the
               accomplishing
               his
               penance
               ,
               may
               with
               ease
               be
               gather'd
               ,
               by
               computing
               the
               time
               betwixt
               Scipio
               and
               Augustus
               .
               By
               which
               't
               is
               plain
               ,
               that
               Virgil
               cannot
               mean
               the
               same
               Marcellus
               ;
               but
               one
               of
               his
               Descendants
               ;
               whom
               I
               call
               a
               new
               Marcellus
               ;
               who
               so
               much
               resembled
               his
               Ancestor
               ,
               perhaps
               in
               his
               Features
               ,
               and
               his
               Person
               ,
               but
               certainly
               in
               his
               Military
               Vertues
               ,
               that
               Virgil
               cries
               out
               ,
               
                 quantum
                 instar
                 in
                 ipso
                 est
              
               !
               which
               I
               have
               translated
               ,
               
                 
                 How
                 like
                 the
                 former
                 ,
                 and
                 almost
                 the
                 same
                 .
              
            
             
               Line
               ,
               1236
               ,
               and
               1237.
               
               
                 
                   Two
                   Gates
                   the
                   silent
                   House
                   of
                   Sleep
                   adorn
                   ;
                
                 
                   Of
                   polish'd
                   Iv'ry
                   this
                   ;
                   that
                   of
                   transparent
                   Horn.
                   
                
              
            
             
               By
               the
               carelessness
               of
               the
               Amanuensis
               ,
               the
               two
               next
               Lines
               are
               wanting
               ,
               which
               I
               thus
               supply
               out
               of
               the
               Original
               Copy
               .
               
                 
                   True
                   Visions
                   through
                   transparent
                   Horn
                   arise
                   ,
                
                 
                   Through
                   polish'd
                   Iv'ry
                   pass
                   deluding
                   Lyes
                   .
                
              
            
             
               Virgil
               borrow'd
               this
               Imagination
               from
               
                 Homer
                 ,
                 Odysses
              
               the
               19th
               .
               Line
               562.
               
               The
               Translation
               gives
               the
               reason
               ,
               why
               true
               Prophetic
               Dreams
               are
               said
               to
               pass
               through
               the
               Gate
               of
               Horn
               ,
               by
               adding
               the
               Epithete
               transparent
               :
               Which
               is
               not
               in
               Virgil
               ;
               whose
               Words
               are
               only
               these
               ;
               
                 
                   Sunt
                   geminae
                   Somni
                   portae
                   ;
                   quarum
                   altera
                   fertur
                
                 
                   Cornea
                   —
                
              
            
             
               What
               is
               pervious
               to
               the
               Sight
               is
               clear
               ;
               and
               (
               alluding
               to
               this
               Property
               ,
               )
               the
               Poet
               infers
               such
               Dreams
               are
               of
               Divine
               Revelation
               .
               Such
               as
               pass
               through
               the
               Iv'ry
               Gate
               ,
               are
               of
               the
               contrary
               Nature
               ;
               polish'd
               Lies
               .
               But
               there
               is
               a
               better
               Reason
               to
               be
               giv'n
               :
               For
               the
               Iv'ry
               alludes
               to
               the
               Teeth
               ,
               the
               Horn
               to
               the
               Eyes
               .
               What
               we
               see
               is
               more
               credible
               ,
               than
               what
               we
               only
               hear
               ;
               that
               is
               ,
               Words
               that
               pass
               through
               the
               Portal
               of
               the
               Mouth
               ,
               or
               ,
               Hedge
               of
               the
               Teeth
               :
               (
               which
               is
               
               Homer's
               expression
               for
               speaking
               .
               )
            
             
               Aen.
               the
               7th
               .
               Li.
               109.
               
               
                 
                   
                     Strange
                     to
                     relate
                     ,
                     the
                     Flames
                     involv'd
                     in
                     Smoke
                     ,
                  
                   &c.
                   
                
              
            
             
               Virgil
               ,
               in
               this
               place
               ,
               takes
               notice
               of
               a
               great
               Secret
               in
               the
               Roman
               Divination
               :
               The
               Lambent
               Fires
               ,
               which
               rose
               above
               the
               Head
               ,
               or
               play'd
               about
               it
               ,
               were
               Signs
               of
               Prosperity
               ,
               such
               were
               those
               which
               he
               observ'd
               in
               the
               second
               Aeneid
               :
               which
               were
               seen
               mounting
               from
               the
               Crown
               of
               Ascanius
               ,
            
             
               
                 Ecce
                 levis
                 summo
                 de
                 vertice
                 visus
                 Iuli.
              
               
                 Fundere
                 lumen
                 apex
                 .
              
            
             
               Smoky
               Flames
               ,
               (
               or
               involv'd
               in
               Smoke
               )
               were
               of
               a
               mix'd
               Omen
               ;
               such
               were
               those
               which
               are
               here
               describ'd
               :
               For
               Smoke
               signifies
               Tears
               ,
               because
               it
               produces
               them
               ,
               and
               Flames
               Happiness
               .
               And
               therefore
               Virgil
               says
               that
               this
               Ostent
               was
               not
               only
               
                 mirabile
                 visu
              
               ,
               but
               horrendum
               .
            
             
               Line
               367.
               
               
                 
                   
                     One
                     only
                     Daughter
                     heirs
                     my
                     Crown
                     and
                     State.
                     
