Two books of elegies in imitation of the first books of Ovid de Tristibus, with part of the third to which is added verses upon several occasions with some translations out of the Latin and Greek poets / by Thomas Ball.
         Ball, Thomas.
      
       
         
           1697
        
      
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             Two books of elegies in imitation of the first books of Ovid de Tristibus, with part of the third to which is added verses upon several occasions with some translations out of the Latin and Greek poets / by Thomas Ball.
             Ball, Thomas.
          
           [10], 156 p.
           
             Printed for Richard Cumberland,
             London :
             1697.
          
           
             Reproduction of original in the British Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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         eng
      
       
         
           Ovid, 43 B.C.-17 or 18 A.D.
           Elegiac poetry.
        
      
    
     
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               TWO
               BOOKS
               OF
               ELEGIES
               :
               In
               Imitation
               of
               The
               Two
               First
               Books
               of
               
                 Ovid
                 de
                 Tristibus
              
               ;
               with
               part
               of
               the
               Third
               .
            
             
               To
               which
               is
               added
               ,
               VERSES
               upon
               several
               Occasions
               ,
               with
               some
               Translations
               out
               of
               the
               Latin
               and
               Greek
               Poets
               .
            
             
               By
               
                 THOMAS
                 BALL
              
               ,
               M.
               A.
               of
               St.
               
               John's
               Colledge
               in
               Cambridge
               .
            
             
               
                 Turba
                 Poetarum
                 Nasonem
                 novit
                 ,
                 &
                 audet
              
               
                 Non
                 fastiditis
                 annumerare
                 viris
                 .
              
               
                 Ovid.
                 
              
            
             
               LONDON
               ,
               Printed
               for
               Richard
               Cumberland
               ,
               at
               the
               Angel
               in
               St.
               
               Paul's
               
                 Churth
                 yard
              
               .
               1697.
               
            
          
           
             
             
               
               THE
               Epistle
               Dedicatory
               .
            
             
               TO
               
                 JOHN
                 HARVEY
              
               ,
               Of
               Thurly
               in
               Bedford-shire
               ,
               Esq
               ;
            
             
               
                 SIR
                 ,
              
            
             
               WEre
               Patrons
               bound
               to
               Defend
               Books
               they
               never
               saw
               ,
               as
               Seconds
               are
               ,
               to
               Fight
               Men
               they
               never
               heard
               of
               ,
               I
               shou'd
               not
               have
               Presum'd
               to
               have
               made
               You
               a
               Dedication
               ;
               for
               I
               am
               Oblig'd
               to
               tell
               the
               World
               of
               my
               Misfortune
               .
               
               You
               never
               saw
               one
               Line
               of
               these
               Elegies
               ,
               and
               so
               are
               absolutely
               disengag'd
               from
               all
               Inadvertencies
               ,
               Faults
               ,
               and
               Follys
               ,
               of
               what
               Nature
               soever
               .
               And
               tho'
               Men
               are
               generally
               as
               fond
               of
               the
               Issues
               of
               their
               Brain
               ,
               as
               those
               of
               their
               Body
               ,
               and
               partially
               give
               it
               for
               themselves
               ,
               without
               Fault
               ;
               I
               am
               not
               so
               Conceited
               of
               mine
               ,
               as
               to
               think
               I
               have
               writ
               without
               Mistakes
               ,
               tho'
               there
               is
               none
               that
               I
               know
               of
               .
            
             
               You
               may
               remember
               ,
               in
               July
               last
               ,
               when
               I
               made
               you
               a
               Visit
               about
               Peterborough
               ,
               I
               told
               you
               I
               had
               some
               Papers
               of
               this
               Nature
               in
               some
               Friends
               Hands
               in
               Town
               and
               wish'd
               I
               had
               had
               em
               then
               ,
               to
               have
               taken
               your
               Thoughts
               :
               Not
               
               long
               after
               ,
               I
               received
               them
               ,
               and
               had
               no
               reason
               to
               alter
               my
               Design
               of
               Publishing
               'em
               ,
               at
               one
               time
               or
               another
               :
               Then
               I
               show'd
               them
               to
               some
               of
               my
               Acquaintance
               in
               the
               Countrey
               ,
               and
               several
               Persons
               agreeing
               in
               the
               same
               Opinion
               ,
               I
               took
               up
               this
               still
               desperate
               Resolution
               of
               Printing
               .
               It
               has
               been
               a
               Humour
               in
               all
               Ages
               ,
               but
               I
               believe
               never
               so
               Vniversal
               as
               now
               ,
               for
               Men
               to
               think
               it
               a
               Detraction
               from
               their
               own
               Character
               ,
               to
               give
               another
               Man
               his
               ;
               and
               when
               Homer
               has
               been
               Burlesqu'd
               ,
               Virgil
               Travestied
               ,
               Waller
               Criticis'd
               on
               ,
               and
               Cowley
               Condemn'd
               ,
               no
               Body
               must
               take
               it
               ill
               .
               
                 Cowley
                 ▪
              
               was
               a
               Man
               of
               Admirable
               
               Wit
               ,
               and
               his
               Writings
               will
               Challenge
               a
               Respect
               ,
               'till
               our
               Poets
               are
               inspir'd
               .
               Waller
               indeed
               writ
               with
               more
               Art
               ,
               and
               was
               the
               first
               of
               our
               Countrey-men
               that
               Affected
               that
               agreeable
               Smoothness
               ,
               which
               with
               his
               large
               Share
               of
               Wit
               ,
               makes
               his
               Poems
               perpetually
               Entertaining
               .
               But
               those
               that
               Rail
               for
               no
               other
               Design
               than
               to
               be
               thought
               Critiques
               ,
               are
               fond
               of
               a
               Character
               they
               are
               not
               able
               to
               maintain
               :
               And
               tho'
               they
               are
               a
               great
               part
               of
               Mankind
               ,
               they
               are
               of
               so
               different
               a
               Complexion
               from
               the
               better
               part
               of
               Mankind
               ,
               that
               they
               have
               as
               little
               Respect
               as
               Modesty
               ,
               and
               it
               's
               no
               Reflection
               to
               be
               out
               of
               their
               Favour
               .
            
             
             
               When
               I
               first
               began
               these
               Elegies
               ,
               the
               only
               Motive
               to
               me
               was
               my
               Diversion
               ,
               and
               to
               Persue
               the
               Design
               of
               Entertaining
               my self
               ,
               I
               Choose
               this
               way
               of
               Imitation
               ,
               which
               admits
               of
               more
               Liberty
               :
               And
               tho'
               the
               Alterations
               are
               not
               great
               ,
               nor
               many
               ,
               yet
               they
               are
               too
               many
               for
               a
               strict
               Translation
               .
               Besides
               this
               ,
               I
               had
               another
               Reason
               ,
               which
               Prevail
               d
               with
               me
               ,
               more
               than
               my
               Ease
               ,
               and
               that
               was
               Ovid
               s
               extream
               Sense
               of
               his
               Misfortunes
               ,
               in
               a
               hundred
               places
               of
               his
               Elegies
               :
               He
               is
               so
               Melted
               with
               his
               Sorrows
               ,
               that
               his
               Complaints
               discover
               a
               Weakness
               ,
               which
               is
               better
               hid
               .
               
               Ovid's
               was
               indeed
               a
               very
               hard
               Case
               as
               could
               be
               ,
               and
               it
               's
               no
               Wonder
               
               if
               the
               Affection
               he
               had
               for
               his
               own
               Countrey
               ,
               the
               passionate
               Tenderness
               for
               his
               Wife
               ,
               and
               Family
               ,
               together
               with
               the
               dreadful
               Apprehensions
               of
               the
               barbarous
               People
               he
               was
               going
               to
               ,
               if
               all
               these
               shockt
               his
               Resolution
               ,
               and
               made
               him
               write
               his
               Fears
               ;
               and
               it
               is
               rather
               to
               be
               wish'd
               he
               had
               done
               it
               seldomer
               ,
               than
               to
               be
               wonder'd
               he
               did
               it
               at
               all
               .
            
             
               The
               true
               Occasion
               of
               his
               Banishment
               ,
               as
               far
               as
               I
               can
               learn
               ,
               has
               been
               a
               lasting
               Secret
               ,
               and
               men
               of
               his
               own
               time
               could
               but
               Guess
               ;
               the
               most
               probable
               Conjecture
               to
               me
               ,
               is
               ,
               that
               he
               suffer'd
               not
               so
               much
               for
               his
               own
               Fault
               ,
               as
               Caesar's
               ,
               that
               he
               was
               Conscious
               
               of
               something
               that
               made
               Caesar
               uneasie
               ;
               I
               don't
               think
               it
               was
               any
               Familiarity
               with
               Livia
               ,
               or
               Julia
               ,
               that
               gave
               him
               
               Augustus's
               Displeasure
               ,
               and
               those
               Verses
               ,
               
                 
                   Cur
                   aliquid
                   vidi
                   ?
                   cur
                   noxia
                   lumina
                   feci
                   ,
                
                 
                   Cur
                   imprudenti
                   cognita
                   culpa
                   mihi
                   est
                   .
                
              
               signify
               no
               more
               ,
               than
               that
               he
               was
               unfortunately
               Privy
               to
               some
               dishonourable
               Action
               of
               Caesar's
               ,
               and
               he
               durst
               not
               trust
               him
               at
               home
               .
               Had
               his
               Crime
               been
               of
               so
               high
               a
               Nature
               ,
               as
               to
               have
               wrong'd
               him
               in
               his
               Wife
               ,
               or
               Daughter
               ,
               Banishment
               had
               not
               been
               Punishment
               enough
               :
               And
               had
               it
               been
               Livia
               ,
               he
               durst
               not
               so
               much
               as
               have
               mention'd
               her
               ;
               but
               we
               find
               him
               
               in
               the
               second
               Book
               of
               his
               Elegies
               ,
               which
               he
               writes
               to
               Augustus
               ,
               particularly
               commending
               his
               Livia
               .
            
             
               
                 Livia
                 sic
                 tecum
                 sociales
                 impleat
                 annos
                 ,
              
               
                 Quae
                 nisi
                 te
                 ,
                 nullo
                 conjuge
                 digna
                 fuit
                 ,
              
               
                 Quae
                 si
                 non
                 esset
                 ,
                 caelebs
                 te
                 vita
                 deceret
                 ,
              
               
                 Nullaque
                 ,
                 cui
                 posses
                 esse
                 maritus
                 ,
                 erat
                 .
              
            
             
               But
               this
               is
               still
               Conjecture
               ,
               and
               all
               the
               Proofs
               that
               can
               be
               Amass'd
               of
               either
               side
               ,
               amount
               to
               no
               more
               ;
               and
               therefore
               I
               shall
               leave
               the
               Reader
               to
               his
               Liberty
               ,
               without
               pretending
               to
               determine
               from
               any
               of
               '
               em
               .
               But
               whatever
               was
               the
               Occasion
               of
               his
               Banishment
               ,
               he
               was
               Treated
               with
               great
               Respect
               by
               those
               of
               his
               own
               time
               ,
               and
               his
               Writings
               have
               been
               
               judg'd
               very
               Fortunate
               ,
               by
               those
               of
               several
               Ages
               since
               .
               The
               two
               
                 Seneca's
                 ,
                 Marcus
              
               and
               
                 Lucius
                 ,
                 Velleius
                 Paterculus
                 ,
                 Quintillian
                 ,
                 Cornelius
                 Tacitus
                 ,
                 Martial
                 ,
                 Statius
                 Pampinius
                 ,
                 Angelus
                 Politianus
                 ,
                 Erasmus
                 ,
                 Julius
                 Scaliger
              
               ;
               these
               and
               a
               great
               many
               more
               have
               all
               interested
               themselves
               in
               the
               Commendations
               of
               Ovid
               ,
               and
               are
               more
               than
               Common
               Authoritys
               .
            
             
               And
               now
               SIR
               ,
               if
               you
               can
               find
               any
               thing
               in
               the
               following
               sheets
               that
               may
               Divert
               you
               ,
               when
               Tired
               with
               ,
               or
               Indisposed
               for
               better
               Studies
               ,
               I
               shall
               have
               the
               greatest
               part
               of
               my
               Design
               ,
               and
               
               only
               want
               your
               Pardon
               for
               this
               Freedom
               ,
            
             
               
                 SIR
                 ,
              
               
                 Your
                 most
                 Obliged
                 ,
                 and
                 very
                 humble
                 Servant
                 ,
                 T.
                 Ball.
                 
              
            
          
        
         
           
             
               
               
                 The
                 First
                 ELEGY
                 OF
                 Ovid
                 de
                 Tristibus
                 .
              
               
                 He
                 applies
                 himself
                 to
                 his
                 Book
                 ,
                 that
                 it
                 shou'd
                 go
                 to
                 Rome
                 ,
                 and
                 admonishes
                 what
                 's
                 to
                 be
                 done
                 .
              
               
                 
                   GO
                   to
                   fam'd
                   Rome
                   ,
                   my
                   Book
                   ,
                   thy
                   Verses
                   show
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Privilege
                   thy
                   Master
                   had
                   'till
                   now
                   ;
                
                 
                   Go
                   but
                   Undrest
                   ,
                   Forlorn
                   ,
                   Unhappy
                   go
                   .
                
                 
                   No
                   Crown
                   adorns
                   a
                   wretched
                   Exile's
                   Brow
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   Garb's
                   allow'd
                   ,
                   but
                   what
                   his
                   Sorrows
                   show
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Vermillion
                   ,
                   Purple
                   ,
                   that
                   are
                   Fine
                   and
                   Gay
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   these
                   ,
                   while
                   others
                   Titles
                   flourisht
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   Page
                   ,
                   my
                   Book
                   ,
                   must
                   want
                   the
                   Liberty
                   :
                
                 
                   These
                   are
                   the
                   Ensigns
                   only
                   of
                   the
                   Great
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   must
                   reflect
                   your
                   Master
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   be
                   asham'd
                   of
                   Blots
                   ,
                   for
                   all
                   that
                   read
                
                 
                   Will
                   know
                   ,
                   my
                   Flowing
                   Tears
                   the
                   Blots
                   have
                   made
                   .
                
                 
                   Go
                   ,
                   in
                   my
                   Words
                   ,
                   and
                   Name
                   ,
                   Salute
                   the
                   Town
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   much
                   lov'd
                   Place
                   ,
                   that
                   I
                   so
                   long
                   have
                   known
                   ;
                
                 
                   If
                   you
                   shou'd
                   meet
                   a
                   Man
                   shou'd
                   ask
                   of
                   me
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tell
                   him
                   I
                   live
                   not
                   from
                   Misfortunes
                   free
                   ;
                
                 
                   If
                   he
                   asks
                   more
                   ,
                   be
                   silent
                   ,
                   let
                   him
                   read
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lest
                   you
                   should
                   say
                   what
                   's
                   better
                   ,
                   much
                   ,
                   unsaid
                   ▪
                
                 
                   The
                   Reader
                   may
                   my
                   Crimes
                   perhaps
                   repeat
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   say
                   't
                   is
                   just
                   ,
                   he
                   suffer'd
                   as
                   he
                   ought
                   ;
                
                 
                   Be
                   sure
                   you
                   don't
                   defend
                   ,
                   tho'
                   you
                   cou'd
                   wound
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Cause
                   that
                   's
                   ill
                   ,
                   Protected
                   ,
                   ill
                   is
                   found
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   you
                   shou'd
                   find
                   a
                   Friend
                   that
                   shou'd
                   Bemoan
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   often
                   weep
                   his
                   much
                   lov'd
                   Ovid
                   gone
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   softly
                   whispering
                   ,
                   to
                   avoid
                   a
                   Crime
                   ,
                
                 
                   Wish
                   that
                   his
                   Caesar
                   wou'd
                   forgive
                   the
                   sin
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   Who
                   e're
                   he
                   is
                   ,
                   we
                   wish
                   him
                   happy
                   too
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   seems
                   to
                   feel
                   the
                   ills
                   the
                   wretched
                   know
                   :
                
                 
                   To
                   all
                   he
                   asks
                   may
                   Heav'n
                   indulgent
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   May
                   
                   Caesar's
                   Face
                   again
                   Look
                   Liberty
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   grant
                   the
                   Privilege
                   at
                   Home
                   to
                   dye
                   .
                
                 
                   Whilst
                   my
                   Commands
                   ,
                   my
                   Book
                   ,
                   thou
                   dost
                   relate
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   World
                   will
                   damn
                   thee
                   '
                   cause
                   unfortunate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Exiles
                   are
                   never
                   Witty
                   ,
                   Good
                   ,
                   or
                   Great
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   Judge
                   must
                   weigh
                   the
                   Business
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Time
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   Vertue
                   was
                   ,
                   may
                   be
                   esteem'd
                   a
                   Crime
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Muse
                   ne're
                   smiles
                   ,
                   but
                   when
                   the
                   Poet
                   does
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   who
                   can
                   smile
                   with
                   Clouds
                   upon
                   his
                   Brows
                   ?
                
                 
                   In
                   blest
                   Security
                   ,
                   and
                   Ease
                   ,
                   I
                   write
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Thoughts
                   were
                   free
                   ,
                   my
                   Verses
                   smooth
                   and
                   sweet
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   since
                   Fates
                   Storms
                   have
                   tost
                   me
                   to
                   and
                   fro
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   at
                   this
                   Instant
                   do
                   they
                   cease
                   to
                   blow
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Mind
                   's
                   as
                   rough
                   as
                   troubled
                   Waters
                   flow
                   .
                
                 
                   While
                   I
                   was
                   safe
                   ,
                   I
                   eager
                   ▪
                   sought
                   for
                   Fame
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   Wealth
                   preferr'd
                   the
                   Purchase
                   of
                   a
                   Name
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   now
                   ,
                   my
                   Book
                   ,
                   in
                   silence
                   softly
                   go
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Master's
                   Fame
                   ,
                   is
                   like
                   his
                   Fortunes
                   ,
                   low
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   If
                   any
                   one
                   shou'd
                   find
                   it
                   's
                   mine
                   ,
                   and
                   say
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   Book
                   is
                   to
                   be
                   Burnt
                   ,
                   or
                   Thrown
                   away
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Title
                   show
                   ,
                   tell
                   him
                   I
                   write
                   no
                   more
                
                 
                   Of
                   Love
                   ,
                   the
                   Subject
                   of
                   my
                   Books
                   before
                   ;
                
                 
                   Tell
                   him
                   I
                   'ave
                   dearly
                   suffer'd
                   for
                   th'
                   Offence
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lost
                   my
                   Estate
                   ,
                   as
                   well
                   as
                   Innocence
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   thou
                   ,
                   perhaps
                   ,
                   wilt
                   look
                   for
                   th'
                   highest
                   Place
                   ,
                
                 
                   Expect
                   that
                   Caesar
                   shou'd
                   Applaud
                   thy
                   Verse
                   ;
                
                 
                   That
                   thou
                   shou'dst
                   have
                   the
                   Privilege
                   o'
                   th'
                   Court
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   be
                   Caresst
                   by
                   all
                   that
                   there
                   resort
                   .
                
                 
                   O
                   no!
                   let
                   but
                   those
                   Palaces
                   forgive
                   ,
                
                 
                   Those
                   Gods
                   Propitious
                   be
                   ,
                   that
                   in
                   them
                   live
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   longer
                   Thunder
                   from
                   the
                   Sacred
                   Roof
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Bolts
                   I
                   've
                   felt
                   are
                   of
                   their
                   Power
                   Proof
                   ;
                
                 
                   I
                   've
                   known
                   'em
                   Gentle
                   ,
                   and
                   Forgiving
                   too
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   Goodness
                   like
                   their
                   Power
                   ,
                   diffusive
                   flow
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   very
                   lately
                   't
                   is
                   they
                   Punisht
                   me
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   sad
                   remembrance
                   often
                   makes
                   me
                   sigh
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   fearful
                   Dove
                   once
                   struck
                   ,
                   she
                   always
                   fears
                
                 
                   The
                   stronger
                   Hawk
                   ,
                   when
                   e're
                   the
                   Bird
                   appears
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Lamb
                   from
                   the
                   Devouring
                   Wolf
                   once
                   free
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   ever
                   after
                   Dreads
                   to
                   be
                   his
                   Prey
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Cou'd
                   the
                   lost
                   Phaeton
                   but
                   live
                   again
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   willingly
                   wou'd
                   own
                   his
                   Pride
                   a
                   Sin
                   ;
                
                 
                   So
                   having
                   felt
                   the
                   Mighty's
                   fiercest
                   Flame
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   own
                   my
                   Fault
                   ,
                   and
                   fear
                   to
                   sin
                   again
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Pilots
                   that
                   the
                   Grecian
                   Navy
                   bore
                   ,
                
                 
                   Will
                   always
                   dread
                   the
                   Danger
                   o'
                   th'
                   Eubaean
                   shoar
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Boat
                   that
                   Ovid
                   and
                   his
                   Fortunes
                   had
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   Navy
                   like
                   ,
                   o'
                   th'
                   fatal
                   Place's
                   afraid
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   angry
                   storms
                   a
                   dreadful
                   Shipwrack
                   made
                   .
                
                 
                   Beware
                   ,
                   regard
                   the
                   Instances
                   I
                   've
                   told
                   ,
                
                 
                   Rather
                   be
                   timerous
                   ,
                   my
                   Book
                   ,
                   than
                   bold
                   ;
                
                 
                   What
                   if
                   thy
                   Verse
                   before
                   the
                   People
                   lies
                   ?
                
                 
                   The
                   Mean
                   may
                   Pity
                   ,
                   when
                   the
                   Great
                   despise
                   ,
                
                 
                   While
                   Icarus
                   with
                   Wings
                   to
                   fly
                   ,
                   assay'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   purchas'd
                   this
                   ,
                   his
                   Folly
                   nam'd
                   the
                   Flood
                   .
                
                 
                   How
                   to
                   advise
                   thee
                   well
                   is
                   hard
                   ,
                   but
                   go
                   ,
                
                 
                   Time
                   ,
                   Place
                   and
                   e'ry
                   Circumstance
                   must
                   show
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   a
                   clear
                   Stage
                   thou
                   seest
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   things
                   shine
                   ,
                
                 
                   Like
                   
                   Caesar's
                   Face
                   ,
                   before
                   his
                   
                   Ovid's
                   Sin
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   let
                   your
                   Air
                   be
                   grave
                   ,
                   and
                   grave
                   your
                   Mien
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   if
                   a
                   Favourite
                   shou'd
                   take
                   you
                   as
                   you
                   stand
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   kindly
                   give
                   you
                   to
                   his
                   
                   Caesar's
                   hand
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   He
                   that
                   first
                   gave
                   the
                   wound
                   ,
                   that
                   caus'd
                   the
                   pain
                   ,
                
                 
                   May
                   ,
                   like
                   Achilles
                   Spear
                   ,
                   relieve
                   the
                   same
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   while
                   you
                   'de
                   help
                   ,
                   be
                   carefull
                   lest
                   you
                   Kill
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   daring
                   Thunder
                   ,
                   that
                   's
                   at
                   present
                   still
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Hope
                   's
                   but
                   small
                   ,
                   my
                   Fears
                   are
                   greater
                   far
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lest
                   you
                   Offend
                   ,
                   and
                   so
                   Augment
                   my
                   Care.
                
                 
                   When
                   to
                   my
                   Study
                   thou
                   shalt
                   come
                   ,
                   thou
                   'lt
                   see
                   ,
                
                 
                   Some
                   Books
                   ,
                   that
                   had
                   their
                   Characters
                   from
                   me
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   harmless
                   Titles
                   most
                   ,
                   you
                   'll
                   find
                   appear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Written
                   before
                   their
                   Authour
                   Guilty
                   were
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   in
                   a
                   Corner
                   dark
                   ,
                   and
                   fit
                   for
                   them
                   ,
                
                 
                   Three
                   Books
                   will
                   lurking
                   ,
                   in
                   a
                   Hole
                   be
                   seen
                   ;
                
                 
                   Fly
                   these
                   as
                   soon
                   as
                   e're
                   their
                   Form
                   you
                   view
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tell
                   'em
                   ,
                   unhappy
                   Oedipus
                   his
                   Father
                   slew
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   if
                   thy
                   
                   Ovid's
                   words
                   have
                   power
                   to
                   move
                   ,
                
                 
                   Hate
                   'em
                   be
                   sure
                   ,
                   tho'
                   they
                   pretend
                   to
                   Love
                   :
                
                 
                   Next
                   you
                   'll
                   behold
                   upon
                   a
                   Shelf
                   ,
                   my
                   Book
                   ,
                
                 
                   Some
                   kindred
                   Leaves
                   ,
                   that
                   various
                   Forms
                   have
                   took
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   these
                   I
                   'de
                   have
                   you
                   talk
                   ,
                   and
                   in
                   your
                   talk
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tell
                   'em
                   how
                   different
                   from
                   the
                   Man
                   I
                   was
                   ,
                   I
                   walk
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   When
                   Fortune
                   smil'd
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   my
                   Thoughts
                   were
                   Gay
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   she
                   seem'd
                   fond
                   to
                   heap
                   her
                   Goods
                   on
                   me
                   ;
                
                 
                   Tell
                   'em
                   I
                   'm
                   Chang'd
                   ,
                   and
                   look
                   like
                   some
                   of
                   them
                   ,
                
                 
                   Am
                   wrinkled
                   ,
                   old
                   ,
                   deform'd
                   ,
                   and
                   ugly
                   seen
                   :
                
                 
                   I
                   have
                   more
                   Cautions
                   ,
                   more
                   I
                   am
                   afraid
                   ,
                
                 
                   These
                   very
                   dangerous
                   times
                   ,
                   my
                   Book
                   ,
                   you
                   'll
                   need
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   shou'dst
                   thou
                   carry
                   all
                   that
                   crouded
                   ly
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Thousand
                   Fears
                   that
                   trouble
                   me
                   ,
                
                 
                   thou
                   'dst
                   swell
                   ,
                   the
                   strongest
                   cou'd
                   not
                   carry
                   Thee
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 ELEGY
                 II.
                 
              
               
                 Ovid
                 Prays
                 the
                 Gods
                 wou'd
                 deliver
                 him
                 from
                 the
                 Dangers
                 of
                 a
                 Shipwrack
                 ,
                 and
                 in
                 the
                 Elegy
                 describes
                 the
                 Tempest
                 .
              
               
                 
                   YE
                   Gods
                   ,
                   whose
                   Power
                   the
                   roughest
                   Torrent
                   finds
                   ,
                
                 
                   Conduct
                   our
                   Ship
                   ,
                   half
                   Ruin'd
                   by
                   the
                   Winds
                   ,
                
                 
                   Why
                   shou'd
                   your
                   Wrath
                   ,
                   with
                   
                   Caesar's
                   ,
                   be
                   encreas'd
                   ?
                
                 
                   One
                   God
                   has
                   Frown'd
                   ,
                   another
                   has
                   been
                   pleas'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Mars
                   hated
                   
                     Troy
                     ,
                     Apollo
                  
                   kind
                   was
                   found
                   ,
                
                 
                   Venus
                   protected
                   ,
                   Pallas
                   wou'd
                   have
                   Drown'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Aencas
                   strength
                   in
                   
                   Juno's
                   rage
                   had
                   fail'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Had
                   not
                   another
                   Deity
                   prevail'd
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   Neptune
                   persu'd
                   Vlysses
                   with
                   his
                   Hate
                   ,
                
                 
                   While
                   good
                   Minerva
                   ,
                   snatch'd
                   him
                   from
                   his
                   Fate
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   tho'
                   we
                   're
                   less
                   than
                   these
                   in
                   Birth
                   and
                   Skill
                   ,
                
                 
                   Much
                   less
                   ,
                   why
                   mayn't
                   some
                   God
                   be
                   tender
                   still
                   ?
                