                  
                
              
            
             
               This
               has
               seem'd
               to
               some
               an
               odd
               Passage
               :
               That
               a
               King
               shou'd
               offer
               his
               Daughter
               and
               Heir
               ,
               to
               a
               Stranger
               Prince
               ,
               and
               a
               wanderer
               ,
               before
               he
               had
               seen
               him
               ,
               and
               when
               he
               had
               only
               heard
               of
               his
               arrival
               on
               his
               Coasts
               :
               But
               these
               Criticks
               have
               not
               well
               consider'd
               the
               Simplicity
               of
               former
               times
               ;
               when
               the
               Heroines
               almost
               courted
               the
               Marriage
               of
               illustrious
               Men.
               Yet
               Virgil
               here
               observes
               the
               rule
               of
               Decency
               ;
               Lavinia
               offers
               not
               her self
               :
               'T
               is
               Latinus
               ,
               who
               propounds
               the
               Match
               :
               And
               he
               had
               been
               
               foretold
               ,
               both
               by
               an
               Augur
               ,
               and
               an
               Oracle
               ,
               that
               he
               should
               have
               a
               foreign
               Son-in-Law
               ;
               who
               was
               also
               a
               Heroe
               .
               Fathers
               ,
               in
               those
               ancient
               Ages
               ,
               considering
               Birth
               and
               Vertue
               ,
               more
               than
               Fortune
               ,
               in
               the
               placing
               of
               their
               Daughters
               .
               Which
               I
               cou'd
               prove
               by
               various
               Examamples
               :
               The
               contrary
               of
               which
               being
               now
               practis'd
               ,
               I
               dare
               not
               say
               in
               our
               Nation
               ,
               but
               in
               France
               ,
               has
               not
               a
               little
               darken'd
               the
               Lustre
               of
               their
               Nobility
               .
               That
               Lavinia
               was
               averse
               to
               this
               Marriage
               ,
               and
               for
               what
               reason
               ,
               I
               shall
               prove
               in
               its
               proper
               place
               .
            
             
               L.
               1020.
               
               
                 And
                 where
              
               Abella
               
                 sees
                 ,
                 from
                 her
                 high
                 Tow'rs
                 ,
                 the
                 Harvest
                 of
                 her
                 Trees
                 .
              
               I
               observe
               that
               Virgil
               names
               not
               Nola
               ,
               which
               was
               not
               far
               distant
               from
               Abella
               :
               perhaps
               ,
               because
               that
               City
               ,
               (
               the
               same
               in
               which
               Augustus
               dyed
               afterwards
               ;
               )
               had
               once
               refus'd
               to
               give
               him
               entertainment
               ;
               if
               if
               we
               may
               believe
               the
               Author
               of
               his
               Life
               .
               Homer
               heartily
               curses
               another
               City
               which
               had
               us'd
               him
               on
               the
               same
               manner
               :
               But
               our
               Author
               thought
               his
               Silence
               of
               the
               Nolans
               a
               sufficient
               correction
               .
               When
               a
               Poet
               passes
               by
               a
               Place
               or
               Person
               ,
               though
               a
               fair
               Occasion
               offers
               of
               rememb'ring
               them
               ,
               't
               is
               a
               sign
               he
               is
               ,
               or
               thinks
               himself
               ,
               much
               disoblig'd
               .
            
             
               Aen.
               8.
               
               L.
               34.
               
               
                 
                   
                     So
                     when
                     the
                     Sun
                     by
                     Day
                     ,
                     the
                     Moon
                     by
                     Night
                     ,
                  
                
                 
                   
                     Strike
                     on
                     the
                     polish'd
                     Brass
                     their
                     trembling
                     Light
                     ,
                  
                   &c.
                   
                
              
            
             
               This
               Similitude
               is
               literally
               taken
               from
               
                 Apollonius
                 Rhodius
              
               ;
               and
               't
               is
               hard
               to
               say
               ,
               whether
               the
               Original
               or
               the
               Translation
               excels
               .
               But
               in
               the
               Shield
               which
               he
               describes
               afterwards
               in
               this
               Aeneid
               ,
               he
               as
               much
               transcends
               his
               Master
               Homer
               ;
               as
               the
               Arms
               of
               Glaucus
               were
               richer
               than
               those
               of
               Diomedes
               .
               
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
              
               .
            
             
               Lines
               115
               ,
               and
               116.
               
               
                 
                   Aeneas
                   
                     takes
                     the
                     Mother
                     ,
                     and
                     her
                     Brood
                     ,
                  
                
                 
                   
                     And
                     all
                     on
                  
                   Juno
                   
                     's
                     Altar
                     are
                     bestow'd
                  
                   .
                
              
            
             
               The
               Translation
               is
               infinitely
               short
               of
               Virgil
               ,
               whose
               Words
               are
               these
               ;
               
                 
                   
                     —
                     Tibi
                  
                   enim
                   ,
                   
                     tibi
                     maxima
                     Juno
                  
                
                 
                   
                     Mactat
                     sacra
                     ferens
                     ,
                     &
                     cum
                     grege
                     sistit
                     ad
                     aram
                     .
                  
                
              
            
             
               For
               I
               cou'd
               not
               turn
               the
               word
               Enim
               into
               English
               with
               any
               grace
               .
               Though
               it
               was
               of
               such
               necessity
               ,
               in
               the
               Roman
               Rites
               ,
               that
               a
               Sacrifice
               could
               not
               be
               perform'd
               without
               it
               ;
               't
               is
               of
               the
               same
               nature
               ,
               (
               if
               I
               may
               presume
               to
               name
               that
               sacred
               Mystery
               )
               in
               our
               words
               of
               Consecration
               at
               the
               Altar
               .
            
             
               Aeneid
               the
               9th
               .
               line
               853
               ,
               854.
               
               
                 
                   
                     At
                     the
                     full
                     stretch
                     of
                     both
                     his
                     Hands
                     ,
                     he
                     drew
                  
                   ;
                
                 
                   
                     And
                     almost
                     join'd
                     the
                     Horns
                     of
                     the
                     tough
                  
                   Eugh
                   .
                