                 
                   And
                   while
                   one
                   Frowns
                   ,
                   another
                   please
                   to
                   Smile
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   words
                   like
                   Common
                   Air
                   ,
                   confusedly
                   Fly
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Winds
                   all
                   hope
                   of
                   being
                   heard
                   deny
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Waves
                   scarce
                   grant
                   the
                   Privilege
                   to
                   sigh
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   vain
                   ,
                   I
                   all
                   my
                   Pray'rs
                   to
                   Heav'n
                   direct
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Gods
                   can't
                   hear
                   ,
                   not
                   hearing
                   won't
                   protect
                   .
                
                 
                   Ah
                   me
                   !
                   the
                   swelling
                   Seas
                   their
                   Surges
                   throw
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   'd
                   think
                   they
                   'd
                   reach
                   the
                   Stats
                   ,
                   so
                   high
                   they
                   go
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   parting
                   ,
                   a'most
                   show
                   the
                   Shades
                   below
                   .
                
                 
                   All
                   the
                   vast
                   space
                   I
                   see
                   ,
                   is
                   Air
                   ,
                   and
                   Floods
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tost
                   by
                   the
                   Waves
                   ,
                   and
                   Threatn'd
                   by
                   the
                   Clouds
                   ,
                
                 
                   While
                   different
                   Winds
                   in
                   Murmurs
                   make
                   their
                   Way
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Sea
                   is
                   doubtful
                   which
                   he
                   should
                   Obey
                   ;
                
                 
                   Eurus
                   his
                   Forces
                   Marshals
                   from
                   the
                   East
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   Zephyrus
                   soon
                   Threatens
                   from
                   the
                   West
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fierce
                   Boreas
                   from
                   his
                   Northern
                   Quarter
                   blows
                   ,
                
                 
                   While
                   Notus
                   Charges
                   ,
                   Fighting
                   as
                   he
                   goes
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Our
                   Pilot
                   in
                   so
                   dangerous
                   a
                   Case
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   odd
                   ,
                   so
                   terrible
                   a
                   Storm
                   as
                   this
                   ,
                
                 
                   Is
                   yet
                   uncertain
                   what
                   to
                   make
                   ,
                   what
                   fly
                   ,
                
                 
                   Such
                   strange
                   Variety
                   of
                   Dangers
                   nigh
                   ;
                
                 
                   Now
                   while
                   I
                   speak
                   ,
                   a
                   Proud
                   ,
                   Insulting
                   Wave
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shows
                   me
                   Death
                   waiting
                   for
                   the
                   Life
                   I
                   have
                   .
                
                 
                   My
                   Pious
                   Wife
                   ,
                   so
                   long
                   my
                   Joy
                   ,
                   and
                   Care
                   ,
                
                 
                   Knows
                   nothing
                   of
                   the
                   Threatning
                   Storms
                   I
                   fear
                   ;
                
                 
                   Believes
                   my
                   Banishment
                   ,
                   the
                   only
                   Grief
                   I
                   know
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thoughtless
                   at
                   present
                   what
                   I
                   undergo
                   ,
                
                 
                   Did
                   she
                   but
                   see
                   me
                   Riding
                   in
                   the
                   Deep
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Disproportion
                   that
                   the
                   Surges
                   keep
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   Care
                   wou'd
                   double
                   every
                   pointed
                   Ill
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   I
                   ,
                   for
                   her
                   ,
                   two
                   Deaths
                   at
                   least
                   shou'd
                   feel
                   ;
                
                 
                   This
                   Flash
                   wou'd
                   be
                   a
                   Death
                   ,
                   so
                   long
                   the
                   Flame
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   plainly
                   saw
                   the
                   Place
                   from
                   when
                   it
                   came
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Treasury
                   where
                   God's
                   their
                   Lightning
                   lay
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   burn
                   the
                   World
                   ,
                   when
                   all
                   shall
                   disobey
                   :
                
                 
                   Death
                   I
                   do'nt
                   sear
                   ,
                   let
                   but
                   the
                   Tempest
                   cease
                   ,
                
                 
                   Dismiss
                   the
                   Winds
                   ,
                   and
                   strike
                   me
                   where
                   you
                   please
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Happy
                   to
                   me
                   ,
                   the
                   Man
                   that
                   Sickness
                   knows
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   falls
                   by
                   th'
                   Sword
                   ,
                   and
                   sinks
                   beneath
                   his
                   Foes
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Earth
                   to
                   such
                   will
                   kindly
                   give
                   a
                   Grave
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Decent
                   Rites
                   of
                   Burial
                   they
                   have
                   ;
                
                 
                   Their
                   Friends
                   expecting
                   what
                   they
                   wou'd
                   have
                   done
                   ,
                
                 
                   Are
                   nigh
                   ,
                   and
                   ready
                   to
                   perform
                   the
                   same
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Wat'ry
                   People
                   that
                   inhabit
                   Seas
                   ,
                
                 
                   Can
                   claim
                   no
                   Priviledge
                   ,
                   at
                   all
                   of
                   these
                   :
                
                 
                   Believe
                   me
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   worthy
                   such
                   a
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Besides
                   't
                   is
                   I
                   ,
                   that
                   am
                   unfortunate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Why
                   shou'd
                   these
                   suffer
                   that
                   are
                   hither
                   sent
                   ,
                
                 
                   Not
                   for
                   their
                   Crimes
                   ,
                   they
                   're
                   innocent
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   I
                   ,
                   not
                   they
                   ,
                   deserv'd
                   the
                   Banishment
                   .
                
                 
                   Ye
                   Gods
                   ,
                   whose
                   Voices
                   calm
                   ,
                   or
                   swell
                   the
                   Flood
                   ,
                
                 
                   Too
                   long
                   an
                   Instance
                   of
                   your
                   Power
                   you
                   've
                   show'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   Thunder
                   stop
                   ,
                   that
                   I
                   may
                   safely
                   tread
                
                 
                   The
                   Distant
                   Shoar
                   ,
                   that
                   Caesar
                   has
                   decreed
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shou'd
                   you
                   resolve
                   to
                   take
                   away
                   my
                   Breath
                   ,
                
                 
                   Caesar
                   ,
                   he
                   judg'd
                   my
                   Crime
                   was
                   less
                   than
                   Death
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   He
                   cou'd
                   have
                   kill'd
                   ,
                   without
                   your
                   Leave
                   ,
                   or
                   Pow'r
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   e're
                   he
                   speaks
                   ,
                   the
                   Criminal's
                   no
                   more
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   tho'
                   before
                   his
                   Throne
                   I
                   guilty
                   stand
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   never
                   did
                   ,
                   ye
                   Gods
                   ,
                   your
                   Heav'n
                   offend
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nay
                   ,
                   shou'd
                   you
                   snatch
                   me
                   from
                   the
                   Waves
                   I
                   fear
                   '
                
                 
                   My
                   Ruin
                   still
                   ,
                   is
                   much
                   ,
                   ah
                   !
                   much
                   too
                   near
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Doom
                   is
                   Banishment
                   to
                   Lands
                   unseen
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   I
                   must
                   live
                   an
                   Exile
                   for
                   my
                   Sin
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Hopes
                   of
                   Wealth
                   ne're
                   tempted
                   me
                   to
                   this
                   ,
                
                 
                   Those
                   little
                   Thoughts
                   ,
                   I
                   always
                   cou'd
                   despise
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   yet
                   a
                   Rambling
                   Humour
                   ,
                   that
                   once
                   sway'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   carry'd
                   me
                   to
                   Athens
                   ,
                   when
                   unbread
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   Curiosity
                   to
                   see
                   the
                   Towns
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   Asia
                   from
                   the
                   Neighb'ring
                   Quarter
                   Bounds
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   does
                   my
                   Vanity
                   to
                   Aegypt
                   lead
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   see
                   how
                   Nilus
                   seven
                   Streams
                   are
                   sed
                   ;
                
                 
                   I
                   rather
                   wish
                   the
                   Winds
                   wou'd
                   guide
                   the
                   Ship
                   ,
                
                 
                   Conduct
                   us
                   safely
                   thro'
                   the
                   troubl'd
                   Deep
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   tho'
                   I
                   see
                   Augustus
                   Face
                   no
                   more
                   ,
                
                 
                   Banisht
                   the
                   Court
                   ,
                   Despis'd
                   ,
                   Forlorn
                   ,
                   and
                   Poor
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   I
                   'm
                   Shipwrackt
                   yet
                   ,
                   a
                   second
                   Punishment
                   ,
                
                 
                   Deny'd
                   the
                   very
                   place
                   of
                   Banishment
                   ,
                
                 
                   Too
                   great
                   a
                   Favour
                   to
                   be
                   safely
                   sent
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   any
                   part
                   of
                   Ovid
                   ,
                   Gods
                   ,
                   you
                   love
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Pray'rs
                   your
                   Goodness
                   ,
                   one
                   wou'd
                   think
                   shou'd
                   move
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   later
                   Orders
                   shou'd
                   the
                   storm
                   appease
                   ,
                
                 
                   Confine
                   the
                   Winds
                   ,
                   and
                   plain
                   the
                   swelling
                   Seas
                   ,
                
                 
                   Caesar
                   ,
                   tho'
                   angry
                   ,
                   he
                   expected
                   this
                   .
                
                 
                   When
                   to
                   the
                   Pontick
                   Land
                   he
                   order'd
                   me
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   little
                   thought
                   I
                   in
                   a
                   storm
                   shou'd
                   dye
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   first
                   severe
                   ;
                   my
                   Crime
                   I
                   don't
                   defend
                   ,
                
                 
                   At
                   most
                   ,
                   I
                   dare
                   but
                   lessen
                   ,
                   what
                   he
                   has
                   condem'd
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Gods
                   they
                   know
                   ,
                   what
                   Princes
                   cannot
                   plead
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   wicked
                   meaning
                   in
                   my
                   Fault
                   I
                   had
                   ,
                
                 
                   Blind
                   Error
                   led
                   me
                   thro'
                   untrodden
                   Ways
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Folly
                   lost
                   me
                   in
                   the
                   wondrous
                   Maze
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   if
                   Augustus
                   House
                   I
                   always
                   lov'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Next
                   Heaven
                   ,
                   Augustus
                   Power
                   approv'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   I
                   have
                   offer'd
                   in
                   Augustus
                   Name
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   I
                   have
                   pray'd
                   a
                   Long
                   ,
                   and
                   Happy
                   Reign
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Let
                   my
                   Obedience
                   mitigate
                   my
                   Sin
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Seas
                   grow
                   calm
                   ,
                   the
                   Air
                   serene
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   if
                   I
                   ask
                   too
                   much
                   ,
                   and
                   fondly
                   pray
                   ,
                
                 
                   May
                   I
                   expect
                   my
                   Death
                   without
                   Delay
                   .
                
                 
                   Enough
                   :
                   my
                   Pray'rs
                   already
                   reach
                   the
                   Skies
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   mount
                   a
                   Welcome
                   ,
                   Happy
                   Sacrifice
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Clouds
                   are
                   by
                   the
                   stronger
                   Powers
                   chas'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Winds
                   allay'd
                   ,
                   the
                   Seas
                   already
                   pleas'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Gods
                   I
                   pray'd
                   ,
                   by
                   me
                   were
                   ne're
                   deceiv'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   e're
                   provok'd
                   ,
                   but
                   always
                   were
                   believ'd
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   being
                   unprovok'd
                   ,
                   they
                   've
                   all
                   reliev'd
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 ELEGY
                 III.
                 
              
               
                 How
                 he
                 went
                 from
                 Rome
                 :
                 The
                 Concern
                 he
                 left
                 his
                 Wife
                 in
                 ,
                 and
                 how
                 his
                 Friends
                 and
                 Family
                 lamented
                 his
                 Departure
                 .
              
               
                 
                   SAd
                   was
                   the
                   Night
                   ,
                   but
                   blacker
                   far
                   my
                   Fears
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Wife
                   ,
                   my
                   Children
                   ,
                   Servants
                   ,
                   all
                   ,
                   in
                   Tears
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   think
                   the
                   Morrow
                   's
                   too
                   too
                   hasty
                   Light
                   ,
                
                 
                   Must
                   snatch
                   a
                   Husband
                   ,
                   Father
                   ,
                   Master
                   ,
                   from
                   their
                   sight
                   :
                
                 
                   My
                   Eyes
                   tho'
                   I
                   had
                   wept
                   so
                   much
                   before
                   ,
                
                 
                   Kept
                   time
                   with
                   theirs
                   ,
                   and
                   greedily
                   run
                   o're
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   yet
                   no
                   mind
                   I
                   had
                   to
                   think
                   that
                   I
                   ,
                
                 
                   Must
                   leave
                   not
                   only
                   them
                   ,
                   but
                   Italy
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   All
                   Preparations
                   for
                   the
                   way
                   delay'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   Caesar
                   had
                   forgiv'n
                   ,
                   and
                   I
                   had
                   staid
                   ,
                
                 
                   Servants
                   ,
                   nor
                   yet
                   Companions
                   did
                   I
                   choose
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Gold
                   ,
                   nor
                   Cloaths
                   of
                   necessary
                   Use
                   ,
                
                 
                   Amaz'd
                   !
                   I
                   stood
                   like
                   one
                   by
                   Thunder
                   struck
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   lives
                   ,
                   but
                   never
                   can
                   forget
                   the
                   stroke
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   some
                   faint
                   Dawning
                   of
                   my
                   Sense
                   appear'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Griefs
                   look'd
                   less
                   ,
                   tho'
                   still
                   they
                   show'd
                   I
                   fear'd
                   '
                
                 
                   I
                   call'd
                   my
                   Friends
                   the
                   very
                   few
                   that
                   staid
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sighing
                   —
                   at
                   last
                   ,
                   Farewell
                   ,
                   my
                   Friends
                   ,
                   I
                   said
                   ;
                
                 
                   Friends
                   in
                   misfortunes
                   are
                   so
                   rarely
                   known
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   rather
                   wonder'd
                   of
                   the
                   many
                   ,
                   I
                   had
                   one
                   :
                
                 
                   My
                   Wife
                   she
                   lockt
                   me
                   in
                   a
                   close
                   Embrace
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fixt
                   her
                   swoln
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   and
                   prest
                   me
                   to
                   her
                   Face
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Daughter
                   that
                   to
                   Affrica
                   I
                   sent
                   ,
                
                 
                   Knew
                   nothing
                   of
                   her
                   Father's
                   Banishment
                   ,
                
                 
                   Too
                   many
                   they
                   ,
                   alas
                   ,
                   at
                   Home
                   that
                   staid
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   wept
                   as
                   tho'
                   some
                   Funeral
                   they
                   had
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   great
                   Examples
                   ,
                   humble
                   Sorrows
                   take
                   ,
                
                 
                   Such
                   was
                   the
                   Groans
                   ,
                   when
                   ancient
                   Troy
                   was
                   sack'd
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   'T
                   was
                   then
                   ,
                   when
                   Night
                   her
                   deepest
                   mourning
                   had
                   ,
                
                 
                   All
                   things
                   but
                   us
                   ,
                   so
                   silent
                   ,
                   they
                   seem'd
                   dead
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   fixt
                   my
                   Eye
                   upon
                   the
                   lofty
                   Capitol
                   ,
                
                 
                   Joyn'd
                   to
                   my
                   House
                   ,
                   that
                   's
                   like
                   that
                   Building
                   tall
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ye
                   Gods
                   that
                   love
                   this
                   Fair
                   frequented
                   Place
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Temples
                   where
                   your
                   Votary
                   I
                   was
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   was
                   ,
                   but
                   never
                   more
                   must
                   be
                   ,
                   and
                   yet
                   ,
                
                 
                   Hear
                   me
                   ye
                   Gods
                   ,
                   from
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   your
                   other
                   Seat
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   I
                   too
                   late
                   my
                   wounded
                   Body
                   guard
                   ,
                
                 
                   Torn
                   by
                   the
                   Sentence
                   that
                   I
                   lately
                   heard
                   ,
                
                 
                   Let
                   Banishment
                   if
                   not
                   attone
                   ,
                   suffice
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   reconcile
                   me
                   to
                   the
                   People's
                   Voice
                   ;
                
                 
                   Tell
                   Caesar
                   tho'
                   I
                   sinn'd
                   ,
                   't
                   was
                   Ignorance
                   ,
                
                 
                   Design
                   ne're
                   prompted
                   to
                   the
                   great
                   Offence
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   you
                   can
                   witness
                   ,
                   and
                   can
                   witness
                   true
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tell
                   Caesar
                   this
                   ,
                   he
                   must
                   believe
                   from
                   you
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   I
                   implor'd
                   ,
                   while
                   still
                   my
                   Wife
                   she
                   prays
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Tears
                   repeated
                   for
                   the
                   God's
                   delays
                   ,
                
                 
                   Till
                   Sobs
                   cut
                   off
                   the
                   Priviledge
                   of
                   Words
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Wild
                   Disorders
                   no
                   Relief
                   affords
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   Breath
                   return'd
                   ,
                   she
                   panting
                   lies
                   along
                   ,
                
                 
                   Prays
                   our
                   Penates
                   ,
                   as
                   she
                   'd
                   often
                   done
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   But
                   they
                   ,
                   as
                   deaf
                   ,
                   as
                   common
                   Statues
                   stood
                   ,
                
                 
                   Made
                   by
                   some
                   Vulgar
                   Artist
                   ,
                   of
                   the
                   meanest
                   Wood.
                
                 
                   While
                   day
                   advances
                   with
                   a
                   hasty
                   Pace
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   last
                   that
                   I
                   ,
                   in
                   Italy
                   must
                   Pass
                   ,
                
                 
                   Uncertain
                   what
                   to
                   do
                   ,
                   so
                   much
                   I
                   lov'd
                
                 
                   My
                   Family
                   ,
                   so
                   much
                   my
                   Country
                   mov'd
                   :
                
                 
                   How
                   often
                   did
                   I
                   say
                   to
                   those
                   that
                   prest
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   I
                   wou'd
                   use
                   the
                   little
                   Time
                   I
                   'd
                   left
                   !
                
                 
                   Why
                   do
                   you
                   urge
                   me
                   ?
                   whither
                   shou'd
                   I
                   go
                   ?
                
                 
                   Where
                   ?
                   do
                   but
                   tell
                   me
                   what
                   you
                   'd
                   have
                   me
                   do
                   .
                
                 
                   How
                   often
                   did
                   I
                   drive
                   th'
                   uneasy
                   thoughts
                   away
                   !
                
                 
                   E'ne
                   to
                   the
                   utmost
                   minute
                   of
                   my
                   stay
                   ;
                
                 
                   Thrice
                   I
                   the
                   Threshold
                   touch'd
                   ,
                   and
                   try'd
                   to
                   go
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   mind
                   unwilling
                   ,
                   thrice
                   my
                   Foot
                   withdrew
                   ;
                
                 
                   Often
                   the
                   kind
                   ,
                   sad
                   Word
                   ▪
                   Farewell
                   ,
                   I
                   'd
                   give
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   often
                   gone
                   ,
                   repeated
                   Kisses
                   leave
                   ,
                
                 
                   O
                   how
                   my
                   Eyes
                   were
                   fastn'd
                   on
                   my
                   Wife
                   !
                
                 
                   My
                   mind
                   obedient
                   ,
                   giving
                   all
                   my
                   Life
                   ;
                
                 
                   How
                   much
                   we
                   lov'd
                   ,
                   while
                   Dear
                   Delights
                   surprize
                   !
                
                 
                   How
                   we
                   improv'd
                   each
                   Night
                   with
                   lasting
                   Joys
                   !
                
                 
                 
                   Why
                   shou'd
                   I
                   go
                   ,
                   I
                   said
                   ,
                   to
                   Scythia
                   ?
                
                 
                   Leave
                   much
                   lov'd
                   Rome
                   ,
                   and
                   try
                   the
                   Faithless
                   Sea.
                
                 
                   Ah
                   cruel
                   Sentence
                   !
                   that
                   must
                   absence
                   give
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   Love
                   ,
                   a
                   faint
                   remembrance
                   only
                   leave
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   was
                   very
                   hard
                   ,
                   to
                   snatch
                   me
                   from
                   my
                   better
                   part
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   wound
                   my
                   Wife
                   ,
                   by
                   breaking
                   of
                   my
                   Heart
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   banish
                   me
                   my
                   Friends
                   ,
                   that
                   nearest
                   stood
                   ,
                
                 
                   Like
                   Theseus
                   Valiant
                   ,
                   and
                   like
                   Theseus
                   Good
                   :
                
                 
                   Thus
                   while
                   I
                   talkt
                   ,
                   the
                   Fleeting
                   Minutes
                   past
                   ,
                
                 
                   Half
                   Words
                   imperfectly
                   my
                   Thoughts
                   exprest
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   Kist
                   ,
                   and
                   Sigh'd
                   ,
                   and
                   sadly
                   lookt
                   the
                   Rest
                   .
                
                 
                   When
                   Day
                   broke
                   through
                   the
                   Windows
                   of
                   the
                   East
                   ,
                
                 
                   Stars
                   disappear'd
                   ,
                   but
                   Lucifer
                   encreast
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   strangely
                   ,
                   so
                   unmann'd
                   ,
                   I
                   lifeless
                   stood
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   thinking
                   ,
                   speaking
                   ,
                   looking
                   as
                   I
                   shou'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   more
                   my
                   Brains
                   their
                   ancient
                   Uses
                   know
                   ,
                
                 
                   Than
                   Legs
                   cut
                   off
                   ,
                   without
                   the
                   Body
                   go
                   .
                
                 
                   So
                   Priam
                   griev'd
                   ,
                   when
                   he
                   too
                   late
                   beheld
                
                 
                   The
                   Grecian
                   Horse
                   ,
                   with
                   chosen
                   Soldiers
                   fill'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Like
                   Trojans
                   then
                   ,
                   tho'
                   much
                   in
                   number
                   less
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Family
                   their
                   Griefs
                   in
                   Cries
                   express
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   My
                   Wife
                   while
                   standing
                   ,
                   leaning
                   on
                   my
                   Neck
                   ,
                
                 
                   Mixt
                   with
                   her
                   Tears
                   ,
                   her
                   last
                   dear
                   Words
                   she
                   spoke
                   ,
                
                 
                   We
                   must
                   not
                   part
                   ,
                   I
                   'll
                   know
                   thy
                   latest
                   Care
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shall
                   Ovid
                   suffer
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Wife
                   not
                   share
                   ?
                
                 
                   A
                   Passenger
                   i'
                   th'
                   very
                   Ship
                   I
                   'll
                   go
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   same
                   far
                   Land
                   ,
                   shall
                   both
                   our
                   Sorrows
                   know
                   ,
                
                 
                   Love
                   forces
                   me
                   ,
                   and
                   
                   Caesar's
                   Anger
                   you
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   did
                   she
                   talk
                   ,
                   and
                   sigh
                   ,
                   despair
                   and
                   groan
                   ,
                
                 
                   Repeat
                   again
                   ,
                   what
                   just
                   before
                   she'ad
                   done
                   ,
                
                 
                   Till
                   at
                   the
                   last
                   ,
                   with
                   Hair
                   disorder'd
                   all
                   ,
                
                 
                   Wild
                   as
                   my
                   Griefs
                   ,
                   my
                   Face
                   a
                   Funeral
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   much
                   adoe
                   ,
                   I
                   spoke
                   the
                   last
                   Farewell
                   .
                
                 
                   They
                   say
                   ,
                   for
                   now
                   no
                   more
                   her
                   Form
                   I
                   saw
                   ,
                
                 
                   Half
                   dead
                   she
                   fell
                   ,
                   when
                   I
                   resolv'd
                   to
                   go
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   all
                   the
                   Instances
                   of
                   Horror
                   seen
                   ,
                
                 
                   Dissolv'd
                   in
                   Tears
                   ,
                   careless
                   ,
                   deform'd
                   ,
                   unclean
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   Limbs
                   the
                   Gods
                   with
                   such
                   Exactness
                   made
                   ,
                
                 
                   Like
                   common
                   Blood
                   ,
                   upon
                   the
                   Ground
                   were
                   laid
                   ,
                
                 
                   Limbs
                   ,
                   that
                   the
                   Gods
                   had
                   often
                   stood
                   to
                   view
                   ,
                
                 
                   Form'd
                   by
                   their
                   own
                   ,
                   and
                   as
                   exactly
                   true
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Thus
                   tho'
                   distracted
                   ,
                   still
                   she
                   often
                   pray'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Again
                   ,
                   she
                   wou'd
                   recall
                   the
                   Words
                   she
                   said
                   ,
                
                 
                   Weep
                   her
                   Penates
                   ,
                   with
                   her
                   Husband
                   fled
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   as
                   she
                   'd
                   seen
                   me
                   ,
                   (
                   Tears
                   run
                   down
                   so
                   fast
                   )
                
                 
                   Spread
                   on
                   a
                   Pile
                   ,
                   and
                   breathing
                   out
                   my
                   last
                   :
                
                 
                   One
                   while
                   her
                   Death
                   she
                   fondly
                   wou'd
                   expect
                   ,
                
                 
                   Again
                   she
                   'd
                   live
                   ,
                   but
                   only
                   in
                   respect
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   'd
                   live
                   ,
                   to
                   serve
                   her
                   Ovid
                   in
                   his
                   Cares
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   may
                   she
                   live
                   ,
                   live
                   long
                   to
                   ease
                   my
                   Fears
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   the
                   Ionian
                   Sea
                   all
                   rough
                   we
                   plough
                   ,
                
                 
                   Not
                   as
                   the
                   Merchants
                   ,
                   but
                   as
                   Strangers
                   do
                   ,
                
                 
                   Men
                   that
                   are
                   forc'd
                   unwillingly
                   to
                   go
                   ,
                
                 
                   Bless
                   me
                   !
                   what
                   boyst'rous
                   ,
                   strange
                   ,
                   unheard
                   of
                   Winds
                   ,
                
                 
                   Blackens
                   the
                   Sea
                   ,
                   and
                   shakes
                   the
                   quicker
                   Sands
                   ?
                
                 
                   A
                   Daring
                   Wave
                   ,
                   that
                   undistinguisht
                   flys
                   ,
                
                 
                   Profane
                   ,
                   assaults
                   the
                   very
                   Deities
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   tho'
                   because
                   ,
                   upon
                   our
                   Ship
                   they
                   're
                   made
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Gods
                   no
                   other
                   place
                   had
                   ever
                   had
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   ,
                   never
                   thunder'd
                   from
                   their
                   blest
                   Abode
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Pilot's
                   Horror
                   in
                   his
                   face
                   we
                   view
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   hopes
                   of
                   gaining
                   any
                   Port
                   he
                   knew
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   As
                   when
                   a
                   resty
                   Horse
                   ,
                   a
                   weak
                   man
                   rides
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   care
                   a
                   while
                   ,
                   the
                   Pamper'd
                   Beast
                   he
                   guides
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   when
                   he
                   can
                   no
                   more
                   his
                   mouth
                   command
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   throws
                   the
                   Rains
                   ,
                   and
                   rides
                   him
                   to
                   a
                   stand
                   :
                
                 
                   Just
                   so
                   ,
                   our
                   Pilot
                   ,
                   did
                   our
                   Vessel
                   guide
                   ,
                
                 
                   'Till
                   all
                   too
                   little
                   for
                   the
                   Waves
                   ,
                   and
                   Tide
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   like
                   the
                   Horseman
                   ,
                   let
                   's
                   her
                   drive
                   apace
                   ,
                
                 
                   Without
                   the
                   Rains
                   with
                   which
                   she
                   guided
                   was
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   if
                   the
                   God
                   that
                   Thunders
                   from
                   his
                   Den
                   ,
                
                 
                   Had
                   not
                   chain'd
                   up
                   an
                   Awkward
                   Wind
                   again
                   ,
                
                 
                   Much
                   worse
                   we'ad
                   far'd
                   ,
                   for
                   back
                   we
                   went
                   ,
                
                 
                   Half
                   to
                   the
                   Place
                   from
                   whence
                   Augustus
                   sent
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   made
                   me
                   Pray
                   ,
                   with
                   earnest
                   Accents
                   too
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Gods
                   wou'd
                   hear
                   me
                   ,
                   that
                   Augustus
                   knew
                   ;
                
                 
                   Heare
                   me
                   I
                   cry
                   ,
                   for
                   once
                   forgive
                   my
                   Crime
                   ,
                
                 
                   One
                   
                   Jove's
                   enough
                   to
                   Thunder
                   at
                   a
                   time
                   ,
                
                 
                   Snatch
                   my
                   Departing
                   Life
                   from
                   Gaping
                   Death
                   ,
                
                 
                   Give
                   me
                   the
                   Priviledge
                   a
                   while
                   to
                   Breath
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   if
                   your
                   Power
                   can
                   reverse
                   my
                   Doom
                   ,
                
                 
                   Let
                   Caesar
                   smile
                   ,
                   and
                   I
                   again
                   see
                   Rome
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 ELEGY
                 IV.
                 