              
            
             
               The
               first
               of
               these
               Lines
               ,
               is
               all
               of
               Monosyllables
               ;
               and
               both
               Verses
               are
               very
               rough
               :
               But
               of
               choice
               ;
               for
               it
               had
               been
               easie
               for
               me
               to
               have
               smooth'd
               them
               .
               But
               either
               my
               Ear
               deceives
               me
               ,
               or
               they
               express
               the
               thing
               which
               I
               intended
               in
               their
               Sound
               :
               For
               the
               stress
               of
               a
               Bow
               which
               is
               drawn
               to
               the
               full
               extent
               ,
               is
               express'd
               in
               the
               harshness
               of
               the
               first
               Verse
               ,
               clogg'd
               not
               only
               with
               Monosyllables
               ,
               but
               with
               Consonants
               ;
               and
               these
               words
               ,
               the
               tough
               Eugh
               ,
               which
               conclude
               the
               second
               line
               ,
               seem
               as
               forceful
               ,
               as
               they
               are
               Unharmonious
               .
               Homer
               and
               Virgil
               are
               both
               frequent
               in
               their
               adapting
               
               Sounds
               to
               the
               thing
               they
               signifie
               .
               One
               Example
               will
               serve
               for
               both
               ;
               because
               Virgil
               borrow'd
               the
               following
               Verses
               from
               
               Homer's
               Odysses
               .
            
             
               
                 Vnà
                 Eurusque
                 Notusque
                 ruunt
                 creberque
                 procellis
              
               
                 Africus
                 ,
                 &
                 vastos
                 volvunt
                 ad
                 litora
                 fluctus
                 .
              
               
                 
                   〈◊〉
                   〈◊〉
                   〈◊〉
                   〈◊〉
                   〈◊〉
                
                 ;
              
               
                 
                   〈◊〉
                   〈◊〉
                   〈◊〉
                   〈◊〉
                   〈◊〉
                
                 .
              
            
             
               Our
               Language
               is
               not
               often
               capable
               of
               these
               Beauties
               :
               though
               sometimes
               I
               have
               copied
               them
               ,
               of
               which
               these
               Verses
               are
               an
               instance
               .
            
             
               Line
               1095.
               
               
                 
                   
                     His
                     ample
                     Shield
                  
                   —
                
                 
                   
                     Is
                     falsify'd
                     ;
                     and
                     round
                     with
                     Javelins
                     fill'd
                     .
                  
                
              
            
             
               When
               I
               read
               this
               Aeneid
               to
               many
               of
               my
               Friends
               ,
               in
               company
               together
               ,
               most
               of
               them
               quarrel'd
               at
               the
               word
               falsify'd
               ,
               as
               an
               Innovation
               in
               our
               Language
               .
               The
               fact
               is
               confess'd
               ;
               for
               I
               remember
               not
               to
               have
               read
               it
               in
               any
               English
               Author
               ;
               though
               perhaps
               it
               may
               be
               found
               in
               
               Spencer's
               
                 Fairy
                 Queen
              
               :
               But
               suppose
               it
               be
               not
               there
               :
               Why
               am
               I
               forbidden
               to
               borrow
               from
               the
               Italian
               ,
               (
               a
               polish'd
               Language
               )
               the
               word
               which
               is
               wanting
               in
               my
               Native
               Tongue
               ?
               Terence
               has
               often
               Grecis'd
               :
               Lucretius
               has
               follow'd
               his
               Example
               ;
               and
               pleaded
               for
               it
               ;
               
                 sic
                 quia
                 me
                 cogit
                 patrii
                 Sermonis
                 Egestas
                 .
                 Virgil
              
               has
               confirm'd
               it
               by
               his
               frequent
               practice
               ,
               and
               even
               Cicero
               in
               Prose
               ,
               wanting
               terms
               of
               Philosophy
               in
               the
               Latin
               Tongue
               ,
               has
               taken
               them
               from
               
               Aristotle's
               
                 Greek
                 .
                 Horace
              
               has
               given
               us
               a
               Rule
               for
               Coining
               Words
               ,
               
                 si
                 Graeco
                 fonte
                 cadunt
              
               .
               Especially
               when
               other
               words
               are
               join'd
               with
               them
               ,
               which
               explain
               the
               Sense
               .
               I
               use
               the
               word
               falsifie
               in
               this
               place
               ,
               to
               mean
               that
               the
               Shield
               of
               Turnus
               was
               not
               of
               Proof
               against
               the
               Spears
               and
               Javlins
               of
               the
               Trojans
               ;
               which
               had
               pierc'd
               it
               through
               and
               through
               (
               as
               we
               say
               )
               in
               many
               places
               .
               The
               words
               which
               accompany
               this
               new
               one
               ,
               make
               my
               meaning
               plain
               ;
               according
               to
               the
               Precept
               which
               Horace
               gave
               .
               But
               I
               said
               I
               borrow'd
               the
               Word
               from
               the
               
                 Italian
                 :
                 Vide
              
               Ariosto
               ,
               Cant.
               26.
               
               
                 
                   Ma
                   si
                   l'Vsbergo
                   d'
                   Ambi
                   era
                   perfetto
                
                 
                   Che
                   mai
                   poter
                   falsarlo
                   in
                   nessun
                   Canto
                   .
                
              
            
             
               Falsar
               cannot
               otherwise
               be
               turn'd
               ,
               than
               by
               falsify'd
               ;
               for
               his
               shield
               was
               falsed
               ,
               is
               not
               English
               .
               I
               might
               indeed
               have
               contented
               my self
               with
               saying
               his
               Shield
               was
               pierc'd
               ,
               and
               board
               ,
               and
               stuck
               with
               
                 Javelins
                 ;
                 Nec
                 sufficit
                 Vmbo
                 Ictibus
                 .
              
               They
               who
               will
               not
               admit
               a
               new
               word
               ,
               may
               take
               the
               old
               ;
               the
               matter
               is
               not
               worth
               dispute
               .
            
             
               Aeneid
               the
               
                 10th
                 .
                 A
                 Choir
                 of
                 Nereids
                 ,
              
               &c.
               These
               were
               transform'd
               from
               Ships
               to
               Sea-Nymphs
               :
               This
               is
               almost
               as
               violent
               a
               Machine
               ,
               as
               the
               death
               of
               Aruns
               by
               a
               Goddess
               in
               the
               Episode
               of
               Camilla
               .
               But
               the
               Poet
               makes
               use
               of
               it
               with
               greater
               Art
               :
               For
               here
               it
               carries
               on
               the
               main
               Design
               .
               These
               new
               made
               Divinities
               ,
               not
               only
               tell
               Aeneas
               what
               had
               pass'd
               in
               his
               Camp
               during
               his
               absence
               ;
               and
               what
               was
               the
               present
               Distress
               of
               his
               Besieg'd
               People
               ;
               and
               that
               his
               Horse-men
               whom
               he
               had
               sent
               by
               Land
               ,
               were
               ready
               to
               join
               him
               at
               his
               Descent
               ;
               but
               warn
               him
               to
               provide
               for
               Battel
               the
               next
               day
               ,
               and
               fore-tell
               him
               good
               success
               :
               So
               that
               this
               Episodical
               Machine
               is
               properly
               a
               part
               of
               the
               great
               Poem
               ;
               For
               besides
               what
               I
               have
               said
               ,
               they
               push
               on
               his
               Navy
               with
               Celestial
               Vigour
               ,
               
               that
               it
               might
               reach
               the
               Port
               more
               speedily
               ,
               and
               take
               the
               Enemy
               more
               unprovided
               to
               resist
               the
               Landing
               .
               Whereas
               the
               Machine
               relating
               to
               Camilla
               ,
               is
               only
               Ornamental
               :
               For
               it
               has
               no
               effect
               ,
               which
               I
               can
               find
               ,
               but
               to
               please
               the
               Reader
               ,
               who
               is
               concern'd
               ,
               that
               her
               Death
               shou'd
               be
               reveng'd
               .
            
             
               Lines
               241
               ,
               243.
               
               
                 
                   
                     Now
                     Sacred
                     Sisters
                     ,
                     open
                     all
                     your
                     Spring
                     ,
                  
                
                 
                   The
                   Tuscan
                   
                     Leaders
                     ,
                     and
                     their
                     Army
                     sing
                  
                   ;
                
              
            
             
               The
               Poet
               here
               begins
               to
               tell
               the
               Names
               of
               the
               Tuscan
               Captains
               who
               follow'd
               Aeneas
               to
               the
               War
               :
               And
               I
               observe
               him
               to
               be
               very
               particular
               in
               the
               description
               of
               their
               Persons
               ,
               and
               not
               forgetful
               of
               their
               Manners
               :
               Exact
               also
               ,
               in
               the
               Relation
               of
               the
               Numbers
               which
               each
               of
               them
               Command
               .
               I
               doubt
               not
               but
               as
               in
               the
               fifth
               Book
               ,
               he
               gave
               us
               the
               Names
               of
               the
               Champions
               ,
               who
               contended
               for
               the
               several
               Prizes
               ,
               that
               he
               might
               oblige
               many
               of
               the
               most
               Ancient
               Roman
               Families
               ,
               their
               Descendants
               ;
               and
               as
               in
               the
               7th
               Book
               ,
               he
               Muster'd
               the
               Auxiliary
               Forces
               of
               the
               Latins
               ,
               on
               the
               same
               Account
               ;
               so
               here
               he
               gratifies
               his
               Tuscan
               Friends
               ,
               with
               the
               like
               remembrance
               of
               their
               Ancestors
               ;
               and
               above
               the
               rest
               ,
               Mecaenas
               his
               great
               Patron
               :
               Who
               being
               of
               a
               Royal
               Family
               in
               Etruria
               ,
               was
               probably
               represented
               under
               one
               of
               the
               Names
               here
               mention'd
               ,
               then
               known
               among
               the
               Romans
               ,
               though
               at
               so
               great
               a
               distance
               ,
               unknown
               to
               us
               .
               And
               for
               his
               sake
               chiefly
               ,
               as
               I
               guess
               ,
               he
               makes
               Aeneas
               (
               by
               whom
               he
               always
               means
               Augustus
               )
               to
               seek
               for
               Aid
               in
               the
               Country
               of
               Mecaenas
               ,
               thereby
               to
               indear
               his
               Protector
               to
               his
               Emperour
               ;
               as
               if
               there
               had
               been
               a
               former
               Friendship
               betwixt
               their
               Lines
               .
               And
               who
               knows
               ,
               but
               Mecaenas
               might
               pretend
               that
               the
               Cilnian
               Family
               was
               deriv'd
               from
               Tarchon
               ,
               the
               Chief
               Commander
               of
               the
               Tuscans
               .
            
             
               Line
               662.
               
               
                 
                   
                     Nor
                     I
                     ,
                     his
                     mighty
                     Syre
                     ,
                     cou'd
                     ward
                     the
                     Blow
                     .
                  
                
              
            
             
               I
               have
               mention'd
               this
               Passage
               in
               my
               Preface
               to
               the
               Aeneis
               ;
               to
               prove
               ,
               that
               Fate
               was
               superiour
               to
               the
               Gods
               ;
               and
               that
               Jove
               cou'd
               neither
               defer
               nor
               alter
               its
               Decrees
               .
               Sir
               
                 Robert
                 Howard
              
               has
               since
               ,
               been
               pleas'd
               to
               send
               me
               the
               concurrent
               Testimony
               of
               Ovid
               ;
               't
               is
               in
               the
               last
               Book
               of
               his
               Metamorphoses
               ;
               where
               Venus
               complains
               ,
               that
               her
               Descendant
               ,
               
                 Julius
                 Caesar
              
               ,
               was
               in
               danger
               of
               being
               Murther'd
               by
               Brutus
               and
               Cassius
               ,
               at
               the
               head
               of
               the
               Commonwealth-Faction
               ,
               and
               desires
               them
               to
               prevent
               that
               Barbarous
               Assassination
               .
               They
               are
               mov'd
               to
               Compassion
               ;
               they
               are
               concern'd
               for
               Caesar
               ;
               but
               the
               Poet
               plainly
               tells
               us
               ,
               that
               it
               was
               not
               in
               their
               power
               to
               change
               Destiny
               :
               All
               they
               cou'd
               do
               ,
               was
               to
               testifie
               their
               sorrow
               for
               his
               approaching
               Death
               ,
               by
               fore-shewing
               it
               with
               Signs
               and
               Prodigies
               ,
               as
               appears
               by
               the
               following
               Lines
               .
            