              
               
                 To
                 his
                 Friend
                 that
                 had
                 been
                 serviceable
                 to
                 him
                 in
                 his
                 Misfortunes
                 :
                 Towards
                 the
                 latter
                 end
                 of
                 the
                 Elegy
                 he
                 compares
                 his
                 Sufferings
                 with
                 
                 Ulysses's
                 ,
                 but
                 makes
                 'em
                 much
                 greater
                 .
              
               
                 
                   MY
                   better
                   self
                   !
                   whose
                   Friendships
                   run
                   so
                   high
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   very
                   Life
                   's
                   a
                   Debt
                   ,
                   my
                   Friend
                   ,
                   to
                   thee
                   ,
                
                 
                   Well
                   I
                   remember
                   the
                   sad
                   time
                   ,
                   when
                   you
                   ,
                
                 
                   Officious
                   in
                   the
                   Service
                   you
                   cou'd
                   do
                   ,
                
                 
                   Advis'd
                   me
                   kindly
                   ,
                   and
                   would
                   often
                   Sigh
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   argue
                   still
                   ,
                   when
                   I
                   resolv'd
                   to
                   dye
                   :
                
                 
                   You
                   know
                   to
                   whom
                   I
                   speak
                   ,
                   I
                   need
                   not
                   name
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   Sign
                   implies
                   as
                   much
                   ,
                   as
                   Letters
                   can
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Here
                   in
                   the
                   close
                   Recesses
                   of
                   my
                   Soul
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   keep
                   each
                   Circumstance
                   entirely
                   whole
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   when
                   Pale
                   Death
                   shall
                   summon
                   me
                   away
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   latest
                   Instance
                   of
                   the
                   Time
                   I
                   stay
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   'll
                   breath
                   your
                   Praise
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   commands
                   obey
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   so
                   much
                   kindness
                   ,
                   may
                   the
                   Gods
                   bestow
                   ,
                
                 
                   More
                   than
                   you
                   ask
                   ,
                   all
                   that
                   the
                   Happy'st
                   know
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Fortune
                   still
                   be
                   proud
                   to
                   serve
                   you
                   well
                   ,
                
                 
                   Dispence
                   her
                   best
                   ,
                   nothing
                   of
                   what
                   I
                   feel
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   had
                   not
                   Winds
                   detain'd
                   me
                   on
                   the
                   Sea
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   I
                   'ad
                   known
                   less
                   ,
                   much
                   less
                   perhaps
                   of
                   thee
                   :
                
                 
                   Fam'd
                   Pirithous
                   ,
                   ne'r
                   knew
                   his
                   Theseus
                   Faith
                   ,
                
                 
                   Till
                   his
                   last
                   Act
                   had
                   hurry'd
                   him
                   to
                   Death
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   Theseus
                   do's
                   to
                   deepest
                   shades
                   descend
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   dares
                   the
                   Furies
                   that
                   detain
                   his
                   Friend
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   had
                   great
                   Pylades
                   his
                   Friendships
                   shown
                   ,
                
                 
                   Had
                   his
                   Orestes
                   never
                   Dangers
                   known
                   :
                
                 
                   Had
                   not
                   the
                   
                     Rutili
                     Eury'lus
                  
                   slain
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   Story
                   of
                   his
                   Nisus
                   wou'd
                   remain
                   :
                
                 
                   As
                   Gold
                   refin'd
                   by
                   Fire
                   ,
                   is
                   purer
                   far
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   Friends
                   by
                   being
                   try'd
                   more
                   certain
                   are
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   While
                   Fortune
                   drops
                   her
                   use
                   of
                   Wings
                   ,
                   and
                   stays
                   ,
                
                 
                   Always
                   appearing
                   in
                   an
                   easie
                   Dress
                   ,
                
                 
                   Airy
                   ,
                   yet
                   constant
                   ,
                   when
                   less
                   free
                   ,
                   still
                   good
                   ,
                
                 
                   While
                   thus
                   ,
                   her
                   Fav'rite's
                   lifted
                   by
                   the
                   Croud
                   ,
                
                 
                   Happy
                   ,
                   he
                   lives
                   the
                   general
                   Applause
                   ,
                
                 
                   All
                   is
                   admired
                   that
                   he
                   says
                   ,
                   or
                   does
                   ,
                
                 
                   Friends
                   are
                   so
                   many
                   ,
                   that
                   he
                   only
                   fears
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   shall
                   be
                   less
                   his
                   own
                   ,
                   and
                   too
                   much
                   theirs
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   Fortune
                   jealous
                   of
                   her
                   Constancy
                   ,
                
                 
                   Assumes
                   her
                   Wings
                   ,
                   and
                   shows
                   that
                   she
                   can
                   fly
                   ,
                
                 
                   Vain
                   were
                   his
                   Fears
                   of
                   all
                   the
                   flatt'ring
                   Crew
                   ,
                
                 
                   Not
                   one
                   ,
                   my
                   Friend
                   ,
                   that
                   stays
                   or
                   loves
                   like
                   you
                   ,
                
                 
                   Regardless
                   ,
                   as
                   a
                   Man
                   unknown
                   ,
                   he
                   goes
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   he
                   that
                   cring'd
                   but
                   yesterday
                   ,
                   scarce
                   bows
                   :
                
                 
                   This
                   from
                   th'
                   Unfortunate
                   ,
                   I
                   early
                   drew
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   little
                   thought
                   ,
                   that
                   I
                   shou'd
                   prove
                   it
                   true
                   ,
                
                 
                   Not
                   four
                   I
                   'ad
                   left
                   ,
                   that
                   wou'd
                   my
                   Dangers
                   share
                   ,
                
                 
                   Th'
                   other
                   ,
                   not
                   mine
                   ,
                   they
                   Fortune's
                   were
                   ,
                
                 
                   Let
                   this
                   ye
                   Pious
                   few
                   ,
                   Compassion
                   move
                   ,
                
                 
                   Assist
                   ,
                   nor
                   be
                   afraid
                   my
                   Friends
                   ,
                   to
                   love
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   angry
                   Being
                   will
                   believe
                   you
                   sin
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   from
                   his
                   Heav'n
                   curse
                   your
                   good
                   Design
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Caesar
                   he
                   lov'd
                   ,
                   in
                   Enemies
                   ,
                   a
                   Soul
                   like
                   this
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   can
                   it
                   please
                   him
                   in
                   his
                   Subjects
                   less
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Case
                   is
                   better
                   too
                   ,
                   no
                   Plots
                   I
                   've
                   laid
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Folly
                   only
                   ,
                   has
                   my
                   ease
                   betray'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   Pray
                   those
                   Guardians
                   that
                   our
                   Earth
                   attend
                   ,
                
                 
                   They'd
                   Punish
                   less
                   ,
                   when
                   we
                   their
                   Pow'r
                   offend
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   any
                   one
                   wou'd
                   know
                   my
                   present
                   Grief
                   ,
                
                 
                   It
                   's
                   so
                   Prodigious
                   ,
                   it
                   is
                   past
                   Belief
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Stars
                   are
                   ,
                   than
                   my
                   Wrongs
                   in
                   number
                   less
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   can
                   the
                   Attoms
                   that
                   i'
                   th'
                   Sun
                   encrease
                   ,
                
                 
                   Distinctly
                   ,
                   all
                   the
                   wond'rous
                   Tale
                   express
                   .
                
                 
                   So
                   strange
                   ,
                   so
                   terrible
                   the
                   thousands
                   seem
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   're
                   more
                   than
                   e're
                   the
                   Melancholy
                   Dream
                   ,
                
                 
                   Part
                   ,
                   tho'
                   uppermost
                   ,
                   are
                   yet
                   supprest
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   never
                   must
                   go
                   farther
                   than
                   my
                   Breast
                   :
                
                 
                   Ye
                   Poets
                   ,
                   that
                   Vlysses
                   wrongs
                   recite
                   ,
                
                 
                   Instead
                   of
                   his
                   ,
                   your
                   
                   Ovid's
                   Suff'rings
                   write
                   :
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   true
                   ,
                   he
                   spent
                   a
                   certain
                   Term
                   of
                   Years
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   wandring
                   bent
                   beneath
                   some
                   Cares
                   ,
                
                 
                   Between
                   Dulichium
                   ,
                   and
                   Troy
                   he
                   steer'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   was
                   no
                   Distance
                   to
                   be
                   so
                   much
                   fear'd
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   But
                   we
                   ,
                   in
                   widest
                   Seas
                   so
                   far
                   from
                   Home
                   ,
                
                 
                   Must
                   fail
                   ,
                   where
                   Stars
                   are
                   seen
                   before
                   unknown
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   always
                   had
                   a
                   faithful
                   ,
                   certain
                   Band
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   happy
                   number
                   at
                   his
                   sole
                   Command
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   much
                   I
                   differ
                   from
                   Vlysses
                   here
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   of
                   the
                   many
                   ,
                   I
                   han't
                   one
                   ,
                   so
                   near
                   :
                
                 
                   An
                   Exile
                   from
                   a
                   pleasant
                   Country
                   sent
                   ,
                
                 
                   Had
                   it
                   been
                   Ithaca
                   ,
                   I
                   'd
                   been
                   content
                   ,
                
                 
                   Dulichium
                   had
                   scarce
                   been
                   Punishment
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   Rome
                   !
                   from
                   Rome
                   ,
                   is
                   more
                   than
                   Banishment
                   !
                
                 
                   From
                   seven
                   Hills
                   she
                   views
                   remotest
                   Lands
                   ,
                
                 
                   Awful
                   ,
                   with
                   so
                   much
                   Majesty
                   the
                   stands
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   highest
                   Gods
                   have
                   made
                   her
                   their
                   Retreat
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Rome
                   next
                   Heaven
                   ,
                   sure
                   's
                   the
                   sweetest
                   Seat.
                
                 
                   Vlysses
                   Body
                   ,
                   long
                   inur'd
                   to
                   war
                   ,
                
                 
                   Knew
                   nothing
                   of
                   the
                   Ills
                   ,
                   the
                   weaker
                   fear
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   different
                   a
                   Mould
                   from
                   his
                   ,
                   is
                   mine
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   've
                   often
                   shrunk
                   at
                   what
                   I
                   've
                   only
                   seen
                   ,
                
                 
                   Instead
                   of
                   War
                   ,
                   my
                   Books
                   ,
                   my
                   Care
                   have
                   been
                   .
                
                 
                   While
                   Jove
                   he
                   breaks
                   his
                   Thunder
                   on
                   my
                   Head
                   ,
                
                 
                   Had
                   I
                   more
                   Friends
                   ,
                   in
                   vain
                   wou'd
                   be
                   their
                   Aid
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   A
                   Goddess
                   Guarded
                   him
                   with
                   nicest
                   care
                   ,
                
                 
                   Snatch'd
                   him
                   from
                   all
                   the
                   Dangers
                   that
                   were
                   near
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   since
                   he
                   's
                   less
                   ,
                   that
                   Governs
                   in
                   the
                   Seas
                   ,
                
                 
                   Than
                   he
                   that
                   Governs
                   in
                   the
                   highest
                   Skie's
                   ,
                
                 
                   Much
                   better
                   was
                   his
                   Fate
                   ,
                   my
                   Friend
                   ,
                   than
                   mine
                   ,
                
                 
                   Jove
                   ruins
                   me
                   ,
                   while
                   Neptune
                   threatn'd
                   him
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   then
                   ,
                   think
                   how
                   the
                   greatest
                   part
                   is
                   made
                   ,
                
                 
                   Only
                   suppos'd
                   ,
                   the
                   half
                   he
                   never
                   had
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Griefs
                   are
                   all
                   too
                   certain
                   ,
                   much
                   too
                   plain
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   Fable
                   do's
                   embellish
                   ought
                   that
                   's
                   mine
                   .
                
                 
                   Besides
                   :
                   At
                   last
                   he
                   reach'd
                   his
                   Houshold
                   Gods
                   ,
                
                 
                   Pray'd
                   his
                   Penates
                   in
                   their
                   old
                   Abodes
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   I
                   can
                   never
                   hope
                   Vlysses
                   Place
                   ,
                
                 
                   Till
                   Caesar
                   smiles
                   ,
                   and
                   Heaven
                   thunders
                   less
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 ELEGY
                 V.
                 
              
               
                 He
                 writes
                 to
                 his
                 Wife
                 ,
                 and
                 takes
                 Occasion
                 to
                 Commend
                 the
                 Constancy
                 of
                 her
                 Affection
                 ,
                 Compares
                 her
                 with
                 the
                 best
                 of
                 her
                 Sex
                 ,
                 but
                 excuses
                 his
                 Inability
                 in
                 Writing
                 ,
                 while
                 he
                 is
                 still
                 Wrack'd
                 by
                 his
                 Misfortunes
                 .
              
               
                 
                   
                     APollo
                     Lydia
                  
                   lov'd
                   ,
                   but
                   not
                   as
                   I
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Dearest
                   Wife
                   ,
                   have
                   always
                   ,
                   Child
                   ,
                   lov'd
                   thee
                   ,
                
                 
                   Philetus
                   tho'
                   his
                   Nymph
                   ,
                   and
                   Song
                   ,
                   Divine
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lov'd
                   not
                   his
                   Battis
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   Love
                   like
                   mine
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   so
                   entirely
                   have
                   each
                   part
                   of
                   me
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   my
                   Affection
                   a'most
                   merits
                   thee
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   ah
                   my
                   Injuries
                   !
                   and
                   yet
                   I
                   find
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   smile
                   ,
                   my
                   Dear
                   ,
                   tho'
                   all
                   the
                   World
                   's
                   unkind
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Your
                   Prudence
                   guards
                   me
                   from
                   severest
                   Foes
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   think
                   ,
                   my
                   Freedom
                   e'nt
                   enough
                   to
                   lose
                   ,
                
                 
                   Men
                   that
                   wou'd
                   Rob
                   me
                   of
                   my
                   Life
                   ,
                   Estate
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   the
                   Goods
                   I
                   ever
                   valu'd
                   yet
                   .
                
                 
                   As
                   a
                   Devouring
                   Wolf
                   ,
                   by
                   Hunger
                   Led
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ranges
                   the
                   Field
                   ,
                   and
                   eager
                   thirsts
                   for
                   Blood
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   he
                   espies
                   ,
                   Ungarded
                   ,
                   from
                   afar
                   ,
                
                 
                   Some
                   Sheep
                   ,
                   that
                   have
                   escap'd
                   their
                   Shepherd
                   '
                   care
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   takes
                   his
                   Prey
                   ,
                   nor
                   will
                   the
                   weakest
                   spare
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   as
                   a
                   Vulture
                   Hovering
                   to
                   feize
                   ,
                
                 
                   Some
                   wretched
                   Carkass
                   ,
                   that
                   unbury'd
                   lies
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   did
                   these
                   strive
                   ,
                   by
                   Force
                   to
                   ruin
                   me
                   ,
                
                 
                   While
                   guarded
                   still
                   on
                   e'ry
                   side
                   by
                   Thee
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                   Hector's
                   Andromache
                   ,
                   of
                   Old
                   so
                   Fam'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Must
                   not
                   be
                   mention'd
                   ,
                   Dear
                   ,
                   when
                   you
                   are
                   nam'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   wept
                   her
                   Hector
                   ,
                   whom
                   Achilles
                   slew
                   ,
                
                 
                   Paid
                   the
                   accustom'd
                   Rites
                   that
                   Widdows
                   do
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   living
                   ,
                   never
                   cou'd
                   oblige
                   like
                   You.
                
                 
                   Good
                   Laodamia
                   they
                   so
                   much
                   Boast
                   ,
                
                 
                   Was
                   never
                   known
                   till
                   she
                   her
                   Husband
                   lost
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Had
                   you
                   been
                   
                   Homer's
                   Wife
                   ,
                   so
                   good
                   a
                   Theme
                   ,
                
                 
                   Had
                   made
                   his
                   Lines
                   ,
                   tho'
                   strong
                   ,
                   more
                   perfect
                   seem
                   ,
                
                 
                   Penelope
                   her self
                   much
                   less
                   had
                   own'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   at
                   the
                   most
                   ,
                   had
                   been
                   but
                   second
                   found
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whether
                   indulgent
                   Nature
                   gave
                   you
                   this
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fond
                   to
                   Compose
                   fo
                   great
                   ,
                   exact
                   a
                   piece
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   if
                   a
                   less
                   than
                   Heaven
                   we
                   admit
                   ,
                
                 
                   Some
                   Pious
                   Matron
                   made
                   you
                   so
                   compleat
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   cannot
                   tell
                   ,
                   so
                   very
                   great
                   's
                   your
                   share
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   wrongs
                   are
                   fewer
                   ,
                   than
                   your
                   Virtues
                   are
                   ,
                
                 
                   Alas
                   ,
                   my
                   Verse
                   is
                   all
                   too
                   weak
                   ,
                   too
                   small
                   my
                   Skill
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   paint
                   the
                   thousand
                   Graces
                   I
                   wou'd
                   tell
                   ,
                
                 
                   Was
                   but
                   my
                   Mind
                   as
                   undisturb'd
                   ,
                   and
                   free
                   ,
                
                 
                   Easie
                   ,
                   my
                   Dear
                   ,
                   as
                   you
                   have
                   known
                   it
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   Generous
                   ,
                   I
                   'd
                   give
                   you
                   then
                   the
                   highest
                   Place
                   ,
                
                 
                   Set
                   you
                   with
                   Heroins
                   of
                   the
                   nicest
                   Race
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   make
                   the
                   wondring
                   World
                   ,
                   at
                   once
                   confess
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   greatest
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   best
                   of
                   them
                   ,
                   much
                   less
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   tho'
                   my
                   Verse
                   this
                   lustre
                   cannot
                   give
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   in
                   my
                   Numbers
                   you
                   shall
                   Ages
                   live
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 ELEGY
                 VI.
                 
              
               
                 To
                 his
                 Friends
                 that
                 us'd
                 to
                 wear
                 his
                 Picture
                 ,
                 engraven
                 upon
                 Golden
                 Plates
                 .
              
               
                 
                   YOu
                   that
                   my
                   Picture
                   fondly
                   us'd
                   to
                   wear
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   Instance
                   of
                   your
                   Friendship
                   you
                   may
                   spare
                   ,
                
                 
                   However
                   ,
                   take
                   the
                   Ornaments
                   away
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Ivy
                   that
                   I
                   wore
                   ,
                   is
                   much
                   too
                   gay
                   ,
                
                 
                   Such
                   a
                   Poetick
                   ,
                   Airy
                   Garb
                   as
                   that
                   ,
                
                 
                   Becomes
                   the
                   Happy
                   only
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Great
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whose
                   better
                   Stars
                   still
                   guard
                   'em
                   from
                   ill
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Not
                   such
                   as
                   I
                   ,
                   that
                   sink
                   beneath
                   the
                   weight
                   :
                
                 
                   Methinks
                   I
                   see
                   some
                   Friend
                   ,
                   concern'dly
                   stand
                   ,
                
                 
                   Viewing
                   the
                   Golden
                   Image
                   in
                   his
                   Hand
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   often
                   crying
                   as
                   he
                   walks
                   along
                   ,
                
                 
                   Heavens
                   !
                   how
                   far
                   my
                   Dear
                   Companion
                   's
                   gone
                   !
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   kind
                   ,
                   but
                   such
                   their
                   Ovid
                   better
                   see
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   they
                   behold
                   him
                   in
                   his
                   Poetry
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   lively'st
                   Image
                   that
                   the
                   Wretched
                   know
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   paints
                   themselves
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   Misfortunes
                   too
                   ,
                
                 
                   Read
                   my
                   chang'd
                   shapes
                   ,
                   tho'
                   there
                   is
                   scarce
                   a
                   thought
                   ,
                
                 
                   Good
                   as
                   design'd
                   ,
                   and
                   finisht
                   as
                   it
                   ought
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   sooner
                   was
                   the
                   fatal
                   Sentence
                   Read
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   all
                   my
                   Art
                   ,
                   was
                   with
                   my
                   Freedom
                   fled
                   ,
                
                 
                   Imperfect
                   thus
                   ,
                   what
                   I
                   'ad
                   with
                   pains
                   begun
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   burnt
                   the
                   scatter'd
                   Papers
                   that
                   I
                   'ad
                   done
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   Thestius
                   ,
                   is
                   said
                   ,
                   to
                   burn
                   her
                   Son.
                
                 
                   And
                   yet
                   methoughts
                   't
                   was
                   very
                   hard
                   ,
                   that
                   they
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shou'd
                   feel
                   the
                   flames
                   ,
                   that
                   cou'd
                   not
                   disobey
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   so
                   it
                   was
                   ,
                   partly
                   indeed
                   ,
                   in
                   spite
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   the
                   first
                   Muse
                   ,
                   that
                   flatter'd
                   me
                   to
                   write
                   ,
                
                 
                   Till
                   by
                   Degrees
                   ,
                   the
                   Tribe
                   my
                   Ruin
                   prove
                   ,
                
                 
                   Falsly
                   perswading
                   me
                   to
                   write
                   of
                   Love
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   partly
                   ,
                   '
                   cause
                   they
                   rude
                   ,
                   and
                   naked
                   lay
                   ,
                
                 
                   Artless
                   ,
                   and
                   nothing
                   what
                   they
                   were
                   to
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   But
                   since
                   they
                   've
                   stole
                   the
                   Press
                   ,
                   may
                   they
                   succeed
                   ,
                
                 
                   Admonish
                   ,
                   and
                   Delight
                   my
                   Friends
                   ,
                   that
                   Read
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   Criticks
                   ,
                   they
                   may
                   damn
                   'em
                   by
                   a
                   Law
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   shou'd
                   be
                   tender
                   ,
                   that
                   the
                   Reason
                   know
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   when
                   an
                   Artist
                   wants
                   the
                   last
                   best
                   Stroak
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   he
                   with
                   Pains
                   may
                   have
                   abundance
                   struck
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   great
                   Design
                   ,
                   must
                   yet
                   unhappy
                   look
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thus
                   all
                   my
                   Lines
                   ,
                   the
                   latest
                   Pencil
                   want
                   ,
                
                 
                   Still
                   to
                   refine
                   ,
                   before
                   abroad
                   they
                   're
                   sent
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   place
                   these
                   Verses
                   ,
                   with
                   the
                   Foremost
                   Line
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   these
                   will
                   show
                   they
                   're
                   born
                   a'fore
                   their
                   time
                   ▪
                
                 
                   Be
                   kind
                   and
                   gentle
                   ,
                   whosoe'r
                   thou
                   art
                   ,
                
                 
                   Don't
                   you
                   too
                   nicely
                   view
                   an
                   Orphan's
                   Part
                   ,
                
                 
                   Snatch't
                   from
                   his
                   Parent
                   's
                   Funeral
                   in
                   hast
                   ,
                
                 
                   Kickt
                   into
                   th'
                   World
                   unlick't
                   ,
                   by
                   much
                   too
                   Fast
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   tho'
                   we
                   Judgment
                   want
                   ,
                   we
                   've
                   Innocence
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   this
                   in
                   Infants
                   is
                   a
                   good
                   Defence
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Poet's
                   Muse
                   in
                   better
                   Times
                   may
                   smile
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   he
                   your
                   Kindness
                   own
                   ,
                   and
                   you
                   his
                   Skill
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 ELEGY
                 VII
                 .
              
               
                 He
                 Complains
                 of
                 an
                 Acquaintance
                 ,
                 that
                 after
                 a
                 long
                 Familiarity
                 ,
                 had
                 given
                 him
                 some
                 reason
                 to
                 suspect
                 his
                 Friendship
                 .
              
               
                 
                   BAck
                   from
                   the
                   Seas
                   shall
                   Rolling
                   Waters
                   run
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   visit
                   Fountains
                   where
                   they
                   first
                   begun
                   ▪
                
                 
                   The
                   Char'oteer
                   shall
                   drive
                   an
                   unknown
                   way
                   ,
                
                 
                   Rise
                   in
                   the
                   West
                   ,
                   and
                   change
                   the
                   present
                   day
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Earth
                   admit
                   of
                   Stars
                   all
                   spangl'd
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Ploughs
                   shall
                   make
                   deep
                   Furrows
                   in
                   the
                   Sky
                   ▪
                
                 
                   The
                   Elements
                   shall
                   change
                   their
                   wonted
                   state
                   ,
                
                 
                   Water
                   shall
                   burn
                   ,
                   and
                   Fire
                   like
                   Water
                   ,
                   wet
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   All
                   this
                   ,
                   tho'
                   strange
                   ,
                   I
                   Prophesie
                   ,
                   since
                   you
                
                 
                   Prove
                   false
                   ,
                   I
                   've
                   known
                   so
                   long
                   ,
                   and
                   thought
                   so
                   true
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lord
                   !
                   That
                   a
                   Man
                   cou'd
                   so
                   regardless
                   stand
                   !
                
                 
                   Foolishly
                   Fearful
                   ,
                   to
                   assist
                   his
                   Friend
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nay
                   ,
                   not
                   so
                   much
                   as
                   decently
                   to
                   sigh
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   show
                   the
                   common
                   Signs
                   of
                   Sympathy
                   ,
                
                 
                   Was
                   such
                   a
                   strange
                   ,
                   unheard
                   Stupidity
                   !
                
                 
                   That
                   you
                   ,
                   the
                   Sacred
                   Name
                   of
                   Friend
                   shou'd
                   hate
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   the
                   Offices
                   of
                   Kindness
                   quit
                   !
                
                 
                   What
                   if
                   you
                   had
                   a
                   well-bred
                   Visit
                   paid
                   ?
                