             
               
                 
                   Talia
                   nequicquàm
                   toto
                
                 Venus
                 
                   aurea
                   Coelo
                
              
               
                 
                   Verba
                   jacit
                   :
                   Superosque
                   movet
                   :
                   Qui
                   rumpere
                   quanquam
                
              
               
                 
                   Ferrea
                   non
                   possunt
                   veterum
                   decreta
                   Sororum
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Signa
                   tamen
                   luctus
                   dant
                   haud
                   incerta
                   futuri
                   .
                
              
            
             
               Then
               she
               Addresses
               to
               her
               Father
               Jupiter
               ,
               hoping
               Aid
               from
               him
               ,
               because
               he
               was
               thought
               Omnipotent
               .
               But
               he
               ,
               it
               seems
               ,
               cou'd
               do
               as
               little
               as
               the
               rest
               ,
               for
               he
               answers
               thus
               .
            
             
               
                 
                   —
                   sola
                   insuperabile
                   Fatum
                
              
               
                 
                   Nata
                   ,
                   movere
                   paras
                   ?
                   intres
                   licet
                   ipsa
                   sororum
                
              
               
               
               
               
               
                 
                   Tecta
                   trium
                   ;
                   cernes
                   illic
                   molimine
                   vasto
                
              
               
                 
                   Ex
                   aere
                   ,
                   &
                   solido
                   rerum
                   tabularia
                   ferro
                   :
                
              
               
                 
                   Quae
                   neque
                   concursum
                   Coeli
                   ,
                   neque
                   fulminis
                   iram
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Nec
                   metuunt
                   ullas
                   tuta
                   atque
                   aeterna
                   ruinas
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Invenies
                   illic
                   incisa
                   Adamante
                   perenni
                
              
               
                 
                   Fata
                   tui
                   Generis
                   ,
                   legi
                   ipse
                   ,
                   animoque
                   notavi
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Et
                   referam
                   :
                   ne
                   sis
                   etiamnum
                   ignara
                   futuri
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Hic
                   sua
                   complevit
                   ;
                   (
                   pro
                   quo
                   Cytherea
                   laboras
                   ,
                   )
                
              
               
                 
                   Tempora
                   ,
                   perfectis
                   quos
                   Terrae
                   debuit
                   ,
                   annis
                   ,
                
                 &c.
                 
              
            
             
               Jupiter
               you
               see
               is
               only
               Library-Keeper
               ,
               or
               
                 Custos
                 Rotulorum
              
               to
               the
               Fates
               :
               For
               he
               offers
               his
               Daughter
               a
               Cast
               of
               his
               Office
               ,
               to
               give
               her
               a
               Sight
               of
               their
               Decrees
               ;
               which
               the
               inferiour
               Gods
               were
               not
               permitted
               to
               read
               without
               his
               leave
               .
               This
               agrees
               with
               what
               I
               have
               said
               already
               in
               the
               Preface
               ;
               that
               they
               not
               having
               seen
               the
               Records
               ,
               might
               believe
               they
               were
               his
               own
               Hand-writing
               ;
               and
               consequently
               at
               his
               disposing
               either
               to
               blott
               out
               ,
               or
               alter
               ,
               as
               he
               saw
               convenient
               .
               And
               of
               this
               Opinion
               was
               Juno
               in
               those
               words
               ,
               
                 tua
                 qui
                 potes
                 orsa
                 reflectas
              
               .
               Now
               the
               abode
               of
               those
               Destinies
               being
               in
               Hell
               ,
               we
               cannot
               wonder
               why
               the
               Swearing
               by
               Styx
               ,
               was
               an
               inviolable
               Oath
               amongst
               the
               Gods
               of
               Heaven
               ,
               and
               that
               Jupiter
               himself
               should
               fear
               to
               be
               accus'd
               of
               Forgery
               by
               the
               Fates
               ,
               if
               he
               alter'd
               any
               thing
               in
               their
               Decrees
               .
               
                 Chaos
                 ,
                 Night
              
               ,
               and
               Erebus
               ,
               being
               the
               most
               Antient
               of
               the
               Deities
               ,
               and
               instituting
               those
               fundamental
               Laws
               ,
               by
               which
               he
               was
               afterwards
               to
               govern
               .
               Hesiod
               gives
               us
               the
               Genealogy
               of
               the
               Gods
               ,
               and
               I
               think
               I
               may
               safely
               infer
               the
               rest
               .
               I
               will
               only
               add
               ,
               that
               Homer
               was
               more
               a
               Fatalist
               than
               Virgil
               :
               For
               it
               has
               been
               observ'd
               ,
               that
               the
               word
               
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
              
               ,
               or
               Fortune
               ,
               is
               not
               to
               be
               found
               in
               his
               two
               Poems
               ;
               but
               instead
               of
               it
               ,
               always
               
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
              
               .
            
             
               Aeneid
               the
               12.
               lines
               888
               ,
               and
               889.
               
               
                 
                   Sea-born
                   Messapus
                   with
                   Atinas
                   ,
                   heads
                
                 
                   The
                   Latin
                   
                     Squadrons
                     ;
                     and
                     to
                     Battel
                     leads
                     .
                  