                 
                   And
                   lookt
                   ,
                   and
                   talkt
                   ,
                   as
                   other
                   Courtiers
                   did
                   ,
                
                 
                   Offer'd
                   some
                   Reasons
                   to
                   allay
                   my
                   Grief
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   had
                   seem'd
                   kind
                   ,
                   and
                   that
                   is
                   some
                   Relief
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   your
                   sincerity
                   cou'd
                   give
                   no
                   Tears
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   might
                   have
                   Flatter'd
                   with
                   affected
                   Pray'rs
                   ,
                
                 
                   However
                   ,
                   at
                   the
                   least
                   ,
                   you
                   might
                   have
                   say'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Farewell
                   ,
                   I
                   'm
                   sorry
                   ,
                   as
                   the
                   People
                   did
                   ,
                
                 
                   Some
                   that
                   were
                   Strangers
                   ,
                   and
                   no
                   ways
                   alli'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Did
                   more
                   than
                   this
                   ,
                   affectionately
                   cry'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   how
                   much
                   more
                   ,
                   might
                   I
                   expect
                   from
                   you
                   ▪
                
                 
                   That
                   call'd
                   me
                   Friend
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   my
                   Secrets
                   knew
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Dear
                   Companion
                   of
                   my
                   tender
                   Hours
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Goods
                   ,
                   my self
                   ,
                   my
                   very
                   Soul
                   was
                   yours
                   ,
                
                 
                   How
                   blest
                   I
                   was
                   ,
                   when
                   Rome
                   first
                   showed
                   me
                   you
                   ,
                
                 
                   Brought
                   us
                   acquainted
                   ,
                   made
                   me
                   think
                   you
                   true
                   ,
                
                 
                   Has
                   your
                   repeated
                   Oaths
                   no
                   force
                   to
                   bind
                   ?
                
                 
                   All
                   general
                   ,
                   and
                   common
                   as
                   the
                   Wind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sure
                   Rome
                   ,
                   the
                   great
                   good
                   Place
                   I
                   leave
                   ,
                
                 
                   Cou'd
                   ne'r
                   nurse
                   you
                   ,
                   no
                   Monsters
                   she
                   can
                   have
                   ,
                
                 
                   Rather
                   some
                   Rock
                   within
                   the
                   Scythian
                   Sea
                   ,
                
                 
                   Damn'd
                   for
                   a
                   thousand
                   Murders
                   e'ery
                   day
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   Female
                   Tygers
                   Nurst
                   you
                   at
                   their
                   Breast
                   ,
                
                 
                   Found
                   you
                   a
                   Man
                   ,
                   but
                   Chang'd
                   you
                   to
                   a
                   Beast
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   still
                   there
                   's
                   one
                   way
                   left
                   ,
                   and
                   only
                   one
                   ,
                
                 
                   Freely
                   to
                   own
                   the
                   Injuri's
                   you
                   'ave
                   done
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   this
                   ,
                   tho'
                   late
                   ,
                   you
                   may
                   oblige
                   me
                   so
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   may
                   commend
                   you
                   ,
                   as
                   I
                   blame
                   you
                   now
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 ELEGY
                 VIII
                 .
              
               
                 To
                 his
                 Friend
                 .
              
               
                 He
                 shows
                 him
                 the
                 Levity
                 of
                 the
                 Vulgar
                 ,
                 how
                 meanly
                 they
                 attend
                 upon
                 Fortune
                 ,
                 and
                 withdraw
                 their
                 Services
                 in
                 Affliction
                 :
                 He
                 takes
                 Occasion
                 to
                 Commend
                 his
                 Friend
                 ,
                 for
                 several
                 Qualifications
                 ,
                 and
                 concludes
                 the
                 Elegy
                 with
                 an
                 Instance
                 of
                 his
                 Friendship
                 .
              
               
                 
                   MAy
                   you
                   live
                   long
                   ,
                   my
                   Friend
                   ,
                   and
                   always
                   well
                   ,
                
                 
                   Know
                   nothing
                   of
                   the
                   Ills
                   the
                   wretched
                   Feel
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   tho'
                   my
                   Pray'rs
                   ,
                   for
                   me
                   ,
                   the
                   Gods
                   despise
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   same
                   ,
                   for
                   you
                   ,
                   may
                   Mount
                   a
                   Sacrifice
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   While
                   Fortune
                   's
                   yours
                   ,
                   a
                   Croud
                   will
                   hov'ring
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fondly
                   Commending
                   all
                   they
                   hear
                   ,
                   and
                   see
                   ;
                
                 
                   No
                   sooner
                   do's
                   the
                   Fickle
                   Goddess
                   Frown
                   ▪
                
                 
                   But
                   all
                   your
                   Parasites
                   ,
                   my
                   Friend
                   ,
                   are
                   gone
                   :
                
                 
                   As
                   Doves
                   for
                   new
                   built
                   Houses
                   do
                   prepare
                   ,
                
                 
                   While
                   Ruin'd
                   Towers
                   all
                   neglected
                   are
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   gath'ring
                   Ants
                   to
                   crouded
                   Barns
                   do
                   come
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   do's
                   the
                   Vulgar
                   to
                   the
                   Richest
                   Run
                   :
                
                 
                   As
                   in
                   the
                   Sun
                   your
                   Sha
                   dow
                   do's
                   Attend
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Walks
                   ,
                   and
                   Turns
                   ,
                   and
                   Cringes
                   as
                   you
                   Bend
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   when
                   a
                   Cloud
                   appears
                   ,
                   the
                   Part
                   's
                   no
                   more
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   it
                   seem'd
                   more
                   than
                   half
                   of
                   you
                   ,
                   before
                   ▪
                
                 
                   So
                   vulgar
                   Souls
                   will
                   Dance
                   to
                   Fortune's
                   Light
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Cloud
                   once
                   spread
                   ,
                   they
                   Vanish
                   out
                   of
                   sight
                   .
                
                 
                   Heav'n
                   knows
                   my
                   Soul
                   !
                   I
                   very
                   often
                   sigh
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   passionately
                   Pray
                   the
                   Gods
                   for
                   Thee
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   these
                   may
                   all
                   ,
                   my
                   Friend
                   ,
                   seem
                   false
                   to
                   you
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   I
                   by
                   sad
                   Experience
                   find
                   'em
                   True
                   :
                
                 
                   While
                   I
                   was
                   Prosperous
                   ,
                   as
                   others
                   great
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   Crouds
                   ,
                   for
                   Favours
                   ,
                   wou'd
                   my
                   House
                   beset
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Building
                   struck
                   ,
                   the
                   Wary
                   People
                   Fly
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   one
                   consent
                   ,
                   avoiding
                   what
                   was
                   nigh
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   do
                   I
                   Wonder
                   ,
                   that
                   they
                   Thunder
                   Fear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whose
                   fi'ry
                   Bolts
                   ,
                   the
                   strongest
                   eas'ly
                   Tear
                   :
                
                 
                   Yet
                   Caesar
                   ,
                   in
                   adversity
                   has
                   said
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   Man
                   's
                   the
                   best
                   that
                   by
                   his
                   Friend
                   has
                   stay'd
                   :
                
                 
                   When
                   good
                   Orestes
                   Worth
                   fierce
                   Thoas
                   knew
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   Prais'd
                   the
                   Love
                   in
                   Pylades
                   he
                   saw
                   :
                
                 
                   Hector
                   ,
                   he
                   often
                   Patroclus
                   approv'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   he
                   his
                   Enemy
                   Achilles
                   lov'd
                   :
                
                 
                   When
                   Theseus
                   waited
                   on
                   his
                   Friend
                   in
                   Death
                   ,
                
                 
                   Pluto
                   cou'd
                   scarce
                   believe
                   so
                   great
                   a
                   Truth
                   ,
                
                 
                   Convinc'd
                   ,
                   he
                   Mourn'd
                   ,
                   and
                   pitty'd
                   him
                   that
                   Fell
                   ,
                
                 
                   Crying
                   himself
                   ,
                   to
                   see
                   them
                   love
                   so
                   well
                   .
                
                 
                   Alas
                   ,
                   how
                   Few
                   my
                   just
                   Complaints
                   ,
                   do
                   move
                   !
                
                 
                   How
                   few
                   in
                   Rome
                   ,
                   like
                   those
                   of
                   old
                   ,
                   that
                   Love
                   !
                
                 
                   So
                   vast
                   my
                   Grief
                   ,
                   so
                   very
                   much
                   my
                   Fears
                   !
                
                 
                   So
                   Boundless
                   are
                   my
                   ever
                   falling
                   Tears
                   !
                
                 
                   That
                   did
                   not
                   you
                   the
                   mighty
                   Torrent
                   stay
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Gath'ring
                   Flood
                   wou'd
                   Threaten
                   like
                   a
                   Sea
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   You
                   that
                   have
                   Courage
                   to
                   be
                   Good
                   ,
                   that
                   Dare
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   greatest
                   Dangers
                   ,
                   for
                   your
                   Friend
                   appear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Not
                   meanly
                   mov'd
                   ,
                   as
                   sordid
                   Spirits
                   are
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   is
                   your
                   Judgment
                   than
                   your
                   Courage
                   less
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   Eloquence
                   as
                   well
                   as
                   Virtues
                   Please
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   you
                   Defend
                   ,
                   the
                   Nicest
                   must
                   Applaud
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   Cause
                   ,
                   your
                   Words
                   ,
                   your
                   Thoughts
                   so
                   very
                   good
                   ,
                
                 
                   Eas'ly
                   I
                   can
                   ,
                   your
                   Growing
                   Fortune
                   Read
                   ,
                
                 
                   Some
                   Greatness
                   yet
                   ,
                   as
                   I
                   have
                   often
                   sayd
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   superstitious
                   Omens
                   tell
                   me
                   this
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tokens
                   that
                   fond
                   ,
                   mistaken
                   Zealots
                   please
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Reason's
                   all
                   the
                   Augury
                   I
                   know
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   this
                   ,
                   no
                   other
                   Prodigy
                   ,
                   I
                   go
                   ;
                
                 
                   By
                   this
                   instructed
                   ,
                   Happiness
                   I
                   give
                   ,
                
                 
                   Joy
                   of
                   the
                   Present
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Future
                   Goods
                   you
                   'll
                   have
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   small
                   Pretence
                   I
                   early
                   had
                   to
                   Wit
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ruin'd
                   my
                   Fortunes
                   when
                   I
                   came
                   to
                   Write
                   ;
                
                 
                   Your
                   better
                   Arts
                   ,
                   not
                   like
                   my
                   Trifling
                   Skill
                   ,
                
                 
                   Has
                   rais'd
                   your
                   Honour
                   ,
                   and
                   must
                   raise
                   it
                   still
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   But
                   yet
                   you
                   know
                   ,
                   I
                   ne'er
                   was
                   ill
                   inclin'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Thoughts
                   were
                   Salli's
                   of
                   a
                   youthful
                   Mind
                   ;
                
                 
                   My
                   Manners
                   were
                   not
                   like
                   my
                   Verses
                   ,
                   loose
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Love
                   ,
                   I
                   only
                   for
                   Diversion
                   Choose
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   since
                   you
                   can
                   excuse
                   me
                   ,
                   justly
                   too
                   ,
                
                 
                   Defend
                   me
                   still
                   ,
                   as
                   I
                   have
                   heard
                   you
                   do
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 ELEGY
                 IX
                 .
              
               
                 In
                 Praise
                 of
                 his
                 Ship
                 ,
                 with
                 some
                 short
                 Account
                 of
                 his
                 Voyage
                 .
              
               
                 
                   JUstly
                   I
                   Praise
                   my
                   Ship
                   ,
                   so
                   good
                   ,
                   so
                   fine
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   bears
                   
                   Minerva's
                   Name
                   ,
                   as
                   well
                   as
                   mine
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   apt
                   to
                   sail
                   ,
                   she
                   moves
                   with
                   any
                   Wind
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   hasty
                   ,
                   leaves
                   deserted
                   Shores
                   behind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Proudly
                   she
                   scorns
                   ,
                   but
                   just
                   to
                   overcome
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   reaches
                   those
                   that
                   long
                   have
                   been
                   from
                   Home
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Defy's
                   the
                   strongest
                   Billows
                   ,
                   when
                   they
                   Beat
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Foaming
                   ,
                   all
                   their
                   wonted
                   Force
                   repeat
                   :
                
                 
                   I
                   Boarded
                   her
                   ,
                   when
                   I
                   to
                   Corinth
                   came
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   long
                   without
                   a
                   Change
                   I
                   kept
                   the
                   same
                   ;
                
                 
                   Thro'
                   many
                   Dangers
                   I
                   have
                   safely
                   steer'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Always
                   entreating
                   Pallas
                   ,
                   when
                   I
                   feard
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   I
                   hope
                   to
                   Make
                   the
                   distant
                   Land
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Getick
                   Coast
                   ,
                   Augustus
                   do's
                   command
                   ;
                
                 
                   She
                   bore
                   me
                   once
                   ,
                   through
                   boyst'rous
                   ,
                   troubled
                   Seas
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   long
                   ,
                   and
                   mighty
                   dang'rous
                   Way
                   to
                   Pass
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   standing
                   to
                   the
                   Left
                   ,
                   (
                   we
                   shunn'd
                   before
                   )
                
                 
                   With
                   much
                   adoe
                   we
                   made
                   the
                   Imbrian
                   shore
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   with
                   a
                   gentle
                   Wind
                   ,
                   and
                   calmer
                   Sea
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   eas'ly
                   Touch'd
                   at
                   Samos
                   in
                   her
                   Way
                   ;
                
                 
                   O'
                   th'
                   other
                   hand
                   ,
                   there
                   stands
                   a
                   lofty
                   Wood
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fam'd
                   for
                   its
                   Growth
                   ,
                   and
                   for
                   it's
                   neighb'ring
                   Flood
                   ,
                
                 
                   Here
                   I
                   the
                   wide
                   Bistonian
                   Fields
                   survey
                   ,
                
                 
                   Walking
                   a
                   Foot
                   ,
                   while
                   she
                   puts
                   off
                   to
                   Sea
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   
                     Hellespont
                     ,
                     Dardania
                  
                   she
                   Gain'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Lampsacus
                   ,
                   for
                   her
                   Priapus
                   Fam'd
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Then
                   to
                   the
                   Seas
                   ,
                   the
                   same
                   Leander
                   Crosst
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   Beauteous
                   Hero
                   urg'd
                   him
                   to
                   be
                   Lost
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   hence
                   ,
                   she
                   had
                   Fair
                   Cyzicon
                   in
                   view
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   famous
                   for
                   the
                   Arts
                   her
                   People
                   knew
                   ;
                
                 
                   Thence
                   to
                   Byzantium
                   she
                   Bore
                   away
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   we
                   behold
                   two
                   Seas
                   within
                   one
                   Bay
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   ,
                   Minerva
                   ,
                   grant
                   that
                   she
                   may
                   Pass
                   ,
                
                 
                   Those
                   Moving
                   Isles
                   that
                   lye
                   upon
                   the
                   Seas
                   ,
                
                 
                   Next
                   let
                   her
                   reach
                   the
                   Thynnian
                   Bay
                   ,
                   and
                   Fall
                   ,
                
                 
                   'Till
                   she
                   comes
                   near
                   Anchialus
                   high
                   Wall
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   she
                   Mesembria
                   ,
                   and
                   Odesus
                   must
                   Make
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   view
                   some
                   Towers
                   for
                   their
                   Bacchus
                   sake
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   those
                   Alcathous
                   ,
                   when
                   Wandring
                   ,
                   Made
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   all
                   the
                   Houshold
                   Gods
                   he
                   had
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   to
                   Miletus
                   ,
                   where
                   's
                   the
                   Place
                   I
                   'm
                   sent
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   end
                   a
                   weary
                   Life
                   in
                   Banishment
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   if
                   I
                   safely
                   tread
                   th'
                   expected
                   shore
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   'll
                   Sacrifice
                   a
                   Lamb
                   to
                   Pallas
                   Pow'r
                   ,
                
                 
                   Heav'n
                   knows
                   we
                   cann't
                   at
                   this
                   time
                   Compass
                   more
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   you
                   two
                   Brothers
                   ,
                   you
                   this
                   Island
                   Prays
                   ,
                
                 
                   Conduct
                   us
                   in
                   our
                   double
                   ,
                   diff'rent
                   ways
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Let
                   one
                   the
                   Euxine
                   make
                   with
                   happy
                   Gales
                   ,
                
                 
                   While
                   the
                   other
                   to
                   Bistonia
                   sails
                   ,
                
                 
                   Let
                   Winds
                   Convey
                   us
                   to
                   the
                   Place
                   we
                   wou'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   diff'rent
                   both
                   ,
                   yet
                   both
                   have
                   very
                   good
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 ELEGY
                 X.
                 
              
               
                 This
                 is
                 an
                 Apology
                 for
                 the
                 fore-going
                 Elegies
                 ,
                 the
                 whole
                 Book
                 being
                 made
                 during
                 the
                 Fatigue
                 of
                 his
                 Travels
                 ,
                 which
                 he
                 urges
                 in
                 Excuse
                 .
              
               
                 
                   THere
                   's
                   not
                   a
                   Letter
                   ,
                   Reader
                   ,
                   but
                   I
                   writ
                   ,
                
                 
                   Unhappily
                   pursuing
                   my
                   ill
                   Fate
                   ;
                
                 
                   I
                   writ
                   it
                   most
                   in
                   cold
                   
                   December's
                   Frost
                   ,
                
                 
                   While
                   the
                   Adriatick
                   with
                   her
                   Billows
                   Tosst
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   rest
                   I
                   Finish'd
                   when
                   the
                   Isthmus
                   passt
                   ,
                
                 
                   We
                   all
                   took
                   Ship
                   again
                   ,
                   and
                   sail'd
                   in
                   haste
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   So
                   odd
                   a
                   Thought
                   ,
                   amaz'd
                   the
                   Cyclades
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   see
                   a
                   Poet
                   writing
                   on
                   the
                   Seas
                   ;
                
                 
                   I
                   Wonder'd
                   too
                   ,
                   the
                   Patience
                   of
                   my
                   Muse
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   in
                   a
                   Storm
                   ,
                   she
                   shou'd
                   not
                   then
                   Refuse
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Waves
                   ,
                   alas
                   ,
                   had
                   never
                   been
                   her
                   use
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   World
                   may
                   call
                   it
                   Madness
                   ,
                   what
                   they
                   please
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   this
                   I
                   know
                   ,
                   my
                   Verses
                   gave
                   me
                   ease
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   Threatning
                   Signs
                   they
                   dreadfully
                   appear'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Waters
                   in
                   Disorder
                   show'd
                   they
                   Fear'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sometimes
                   the
                   Ship
                   seem'd
                   Bury'd
                   in
                   the
                   Sea
                   ,
                
                 
                   Still
                   I
                   writ
                   on
                   ,
                   the
                   very
                   Lines
                   you
                   see
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   Boreas
                   with
                   all
                   his
                   Force
                   prevails
                   ,
                
                 
                   Stretches
                   our
                   Cables
                   ,
                   Ruffling
                   all
                   our
                   Sails
                   ,
                
                 
                   While
                   Waters
                   ,
                   parting
                   by
                   the
                   Storm
                   's
                   command
                   ,
                
                 
                   Roll
                   into
                   Hills
                   ,
                   like
                   highest
                   Heaps
                   of
                   Sand
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   rather
                   ,
                   Taller
                   Mountains
                   on
                   the
                   Land.
                
                 
                   The
                   Pilot
                   '
                   ffrighted
                   ,
                   thoughtless
                   of
                   his
                   Art
                   ,
                
                 
                   Begins
                   to
                   Pray
                   ,
                   a
                   very
                   awkard
                   Part
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   much
                   a
                   doe
                   ,
                   half
                   words
                   he
                   stammering
                   said
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Promis'd
                   all
                   the
                   Gods
                   he
                   wou'd
                   be
                   good
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Gods
                   ,
                   regardless
                   ,
                   wou'd
                   not
                   take
                   his
                   Word
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   any
                   Comfort
                   for
                   his
                   Pray'rs
                   afford
                   :
                
                 
                   All
                   things
                   lookt
                   Ghastly
                   that
                   I
                   heard
                   ,
                   and
                   saw
                   ,
                
                 
                   While
                   still
                   Death's
                   Image
                   kept
                   within
                   my
                   view
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   various
                   Thoughts
                   were
                   strugling
                   in
                   my
                   Mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   Pray'd
                   ,
                   I
                   Fear'd
                   ▪
                   my
                   Fears
                   ,
                   my
                   Pray'rs
                   inclin'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   One
                   while
                   I
                   'd
                   Pray
                   to
                   make
                   the
                   distant
                   Land
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   I
                   'de
                   in
                   haste
                   recall
                   that
                   Pray'r
                   again
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   Heaven
                   knows
                   ,
                   I
                   fear'd
                   the
                   Winds
                   and
                   See
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   still
                   the
                   Land
                   ,
                   seem'd
                   fiercer
                   much
                   than
                   they
                   ,
                
                 
                   At
                   Home
                   ,
                   where
                   Tempests
                   only
                   make
                   a
                   Noise
                   ,
                
                 
                   There
                   ,
                   ah
                   there
                   !
                   at
                   Rome
                   ,
                   I
                   '
                   ad
                   Enemies
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   must
                   I
                   then
                   in
                   unknown
                   Nations
                   find
                   ,
                
                 
                   Monsters
                   in
                   Nature
                   ,
                   rude
                   ,
                   il-bred
                   ,
                   unkind
                   ,
                
                 
                   These
                   Terms
                   too
                   mild
                   ,
                   and
                   favourably
                   run
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   Creatures
                   ,
                   only
                   in
                   their
                   Likeness
                   ,
                   Men
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whose
                   chiefest
                   Art
                   's
                   a
                   barbarous
                   Delight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Some
                   knowledge
                   in
                   the
                   Battels
                   that
                   they
                   Fight
                   :
                
                 
                   Besides
                   ,
                   to
                   these
                   with
                   Disrepute
                   I
                   go
                   ,
                
                 
                   Banish'd
                   by
                   Caesar
                   ,
                   so
                   at
                   Home
                   a
                   Foe
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   These
                   Thoughts
                   ,
                   a
                   Storm
                   within
                   my
                   Breast
                   had
                   made
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   other
                   might
                   ,
                   this
                   never
                   cou'd
                   be
                   laid
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   Reader
                   ,
                   if
                   you
                   're
                   generous
                   ,
                   and
                   good
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   you
                   can
                   Pardon
                   ,
                   as
                   a
                   Reader
                   shou'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Faults
                   in
                   this
                   Disorder
                   you
                   will
                   Pass
                   ,
                
                 
                   Think
                   on
                   the
                   Time
                   ,
                   each
                   Circumstance
                   of
                   Place
                   ,
                
                 
                   Think
                   too
                   ,
                   that
                   I
                   have
                   more
                   Correctly
                   Writ
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   safe
                   on
                   Land
                   ,
                   in
                   Arbours
                   I
                   have
                   sate
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Body
                   ne'er
                   was
                   us'd
                   to
                   Frosts
                   like
                   these
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   was
                   I
                   e'er
                   in
                   Winter
                   on
                   the
                   Seas
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   I
                   'm
                   there
                   by
                   much
                   to
                   soon
                   I
                   find
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   grant
                   ye
                   Gods
                   ,
                   you
                   Gods
                   that
                   once
                   were
                   Kind
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Winds
                   ,
                   and
                   Frost
                   ,
                   may
                   with
                   my
                   Verses
                   end
                   .
                
              
            
             
               The
               End
               of
               the
               First
               Book
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               The
               Second
               BOOK
               OF
               Ovid
               de
               Tristibus
               IMITATED
               .
            
             
               
                 To
                 Augustus
                 Caesar
                 .
              
               
                 
                   URg'd
                   by
                   my
                   Fate
                   ,
                   I
                   write
                   ,
                   again
                   I
                   Try
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   tho'
                   the
                   Muses
                   had
                   not
                   Ruin'd
                   me
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   was
                   they
                   Perswaded
                   ,
                   Caesar
                   ,
                   what
                   you
                   Read
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   thought
                   my
                   Life
                   was
                   like
                   my
                   Verses
                   ,
                   lewd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Had
                   I
                   been
                   Wise
                   ,
                   I
                   '
                   ad
                   Hated
                   'em
                   at
                   first
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Learned
                   Sisters
                   ,
                   as
                   the
                   Poets
                   boast
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Rhiming
                   Crew
                   ,
                   their
                   smiles
                   ,
                   like
                   a
                   Disease
                   ,
                
                 
                   Quickly
                   Confound
                   their
                   very
                   Votary's
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   This
                   I
                   have
                   often
                   known
                   ,
                   and
                   yet
                   possest
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   these
                   I
                   fly
                   ,
                   of
                   these
                   alone
                   seek
                   Rest
                   :
                
                 
                   So
                   beaten
                   Fencers
                   ,
                   Challenges
                   repeat
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   give
                   their
                   Mangl'd
                   Bodies
                   to
                   be
                   hit
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   Shipwrack't
                   Vessels
                   ,
                   plough
                   the
                   swelling
                   Main
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   dare
                   the
                   very
                   self-same
                   Rocks
                   again
                   :
                
                 
                   Less
                   may
                   my
                   Dangers
                   be
                   ,
                   rather
                   like
                   him
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   that
                   was
                   heal'd
                   and
                   wounded
                   with
                   the
                   same
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Muse
                   that
                   mov'd
                   the
                   great
                   Augustus
                   so
                   ,
                
                 
                   May
                   she
                   the
                   same
                   Augustus
                   soften
                   now
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Gods
                   ,
                   they
                   say
                   ,
                   in
                   numbers
                   soonest
                   hear
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   always
                   answer
                   first
                   a
                   Poet's
                   Pray'r
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   ,
                   Caesar
                   made
                   the
                   Italian
                   Mat●ons
                   bow
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   Numbers
                   offer
                   ,
                   what
                   their
                   Opis
                   knew
                   ;
                
                 
                   So
                   ,
                   Phoebus
                   was
                   address'd
                   in
                   aptest
                   Plays
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   did
                   Apollo
                   scorn
                   the
                   Poet's
                   Bays
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   these
                   Examples
                   ,
                   Caesar
                   ,
                   may
                   you
                   go
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   it
                   's
                   too
                   much
                   to
                   pardon
                   ,
                   milder
                   grow
                   ,
                
                 
                   Should
                   I
                   deny
                   your
                   Justice
                   ,
                   I
                   shou'd
                   sin
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   impudently
                   move
                   your
                   Wrath
                   again
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   had
                   not
                   I
                   ,
                   offending
                   ,
                   urg'd
                   you
                   so
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   then
                   had
                   wanted
                   to
                   forgive
                   me
                   now
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Shou'd
                   Jove
                   as
                   often
                   thunder
                   ,
                   as
                   we
                   sin
                   ,
                
                 
                   Unarm'd
                   ,
                   the
                   God
                   ,
                   a
                   thousand
                   times
                   had
                   bin
                   ;
                
                 
                   No
                   ,
                   when
                   his
                   Thunder
                   's
                   gone
                   ,
                   the
                   Noise
                   no
                   more
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Air
                   is
                   purer
                   than
                   it
                   was
                   before
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   this
                   ,
                   he
                   's
                   Father
                   of
                   the
                   Gods
                   and
                   Men
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   this
                   ,
                   he
                   lives
                   a
                   Long
                   and
                   Happy
                   Reign
                   ,
                
                 
                   Caesar
                   ,
                   like
                   him
                   ,
                   is
                   
                     Pater
                     Patriae
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   Caesar
                   commands
                   ,
                   and
                   thunders
                   too
                   as
                   he
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   like
                   him
                   too
                   ,
                   be
                   absolutely
                   good
                   ,
                
                 
                   Pardon
                   your
                   Ovid
                   ,
                   as
                   the
                   God
                   he
                   wou'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   yet
                   less
                   good
                   ,
                   than
                   great
                   ,
                   do's
                   Caesar
                   live
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   many
                   Instances
                   of
                   both
                   we
                   have
                   .
                
                 
                   Often
                   the
                   Parthians
                   have
                   own'd
                   you
                   kind
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   God-like
                   is
                   the
                   Temper
                   of
                   your
                   Mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   Pardon'd
                   ,
                   tho'
                   again
                   the
                   People
                   sinn'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Riches
                   ,
                   and
                   Honours
                   ,
                   I
                   have
                   known
                   you
                   give
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   Enemies
                   ,
                   that
                   wou'd
                   not
                   have
                   you
                   live
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   scorn
                   the
                   Methods
                   Meaner
                   Princes
                   know
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   better
                   Arts
                   you
                   can
                   Oblige
                   us
                   so
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   all
                   must
                   Love
                   ,
                   as
                   well
                   as
                   Fear
                   you
                   too
                   .
                
                 
                   That
                   day
                   that
                   War
                   has
                   threatned
                   all
                   before
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   very
                   day
                   ,
                   your
                   Anger
                   has
                   been
                   o're
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Both
                   Sides
                   to
                   th'
                   Temple
                   have
                   their
                   Offerings
                   brought
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Conquer'd
                   pleas'd
                   ,
                   so
                   brave
                   the
                   Victor
                   fought
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   as
                   your
                   Souldier
                   's
                   fond
                   to
                   overcome
                   ,
                
                 
                   Others
                   by
                   yours
                   ,
                   are
                   Proud
                   to
                   be
                   out-done
                   :
                
                 
                   My
                   Case
                   is
                   better
                   than
                   a
                   Foe
                   's
                   appears
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   make
                   no
                   Plots
                   ,
                   nor
                   cause
                   you
                   open
                   Wars
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   Swear
                   by
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   and
                   every
                   Blest
                   Abode
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   
                   Caesar's
                   dearest
                   self
                   ,
                   a
                   Present
                   God
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Soul
                   do's
                   such
                   Obedience
                   afford
                   ,
                
                 
                   Intirely
                   yours
                   ,
                   it
                   knows
                   no
                   other
                   Lord
                   ;
                
                 
                   I
                   've
                   wisht
                   that
                   you
                   might
                   late
                   to
                   Heaven
                   Go
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   Life
                   ,
                   through
                   Age
                   ,
                   grew
                   Troublesome
                   below
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   you
                   were
                   weary
                   of
                   an
                   Empire
                   here
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Gods
                   for
                   your
                   Reception
                   might
                   Prepare
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Place
                   Augustus
                   in
                   an
                   Empire
                   there
                   :
                
                 
                   As
                   often
                   as
                   my
                   Gifts
                   the
                   Altars
                   had
                   ,
                
                 
                   Witness
                   ,
                   ye
                   Gods
                   !
                   this
                   was
                   the
                   Pray'r
                   I
                   made
                   .
                
                 
                   My
                   Books
                   ,
                   tho'
                   one
                   of
                   them
                   became
                   my
                   Crime
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   most
                   ,
                   nay
                   That
                   ,
                   do's
                   often
                   Caesar
                   Name
                   ;
                
                 
                   By
                   this
                   I
                   my
                   Obedience
                   gave
                   ,
                
                 
                   Not
                   that
                   you
                   ,
                   Lustre
                   from
                   my
                   Lines
                   cou'd
                   have
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   To
                   such
                   a
                   Height
                   no
                   Poet
                   e're
                   cou'd
                   Fly
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   all
                   that
                   Write
                   have
                   liberty
                   to
                   try
                   ;
                
                 
                   Jove
                   can't
                   be
                   greater
                   ,
                   nor
                   his
                   Acts
                   more
                   good
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   Praise
                   in
                   Verse
                   has
                   often
                   pleas'd
                   the
                   God
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   lov'd
                   the
                   Song
                   ,
                   and
                   own'd
                   the
                   Story
                   true
                   ,
                
                 
                   How
                   Gyants
                   Pelion
                   on
                   Ossa
                   threw
                   ,
                
                 
                   Such
                   Beauty
                   in
                   the
                   Thought
                   ,
                   so
                   strong
                   the
                   Sense
                   ,
                
                 
                   Poets
                   have
                   had
                   a
                   Privilege
                   e're
                   since
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Gods
                   a
                   thousand
                   Bullocks
                   they
                   have
                   had
                   ,
                
                 
                   All
                   bleeding
                   fresh
                   upon
                   their
                   Altars
                   laid
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   yet
                   tho'
                   us'd
                   to
                   Plenty
                   ,
                   when
                   a
                   Lamb
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   single
                   Offering
                   to
                   their
                   Temple
                   came
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Gods
                   wou'd
                   smile
                   ,
                   and
                   take
                   the
                   Sacrifice
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   this
                   alone
                   ,
                   they
                   'd
                   Bless
                   their
                   Votary's
                   :
                
                 
                   Unlucky
                   Chance
                   !
                   or
                   rather
                   damn'd
                   Design
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   e're
                   he
                   was
                   at
                   first
                   ,
                   was
                   so
                   unkind
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   read
                   my
                   Verses
                   to
                   so
                   chast
                   an
                   Ear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Good
                   as
                   the
                   yet
                   unthinking
                   Virgins
                   are
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   don't
                   so
                   much
                   as
                   Tremble
                   in
                   a
                   Dream
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   Grasp
                   the
                   Image
                   of
                   the
                   Youth
                   they
                   've
                   seen
                   ▪
                
                 
                   My
                   looser
                   Lines
                   have
                   such
                   Impressions
                   made
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   think
                   the
                   Present
                   ,
                   as
                   the
                   other
                   ,
                   Bad
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   Some
                   jealous
                   Favorite
                   invented
                   this
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thus
                   to
                   undoe
                   me
                   by
                   an
                   Artifice
                   ;
                
                 
                   Methinks
                   I
                   hear
                   how
                   spitefully
                   he
                   read
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   envious
                   Comments
                   on
                   my
                   Words
                   he
                   made
                   ,
                
                 
                   How
                   he
                   wou'd
                   blush
                   ,
                   as
                   Counterfeits
                   they
                   faint
                   ;
                
                 
                   Good
                   Lord
                   !
                   a
                   Man
                   shou'd
                   be
                   so
                   impudent
                   !
                
                 
                   This
                   is
                   not
                   strange
                   ,
                   since
                   e'ery
                   one
                   approves
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   happy
                   Man
                   the
                   great
                   Augustus
                   loves
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   surely
                   damns
                   ,
                   unheard
                   ,
                   a
                   Person
                   's
                   Crime
                   ,
                
                 
                   Augustus
                   disapproving
                   ,
                   thinks
                   a
                   Sin
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nay
                   ,
                   I
                   can
                   hate
                   my
                   very
                   self
                   ,
                   and
                   do
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   think
                   I
                   shou'd
                   deserve
                   a
                   Frown
                   from
                   you
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   think
                   I
                   so
                   much
                   Goodness
                   shou'd
                   provoke
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   please
                   a
                   Humour
                   that
                   my
                   Fancy
                   took
                   :
                
                 
                   To
                   see
                   my
                   old
                   Acquaintance
                   ,
                   how
                   they
                   run
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   I
                   'ad
                   been
                   mad
                   ,
                   or
                   some
                   Infection
                   known
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   when
                   a
                   weakn'd
                   House
                   at
                   last
                   gives
                   way
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Parts
                   affected
                   bear
                   the
                   most
                   ,
                   they
                   say
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   Fortune
                   fickle
                   ,
                   when
                   she
                   changes
                   shape
                   ,
                
                 
                   All
                   things
                   disorder'd
                   ,
                   and
                   unhappy
                   look
                   .
                
                 
                   It
                   is
                   not
                   many
                   Months
                   ago
                   ,
                   since
                   you
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Life
                   ,
                   and
                   Manners
                   ,
                   and
                   my
                   Bus'ness
                   knew
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Often
                   I
                   've
                   pleaded
                   the
                   Defendant's
                   Part
                   ,
                
                 
                   Not
                   without
                   Reputation
                   ,
                   and
                   some
                   Art
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   tho'
                   Superiour
                   Judges
                   have
                   lookt
                   on
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   've
                   all
                   approv'd
                   of
                   what
                   the
                   Lawyer
                   's
                   done
                   ▪
                
                 
                   In
                   private
                   things
                   I
                   've
                   wholly
                   been
                   in
                   trust
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   both
                   sides
                   pleas'd
                   have
                   own'd
                   me
                   very
                   just
                   ▪
                
                 
                   Ah
                   me
                   !
                   that
                   I
                   shou'd
                   only
                   now
                   repeat
                   ,
                
                 
                   Caesar
                   was
                   kind
                   ,
                   and
                   I
                   was
                   fortunate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Now
                   the
                   reverse
                   of
                   what
                   I
                   was
                   ,
                   I
                   sink
                
                 
                   Beneath
                   a
                   weight
                   too
                   terrible
                   to
                   think
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   thousand
                   Waves
                   that
                   other
                   Vessels
                   miss
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   one
                   consent
                   ,
                   on
                   mine
                   ,
                   together
                   press
                   :
                
                 
                   Why
                   did
                   I
                   see
                   ?
                   why
                   did
                   these
                   Eyes
                   behold
                   ?
                
                 
                   Why
                   was
                   a
                   Fault
                   unhappily
                   thus
                   told
                   ?
                
                 
                   Actaeon
                   so
                   ,
                   Diana
                   had
                   in
                   view
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   only
                   seeing
                   her
                   he
                   perish'd
                   too
                   ;
                
                 
                   No
                   vile
                   Design
                   the
                   angry
                   Nymph
                   cou'd
                   know
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                   Actaeon's
                   only
                   Crime
                   was
                   ,
                   that
                   he
                   saw
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   this
                   he
                   undistinguish'd
                   falls
                   a
                   Prey
                   ,
                
                 
                   Torn
                   by
                   his
                   Dogs
                   ,
                   that
                   always
                   did
                   obey
                   :
                
                 
                   So
                   when
                   we
                   Heav'n
                   offend
                   ,
                   tho'
                   but
                   by
                   chance
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Gods
                   sometimes
                   won't
                   pardon
                   the
                   Offence
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   That
                   Day
                   ,
                   that
                   Error
                   led
                   me
                   from
                   the
                   Right
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Drew
                   me
                   to
                   a
                   VVay
                   remote
                   from
                   it
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   very
                   day
                   ,
                   my
                   House
                   but
                   small
                   ,
                   yet
                   Good
                   ,
                
                 
                   Was
                   lost
                   ,
                   and
                   ruin'd
                   ,
                   tho'
                   the
                   Building
                   stood
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   not
                   so
                   small
                   ,
                   but
                   Honours
                   she
                   cou'd
                   Boast
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   long
                   Descent
                   from
                   many
                   Ages
                   past
                   .
                
                 
                   Not
                   infamously
                   low
                   ,
                   nor
                   yet
                   so
                   high
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   crack
                   of
                   Riches
                   with
                   our
                   Pedigree
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   safer
                   way
                   'twixt
                   both
                   ,
                   by
                   much
                   there
                   was
                   ,
                
                 
                   Envy
                   ,
                   nor
                   Pity
                   e'er
                   tormenting
                   us
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   had
                   our
                   Ancient
                   Lands
                   been
                   lower
                   yet
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   justly
                   might
                   expected
                   to
                   be'en
                   great
                   ,
                
                 
                   My Self
                   an
                   Ample
                   Fortune
                   by
                   my
                   Wit.
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   my
                   late
                   Lines
                   are
                   loose
                   ,
                   and
                   wanton
                   Read
                   ,
                
                 
                   While
                   Nature
                   prompted
                   ,
                   and
                   my
                   Passion
                   sway'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Thoughts
                   are
                   manly
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Verses
                   good
                   ,
                
                 
                   Smooth
                   are
                   my
                   Numbers
                   ,
                   and
                   my
                   Sence
                   entire
                   ,
                
                 
                   Melting
                   the
                   Words
                   ,
                   and
                   apt
                   for
                   soft
                   Desire
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   wondring
                   Poets
                   shall
                   for
                   Ages
                   read
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   praise
                   their
                   Ovid
                   for
                   the
                   Lines
                   he
                   made
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Curse
                   o'
                   my
                   Fate
                   !
                   one
                   single
                   Fault
                   shou'd
                   damn!
                
                 
                   Banish
                   the
                   Poet
                   ,
                   and
                   confound
                   his
                   Theme
                   !
                
                 
                   From
                   Love
                   ,
                   from
                   Stories
                   of
                   the
                   Gods
                   ,
                   and
                   Men
                   ,
                
                 
                   Forc'd
                   to
                   attempt
                   Excuses
                   for
                   my
                   Crime
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lost
                   in
                   the
                   Mass
                   ill-shuffl'd
                   Fates
                   have
                   Hurld
                   ,
                
                 
                   Wanting
                   a
                   Voice
                   ,
                   like
                   that
                   that
                   made
                   the
                   World
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shou'd
                   Caesar
                   call
                   ,
                   my
                   Wrongs
                   wou'd
                   all
                   obey
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   I
                   for
                   ever
                   boast
                   his
                   Liberty
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   wou'd
                   compleat
                   the
                   Favours
                   I
                   enjoy
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   more
                   I
                   fear'd
                   ,
                   than
                   in
                   your
                   Anger
                   was
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   you
                   my
                   Life
                   ,
                   at
                   least
                   Estate
                   wou'd
                   seize
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   far
                   from
                   this
                   ,
                   at
                   present
                   I
                   have
                   all
                   ,
                
                 
                   All
                   ,
                   that
                   by
                   any
                   right
                   ,
                   my
                   own
                   I
                   call
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   was
                   my
                   Fault
                   ,
                   by
                   Voice
                   of
                   Senate
                   Damn'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   by
                   a
                   private
                   way
                   of
                   Justice
                   nam'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   was
                   
                   Caesar's
                   Mouth
                   pronounc'd
                   my
                   Banishment
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   call'd
                   it
                   by
                   a
                   lesser
                   Punishment
                   ,
                
                 
                   Only
                   Confin'd
                   me
                   to
                   a
                   distant
                   Clime
                   ,
                
                 
                   There
                   to
                   Reflect
                   his
                   Goodness
                   ,
                   and
                   my
                   Sin
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   generous
                   Souls
                   are
                   mov'd
                   by
                   Clemency
                   ,
                
                 
                   More
                   than
                   by
                   Wracks
                   ,
                   and
                   Gibbets
                   that
                   they
                   see
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Such
                   Instruments
                   of
                   Death
                   ,
                   the
                   vulgar
                   sway
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   make
                   'em
                   honest
                   ,
                   when
                   they
                   won't
                   obey
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   other
                   plead
                   the
                   freedom
                   of
                   their
                   Mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   this
                   or
                   that
                   ,
                   in
                   spite
                   of
                   all
                   inclin'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   when
                   they
                   'r
                   resolute
                   ,
                   they
                   shou'd
                   be
                   good
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   through
                   Mistakes
                   ,
                   the
                   best
                   are
                   sometimes
                   bad
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   kind
                   forgiving
                   Princes
                   ne'er
                   upbraid
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   they
                   a
                   happy
                   Penitent
                   have
                   made
                   :
                
                 
                   As
                   tallest
                   Elms
                   ,
                   by
                   Heav'ns
                   thunder-struck
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ugly
                   ,
                   despis'd
                   ,
                   forlorn
                   ,
                   and
                   naked
                   look
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   when
                   the
                   hated
                   Bolt
                   has
                   long
                   been
                   past
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Vines
                   will
                   meet
                   ,
                   and
                   twine
                   ,
                   and
                   kindly
                   grasp
                   ,
                
                 
                   Hug
                   the
                   dear
                   suff'ring
                   Trees
                   ,
                   and
                   kindly
                   grow
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   Gods
                   themselves
                   the
                   Bolts
                   in
                   anger
                   threw
                   ;
                
                 
                   Thus
                   when
                   like
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   I
                   know
                   you
                   to
                   be
                   kind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   greatest
                   Anger
                   to
                   be
                   still
                   confin'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   often
                   Hope
                   ,
                   again
                   ,
                   I
                   soon
                   Despair
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   think
                   tho'
                   merciful
                   ,
                   you
                   're
                   still
                   severe
                   ;
                
                 
                   Severely
                   good
                   ,
                   as
                   happy
                   Princes
                   reign
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   I
                   think
                   thus
                   ,
                   my
                   Hopes
                   are
                   quasht
                   again
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   So
                   Vessels
                   riding
                   on
                   an
                   angry
                   Sea
                   ,
                
                 
                   Have
                   different
                   Degrees
                   of
                   Terror
                   high
                   ;
                
                 
                   One
                   while
                   the
                   Winds
                   in
                   gentle
                   Murmurs
                   blow
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   very
                   soft
                   ,
                   you
                   'd
                   think
                   no
                   Rage
                   they
                   knew
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   they
                   but
                   stop
                   their
                   Breath
                   ,
                   to
                   be
                   more
                   Fierce
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   toss
                   the
                   Passengers
                   ,
                   and
                   Seamen
                   worse
                   ;
                
                 
                   So
                   ,
                   various
                   are
                   the
                   Passions
                   in
                   my
                   Breast
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   give
                   ,
                   again
                   ,
                   they
                   take
                   away
                   my
                   Rest
                   :
                
                 
                   By
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   that
                   loves
                   Augustus
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Rome
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   all
                   the
                   Gods
                   ,
                   that
                   to
                   our
                   Altars
                   come
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   my
                   dear
                   Country
                   ,
                   safe
                   ,
                   while
                   you
                   are
                   so
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   all
                   your
                   Houshold
                   Gods
                   ,
                   and
                   Subjects
                   too
                   ,
                
                 
                   May
                   Rome
                   for
                   ever
                   own
                   her
                   
                   Caesar's
                   Laws
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fond
                   of
                   the
                   Blessings
                   ,
                   that
                   his
                   Reign
                   bestows
                   :
                
                 
                   Long
                   may
                   your
                   Livia
                   be
                   your
                   Care
                   and
                   Joy
                   ,
                
                 
                   Noble
                   ,
                   and
                   Great
                   ,
                   and
                   Good
                   ,
                   as
                   she
                   is
                   High
                   ;
                
                 
                   Long
                   may
                   she
                   bless
                   her
                   Royal
                   Husband's
                   Bed
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   all
                   th'
                   engaging
                   softness
                   of
                   a
                   Bride
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   Nature
                   form'd
                   her
                   for
                   a
                   Blessing
                   here
                   ,
                
                 
                   Casar
                   was
                   then
                   th'
                   Almighty's
                   chiefest
                   Care
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   'T
                   was
                   then
                   ,
                   he
                   show'd
                   the
                   Wonders
                   he
                   cou'd
                   do
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   show'd
                   'em
                   all
                   ,
                   in
                   Livia
                   ,
                   and
                   you
                   .
                
                 
                   Your
                   Son
                   ,
                   that
                   Promises
                   his
                   Part
                   so
                   soon
                   ,
                
                 
                   May
                   Heav'n
                   preserve
                   him
                   for
                   his
                   Father's
                   Throne
                   !
                
                 
                   Long
                   may
                   you
                   both
                   ,
                   secure
                   your
                   Empire
                   's
                   Peace
                   ,
                
                 
                   Command
                   ,
                   Instruct
                   ,
                   and
                   Govern
                   at
                   your
                   Ease
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   if
                   the
                   Toils
                   of
                   Bus'ness
                   irksom
                   grow
                   ,
                
                 
                   May
                   he
                   do
                   all
                   the
                   Wonders
                   that
                   you
                   do
                   !
                
                 
                   May
                   Victory
                   that
                   long
                   has
                   known
                   your
                   Tent
                   ,
                
                 
                   Come
                   to
                   his
                   Colours
                   ,
                   and
                   her self
                   Present
                   ,
                
                 
                   Hovering
                   ,
                   with
                   Wings
                   officious
                   fly
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Crown
                   him
                   ,
                   with
                   the
                   Choicest
                   Lawrels
                   nigh
                   ,
                
                 
                   One
                   Half
                   still
                   present
                   ,
                   Governing
                   at
                   Home
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   other
                   self
                   Commanding
                   ,
                   far
                   from
                   Rome
                   !
                
                 
                   Pardon
                   me
                   now
                   ,
                   if
                   private
                   Suffrings
                   seem
                
                 
                   To
                   move
                   the
                   Poet
                   ,
                   and
                   Confine
                   his
                   Theme
                   ;
                
                 
                   Pardon
                   your
                   Ovid
                   ,
                   and
                   your
                   Thunder
                   Quit
                   ,
                
                 
                   Half
                   dead
                   ,
                   with
                   Bolts
                   that
                   have
                   already
                   Hit
                   .
                
                 
                   Father
                   ,
                   that
                   Word
                   is
                   an
                   indulgent
                   Name
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   mighty
                   too
                   ,
                   since
                   Gods
                   are
                   call'd
                   the
                   same
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Power
                   much
                   at
                   one
                   your
                   Subjects
                   know
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   God's
                   above
                   ,
                   so
                   Caesar
                   Rules
                   below
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   Then
                   spare
                   ,
                   as
                   Fathers
                   of
                   their
                   Countrey
                   do
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   take
                   the
                   Honours
                   that
                   I
                   own
                   your
                   Due
                   ;
                
                 
                   I
                   dare
                   not
                   Pray
                   you
                   wou'd
                   forgive
                   my
                   Sin
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   Gods
                   ,
                   they
                   say
                   ,
                   as
                   kind
                   as
                   this
                   have
                   bin
                   ,
                
                 
                   Only
                   confine
                   me
                   to
                   a
                   nearer
                   Shore
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   gentler
                   Banishment
                   ,
                   I
                   'le
                   ask
                   no
                   more
                   ;
                
                 
                   This
                   will
                   Alleviate
                   the
                   Cares
                   I
                   know
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lessen
                   the
                   present
                   Ills
                   ,
                   that
                   VVrack
                   me
                   now
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   VVide
                   ,
                   remotest
                   Lands
                   ,
                   to
                   live
                   alone
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   such
                   inhumane
                   Creatures
                   ,
                   far
                   from
                   Home
                   !
                
                 
                   Others
                   there
                   are
                   that
                   have
                   offended
                   you
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   Crimes
                   notorious
                   as
                   mine
                   cou'd
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   these
                   ,
                   were
                   never
                   sent
                   ,
                   where
                   I
                   am
                   come
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   knew
                   ,
                   the
                   many
                   Dangers
                   ,
                   that
                   I
                   've
                   done
                   ;
                
                 
                   Beyond
                   me
                   's
                   all
                   Inhospitable
                   Ground
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   Summer
                   ,
                   but
                   eternal
                   Frosts
                   are
                   found
                   ,
                
                 
                   Part
                   of
                   the
                   Euxine
                   Sea
                   ,
                   which
                   Rome
                   commands
                   ,
                
                 
                   Washes
                   these
                   Shoars
                   ,
                   below
                   ,
                   Sarmatia
                   stands
                   :
                
                 
                   Recall
                   me
                   hence
                   ,
                   tho'
                   you
                   deny
                   me
                   Peace
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   Hell
                   ,
                   to
                   live
                   in
                   such
                   a
                   Place
                   as
                   this
                   .
                
                 
                   Besides
                   :
                   We
                   have
                   an
                   old
                   Italian
                   Law
                   ,
                
                 
                   Approv'd
                   of
                   long
                   ,
                   and
                   not
                   disputed
                   now
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   That
                   Free-born
                   Subjects
                   ,
                   of
                   a
                   Roman
                   Race
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   Birth
                   have
                   Title
                   to
                   a
                   better
                   place
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   Princes
                   safe
                   ,
                   they
                   must
                   not
                   Captives
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   early
                   show'd
                   a
                   Right
                   to
                   Liberty
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   sha'n't
                   here
                   name
                   the
                   sad
                   ,
                   unhappy
                   Fault
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   lost
                   my
                   Freedom
                   ,
                   and
                   Misfortunes
                   brought
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   those
                   of
                   which
                   my
                   Enemies
                   accuse
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   never
                   thought
                   ,
                   how
                   loose
                   so
                   e're
                   my
                   Muse
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   these
                   they
                   've
                   often
                   vext
                   your
                   Royal
                   Breast
                   ,
                
                 
                   Provok'd
                   your
                   Anger
                   ,
                   and
                   destroy'd
                   my
                   Rest
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   they
                   said
                   ,
                   you
                   thought
                   severely
                   true
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   do
                   I
                   wonder
                   you
                   believ'd
                   'em
                   so
                   ,
                
                 
                   Since
                   Gods
                   have
                   been
                   deceiv'd
                   as
                   well
                   as
                   you
                   .
                
                 
                   When
                   Jove
                   looks
                   down
                   ,
                   to
                   see
                   the
                   World
                   below
                   ,
                
                 
                   Condemn
                   ,
                   approve
                   ,
                   and
                   know
                   the
                   things
                   we
                   do
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   leisure
                   won't
                   admit
                   the
                   nicest
                   View
                   :
                
                 
                   So
                   you
                   ,
                   like
                   him
                   ,
                   tho'
                   looking
                   round
                   about
                   ,
                
                 
                   Some
                   things
                   a
                   single
                   look
                   can
                   ne'er
                   find
                   out
                   :
                
                 
                   Who
                   can
                   imagine
                   States
                   neglected
                   lye
                   ?
                
                 
                   The
                   thoughts
                   of
                   Empire
                   left
                   ,
                   for
                   Poetry
                   :
                
                 
                   Easy
                   the
                   Weight
                   ,
                   must
                   on
                   your
                   Shoulders
                   sit
                   ,
                
                 
                   Had
                   you
                   your self
                   consider'd
                   what
                   I
                   Writ
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   bold
                   Panonia
                   ,
                   your
                   strength
                   defy's
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   is
                   Illyrium
                   in
                   perfect
                   Peace
                   ;
                
                 
                   They
                   on
                   the
                   Rhine
                   ,
                   their
                   utmost
                   Force
                   prepare
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Thracia
                   still
                   employs
                   you
                   in
                   a
                   War
                   ;
                
                 
                   Armenia
                   parleys
                   ,
                   when
                   the
                   Parthians
                   show
                
                 
                   Their
                   Spreading
                   Colours
                   ,
                   as
                   a
                   Warlike
                   Foe
                   ;
                
                 
                   Germania
                   flys
                   before
                   your
                   Bolder
                   Son
                   ,
                
                 
                   Early
                   made
                   Brave
                   ,
                   by
                   Victories
                   you
                   won
                   ;
                
                 
                   No
                   Head
                   but
                   yours
                   ,
                   cou'd
                   so
                   much
                   Bus'ness
                   do
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   so
                   much
                   Ease
                   ,
                   such
                   mighty
                   Order
                   too
                   :
                
                 
                   Your
                   thoughts
                   to
                   travel
                   all
                   your
                   Empire
                   o're
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   you
                   ,
                   Unruffl'd
                   ,
                   manage
                   such
                   a
                   Pow'r
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   Part
                   but
                   Govern'd
                   by
                   your
                   proper
                   Care
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   none
                   to
                   Want
                   what
                   's
                   necessary
                   there
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shows
                   that
                   your
                   Soul
                   had
                   a
                   peculiar
                   Mould
                   ,
                
                 
                   Form'd
                   by
                   some
                   Gods
                   ,
                   and
                   made
                   to
                   rule
                   the
                   World
                   :
                
                 
                   Your
                   Laws
                   all
                   Wise
                   ,
                   and
                   so
                   severely
                   Good
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   Life
                   ,
                   still
                   stricter
                   ,
                   than
                   the
                   Laws
                   you
                   made
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thus
                   in
                   a
                   long
                   Fatigue
                   of
                   Bus'ness
                   seen
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   you
                   shou'd
                   think
                   of
                   any
                   thing
                   of
                   mine
                   !
                