                
              
            
             
               The
               Poet
               had
               said
               ,
               in
               the
               preceding
               lines
               ,
               that
               
                 Mnestheus
                 ,
                 Seresthus
              
               ,
               and
               Asylas
               ,
               led
               on
               the
               Trojans
               ,
               the
               Tuscans
               ,
               and
               the
               Arcadians
               :
               But
               none
               of
               the
               Printed
               Copies
               ,
               which
               I
               have
               seen
               ,
               mention
               any
               Leader
               of
               the
               Rutulians
               and
               Latins
               ,
               but
               Messapus
               the
               Son
               of
               
                 Neptune
                 .
                 Ruaeus
              
               takes
               notice
               of
               this
               passage
               ,
               and
               seems
               to
               wonder
               at
               it
               ;
               but
               gives
               no
               Reason
               ,
               why
               Messapus
               is
               alone
               without
               a
               Coadjutor
               .
            
             
               The
               four
               Verses
               of
               Virgil
               run
               thus
               .
               
                 
                   
                     Totae
                     adeò
                     conversae
                     acies
                     ,
                     omnesque
                     Latini
                  
                
                 
                   
                     Omnes
                     Dardanidae
                     ,
                     Mnestheus
                     ,
                     acerque
                     Seresthus
                  
                
                 
                   
                     Et
                     Messapus
                     equum
                     Domitor
                     ,
                     &
                     fortis
                     Asylas
                     ,
                  
                
                 
                   
                     Tuscorumque
                     Phalanx
                     ,
                     Evandrique
                     Arcadis
                     alae
                     .
                  
                
              
            
             
               I
               doubt
               not
               but
               the
               third
               Line
               was
               Originally
               thus
               ,
               
                 Et
                 Messapus
                 equum
                 domitor
                 ,
                 &
                 fortis
                 Atinas
                 :
              
            
             
               For
               the
               two
               Names
               of
               Asylas
               and
               Atinas
               are
               so
               like
               ,
               that
               one
               might
               easily
               be
               mistaken
               for
               the
               other
               by
               the
               Transcribers
               .
               And
               to
               fortify
               this
               Opinion
               ,
               we
               find
               afterward
               ,
               in
               the
               relation
               of
               Sages
               to
               Turnus
               ,
               that
               Atinas
               is
               join'd
               with
               Messapus
               .
            
             
               
                 
                   Soli
                   ,
                   pro
                   portis
                   ,
                   Messapus
                   &
                   acer
                   Atinas
                
              
               
                 
                   Sustentant
                   aciem
                   .
                
                 —
              
            
             
             
               In
               general
               I
               observe
               ,
               not
               only
               in
               this
               Aeneid
               ,
               but
               in
               all
               thesixth
               last
               Books
               ,
               that
               Aeneas
               is
               never
               seen
               on
               Horse-back
               ,
               and
               but
               once
               before
               as
               I
               remember
               ,
               in
               the
               Fourth
               when
               he
               Hunts
               with
               Dido
               .
               The
               Reason
               of
               this
               ,
               if
               I
               guess
               aright
               ,
               was
               a
               secret
               Compliment
               which
               the
               Poet
               made
               to
               his
               Country-men
               the
               Romans
               ;
               the
               strength
               of
               whose
               Armies
               consisted
               most
               in
               Foot
               ;
               which
               ,
               I
               think
               ,
               were
               all
               Romans
               and
               Italians
               .
               But
               their
               Wings
               or
               Squadrons
               ,
               were
               made
               up
               of
               their
               Allies
               ,
               who
               were
               Foreigners
               .
            
             
               Aeneid
               the
               12.
               
               Lines
               100
               ,
               101
               ,
               102.
               
               
                 
                   
                     At
                     this
                     ,
                     a
                     flood
                     of
                     Tears
                  
                   Lavinia
                   shed
                   ;
                
                 
                   
                     A
                     crimson
                     Blush
                     her
                     beauteous
                     Face
                     o're-spread
                  
                   ;
                
                 
                   
                     Varying
                     her
                     Cheeks
                     ,
                     by
                     turns
                     ,
                     with
                     white
                     and
                     red
                     .
                  
                
              
            
             
               Amata
               ,
               ever
               partial
               to
               the
               Cause
               of
               Turnus
               ,
               had
               just
               before
               desir'd
               him
               ,
               with
               all
               manner
               of
               earnestness
               ,
               not
               to
               ingage
               his
               Rival
               in
               single
               Fight
               ;
               which
               was
               his
               present
               Resolution
               .
               Virgil
               ,
               though
               in
               favour
               of
               his
               Heroe
               ,
               he
               never
               tells
               us
               directly
               ,
               that
               Lavinia
               preferr'd
               Turnus
               to
               Aeneas
               ,
               yet
               has
               insinuated
               this
               preference
               twice
               before
               .
               For
               mark
               in
               the
               
                 7th
                 Aeneid
              
               ,
               she
               left
               her
               Father
               ,
               who
               had
               promis'd
               her
               to
               Aeneas
               without
               asking
               her
               consent
               :
               And
               follow'd
               her
               Mother
               into
               the
               Woods
               ,
               with
               a
               Troop
               of
               Bacchanals
               ,
               where
               Amata
               sung
               the
               Marriage
               Song
               ,
               in
               the
               Name
               of
               Turnus
               ;
               which
               if
               she
               had
               dislik'd
               ,
               she
               might
               have
               oppos'd
               .
               Then
               in
               the
               
                 11th
                 .
                 Aeneid
              
               ,
               when
               her
               Mother
               went
               to
               the
               Temple
               of
               Pallas
               ,
               to
               invoke
               her
               Aid
               against
               Aeneas
               ;
               whom
               she
               calls
               by
               no
               better
               Name
               than
               
                 Phrygius
                 Praedo
                 ,
                 Lavinia
              
               sits
               by
               her
               in
               the
               same
               Chair
               or
               Litter
               ,
               
                 juxtaque
                 Comes
                 Lavinia
                 Virgo
                 ,
                 —
                 Oculos
                 dejecta
                 decoros
                 .
              