                 
                 
                   I
                   own
                   my
                   Verses
                   loose
                   ,
                   unworthy
                   far
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   reach
                   the
                   pious
                   ,
                   nice
                   Augustus
                   Ear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Besides
                   ,
                   these
                   Lines
                   the
                   whole
                   Design
                   declare
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   You
                   that
                   with
                   Fillets
                   bind
                   your
                   Hair
                   ,
                   be
                   gone
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   let
                   the
                   Matron
                   with
                   my
                   Book
                   be
                   seen
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   only
                   sing
                   of
                   youthful
                   ,
                   stolen
                   Joys
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   such
                   Gay
                   Thoughts
                   ,
                   their
                   Formal
                   Wills
                   displease
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Yet
                   nothing
                   Guards
                   a
                   Mind
                   that
                   will
                   be
                   Bad
                   ,
                
                 
                   Precisest
                   Matrons
                   ,
                   when
                   they
                   please
                   ,
                   are
                   Lewd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   tho'
                   they
                   never
                   heard
                   ,
                   or
                   saw
                   my
                   Book
                   ,
                
                 
                   Some
                   will
                   be
                   Whores
                   ,
                   and
                   sin
                   in
                   e'ery
                   Look
                   ;
                
                 
                   One
                   she
                   reads
                   Annals
                   ,
                   there
                   perhaps
                   she
                   'll
                   find
                   ,
                
                 
                   How
                   Ilia
                   ,
                   a
                   Vestal
                   was
                   enclin'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   dreaming
                   ,
                   Mars
                   comprest
                   the
                   lovely
                   Maid
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Blest
                   her
                   with
                   the
                   Double
                   Birth
                   she
                   had
                   ;
                
                 
                   Let
                   her
                   but
                   look
                   the
                   well
                   writ
                   Aeneids
                   o're
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   wishes
                   ,
                   sighs
                   ,
                   and
                   thinks
                   on
                   Venus
                   Power
                   ,
                
                 
                   Pity
                   's
                   poor
                   Dido
                   ,
                   when
                   Aeneas
                   sails
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   VVonders
                   that
                   the
                   Queen
                   no
                   more
                   Prevails
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   There
                   's
                   nothing
                   ,
                   tho'
                   the
                   purest
                   of
                   the
                   Kind
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   mayn't
                   Corrupt
                   a
                   Heart
                   ,
                   that
                   's
                   ill
                   inclin'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   this
                   is
                   not
                   enough
                   to
                   Damn
                   a
                   Book
                   ,
                
                 
                   Because
                   ill
                   meaning
                   has
                   the
                   Reader
                   Took
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shall
                   we
                   prohibit
                   Fire
                   our
                   common
                   Use
                   ,
                
                 
                   Because
                   Incendiari's
                   Burn
                   with
                   this
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Traveller
                   and
                   Thief
                   ,
                   VVear
                   Swords
                   alike
                   ,
                
                 
                   Because
                   one
                   Robs
                   ,
                   shall
                   t'
                   other
                   take
                   a
                   Stick
                   ?
                
                 
                   Or
                   shall
                   we
                   pious
                   ,
                   ancient
                   Cloysters
                   Curse
                   ,
                
                 
                   Because
                   Maids
                   talk
                   of
                   Sweet
                   Hearts
                   ,
                   or
                   of
                   worse
                   ?
                
                 
                   One
                   in
                   the
                   very
                   Temple
                   ,
                   as
                   she
                   Prays
                   to
                   Jove
                   ,
                
                 
                   Is
                   thinking
                   of
                   the
                   Stories
                   of
                   his
                   Love
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thinking
                   how
                   many
                   Mothers
                   he
                   might
                   make
                   ,
                
                 
                   Wishing
                   her self
                   a
                   Beauty
                   for
                   his
                   sake
                   ▪
                
                 
                   Another
                   ,
                   she
                   at
                   
                   Juno's
                   Altar
                   Prays
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   thinks
                   how
                   Fair
                   Europa
                   Crost
                   the
                   Seas
                   ,
                
                 
                   Pity
                   's
                   poor
                   Juno
                   ,
                   by
                   her
                   Jove
                   betray'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   God
                   so
                   often
                   Changing
                   as
                   he
                   did
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   VVishes
                   still
                   she
                   'd
                   bin
                   the
                   Charming
                   Maid
                   .
                
                 
                   Shou'd
                   she
                   
                   Minerva's
                   awful
                   Statue
                   see
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   Good
                   ,
                   so
                   Tall
                   ,
                   so
                   full
                   of
                   Majesty
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Some
                   Story
                   still
                   her
                   strong
                   desire
                   wou'd
                   sind
                   ,
                
                 
                   How
                   Erictihon
                   was
                   born
                   a'fore
                   his
                   Time
                   ,
                
                 
                   Because
                   the
                   Goddess
                   hid
                   him
                   ,
                   as
                   they
                   say
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   sure
                   if
                   Goddesses
                   such
                   Pranks
                   will
                   play
                   ,
                
                 
                   Inferiour
                   Nymphs
                   their
                   waiting
                   Women
                   may
                   .
                
                 
                   All
                   things
                   ,
                   a
                   Person
                   eas'ly
                   turns
                   to
                   ill
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whose
                   chiefest
                   Law
                   's
                   the
                   Dictates
                   of
                   his
                   Will
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   gravest
                   Matrons
                   have
                   beheld
                   in
                   paint
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   lewdest
                   Forms
                   ,
                   the
                   Artist
                   cou'd
                   invent
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Vestals
                   have
                   beheld
                   th'
                   Intreague
                   of
                   Stews
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   various
                   ways
                   ,
                   those
                   Proftitutes
                   abuse
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   yet
                   the
                   Painter
                   if
                   the
                   Piece
                   was
                   good
                   ,
                
                 
                   Receiv'd
                   the
                   Praises
                   that
                   an
                   Artist
                   shou'd
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   why
                   ?
                   Oh
                   why
                   ?
                   did
                   I
                   unhappy
                   write
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fond
                   o'
                   th'
                   Fantastick
                   Character
                   ,
                   a
                   Wit
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   wanton
                   Genius
                   ,
                   hurrying
                   me
                   along
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   never
                   resting
                   ,
                   'till
                   I
                   was
                   undone
                   :
                
                 
                   Why
                   did
                   not
                   I
                   ,
                   like
                   other
                   Poets
                   ,
                   move
                   ?
                
                 
                   Thunder
                   out
                   Battels
                   ,
                   Wars
                   ,
                   not
                   whine
                   out
                   Love
                   ?
                
                 
                   Troy
                   had
                   engag'd
                   me
                   in
                   a
                   Noble
                   Strain
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   inoffensive
                   too
                   ,
                   my
                   Thoughts
                   had
                   bin
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Here
                   I
                   had
                   told
                   the
                   Grecian
                   Policy
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   
                   Troy's
                   unfo
                   rtunate
                   Security
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   had
                   this
                   bin
                   an
                   antiquated
                   Theme
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   might
                   have
                   sung
                   as
                   well
                   of
                   greater
                   Rome
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   had
                   been
                   pious
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   Subject's
                   part
                   ,
                
                 
                   Duty
                   excus'd
                   the
                   Nicety
                   of
                   Art
                   ;
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   Caesar
                   had
                   not
                   been
                   oblig'd
                   by
                   this
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Worth
                   ,
                   so
                   much
                   exceeding
                   all
                   my
                   Praise
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   must
                   have
                   pardon'd
                   an
                   officious
                   Muse
                   .
                
                 
                   As
                   Phoebus
                   darting
                   Rays
                   affect
                   our
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   
                   Caesar's
                   Glories
                   in
                   the
                   View
                   surprize
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   with
                   a
                   Naked
                   Eye
                   we
                   see
                   each
                   Light
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   troublesome
                   ,
                   and
                   takes
                   away
                   our
                   sight
                   ,
                
                 
                   These
                   were
                   my
                   thoughts
                   ,
                   and
                   this
                   believe
                   it
                   true
                   ,
                
                 
                   Is
                   all
                   the
                   Reason
                   that
                   I
                   plead
                   ,
                   or
                   knew
                   :
                
                 
                   As
                   when
                   a
                   Man
                   ,
                   within
                   a
                   little
                   Boat
                   ,
                
                 
                   Safely
                   ,
                   in
                   shallow
                   Rivers
                   rows
                   about
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   shou'd
                   he
                   launch
                   into
                   the
                   Swelling
                   Main
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Boat
                   wou'd
                   be
                   too
                   small
                   ,
                   his
                   Art
                   in
                   vain
                   ;
                
                 
                   So
                   tho'
                   I
                   've
                   writ
                   with
                   Reputation
                   too
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   trivial
                   Subjects
                   ,
                   Stories
                   that
                   I
                   knew
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Shou'd
                   I
                   ,
                   for
                   this
                   ,
                   a
                   greater
                   Thought
                   have
                   had
                   ,
                
                 
                   Have
                   writ
                   
                   Jove's
                   Thunder
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Wars
                   he
                   made
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   
                   Caesar's
                   Wars
                   ,
                   but
                   little
                   less
                   than
                   those
                   ,
                
                 
                   Next
                   
                   Jove's
                   the
                   Victory
                   ,
                   as
                   good
                   the
                   Cause
                   ,
                
                 
                   Awkward
                   my
                   weaker
                   Numbers
                   must
                   have
                   bin
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Jove
                   ,
                   and
                   Caesar
                   ,
                   suffer'd
                   in
                   the
                   Strain
                   .
                
                 
                   Once
                   I
                   begun
                   the
                   mighty
                   Task
                   ,
                   and
                   Try'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   sung
                   of
                   Wars
                   ,
                   as
                   other
                   Poets
                   did
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   still
                   ,
                   my
                   Hero
                   so
                   surpast
                   the
                   rest
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   must
                   have
                   VVrit
                   the
                   worst
                   ,
                   if
                   not
                   the
                   best
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   I
                   resolv'd
                   to
                   tell
                   some
                   amorous
                   Tale
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   melting
                   Words
                   oblige
                   the
                   Longing
                   Girl
                   ,
                
                 
                   While
                   frequent
                   Blushes
                   ,
                   with
                   Repeated
                   Sighs
                   ,
                
                 
                   Engaging
                   Looks
                   ,
                   the
                   Language
                   of
                   the
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Show
                   how
                   she
                   loves
                   ,
                   and
                   loving
                   how
                   she
                   Dyes
                   .
                
                 
                   Curse
                   o'
                   this
                   Thought
                   !
                   why
                   did
                   I
                   learn
                   to
                   Read
                   ?
                
                 
                   Why
                   did
                   my
                   Tutor
                   teach
                   me
                   as
                   he
                   did
                   ?
                
                 
                   And
                   yet
                   I
                   suffer
                   thro'
                   Mistake
                   ,
                   as
                   tho'
                
                 
                   Unlawful
                   Ways
                   of
                   Love
                   I
                   did
                   pursue
                   ;
                
                 
                   As
                   tho'
                   I
                   'ad
                   sought
                   t'
                   abuse
                   the
                   Nuptial
                   Rites
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   gratifie
                   my self
                   with
                   vile
                   Delights
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   This
                   I
                   Profess
                   ,
                   and
                   Heaven
                   knows
                   it
                   true
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lawful
                   are
                   all
                   the
                   ways
                   of
                   Love
                   I
                   know
                   ;
                
                 
                   No
                   Man
                   by
                   me
                   's
                   a
                   Doubtful
                   Father
                   made
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   never
                   wrong'd
                   the
                   meanest
                   Person
                   's
                   Bed
                   ;
                
                 
                   My
                   Life
                   and
                   Verse
                   ,
                   have
                   always
                   differ'd
                   far
                   ,
                
                 
                   Pleasant
                   my
                   Muse
                   ,
                   my
                   Manners
                   more
                   severe
                   :
                
                 
                   Accius
                   was
                   Fierce
                   ,
                   Terence
                   was
                   soft
                   ,
                   and
                   smooth
                   ▪
                
                 
                   'Fore
                   Tragedies
                   ,
                   preferring
                   Plays
                   ,
                   less
                   Rough.
                
                 
                   Nor
                   yet
                   am
                   I
                   the
                   first
                   ,
                   that
                   writ
                   another
                   way
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                   Anacreon's
                   Applauded
                   to
                   this
                   day
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   writing
                   of
                   a
                   harmless
                   Love
                   ,
                   like
                   me
                   .
                
                 
                   Sappho
                   had
                   never
                   reach'd
                   an
                   Excellence
                   ,
                
                 
                   Had
                   not
                   she
                   writ
                   of
                   Love
                   ,
                   without
                   Offence
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   good
                   Menander
                   ,
                   when
                   he
                   made
                   his
                   Plays
                   ,
                
                 
                   Menander
                   that
                   diverts
                   so
                   many
                   Ways
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   never
                   Writ
                   ,
                   but
                   Love
                   was
                   still
                   his
                   Theme
                   ,
                
                 
                   Bewitching
                   Love
                   ,
                   the
                   tender
                   Virgin
                   's
                   Dream
                   ;
                
                 
                   He
                   taught
                   'em
                   Laws
                   ,
                   to
                   manage
                   all
                   their
                   Fire
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   while
                   they
                   Burn'd
                   themselves
                   with
                   strong
                   Desire
                   ,
                
                 
                   Dissemble
                   still
                   ,
                   and
                   make
                   their
                   Lovers
                   dye
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   Dye
                   to
                   Live
                   ,
                   and
                   Meet
                   with
                   greater
                   Joy
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   What
                   are
                   the
                   Iliads
                   ,
                   that
                   the
                   World
                   approves
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   Wars
                   ,
                   occasion'd
                   by
                   Forbidden
                   Loves
                   ?
                
                 
                   How
                   Helen
                   ,
                   melted
                   by
                   her
                   Paris
                   Voice
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yields
                   to
                   his
                   Charms
                   ,
                   and
                   eagerly
                   enjoys
                   :
                
                 
                   Had
                   not
                   Vlysses
                   Wife
                   so
                   many
                   Won
                   ,
                
                 
                   Homer
                   ,
                   his
                   Odysses
                   had
                   ne'er
                   begun
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   we
                   have
                   Read
                   the
                   Wanderer
                   from
                   Home
                   ▪
                
                 
                   In
                   all
                   the
                   Various
                   Passions
                   Homer
                   Paints
                   ,
                
                 
                   There
                   's
                   none
                   more
                   Taking
                   ,
                   that
                   he
                   Represents
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   when
                   he
                   tells
                   ,
                   how
                   Mars
                   with
                   Venus
                   lay
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   makes
                   each
                   God
                   a
                   Witness
                   of
                   their
                   Joy
                   ;
                
                 
                   How
                   pleasantly
                   her
                   Husband
                   is
                   '
                   Reveng'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   let
                   'em
                   lye
                   ,
                   till
                   he
                   prepares
                   the
                   Chains
                   .
                
                 
                   Many
                   the
                   Instances
                   I
                   yet
                   cou'd
                   heap
                   ,
                
                 
                   Wou'd
                   not
                   the
                   Reader
                   ,
                   and
                   my
                   Muse
                   both
                   sleep
                   .
                
                 
                   Catullus
                   always
                   most
                   Correctly
                   Writ
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Lesbia
                   the
                   Subject
                   of
                   his
                   Wit
                   :
                
                 
                   Hortensius
                   ,
                   and
                   Servus
                   ,
                   lov'd
                   like
                   me
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   who
                   wou'd
                   fear
                   to
                   Follow
                   such
                   as
                   they
                   ?
                
                 
                   Gallus
                   ,
                   for
                   Lycoris
                   was
                   never
                   Blam'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Talking
                   too
                   much
                   ,
                   not
                   Writing
                   ,
                   Gallus
                   Damn'd
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Tibullus
                   writes
                   ,
                   how
                   freely
                   Women
                   swear
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   strange
                   deluding
                   sort
                   of
                   things
                   they
                   are
                   ;
                
                 
                   They
                   value
                   strictest
                   Oaths
                   ,
                   no
                   more
                   than
                   Wind
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   e're
                   they
                   please
                   to
                   change
                   a
                   Fickle
                   Mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   How
                   Wittily
                   they
                   will
                   a
                   Keeper
                   Balk
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   when
                   their
                   Husband
                   's
                   jealous
                   ,
                   how
                   they
                   talk
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   he
                   ,
                   Tibullus
                   ,
                   best
                   these
                   Truths
                   might
                   know
                   ,
                
                 
                   At
                   once
                   the
                   Cully
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Poet
                   too
                   .
                
                 
                   Propertius
                   next
                   ,
                   so
                   great
                   ,
                   and
                   very
                   good
                   ,
                
                 
                   How
                   Men
                   admir'd
                   ,
                   and
                   Women
                   lov'd
                   ,
                   he
                   show'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Propertius
                   yet
                   Repeated
                   Honours
                   had
                   ;
                
                 
                   Caesar
                   his
                   Friend
                   ,
                   approving
                   what
                   he
                   did
                   .
                
                 
                   When
                   these
                   Succeeded
                   all
                   so
                   well
                   ,
                   I
                   thought
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   might
                   pursue
                   the
                   Measures
                   that
                   they
                   Taught
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   fear'd
                   not
                   ,
                   where
                   so
                   many
                   Ships
                   had
                   Past
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   thought
                   my
                   Bark
                   wou'd
                   Shipwrackt
                   be
                   at
                   last
                   :
                
                 
                   Had
                   I
                   but
                   Play'd
                   the
                   Droll
                   in
                   Mimick
                   Wit
                   ,
                
                 
                   Had
                   then
                   bin
                   safe
                   ,
                   and
                   pleas'd
                   a
                   laughing
                   Pit
                   ,
                
                 
                   All
                   Ages
                   ,
                   Sexes
                   ,
                   Flock
                   with
                   hast
                   to
                   these
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   love
                   the
                   Bawdy
                   that
                   they
                   find
                   in
                   Plays
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   hear
                   a
                   Toothless
                   Strumpet
                   split
                   her
                   Sides
                   ,
                
                 
                   Laugh
                   'till
                   she
                   pisses
                   at
                   the
                   Words
                   she
                   Reads
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   "
                   Judge
                   me
                   !
                   the
                   Author
                   's
                   such
                   a
                   Witty
                   Man
                   ,
                
                 
                   "
                   He
                   must
                   do
                   more
                   than
                   other
                   People
                   can
                   :
                
                 
                   Thus
                   I
                   had
                   made
                   a
                   Party
                   to
                   Retreat
                   ,
                
                 
                   Had
                   I
                   but
                   thus
                   Buffoon'd
                   it
                   when
                   I
                   writ
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   my
                   Nonsence
                   wou'd
                   have
                   bin
                   Sheer
                   Wit.
                
                 
                   Shall
                   stammering
                   Mimicks
                   then
                   Protected
                   live
                   ?
                
                 
                   And
                   others
                   want
                   the
                   Favours
                   that
                   they
                   have
                   ?
                
                 
                   Shall
                   Ovid
                   suffer
                   ,
                   while
                   he
                   wou'd
                   Delight
                   ?
                
                 
                   Others
                   be
                   safe
                   ,
                   that
                   do
                   ,
                   what
                   Ovid
                   writ
                   ?
                
                 
                   My
                   Lines
                   by
                   th'
                   Mob
                   ,
                   as
                   theirs
                   ,
                   huzza'd
                   have
                   bin
                   '
                
                 
                   And
                   mine
                   ,
                   and
                   theirs
                   ,
                   Augustus
                   ,
                   you
                   have
                   seen
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   seen
                   ,
                   as
                   when
                   we
                   different
                   Paintings
                   view
                   ,
                
                 
                   Diverting
                   for
                   the
                   Skill
                   the
                   Painter
                   knew
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   he
                   a
                   certain
                   Due
                   ,
                   Reward
                   ,
                   receives
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   he
                   a
                   Monster
                   ,
                   nay
                   ,
                   the
                   Devil
                   gives
                   :
                
                 
                   Within
                   your
                   Palace
                   ,
                   various
                   Pictures
                   hang
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   best
                   Drawn
                   Pieces
                   ,
                   by
                   the
                   Nicest
                   Hand
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   yet
                   more
                   famous
                   for
                   their
                   House
                   than
                   Paint
                   ▪
                
                 
                   Your
                   Fathers
                   ,
                   Uncles
                   ,
                   by
                   a
                   long
                   Descent
                   ;
                
                 
                   Not
                   far
                   from
                   these
                   ,
                   nay
                   ,
                   in
                   the
                   nearest
                   Room
                   ,
                
                 
                   Some
                   Women
                   hang
                   ,
                   as
                   Naked
                   as
                   they
                   're
                   Born.
                
                 
                 
                   Let
                   greater
                   Pens
                   ,
                   for
                   bloody
                   Wars
                   prepare
                   ,
                
                 
                   Inur'd
                   to
                   Dangers
                   ,
                   as
                   their
                   Hero's
                   are
                   ;
                
                 
                   Let
                   these
                   in
                   strains
                   ,
                   their
                   
                   Caesar's
                   Battels
                   speak
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   show
                   in
                   Arms
                   ,
                   how
                   like
                   a
                   God
                   you
                   look
                   ,
                
                 
                   While
                   others
                   ,
                   skill'd
                   i'
                   th
                   ▪
                   art
                   of
                   Heraldry
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tell
                   all
                   the
                   Wonders
                   of
                   your
                   Family
                   ,
                
                 
                   How
                   for
                   some
                   Ages
                   ,
                   Hero's
                   have
                   bin
                   bred
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   how
                   Augustus
                   do's
                   the
                   rest
                   exceed
                   :
                
                 
                   This
                   I
                   have
                   often
                   wisht
                   ,
                   but
                   wisht
                   in
                   vain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nature
                   designing
                   me
                   a
                   weaker
                   strain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Far
                   from
                   the
                   best
                   ,
                   yet
                   not
                   the
                   worst
                   ,
                   so
                   mean.
                
                 
                   Virgil
                   ,
                   the
                   Wonder
                   of
                   a
                   Wonderous
                   Age
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whose
                   Art
                   does
                   still
                   some
                   mighty
                   things
                   Presage
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whose
                   Writings
                   give
                   unto
                   our
                   Poets
                   Laws
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whether
                   a
                   great
                   or
                   humble
                   Theme
                   they
                   choose
                   :
                
                 
                   If
                   Warriours
                   read
                   ,
                   in
                   him
                   their
                   Art
                   they
                   find
                   ,
                
                 
                   Honour
                   ,
                   and
                   Courage
                   ,
                   in
                   the
                   Trojans
                   joyn'd
                   :
                
                 
                   If
                   Lovers
                   take
                   his
                   Aeneids
                   down
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   read
                   ,
                   how
                   Dido
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Hero
                   's
                   found
                   ,
                
                 
                   How
                   Jove
                   ,
                   he
                   Thunder'd
                   in
                   the
                   World
                   above
                   ,
                
                 
                   Kindly
                   assisting
                   their
                   Design
                   of
                   Love
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   Thus
                   he
                   in
                   Notès
                   ,
                   so
                   artfully
                   cou'd
                   Play
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Fierce
                   ,
                   and
                   Gentle
                   ,
                   all
                   ,
                   in
                   him
                   agree
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   him
                   they
                   Meet
                   ,
                   a
                   pleasant
                   Harmony
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   did
                   he
                   once
                   ,
                   disdain
                   the
                   Herdsman's
                   Song
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   writ
                   Bucolics
                   ,
                   in
                   his
                   Mother
                   Tongue
                   ;
                
                 
                   How
                   Corydon
                   for
                   his
                   Alexis
                   Burn'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   How
                   proud
                   
                     Alexis
                     ,
                     Corydon
                  
                   he
                   scorn'd
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   show'd
                   how
                   
                     Nysa
                     ,
                     Mopsus
                  
                   lov'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Humour
                   Women
                   always
                   mov'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   Mopsus
                   Nature
                   had
                   design'd
                   a
                   Jest
                   ,
                
                 
                   Mopsus
                   was
                   Rich
                   ,
                   and
                   Nysa
                   lov'd
                   him
                   best
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   when
                   the
                   Mantuan
                   Poet
                   led
                   the
                   way
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   thought
                   to
                   follow
                   such
                   a
                   Guide
                   as
                   he
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   write
                   like
                   him
                   ,
                   cou'd
                   ne'er
                   have
                   ruin'd
                   me
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   yet
                   ,
                   do
                   I
                   ,
                   more
                   serious
                   Subjects
                   want
                   ,
                
                 
                   Some
                   Books
                   of
                   Sacred
                   Feasts
                   ,
                   I
                   have
                   in
                   Print
                   :
                
                 
                   One
                   while
                   ,
                   my
                   Muse
                   ,
                   in
                   Tragick
                   Buskins
                   Trod
                   ,
                
                 
                   All
                   very
                   solemn
                   ,
                   grave
                   ,
                   and
                   some
                   said
                   good
                   :
                
                 
                   Another
                   Work
                   ,
                   with
                   Care
                   and
                   Pains
                   I
                   wrote
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   in
                   my
                   Sentence
                   't
                   was
                   unfortunate
                   ;
                
                 
                   Wanting
                   the
                   Authors
                   last
                   performing
                   Stroak
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   give
                   it
                   Graces
                   for
                   the
                   nicest
                   Look
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   In
                   this
                   ,
                   (
                   my
                   Metamorphosis
                   )
                   I
                   show
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Face
                   of
                   things
                   ,
                   from
                   Nothing
                   ,
                   down
                   to
                   you
                   :
                
                 
                   Wou'd
                   you
                   ,
                   in
                   this
                   ,
                   but
                   Read
                   my
                   Innocence
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   'd
                   find
                   how
                   much
                   the
                   Poet
                   lov'd
                   the
                   Prince
                   ;
                
                 
                   You
                   'd
                   Read
                   in
                   e'ery
                   Line
                   my
                   very
                   Soul
                   ,
                
                 
                   Intirely
                   yours
                   ,
                   without
                   Reserves
                   at
                   all
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   was
                   I
                   ever
                   Tempted
                   when
                   I
                   writ
                   ,
                
                 
                   Inferiour
                   Men
                   ,
                   with
                   disrepect
                   to
                   Treat
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   always
                   hated
                   a
                   Satyrick
                   Wit
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ne'er
                   Wounding
                   any
                   ,
                   but
                   the
                   Author
                   ,
                   yet
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   show'd
                   the
                   Temper
                   of
                   a
                   Peaceful
                   Mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Form'd
                   in
                   my
                   Infancy
                   ,
                   by
                   Age
                   refin'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   this
                   ,
                   no
                   well-bred
                   Roman
                   triumphs
                   now
                   ,
                
                 
                   Pleas'd
                   at
                   the
                   Punishment
                   I
                   undergo
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   rather
                   Mourns
                   ,
                   the
                   dismal
                   story
                   told
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   often
                   wishes
                   that
                   I
                   were
                   recall'd
                   .
                
                 
                   May
                   these
                   ,
                   Great
                   Caesar
                   ,
                   move
                   your
                   Royal
                   Breast
                   ,
                
                 
                   'Till
                   you
                   Remit
                   my
                   Sentence
                   ,
                   part
                   at
                   least
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   it
                   's
                   too
                   much
                   to
                   Pardon
                   ,
                   grant
                   some
                   Place
                
                 
                   Nearer
                   my
                   Native
                   Country
                   much
                   than
                   this
                   .
                
              
            
             
               The
               End
               of
               the
               Second
               Book
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               The
               Third
               BOOK
               OF
               OVID
               IMITATED
               .
            
             
               The
               Book
               entreats
               the
               Reader
               to
               be
               Candid
               ,
               and
               before
               he
               Condemns
               ,
               to
               consider
               the
               Disadvantages
               it
               was
               writ
               with
               :
               He
               shows
               his
               coming
               to
               Rome
               ,
               where
               he
               met
               with
               a
               Guide
               ,
               that
               acquainted
               him
               with
               all
               the
               Curiosities
               of
               the
               Place
               .
            
             
               
                 ELEGY
                 I.
                 
              
               
                 
                   BE
                   gentle
                   ,
                   Reader
                   ,
                   whosoe'er
                   thou
                   art
                   ,
                
                 
                   Pitty
                   a
                   poor
                   ,
                   unhappy
                   Wanderer's
                   Part
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Wretched
                   Off
                   spring
                   of
                   a
                   Wretched
                   Man
                   ,
                
                 
                   Banish'd
                   his
                   Countrey
                   to
                   a
                   Forreign
                   Land
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   be
                   n't
                   affraid
                   ,
                   nor
                   Blush
                   at
                   what
                   he
                   gives
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   thoughts
                   of
                   Love
                   are
                   Read
                   within
                   these
                   Leaves
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Author
                   's
                   not
                   so
                   sensless
                   ,
                   to
                   be
                   merry
                   now
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   Write
                   as
                   happy
                   Poets
                   ,
                   when
                   they
                   Write
                   ,
                   do
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   Reason
                   in
                   her
                   Infancy
                   he
                   knew
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   thought
                   his
                   Wit
                   the
                   better
                   of
                   the
                   two
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   was
                   then
                   a
                   lasting
                   Train
                   of
                   Ills
                   he
                   laid
                   ,
                
                 
                   Pleas'd
                   with
                   the
                   Fond
                   Ideas
                   that
                   he
                   had
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   writ
                   of
                   Love
                   ,
                   and
                   Flatter'd
                   e'ery
                   Sense
                   ,
                
                 
                   Promis'd
                   himself
                   no
                   Injuries
                   from
                   thence
                   :
                
                 
                   Had
                   he
                   but
                   thought
                   ,
                   how
                   Fond
                   Pygmalion
                   Woo'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   How
                   proudly
                   ,
                   when
                   he
                   lov'd
                   ,
                   the
                   Statue
                   stood
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   living
                   Beauty
                   he
                   had
                   ever
                   Took
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   Dar'd
                   the
                   Lightning
                   that
                   those
                   Angels
                   Look
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   had
                   but
                   Caesar
                   spoke
                   such
                   Writings
                   Sin
                   ,
                
                 
                   He'ad
                   sooner
                   anger'd
                   any
                   God
                   than
                   him
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   now
                   his
                   Subject's
                   chang'd
                   ,
                   ah
                   !
                   now
                   too
                   late
                   ,
                
                 
                   Now
                   ,
                   when
                   he
                   feels
                   unequal
                   Fortune's
                   Weight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sad
                   are
                   his
                   Notes
                   ,
                   adapted
                   to
                   his
                   Fate
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   No
                   Ornaments
                   in
                   Prudence
                   he
                   'd
                   bestow
                   ;
                
                 
                   Had
                   I'come
                   out
                   as
                   gay
                   ,
                   as
                   others
                   do
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   World
                   had
                   thought
                   him
                   Proud
                   ,
                   me
                   Foolish
                   too
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   he
                   shou'd
                   stammer
                   at
                   his
                   Mother
                   Tongue
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   write
                   ,
                   as
                   they
                   that
                   have
                   been
                   absent
                   long
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   this
                   damn'd
                   Jargon
                   ,
                   that
                   the
                   Countrey
                   speaks
                   ,
                
                 
                   Confounds
                   his
                   Words
                   ,
                   and
                   such
                   a
                   difference
                   makes
                   :
                
                 
                   Now
                   ,
                   Reader
                   ,
                   if
                   it
                   is
                   not
                   troublesome
                   ,
                
                 
                   Direct
                   me
                   in
                   this
                   City
                   where
                   I
                   'm
                   come
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   may
                   the
                   Gods
                   for
                   such
                   a
                   Kindness
                   give
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   mighty
                   Portion
                   of
                   the
                   Goods
                   they
                   have
                   ;
                
                 
                   May
                   you
                   ne'er
                   Travel
                   weary
                   ,
                   as
                   I
                   've
                   done
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   live
                   a
                   prosperous
                   ,
                   good
                   old
                   Age
                   ,
                   at
                   Home
                   ;
                
                 
                   I
                   'll
                   Follow
                   wheresoe'er
                   you
                   please
                   to
                   go
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   I
                   'm
                   Faint
                   ,
                   Hungry
                   ,
                   very
                   Dirty
                   too
                   .
                
                 
                   At
                   this
                   he
                   walks
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   his
                   Finger
                   shows
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   is
                   the
                   Court
                   ,
                   says
                   he
                   ,
                   of
                   
                   Caesar's
                   House
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   is
                   the
                   
                     Via
                     Sacra
                  
                   where
                   you
                   Pass
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Street
                   the
                   World
                   in
                   admiration
                   has
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   Here
                   you
                   may
                   see
                   ,
                   where
                   
                   Vesta's
                   Temple
                   's
                   set
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   's
                   
                   Numa's
                   Pallace
                   there
                   ,
                   not
                   far
                   from
                   it
                   ;
                
                 
                   This
                   is
                   the
                   Place
                   ,
                   where
                   bold
                   Evander
                   dwelt
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   here
                   ,
                   they
                   say
                   ,
                   this
                   Hill
                   ,
                   Rome
                   first
                   was
                   Built
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   ,
                   while
                   I
                   wonder
                   all
                   the
                   lovely
                   sight
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   see
                   a
                   House
                   ,
                   the
                   Posts
                   in
                   Armour
                   set
                   ,
                
                 
                   Good
                   ,
                   as
                   some
                   God
                   had
                   had
                   it
                   for
                   his
                   Seat
                   :
                
                 
                   Nay
                   ,
                   so
                   surpriz'd
                   ,
                   I
                   innocently
                   cry'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Is
                   n't
                   this
                   
                   Jove's
                   House
                   ?
                   it
                   must
                   be
                   so
                   ,
                   I
                   said
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   there
                   ,
                   hard
                   by
                   ,
                   an
                   Oaken
                   Crown
                   I
                   see
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sacred
                   to
                   Jove
                   ,
                   this
                   makes
                   my
                   Augury
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   still
                   my
                   Guide
                   ,
                   he
                   told
                   me
                   I
                   was
                   Wrong
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   was
                   
                   Caesar's
                   Pallace
                   ,
                   and
                   he'ad
                   known
                   it
                   long
                   ;
                
                 
                   I
                   cou'd
                   not
                   for
                   my
                   Heart
                   but
                   yet
                   conclude
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   stately
                   all
                   ,
                   so
                   happy
                   the
                   Abode
                   ,
                
                 
                   Caesar
                   must
                   be
                   at
                   least
                   a
                   Second
                   God.
                
                 
                   Why
                   are
                   these
                   Gates
                   ,
                   I
                   said
                   ,
                   with
                   Laurels
                   set
                   ?
                
                 
                   How
                   come
                   the
                   Boughs
                   thus
                   artfully
                   to
                   meet
                   ?
                
                 
                   Is
                   it
                   because
                   perpetual
                   Triumph's
                   here
                   ?
                
                 
                   And
                   Laurels
                   wanting
                   for
                   so
                   many
                   are
                   ?
                
                 
                   Or
                   is
                   it
                   Holy-day
                   ?
                   or
                   this
                   a
                   Sign
                   ,
                
                 
                   How
                   happy
                   all
                   the
                   People
                   are
                   in
                   him
                   ?
                
                 
                 
                   If
                   so
                   ,
                   to
                   th'
                   Number
                   may
                   he
                   kindly
                   add
                   ,
                
                 
                   One
                   Citizen
                   his
                   Anger
                   's
                   wretched
                   made
                   :
                
                 
                   Ah
                   me
                   !
                   so
                   awful
                   all
                   the
                   Place
                   appears
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Heart
                   misgives
                   me
                   ,
                   and
                   admits
                   of
                   Fears
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Paper
                   sinks
                   ,
                   affected
                   with
                   the
                   Thought
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   wild
                   Disorder
                   a
                   Presage
                   had
                   Taught
                   :
                
                 
                   At
                   this
                   I
                   Stop
                   ,
                   and
                   Kneeling
                   down
                   ,
                   I
                   Pray
                   ,
                
                 
                   First
                   to
                   my self
                   ,
                   at
                   last
                   ,
                   aloud
                   I
                   say
                   :
                
                 
                   May
                   Caesar
                   ,
                   Sovereign
                   of
                   the
                   World
                   below
                   ,
                
                 
                   Great
                   in
                   his
                   Empire
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Wisdom
                   too
                   ,
                
                 
                   Forgive
                   my
                   Father
                   ,
                   and
                   Revoke
                   his
                   Doom
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   smile
                   on
                   me
                   ,
                   tho'
                   Born
                   an
                   Exile's
                   Son.
                
                 
                   Next
                   ,
                   by
                   a
                   Vast
                   ,
                   but
                   gradual
                   Ascent
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   Great
                   
                   Apollo's
                   Temples
                   were
                   ,
                   we
                   went
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   Books
                   are
                   seen
                   ,
                   of
                   various
                   Subjects
                   writ
                   ,
                
                 
                   Contain'd
                   within
                   a
                   Place
                   that
                   joyns
                   to
                   it
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   here
                   I
                   thought
                   my
                   Kindred
                   Books
                   to
                   see
                   ,
                
                 
                   All
                   but
                   th'
                   unfortunate
                   ,
                   our
                   Misery
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   e're
                   I
                   lookt
                   the
                   several
                   Classes
                   o'er
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Keeper
                   told
                   me
                   ,
                   there
                   was
                   none
                   such
                   there
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   rudely
                   bid
                   me
                   in
                   a
                   barbarous
                   Tone
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   fair
                   means
                   ,
                   or
                   by
                   foul
                   ,
                   be
                   quickly
                   gone
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   From
                   thence
                   to
                   other
                   Libraries
                   I
                   came
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   still
                   no
                   less
                   than
                   there
                   ,
                   Repuls'd
                   with
                   shame
                   ;
                
                 
                   At
                   this
                   a
                   sad
                   Reflection
                   made
                   me
                   sigh
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   Birth
                   ,
                   that
                   I
                   shou'd
                   so
                   unhappy
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lost
                   by
                   my
                   Father's
                   Crimes
                   ,
                   as
                   well
                   as
                   he
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 ELEGY
                 II.
                 
              
               
                 In
                 this
                 Elegy
                 Ovid
                 complains
                 of
                 his
                 Banishment
                 ,
                 and
                 passionately
                 desires
                 to
                 dye
                 .
              
               
                 
                   WHen
                   the
                   Gods
                   Curse
                   ,
                   in
                   Sufferings
                   like
                   mine
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   great
                   their
                   Wrath
                   ,
                   yet
                   greater
                   is
                   the
                   Sin
                   ;
                
                 
                   That
                   I
                   to
                   Scythia
                   shou'd
                   Banisht
                   be
                   !
                
                 
                   Live
                   in
                   Disgrace
                   ,
                   and
                   dye
                   with
                   Infamy
                   !
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Muses
                   that
                   I
                   doted
                   on
                   ,
                   and
                   Pray'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   passionately
                   courted
                   ,
                   as
                   I
                   did
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Deities
                   ,
                   I
                   so
                   entirely
                   lov'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   took
                   my
                   Offerings
                   ,
                   and
                   my
                   Songs
                   approv'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   These
                   might
                   ,
                   one
                   wou'd
                   have
                   thought
                   ,
                   the
                   Gods
                   have
                   mov'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Apollo
                   too
                   ,
                   the
                   Patron
                   of
                   our
                   Right
                   ,
                
                 
                   Refus'd
                   his
                   Interest
                   ,
                   and
                   left
                   me
                   quite
                   .
                
                 
                   Abandon'd
                   ,
                   and
                   undone
                   ,
                   my
                   Wrongs
                   I
                   tell
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   none
                   can
                   know
                   their
                   Force
                   but
                   I
                   ,
                   that
                   feel
                   ;
                
                 
                   I
                   ,
                   that
                   my
                   Life
                   ,
                   till
                   now
                   ,
                   in
                   Silence
                   past
                   ,
                
                 
                   Avoiding
                   noise
                   ,
                   and
                   bus'ness
                   to
                   the
                   last
                   ;
                
                 
                   Tender
                   ,
                   and
                   Delicate
                   ,
                   no
                   Labours
                   knew
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   Heats
                   ,
                   and
                   Colds
                   ,
                   as
                   Travellers
                   do
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   I
                   ,
                   shou'd
                   such
                   an
                   Alteration
                   bear
                   !
                
                 
                   The
                   Icy
                   Seas
                   ,
                   and
                   Frosts
                   ,
                   so
                   common
                   here
                   ,
                
                 
                   Spent
                   by
                   Fatigues
                   ,
                   that
                   I
                   shou'd
                   think
                   to
                   write
                   !
                
                 
                   That
                   it
                   shou'd
                   please
                   me
                   too
                   ,
                   is
                   stranger
                   yet
                   !
                
                 
                   When
                   all
                   the
                   wretched
                   Tale
                   I
                   tell
                   ,
                   is
                   true
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   what
                   the
                   Reader
                   sees
                   ,
                   I
                   feel
                   ,
                   and
                   know
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   When
                   I
                   had
                   pass'd
                   the
                   Dangers
                   of
                   the
                   Seas
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   reach'd
                   the
                   Land
                   ,
                   the
                   sad
                   appointed
                   Place
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   thought
                   my
                   Mind
                   might
                   with
                   the
                   Vessel
                   rest
                   ,
                
                 
                   However
                   ,
                   be
                   more
                   peaceable
                   at
                   least
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   far
                   from
                   this
                   ,
                   new
                   Horrors
                   they
                   affright
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Towns
                   ,
                   the
                   Men
                   ,
                   the
                   Land
                   ,
                   a
                   wretched
                   Sight
                   !
                
                 
                   At
                   this
                   ,
                   my
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   obedient
                   to
                   my
                   Mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Gusht
                   out
                   with
                   Tears
                   ,
                   that
                   long
                   had
                   bin
                   confin'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Such
                   Floods
                   I
                   wept
                   ,
                   as
                   when
                   great
                   Waters
                   flow
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   tallest
                   Mountains
                   ,
                   coverd
                   o're
                   with
                   Snow
                   ,
                
                 
                   Dissolv'd
                   by
                   Rains
                   ,
                   that
                   Threat'n
                   all
                   below
                   .
                
                 
                   While
                   Rome
                   ,
                   the
                   great
                   ,
                   the
                   good
                   ,
                   the
                   much
                   lov'd
                   Place
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   House
                   ,
                   my
                   Wife
                   ,
                   my
                   Friends
                   ,
                   my
                   Fears
                   encrease
                   ,
                
                 
                   Often
                   I
                   ask
                   to
                   Dye
                   ,
                   but
                   ask
                   in
                   vain
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   Heav'n
                   reserv'd
                   me
                   for
                   a
                   farther
                   Pain
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   that
                   cann't
                   be
                   ,
                   so
                   exquisite
                   my
                   Grief
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Torments
                   that
                   I
                   know
                   exceed
                   Belief
                   :
                
                 
                   Why
                   has
                   the
                   Fatal
                   Steel
                   escap'd
                   my
                   Throat
                   ?
                
                 
                   Why
                   has
                   the
                   Deep
                   her
                   Mouth
                   unkindly
                   shut
                   ?
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Gods
                   ,
                   in
                   Complaisance
                   to
                   
                   Caesar's
                   Wrath
                   ,
                
                 
                   Resolve
                   me
                   wretched
                   ,
                   and
                   deny
                   me
                   Death
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 ELEGY
                 III.
                 
              
               
                 To
                 his
                 Wife
                 .
              
               
                 With
                 some
                 Account
                 of
                 his
                 Sickness
                 .
              
               
                 
                   TOo
                   weak
                   to
                   write
                   ,
                   a
                   Stranger
                   's
                   hand
                   I
                   use
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   be
                   n't
                   ,
                   my
                   Dear
                   ,
                   too
                   much
                   surpriz'd
                   at
                   this
                
                 
                   Take
                   the
                   true
                   Reason
                   ,
                   tho'
                   I
                   'm
                   loth
                   to
                   tell
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   much
                   you
                   love
                   ,
                   so
                   very
                   much
                   I
                   feel
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   sudden
                   Illness
                   seiz'd
                   me
                   with
                   a
                   mighty
                   force
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   tho'
                   so
                   bad
                   at
                   first
                   ,
                   I
                   still
                   grew
                   worse
                   ,
                
                 
                   VVhile
                   shooting
                   Pains
                   distorted
                   every
                   joint
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   frequent
                   Sweats
                   made
                   all
                   my
                   Members
                   faint
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   My
                   Fingers
                   ,
                   they
                   refus'd
                   the
                   VVork
                   they
                   knew
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   disobey'd
                   ,
                   tho'
                   I
                   design'd
                   it
                   you
                   ;
                
                 
                   No
                   Means
                   was
                   left
                   ,
                   but
                   by
                   another's
                   hand
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   this
                   is
                   that
                   ,
                   my
                   Dearest
                   VVife
                   ,
                   I
                   send
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   want
                   of
                   Health
                   's
                   no
                   small
                   ,
                   no
                   trivial
                   Ill
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Bravest
                   pity
                   ,
                   when
                   the
                   Pains
                   they
                   feel
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   weary'd
                   Nature
                   ,
                   Stagger'd
                   with
                   the
                   Weight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Disorder'd
                   ,
                   sinks
                   beneath
                   approaching
                   Fate
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   mine
                   's
                   much
                   worse
                   than
                   e'er
                   the
                   Wretchedst
                   knew
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Place
                   I
                   live
                   in
                   ,
                   doubles
                   every
                   Woe
                   ,
                
                 
                   Here
                   's
                   no
                   Physitian
                   to
                   Relieve
                   the
                   Sick
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   healing
                   Cordials
                   to
                   support
                   the
                   VVeak
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   VVitty
                   Friend
                   is
                   found
                   within
                   this
                   Place
                   ,
                
                 
                   VVith
                   pleasing
                   Stories
                   ,
                   to
                   divert
                   in
                   such
                   a
                   Case
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   make
                   the
                   sluggish
                   Minutes
                   mend
                   their
                   Pace
                   :
                
                 
                   In
                   various
                   Postures
                   on
                   my
                   Bed
                   I
                   lye
                   ,
                
                 
                   Restless
                   in
                   all
                   ,
                   yet
                   still
                   the
                   same
                   I
                   Try
                   ,
                
                 
                   VVhile
                   crouding
                   Thoughts
                   are
                   shuffling
                   in
                   my
                   Mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   you
                   ,
                   as
                   always
                   ,
                   I
                   the
                   deepest
                   find
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   Fond
                   of
                   your
                   Name
                   ,
                   the
                   wonted
                   Sound
                   I
                   speak
                   ,
                
                 
                   Improperly
                   ,
                   they
                   say
                   ,
                   and
                   Nonsence
                   make
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   much
                   I
                   love
                   ,
                   that
                   shou'd
                   my
                   Faultring
                   Tongue
                   ,
                
                 
                   Too
                   Weak
                   ,
                   refuse
                   to
                   speak
                   as
                   it
                   has
                   done
                   ;
                
                 
                   Shou'd
                   you
                   appear
                   ,
                   the
                   Strings
                   wou'd
                   artful
                   Play
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   shrunk
                   before
                   ,
                   wou'd
                   all
                   Obedience
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   thousand
                   little
                   tender
                   things
                   I
                   'de
                   say
                   ,
                
                 
                   Talk
                   like
                   a
                   Lover
                   ,
                   on
                   his
                   Wedding-day
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   more
                   than
                   talk
                   ,
                   I
                   'd
                   love
                   ,
                   my
                   Dear
                   ,
                   as
                   he
                   .
                
                 
                   Such
                   joy
                   ,
                   wou'd
                   give
                   new
                   Measure
                   to
                   my
                   Days
                   ,
                
                 
                   While
                   I
                   not
                   only
                   liv'd
                   ,
                   but
                   liv'd
                   with
                   Ease
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   if
                   the
                   Thread
                   of
                   Life
                   the
                   Sisters
                   spun
                   ,
                
                 
                   Was
                   but
                   design'd
                   till
                   now
                   ,
                   and
                   's
                   a'most
                   done
                   ,
                
                 
                   It
                   had
                   bin
                   kind
                   to
                   let
                   me
                   stay'd
                   at
                   Home
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   there
                   ,
                   ye
                   Gods
                   ,
                   expected
                   till
                   it
                   Run
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   I
                   'ad
                   a
                   Grave
                   within
                   my
                   Country
                   had
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   my
                   Friends
                   ,
                   the
                   decent
                   Rites
                   had
                   paid
                   ,
                
                 
                   Secure
                   I
                   'ad
                   slept
                   ,
                   without
                   Reflection
                   layd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Now
                   in
                   a
                   distant
                   Land
                   ,
                   remote
                   from
                   all
                   ,
                
                 
                   Living
                   ,
                   and
                   dying
                   ,
                   I
                   unpity'd
                   Fall
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   tender
                   Friend
                   to
                   do
                   the
                   last
                   kind
                   Work
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   Close
                   my
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   for
                   ever
                   after
                   Dark
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   When
                   you
                   receive
                   these
                   Lines
                   ,
                   my
                   Dearest
                   Wife
                   ▪
                
                 
                   Let
                   not
                   my
                   cares
                   ,
                   too
                   much
                   encrease
                   your
                   Grief
                   ;
                
                 
                   Inur'd
                   to
                   Sorrows
                   ,
                   you
                   know
                   better
                   things
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   know
                   ,
                   too
                   much
                   Concern
                   ,
                   a
                   Weakness
                   bring
                   ;
                
                 
                   Long
                   you
                   have
                   learnt
                   the
                   Melancholy
                   Trade
                   ,
                
                 
                   Read
                   all
                   the
                   Mystery's
                   it
                   ever
                   had
                   ;
                
                 
                   Besides
                   ,
                   Child
                   ,
                   Death
                   it self's
                   no
                   Punishment
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   lost
                   your
                   Husband
                   in
                   his
                   Banishment
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   worst
                   of
                   Deaths
                   the
                   Gods
                   con'd
                   e'er
                   invent
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Death
                   with
                   infamy
                   ,
                   to
                   th'
                   Vilest
                   sent
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   if
                   Heav'n
                   wou'd
                   pardon
                   what
                   is
                   past
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   Pray'r
                   I
                   'de
                   make
                   ,
                   and
                   breath
                   it
                   with
                   my
                   last
                   ▪
                
                 
                   May
                   no
                   Remains
                   of
                   me
                   ,
                   but
                   all
                   entire
                   ,
                
                 
                   Stretcht
                   on
                   the
                   Pile
                   ,
                   in
                   fiercest
                   Flames
                   expire
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   shou'd
                   what
                   sond
                   Pythagoras
                   says
                   ,
                   be
                   true
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   after
                   Death
                   ,
                   our
                   Souls
                   a
                   Being
                   know
                   ,
                
                 
                   More
                   Wretched
                   still
                   ,
                   to
                   dye
                   in
                   such
                   a
                   Place
                   ,
                
                 
                   Unknown
                   the
                   Way
                   ,
                   I
                   shou'd
                   be
                   Doom'd
                   to
                   this
                   ;
                
                 
                   Converse
                   with
                   Ghosts
                   ,
                   that
                   Devils
                   liv'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   never
                   cou'd
                   on
                   Earth
                   be
                   once
                   believ'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   makes
                   me
                   Charge
                   those
                   Servants
                   that
                   I
                   have
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   see
                   all
                   Burnt
                   ,
                   some
                   Ashes
                   only
                   save
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   these
                   enclos'd
                   within
                   a
                   well
                   made
                   Urn
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   Italy
                   ,
                   with
                   haste
                   I
                   wou'd
                   have
                   Born
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   thus
                   ,
                   tho'
                   dead
                   ,
                   my
                   Dear
                   ,
                   I
                   shall
                   return
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   who
                   can
                   blame
                   your
                   pious
                   care
                   in
                   this
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   all
                   inhumane
                   ,
                   if
                   it
                   shou'd
                   displease
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Theban
                   dead
                   ,
                   his
                   Corps
                   were
                   stole
                   away
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   bury'd
                   too
                   ,
                   in
                   spite
                   of
                   a
                   Decree
                   :
                
                 
                   Let
                   well-chose
                   Sweets
                   be
                   scatter'd
                   o're
                   my
                   Grave
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   let
                   my
                   Marble
                   this
                   Inscription
                   have
                   ;
                
              
               
                 
                   Here
                   ,
                   in
                   this
                   Melancholly
                   Vault
                   below
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lyes
                   injur'd
                   Ovid
                   ,
                   all
                   that
                   's
                   Ovid
                   now
                   ,
                
                 
                   Vndone
                   ,
                   and
                   ruin'd
                   ,
                   while
                   he
                   he
                   strove
                   to
                   move
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   telling
                   Stories
                   of
                   endearing
                   Love
                   :
                
                 
                   Now
                   whosoe'er
                   thou
                   art
                   ,
                   that
                   passest
                   by
                   ,
                
                 
                   Pray
                   Heav'n
                   that
                   Ovid
                   may
                   securely
                   lye
                   ,
                
                 
                   Since
                   thou
                   thy self
                   hast
                   lov'd
                   as
                   well
                   as
                   he
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   This
                   is
                   enough
                   to
                   signifie
                   the
                   Man
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   rest
                   my
                   Books
                   will
                   do
                   ,
                   they
                   speak
                   my
                   Fame
                   ,
                
                 
                   Louder
                   ,
                   and
                   better
                   ,
                   than
                   Inscriptions
                   can
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Much
                   more
                   I
                   have
                   to
                   say
                   ,
                   much
                   more
                   cou'd
                   find
                   ,
                
                 
                   Cou'd
                   I
                   with
                   strength
                   deliver
                   all
                   my
                   Mind
                   :
                
                 
                   Take
                   then
                   unfinish'd
                   ,
                   what
                   your
                   Husband
                   gives
                   ,
                
                 
                   May
                   you
                   enjoy
                   ,
                   and
                   long
                   ,
                   the
                   World
                   he
                   leaves
                   :
                
                 
                   May
                   you
                   of
                   Blessings
                   have
                   so
                   vast
                   a
                   store
                   ,
                
                 
                   'Till
                   Heav'n
                   can
                   give
                   ,
                   or
                   you
                   can
                   ask
                   no
                   more
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   last
                   good
                   thing
                   your
                   Ovid
                   he
                   presents
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   gives
                   you
                   Health
                   ,
                   the
                   Blessing
                   that
                   he
                   wants
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 ELEGY
                 IV.
                 
              
               
                 To
                 his
                 Friend
                 .
              
               
                 Advising
                 him
                 to
                 shun
                 the
                 dangerous
                 Conversation
                 of
                 the
                 Great
                 ,
                 recommending
                 a
                 Private
                 Life
                 ,
                 with
                 the
                 Advantages
                 of
                 a
                 Retirement
                 .
              