               What
               greater
               sign
               of
               Love
               ,
               than
               Fear
               and
               Concernment
               for
               the
               Lover
               ?
               In
               the
               lines
               which
               I
               have
               quoted
               she
               not
               only
               sheds
               Tears
               but
               changes
               Colour
               .
               She
               had
               been
               bred
               up
               with
               Turnus
               ,
               and
               Aeneas
               was
               wholly
               a
               Stranger
               to
               her
               .
               Turnus
               in
               probability
               was
               her
               first
               Love
               ;
               and
               favour'd
               by
               her
               Mother
               ,
               who
               had
               the
               Ascendant
               over
               her
               Father
               .
               But
               I
               am
               much
               deceiv'd
               ,
               if
               (
               besides
               what
               I
               have
               said
               )
               there
               be
               not
               a
               secret
               Satire
               against
               the
               Sex
               ,
               which
               is
               lurking
               under
               this
               Description
               of
               Virgil
               ,
               who
               seldom
               speaks
               well
               of
               Women
               :
               Better
               indeed
               of
               Camilla
               ,
               than
               any
               other
               ;
               for
               he
               commends
               her
               Beauty
               and
               Valour
               :
               Because
               he
               wou'd
               concern
               the
               Reader
               for
               her
               Death
               .
               But
               Valour
               is
               no
               very
               proper
               Praise
               for
               Woman-kind
               ;
               and
               Beauty
               is
               common
               to
               the
               Sex.
               He
               says
               also
               somewhat
               of
               Andromache
               ,
               but
               transiently
               :
               And
               his
               Venus
               is
               a
               better
               Mother
               than
               a
               Wife
               ,
               for
               she
               owns
               to
               Vulcan
               she
               had
               a
               Son
               by
               another
               Man.
               The
               rest
               are
               
               Juno's
               ,
               
               Diana's
               ,
               
               Dido's
               ,
               
               Amata's
               ,
               two
               mad
               Prophetesses
               ,
               three
               Harpies
               on
               Earth
               ,
               and
               as
               many
               Furies
               under
               ground
               .
               This
               Fable
               of
               Lavinia
               includes
               a
               secret
               Moral
               ;
               that
               Women
               in
               their
               choice
               of
               Husbands
               ,
               prefer
               the
               younger
               of
               their
               Suitors
               to
               the
               Elder
               ;
               are
               insensible
               of
               Merit
               ,
               fond
               of
               Handsomness
               ;
               and
               generally
               speaking
               ,
               rather
               hurried
               away
               by
               their
               Appetite
               ,
               than
               govern'd
               by
               their
               Reason
               .
            
             
               L.
               1191
               ,
               &
               1192.
               
               
                 
                   
                     This
                     let
                     me
                     beg
                     ;
                     (
                     and
                     this
                     no
                     Fates
                     withstand
                     )
                  
                
                 
                   
                     Both
                     for
                     my self
                     ,
                     and
                     for
                     your
                     Fathers
                     Land
                     ,
                  
                   &c.
                   
                
              
            
             
               The
               words
               in
               the
               Original
               are
               these
               ,
               
                 pro
                 Latio
                 obtestor
                 ,
                 pro
                 Majestate
                 tuorum
                 .
                 Virgil
              
               very
               artfully
               uses
               here
               the
               word
               Majestas
               ;
               which
               the
               Romans
               lov'd
               so
               well
               ,
               that
               they
               appropriated
               it
               to
               themselves
               .
               Majestas
               
               
                 Populi
                 Ramani
              
               .
               this
               Title
               apply'd
               to
               Kings
               ,
               is
               very
               Modern
               ,
               and
               that
               is
               all
               I
               will
               say
               of
               it
               at
               present
               :
               Though
               the
               word
               requires
               a
               larger
               Note
               .
               In
               the
               word
               tuorum
               ,
               is
               included
               the
               sense
               of
               my
               Translation
               ,
               
                 Your
                 Father's
                 Land
              
               :
               Because
               Saturn
               the
               Father
               of
               Jove
               ,
               had
               govern'd
               that
               part
               of
               Italy
               ,
               after
               his
               expulsion
               from
               Crete
               .
               But
               that
               on
               which
               I
               most
               insist
               ,
               is
               the
               Address
               of
               the
               Poet
               ,
               in
               this
               Speech
               of
               
                 Juno
                 .
                 Virgil
              
               was
               sufficiently
               sensible
               ,
               as
               I
               have
               said
               in
               the
               Preface
               ,
               that
               whatever
               the
               common
               Opinion
               was
               ,
               concerning
               the
               Descent
               of
               the
               Romans
               from
               the
               Trojans
               ;
               yet
               the
               Ancient
               Customs
               ,
               Rites
               ,
               Laws
               ,
               and
               Habits
               ,
               of
               those
               Trojans
               were
               wholly
               lost
               ,
               and
               perhaps
               also
               that
               they
               had
               never
               been
               :
               And
               for
               this
               Reason
               ,
               he
               introduces
               Juno
               in
               this
               place
               ;
               requesting
               of
               Jupiter
               ,
               that
               no
               Memory
               might
               remain
               of
               Troy
               ,
               (
               the
               Town
               she
               hated
               )
               that
               the
               People
               hereafter
               should
               not
               be
               called
               Trojans
               ,
               nor
               retain
               any
               thing
               which
               belong'd
               to
               their
               Predecessors
               .
               And
               why
               might
               not
               this
               also
               be
               concerted
               betwixt
               our
               Author
               and
               his
               Friend
               Horace
               ,
               to
               hinder
               Augustus
               from
               Re-building
               Troy
               ,
               and
               removing
               thither
               the
               Seat
               of
               Empire
               ,
               a
               design
               so
               unpleasing
               to
               the
               Romans
               ?
               But
               of
               this
               ,
               I
               am
               not
               positive
               ,
               because
               I
               have
               not
               consulted
               d'Acier
               ,
               and
               the
               rest
               of
               the
               Criticks
               ,
               to
               ascertain
               the
               time
               in
               which
               Horace
               writ
               the
               Ode
               relating
               to
               that
               Subject
               .
            
             
               L.
               1224
               ,
               &
               1225.
               
               
                 
                   
                     Deep
                     in
                     the
                     dismal
                     Regions
                     ,
                     void
                     of
                     Light
                     ,
                  
                
                 
                   
                     Three
                     Sisters
                     ,
                     at
                     a
                     Birth
                     ,
                     were
                     born
                     to
                     Night
                     .
                  
                
              
            
             
               The
               Father
               of
               these
               ,
               (
               not
               here
               mention'd
               )
               was
               Acheron
               :
               the
               Names
               of
               the
               three
               ,
               were
               
                 Alecto
                 ,
                 Maegera
              
               ,
               and
               Tysiphone
               .
               They
               were
               call'd
               Furies
               in
               Hell
               ,
               on
               Earth
               Harpies
               ,
               and
               in
               Heaven
               Dirae
               :
               Two
               of
               these
               assisted
               at
               the
               Throne
               of
               Jupiter
               ,
               and
               were
               employed
               by
               him
               ,
               to
               punish
               the
               wickedness
               of
               Mankind
               .
               These
               two
               must
               be
               Megaera
               ,
               and
               Tysiphone
               :
               Not
               Alecto
               :
               For
               Juno
               expresly
               commands
               her
               to
               return
               to
               Hell
               ,
               from
               whence
               she
               came
               ;
               and
               gives
               this
               Reason
               .
               
                 
                   
                     Te
                     super
                     Aetherias
                     errare
                     licentius
                     auras
                     ,
                  
                
                 
                   
                     Haud
                     Pater
                     ipse
                     velit
                     summi
                     Regnator
                     Olympi
                     :
                  
                
                 
                   
                     Cede
                     locis
                  
                   .
                
              
            
             
               Probably
               this
               Dira
               ,
               un-nam'd
               by
               the
               Poet
               in
               this
               Place
               ;
               might
               be
               Tysiphone
               ,
               for
               though
               we
               find
               her
               in
               Hell
               ,
               in
               the
               sixth
               Aeneid
               ,
               employ'd
               in
               the
               punishment
               of
               the
               damn'd
               ,
               
                 
                   Continuo
                   sontes
                   ,
                   Vltrix
                   accincta
                   flag
                   ello
                   Tisiphone
                   quatit
                   insultans
                   ,
                
                 &c.
                 
              
               Yet
               afterwards
               she
               is
               on
               Earth
               in
               the
               Tenth
               Aeneid
               ,
               and
               amidst
               the
               Battel
               .
               
                 Pallida
                 Tisiphone
                 media
                 inter
                 Millia
                 saevit
                 .
              
               Which
               I
               guess
               to
               be
               Tysiphone
               ,
               the
               rather
               ,
               by
               the
               Etimology
               of
               her
               Name
               ;
               which
               is
               compounded
               of
               
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
              
               ulciscor
               ;
               and
               
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
              
               caedes
               .
               Part
               of
               her
               Errand
               being
               to
               affright
               Turnus
               ,
               with
               the
               Stings
               of
               a
               guilty
               Conscience
               ;
               and
               denounce
               Vengeance
               against
               him
               for
               breaking
               the
               first
               Treaty
               ,
               by
               refusing
               to
               yield
               Lavinia
               to
               Aeneas
               ,
               to
               whom
               she
               was
               promis'd
               by
               her
               Father
               ,
               and
               consequently
               ,
               for
               being
               the
               Author
               of
               an
               unjust
               War
               ;
               and
               also
               for
               violating
               the
               second
               Treaty
               ,
               by
               declining
               the
               single
               combat
               ,
               which
               he
               had
               stipulated
               with
               his
               Rival
               ,
               and
               call'd
               the
               Gods
               to
               witness
               before
               their
               Altars
               .
               As
               for
               the
               Names
               of
               the
               Harpies
               ,
               (
               so
               call'd
               on
               Earth
               )
               Hesiod
               tells
               us
               they
               were
               
                 Iris
                 ,
                 Aello
              
               ,
               and
               
                 Ocypete
                 .
                 Virgil
              
               calls
               one
               of
               them
               Celaeno
               :
               This
               I
               doubt
               not
               was
               Alecto
               ;
               whom
               Virgil
               calls
               in
               the
               third
               
                 Aeneid
                 ,
                 Furiarum
                 maxima
              
               :
               And
               in
               the
               sixth
               again
               ,
               by
               the
               same
               Name
               
                 —
                 Furiarum
                 maxima
                 ,
                 juxta
                 accubat
                 .
              
               That
               she
               was
               the
               chief
               of
               the
               Furies
               ,
               appears
               by
               her
               description
               in
               the
               seventh
               Aeneid
               :
               To
               which
               ,
               for
               haste
               ,
               I
               refer
               the
               Reader
               .
            
             
               FINIS
               .
            
             
          
        
      
    
     
       
         Notes, typically marginal, from the original text
         
           Notes for div A65112-e1320
           
             *
             Essay
             of
             Poetry
             .
          
        
         
           Notes for div A65112-e8680
           
             *
             Essay
             of
             Poetry
             .
          
        
         
           Notes for div A65112-e14830
           
             *
             Essay
             of
             Translated
             Verse
             .
             pag.
             26.
             
          
        
         
           Notes for div A65112-e50690
           
             *
             
               This
               whole
               Line
               is
               taken
               from
               the
               Marquess
               of
            
             Normanby
             
               's
               Translation
            
             .
          
        
         
           Notes for div A65112-e103960
           
             *
             
               This
               whole
               line
               is
               taken
               from
               Sir
            
             John
             Derhan
             .