               
                 
                   TAke
                   this
                   ,
                   my
                   Friend
                   ,
                   in
                   Dangers
                   often
                   known
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   durst
                   ,
                   in
                   worst
                   of
                   Times
                   ,
                   a
                   Friendship
                   own
                   :
                
                 
                   Live
                   to
                   self
                   ,
                   always
                   avoid
                   a
                   show
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Private
                   ,
                   do
                   ,
                   the
                   truest
                   Pleasures
                   know
                   ,
                
                 
                   Value
                   thy self
                   on
                   Nature's
                   better
                   Care
                   ,
                
                 
                   Prefer
                   her
                   Gifts
                   ,
                   before
                   his
                   Lordship's
                   Ear
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   Despise
                   the
                   Gaudy
                   Titles
                   that
                   he
                   has
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Mouldy
                   instances
                   of
                   former
                   Praise
                   ;
                
                 
                   Believe
                   me
                   ,
                   for
                   I
                   know
                   it
                   very
                   true
                   ,
                
                 
                   None
                   live
                   so
                   happy
                   ,
                   as
                   the
                   Private
                   do
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   small
                   ,
                   convenient
                   ,
                   little
                   House
                   ,
                   I
                   'd
                   choose
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   some
                   few
                   Friends
                   ,
                   try'd
                   by
                   the
                   nicest
                   Laws
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   I
                   'd
                   Prefer
                   ,
                   by
                   much
                   ,
                   before
                   a
                   Court
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   all
                   the
                   Powder'd
                   Fops
                   that
                   there
                   Resort
                   ,
                
                 
                   Scarce
                   in
                   appearance
                   Men
                   ,
                   so
                   Antick
                   drest
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   when
                   they
                   Talk
                   ,
                   their
                   Garb's
                   by
                   much
                   the
                   best
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   live
                   with
                   such
                   as
                   these
                   ,
                   is
                   Hell
                   to
                   Wiser
                   Men
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   love
                   their
                   Ease
                   ,
                   and
                   Studys
                   ,
                   more
                   than
                   Gain
                   :
                
                 
                   When
                   Jove
                   in
                   anger
                   Throws
                   his
                   Thunder
                   round
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   levels
                   taller
                   Buildings
                   with
                   the
                   Ground
                   ,
                
                 
                   While
                   Humble
                   Cottages
                   untouch'd
                   are
                   found
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   naked
                   Sail-yard
                   all
                   Attempts
                   defys
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fearless
                   of
                   all
                   the
                   force
                   of
                   Waves
                   ,
                   and
                   Skies
                   ,
                
                 
                   While
                   swelling
                   Sails
                   are
                   drove
                   thro'
                   dangerous
                   ways
                   ,
                
                 
                   Russl'd
                   by
                   Winds
                   ,
                   that
                   trouble
                   widest
                   Seas
                   ;
                
                 
                   O
                   ,
                   had
                   I
                   took
                   ,
                   what
                   here
                   I
                   now
                   advise
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   '
                   ad
                   known
                   me
                   still
                   at
                   Rome
                   ,
                   in
                   perfect
                   Peace
                   !
                
                 
                 
                   He
                   who
                   by
                   Chance
                   comes
                   down
                   upon
                   a
                   Plain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Falls
                   without
                   danger
                   ,
                   and
                   may
                   rise
                   again
                   :
                
                 
                   Why
                   was
                   Fam'd
                   Daedalus
                   found
                   safe
                   ,
                   when
                   he
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Wings
                   ,
                   as
                   well
                   as
                   Icarus
                   did
                   Fly
                   ?
                
                 
                   This
                   was
                   the
                   Difference
                   ,
                   and
                   only
                   this
                   ,
                
                 
                   One
                   kept
                   the
                   Ground
                   ,
                   the
                   other
                   Made
                   the
                   Skys
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   Daedalus
                   fell
                   ,
                   he
                   rose
                   again
                   with
                   ease
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   t'other
                   falling
                   from
                   a
                   Praecipice
                   ,
                
                 
                   Dy'd
                   i'
                   th'
                   Attempt
                   ,
                   and
                   dying
                   Nam'd
                   the
                   Seas
                   .
                
                 
                   Believe
                   me
                   ,
                   Friend
                   ,
                   and
                   take
                   my
                   very
                   Soul
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Truths
                   I
                   tell
                   ,
                   are
                   good
                   ,
                   and
                   study'd
                   all
                   ,
                
                 
                   Quit
                   not
                   Retirement
                   ,
                   for
                   Noise
                   ,
                   and
                   Show
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   Pompous
                   Titles
                   ,
                   as
                   the
                   Great
                   Ones
                   do
                   .
                
                 
                   Happy
                   the
                   good
                   ,
                   Unknown
                   ,
                   who
                   in
                   a
                   Middle
                   State
                   ,
                
                 
                   Contented
                   lives
                   ,
                   more
                   Vertuous
                   than
                   Great
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   answers
                   all
                   the
                   Ends
                   the
                   Gods
                   enjoyn
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   time
                   ,
                   but
                   's
                   very
                   well
                   employ'd
                   by
                   him
                   ;
                
                 
                   What
                   e'er
                   he
                   says
                   ,
                   is
                   all
                   severely
                   true
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   do's
                   not
                   talk
                   ,
                   as
                   Parasites
                   in
                   Courts
                   must
                   do
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   's
                   always
                   just
                   to
                   what
                   he
                   do's
                   pretend
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   is
                   ,
                   where
                   e'er
                   he
                   promises
                   ▪
                   a
                   Friend
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Friendship
                   admits
                   of
                   no
                   dissembling
                   Arts
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   boasts
                   of
                   pure
                   ,
                   entire
                   ,
                   and
                   perfect
                   parts
                   ,
                
                 
                   Allows
                   no
                   more
                   of
                   nauseous
                   Flattery
                   ,
                
                 
                   Than
                   pious
                   Laws
                   approve
                   of
                   Treachery
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   all
                   her
                   Rules
                   ,
                   so
                   well
                   you
                   understand
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   can
                   in
                   loftyer
                   Strains
                   than
                   I
                   ,
                   commend
                   ;
                
                 
                   You
                   praise
                   it
                   too
                   ,
                   by
                   practising
                   the
                   Good
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   living
                   Perfect
                   ,
                   as
                   the
                   Better
                   shou'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Often
                   I
                   think
                   ,
                   with
                   what
                   a
                   kind
                   sad
                   look
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   I
                   left
                   Rome
                   ,
                   your
                   last
                   Farewell
                   you
                   took
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   what
                   affection
                   you
                   return'd
                   my
                   Kiss
                   ,
                
                 
                   How
                   much
                   concern
                   you
                   show'd
                   in
                   the
                   Surprize
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   Floods
                   of
                   Tears
                   descended
                   from
                   your
                   Eyes
                   !
                
                 
                   This
                   was
                   Compassionate
                   ,
                   and
                   very
                   Kind
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   this
                   is
                   but
                   a
                   part
                   of
                   what
                   's
                   behind
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   e'er
                   the
                   Rabble
                   ,
                   fond
                   of
                   Misery
                   ,
                
                 
                   Breath'd
                   out
                   my
                   Name
                   ,
                   with
                   Infamy
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   ,
                   like
                   a
                   Guardian
                   Angel
                   ,
                   still
                   stood
                   firm
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   for
                   my
                   Sake
                   ,
                   oppos'd
                   the
                   loudest
                   Storm
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   this
                   ,
                   the
                   World
                   shall
                   pay
                   eternal
                   Praise
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   read
                   your
                   Name
                   in
                   never
                   dying
                   Verse
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   My
                   Person
                   's
                   Banish'd
                   ,
                   but
                   my
                   Name
                   's
                   still
                   free
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   boasts
                   ,
                   a
                   great
                   ,
                   and
                   glorious
                   Liberty
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 ELEGY
                 V.
                 
              
               
                 To
                 his
                 Friend
                 .
              
               
                 Whom
                 he
                 calls
                 by
                 a
                 Feign'd
                 Name
                 ,
                 Charus
                 .
              
               
                 
                   WHen
                   the
                   last
                   Morn's
                   unwelcome
                   Light
                   came
                   on
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   I
                   must
                   leave
                   my
                   Wife
                   ,
                   my
                   Friends
                   ,
                   and
                   Rome
                   ,
                
                 
                   Well
                   I
                   remember
                   then
                   ,
                   how
                   kindly
                   you
                   ,
                
                 
                   Profess'd
                   a
                   Friendship
                   ever
                   since
                   prov'd
                   true
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   had
                   I
                   long
                   ,
                   my
                   Friend
                   ,
                   the
                   Blessing
                   known
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   made
                   it
                   dearer
                   than
                   it
                   wou'd
                   have
                   bin
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   That
                   you
                   ,
                   while
                   I
                   ,
                   undone
                   ,
                   neglected
                   stood
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shou'd
                   then
                   ,
                   an
                   early
                   Friendship
                   too
                   ,
                   make
                   good
                   ,
                
                 
                   Was
                   such
                   a
                   generous
                   ,
                   and
                   noble
                   thought
                   ,
                
                 
                   It
                   reach'd
                   the
                   highest
                   Pitch
                   that
                   Friendship
                   ought
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   yet
                   do's
                   Absence
                   alter
                   your
                   Design
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   still
                   ,
                   my
                   Charus
                   ,
                   you
                   continue
                   Mine
                   ;
                
                 
                   Often
                   you
                   dare
                   to
                   take
                   a
                   Sufferer's
                   Part
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   none
                   ,
                   than
                   Charus
                   ,
                   boasts
                   a
                   nicer
                   Art
                   ;
                
                 
                   Your
                   Eloquence
                   with
                   so
                   much
                   force
                   can
                   move
                   ,
                
                 
                   Severest
                   Judges
                   a'most
                   partial
                   prove
                   ;
                
                 
                   What
                   can
                   you
                   do
                   then
                   ,
                   when
                   a
                   sort
                   of
                   Right
                   ,
                
                 
                   Pleads
                   for
                   your
                   Friend
                   ,
                   and
                   you
                   ,
                   my
                   Friend
                   ,
                   Plead
                   it
                   ?
                
                 
                   This
                   is
                   my
                   Case
                   ,
                   in
                   this
                   ,
                   use
                   all
                   your
                   Skill
                   ,
                
                 
                   Caesar
                   is
                   good
                   ,
                   and
                   will
                   forgive
                   an
                   Ill
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   mine
                   's
                   a
                   Crime
                   ,
                   because
                   he
                   thinks
                   so
                   still
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Great
                   ,
                   and
                   Valiant
                   ,
                   is
                   the
                   Generous
                   Foe
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   scorns
                   what
                   little
                   petty
                   Conquerors
                   do
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Honour
                   prompts
                   him
                   by
                   a
                   better
                   Law.
                
                 
                   The
                   Fault
                   once
                   own'd
                   ,
                   he
                   soon
                   Forgives
                   the
                   Crime
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ne'er
                   upbraids
                   ,
                   till
                   he
                   's
                   provok'd
                   again
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   So
                   fiercest
                   Lions
                   ,
                   tho'
                   their
                   Power
                   great
                   ,
                
                 
                   Pardon
                   the
                   Weak
                   ,
                   when
                   Prostrate
                   at
                   their
                   Feet
                   ,
                
                 
                   Such
                   an
                   Acknowledgment
                   decides
                   the
                   Fray
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   this
                   is
                   certainly
                   the
                   nobler
                   way
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   Wolves
                   ,
                   and
                   Bears
                   ,
                   of
                   an
                   inferiour
                   Race
                   ,
                
                 
                   Always
                   the
                   same
                   ,
                   are
                   fierce
                   in
                   every
                   Place
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   no
                   Submission
                   take
                   ,
                   but
                   seize
                   their
                   Prey
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   rudely
                   bear
                   the
                   trembling
                   Beast
                   away
                   .
                
                 
                   Who
                   was
                   e'er
                   Rougher
                   than
                   Achilles
                   was
                   ?
                
                 
                   Yet
                   Dardanus
                   his
                   Griefs
                   took
                   so
                   much
                   Place
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   VVrongs
                   was
                   read
                   in
                   Fierce
                   Achilles
                   Face
                   ;
                
                 
                   Such
                   thoughts
                   as
                   these
                   ,
                   make
                   me
                   expect
                   Relief
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   Heav'n
                   will
                   one
                   day
                   mitigate
                   my
                   Grief
                   :
                
                 
                   Had
                   I
                   bin
                   conscious
                   of
                   some
                   Mighty
                   Fault
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   durst
                   not
                   then
                   ,
                   so
                   much
                   as
                   this
                   have
                   Thought
                   ;
                
                 
                   Had
                   I
                   in
                   VVine
                   profan'd
                   great
                   
                   Caesar's
                   Name
                   ,
                
                 
                   Manag'd
                   reflectingly
                   so
                   good
                   a
                   Theme
                   ;
                
                 
                   Had
                   I
                   bin
                   Treacherous
                   ,
                   I
                   shou'd
                   desire
                   to
                   dye
                   ,
                
                 
                   Rather
                   than
                   live
                   with
                   so
                   much
                   infamy
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   for
                   beholding
                   what
                   I
                   cou'd
                   not
                   shun
                   ,
                
                 
                   Banish'd
                   ,
                   for
                   what
                   my
                   Eyes
                   have
                   only
                   done
                   ,
                
                 
                   Is
                   hard
                   ,
                   and
                   yet
                   for
                   this
                   I
                   'm
                   Banish'd
                   Rome
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Now
                   ,
                   what
                   I
                   ask
                   ,
                   is
                   ,
                   you
                   wou'd
                   intercede
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   Liberty
                   is
                   never
                   to
                   be
                   had
                   ,
                
                 
                   Pray
                   my
                   Removal
                   from
                   this
                   horrid
                   Place
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   I
                   'le
                   rest
                   satissy'd
                   ,
                   my
                   Friend
                   ,
                   with
                   this
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 ELEGY
                 VI.
                 
              
               
                 To
                 Perilla
                 .
              
               
                 
                   GO
                   to
                   Perhilla
                   ,
                   Letter
                   ,
                   hasty
                   Go
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tell
                   her
                   of
                   e'ery
                   Circumstance
                   you
                   know
                   ;
                
                 
                   You
                   'll
                   find
                   her
                   Waiting
                   by
                   her
                   Mother
                   stand
                   ,
                
                 
                   List'ning
                   ,
                   and
                   Running
                   ,
                   at
                   the
                   least
                   Command
                   ▪
                
                 
                   What
                   e'er
                   she
                   's
                   doing
                   of
                   ,
                   tell
                   her
                   of
                   me
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   'll
                   leave
                   it
                   all
                   ,
                   and
                   quickly
                   follow
                   thee
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   thousand
                   times
                   she
                   'll
                   ask
                   you
                   how
                   I
                   do
                   ?
                
                 
                   Whether
                   I
                   'm
                   melancholly
                   still
                   ,
                   or
                   No
                   ?
                
                 
                 
                   Whether
                   my
                   Health
                   e'ent
                   injur'd
                   by
                   my
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   I
                   grown
                   old
                   ,
                   and
                   bend
                   beneath
                   the
                   Weight
                   ?
                
                 
                   To
                   all
                   she
                   says
                   ,
                   make
                   her
                   this
                   short
                   Reply
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   live
                   ,
                   but
                   live
                   impatiently
                   to
                   Dye
                   :
                
                 
                   Tell
                   her
                   ,
                   the
                   Mases
                   are
                   my
                   Care
                   again
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   the
                   Pleasure
                   that
                   I
                   have's
                   in
                   them
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   while
                   you
                   talk
                   ,
                   ask
                   her
                   be
                   sure
                   ,
                   why
                   she
                   ,
                
                 
                   Busy'd
                   in
                   other
                   Studies
                   ,
                   left
                   her
                   Poetry
                   ?
                
                 
                   She
                   had
                   a
                   sort
                   of
                   Right
                   ,
                   by
                   Birth
                   to
                   plead
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   Father's
                   Wit
                   ,
                   has
                   always
                   bin
                   allow'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   'T
                   was
                   very
                   hard
                   ,
                   shou'd
                   Children
                   only
                   live
                   ,
                
                 
                   Entitl'd
                   to
                   Diseases
                   ,
                   that
                   their
                   Parents
                   have
                   ;
                
                 
                   Sometimes
                   a
                   Fathers
                   Wit
                   's
                   a
                   happy
                   Share
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Promising
                   Portion
                   ,
                   in
                   the
                   meanest
                   Heir
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   Nature
                   in
                   Perilla
                   prov'd
                   her
                   Care
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Form'd
                   her
                   Perfect
                   ,
                   as
                   the
                   Nicest
                   are
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   every
                   Stroak
                   Foretold
                   a
                   certain
                   Reign
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Pregnant
                   Wit
                   ,
                   early
                   deserv'd
                   a
                   Name
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   was
                   then
                   ,
                   I
                   brought
                   her
                   to
                   the
                   sacred
                   Spring
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   gave
                   her
                   to
                   the
                   Nine
                   a
                   grateful
                   Offering
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   soon
                   inspir'd
                   with
                   Art
                   and
                   Thought
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   her
                   Lines
                   were
                   Smooth
                   ,
                   as
                   she
                   were
                   Taught
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   None
                   than
                   Perilla
                   more
                   sublimely
                   Flew
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   never
                   lost
                   ,
                   her
                   Rules
                   severely
                   True
                   ;
                
                 
                   If
                   Charming
                   Lesbia
                   sung
                   a
                   nobler
                   Song
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lesbia
                   with
                   Pains
                   had
                   Read
                   the
                   Muses
                   long
                   ,
                
                 
                   Perilla
                   in
                   her
                   Infant
                   Age
                   writ
                   strong
                   .
                
                 
                   Often
                   with
                   Pray'rs
                   ,
                   I
                   blest
                   th'
                   Auspicious
                   Sign
                   ,
                
                 
                   Kist
                   the
                   young
                   Girl
                   ,
                   in
                   all
                   her
                   Actions
                   Mine
                   ,
                
                 
                   Often
                   I
                   wonder'd
                   at
                   the
                   mighty
                   Pow'r
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Tale
                   I
                   'ad
                   heard
                   ,
                   but
                   never
                   knew
                   before
                   ;
                
                 
                   Thus
                   was
                   my
                   thoughts
                   Rais
                   d
                   to
                   a
                   vast
                   Height
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   see
                   my
                   Darling
                   Care
                   ,
                   Perhilla
                   Great
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   strait
                   ,
                   some
                   angry
                   God
                   his
                   Thunder
                   threw
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   striking
                   me
                   ,
                   he
                   struck
                   Perilla
                   too
                   ;
                
                 
                   No
                   sooner
                   was
                   my
                   Banishment
                   Decreed
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   my
                   great
                   hopes
                   ,
                   were
                   in
                   a
                   Moment
                   dead
                   ,
                
                 
                   Perilla
                   ,
                   all
                   her
                   Books
                   aside
                   had
                   laid
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   tho'
                   by
                   Reading
                   I
                   'm
                   unfortunate
                   ?
                
                 
                   You
                   may
                   expect
                   ,
                   my
                   Dear
                   ,
                   a
                   better
                   Fate
                   ;
                
                 
                   Beauty
                   ,
                   't
                   is
                   true
                   ,
                   you
                   have
                   a
                   wondrous
                   Share
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   Beauty
                   ,
                   Child
                   ,
                   tho'
                   every
                   Parent
                   's
                   care
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shines
                   but
                   a
                   while
                   ,
                   and
                   then
                   will
                   Disappear
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   But
                   Ladies
                   that
                   have
                   Wit
                   and
                   Beauty
                   too
                   ,
                
                 
                   May
                   boast
                   more
                   Slaves
                   than
                   Richest
                   Tyrants
                   do
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nay
                   ,
                   when
                   Time
                   has
                   Plough'd
                   the
                   lovely
                   Face
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   
                   Perilla's
                   thousand
                   Charms
                   ,
                   decrease
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   Eyes
                   less
                   sprightly
                   ,
                   and
                   her
                   Lips
                   less
                   red
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ner
                   Nose
                   ,
                   her
                   Cheeks
                   ,
                   look
                   nothing
                   as
                   they
                   did
                   ;
                
                 
                   Her
                   Wit
                   shall
                   still
                   a
                   mighty
                   Empire
                   know
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   Mankind
                   shall
                   to
                   Perilla
                   Bow
                   :
                
                 
                   Let
                   this
                   ,
                   my
                   Dear
                   ,
                   make
                   you
                   assume
                   your
                   Pen
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   read
                   ,
                   with
                   care
                   ,
                   your
                   Authors
                   o'er
                   again
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Bless
                   the
                   World
                   with
                   th'
                   Issue
                   of
                   your
                   Brain
                   .
                
              
            
             
               FINIS
               .
            
          
        
         
      
       
         
           
             
             
               VERSES
               UPON
               Several
               Occasions
               :
               WITH
               SOME
               Translations
               Out
               of
               the
               Latin
               and
               Greek
               Poets
               .
            
             
               By
               the
               same
               Author
               .
            
             
               LONDON
               ,
               Printed
               for
               
                 Richard
                 Cumberland
              
               ,
               1697.
               
            
          
        
         
           
             
             
               
               VERSES
               UPON
               Several
               Occasions
               .
            
             
               
                 ODE
                 3.
                 
                 Horace
                 ,
                 Lib.
                 1.
                 
              
               
                 
                   To
                   VIRGIL
                   ,
                   Taking
                   a
                   Voyage
                   to
                   Athens
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     MAy
                     Venus
                     happily
                     Conduct
                     my
                     Friend
                     ,
                  
                   
                     And
                     
                     Helen's
                     Brothers
                     ,
                     shining
                     Stars
                     ,
                     defend
                     ▪
                  
                   
                     May
                     Aeolus
                     ,
                     whose
                     Voice
                     the
                     Winds
                     obey
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Make
                     thee
                     his
                     Care
                     ,
                     and
                     still
                     the
                     Raging
                     Sea
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Chain
                     in
                     his
                     Den
                     each
                     Wind
                     ,
                     but
                     what
                     you
                     want
                     ,
                  
                   
                     And
                     like
                     a
                     God
                     Protect
                     ,
                     and
                     Storms
                     prevent
                     ;
                  
                   
                   
                     And
                     you
                     ,
                     Fond
                     Ship
                     ,
                     proud
                     of
                     your
                     Burthen
                     now
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Sail
                     with
                     more
                     care
                     ,
                     than
                     usually
                     you
                     do
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Safely
                     convey
                     him
                     ,
                     to
                     the
                     Attick
                     Lands
                     ,
                  
                   
                     The
                     best
                     of
                     Poets
                     ,
                     and
                     the
                     best
                     of
                     Friends
                     ,
                  
                   
                     In
                     this
                     you
                     will
                     Preserve
                     my
                     better
                     Half
                     ,
                  
                   
                     My
                     Virgil
                     ,
                     Dearer
                     to
                     me
                     than
                     my self
                     .
                  
                   
                     His
                     Heart
                     was
                     more
                     than
                     Brass
                     ,
                     who
                     first
                     durst
                     go
                     ,
                  
                   
                     And
                     visit
                     distant
                     Shoars
                     ,
                     as
                     we
                     do
                     now
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Safe
                     in
                     a
                     Ship
                     ,
                     the
                     Floting
                     Monsters
                     see
                     ,
                  
                   
                     And
                     be
                     no
                     more
                     Concern'd
                     i'
                     th'
                     Deep
                     ,
                     than
                     they
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Caress
                     the
                     Watery
                     People
                     as
                     they
                     come
                     ,
                  
                   
                     And
                     smile
                     ,
                     as
                     tho'
                     some
                     Common
                     thing
                     he'ad
                     done
                     :
                  
                   
                     In
                     vain
                     ,
                     the
                     Prudent
                     Deities
                     divide
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Confine
                     Mankind
                     by
                     an
                     impetuous
                     Tide
                     ,
                  
                   
                     While
                     Impious
                     Ships
                     can
                     Cross
                     the
                     Roughest
                     Seas
                     ,
                  
                   
                     In
                     spite
                     of
                     all
                     the
                     Force
                     of
                     Waves
                     and
                     Skies
                     .
                  
                   
                     Nothing
                     's
                     so
                     Mad
                     ,
                     that
                     foolish
                     Man
                     won't
                     do
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Courting
                     Forbidden
                     Ills
                     ,
                     because
                     they
                     're
                     so
                     .
                  
                   
                     Prometheus
                     long
                     ago
                     ,
                     begun
                     the
                     Way
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Stealing
                     
                     Jove's
                     Fire
                     to
                     Animate
                     his
                     Clay
                     ,
                  
                   
                   
                     But
                     soon
                     the
                     God
                     persu'd
                     him
                     with
                     his
                     Pow'r
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Sent
                     him
                     Diseases
                     ,
                     never
                     known
                     before
                     :
                  
                   
                     While
                     Death
                     mov'd
                     slowly
                     ,
                     in
                     a
                     lazy
                     Pace
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Ages
                     Man
                     liv'd
                     ,
                     and
                     good
                     ,
                     and
                     happy
                     was
                     ,
                  
                   
                     But
                     now
                     his
                     Life
                     's
                     Contracted
                     to
                     a
                     Span
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Scarce
                     sooner
                     is
                     he
                     Born
                     ,
                     than
                     he
                     is
                     gone
                     ,
                  
                   
                     His
                     Sin
                     ,
                     made
                     jealous
                     Heav'n
                     snatch
                     him
                     hence
                     ,
                  
                   
                     With
                     hasty
                     Death
                     confound
                     his
                     Arrogance
                     .
                  
                   
                     Fond
                     Daedalus
                     ,
                     with
                     Wings
                     must
                     needs
                     go
                     Try
                     ,
                  
                   
                     To
                     Cut
                     the
                     Air
                     ,
                     and
                     reach
                     the
                     Liquid
                     Sky
                     ,
                  
                   
                     A
                     Pow'r
                     ,
                     which
                     Nature's
                     wiser
                     Laws
                     deny
                     .
                  
                   
                     Thro'
                     Hell
                     below
                     ,
                     the
                     Fierce
                     Alcides
                     Ran
                     ,
                  
                   
                     A
                     Place
                     ,
                     where
                     none
                     ,
                     one
                     wou'd
                     'ave
                     thought
                     ,
                     wou'd
                     gone
                     .
                  
                   
                     Grown
                     Gyants
                     in
                     Impiety
                     ,
                     we
                     swell
                     ,
                  
                   
                     And
                     Brave
                     the
                     Gods
                     ,
                     that
                     wou'd
                     at
                     quiet
                     dwell
                     ;
                  
                   
                     Nay
                     ,
                     Jove
                     Assault
                     in
                     his
                     Imperial
                     Throne
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Uneasy
                     ,
                     if
                     he
                     lays
                     his
                     Thunder
                     down
                     .
                  
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 ODE
                 5.
                 lib.
                 1.
                 
              
               
                 
                   To
                   Pyrrha
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     WHat
                     Youth
                     ,
                     unskill'd
                     in
                     
                     Pyrrha's
                     Wanton
                     Art
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Offers
                     his
                     Love
                     ,
                     and
                     gives
                     thee
                     all
                     his
                     Heart
                     ?
                  
                   
                     With
                     Choice
                     Perfumes
                     ,
                     like
                     a
                     drest
                     ,
                     amorous
                     Beau
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Courts
                     Charming
                     Pyrrha
                     ,
                     as
                     I
                     us'd
                     to
                     do
                     ;
                  
                   
                     Knocks
                     at
                     thy
                     Door
                     ,
                     and
                     fears
                     to
                     be
                     deny'd
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Loving
                     his
                     Pyrrha
                     more
                     than
                     all
                     ,
                     beside
                     ;
                  
                   
                     For
                     whom
                     do
                     you
                     those
                     Flowing
                     Locks
                     prepare
                     ?
                  
                   
                     Careless
                     ,
                     yet
                     finer
                     ,
                     than
                     the
                     nicest
                     are
                     ;
                  
                   
                     When
                     time
                     shall
                     show
                     him
                     what
                     his
                     Pyrrha
                     is
                     ,
                  
                   
                     How
                     will
                     he
                     Curse
                     his
                     Fond
                     mistaken
                     Bliss
                     !
                  
                   
                     When
                     he
                     ,
                     ne'er
                     us'd
                     to
                     swelling
                     Seas
                     before
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Looks
                     back
                     ,
                     and
                     sees
                     the
                     dear
                     deserted
                     Shoar
                     ,
                  
                   
                   
                     How
                     often
                     will
                     he
                     Weep
                     his
                     Wretched
                     Fate
                     ?
                  
                   
                     And
                     Curse
                     his
                     Stars
                     ,
                     that
                     so
                     severely
                     Hate
                     ;
                  
                   
                     Tho'
                     now
                     he
                     eager
                     ,
                     Rifles
                     all
                     thy
                     Charms
                     ,
                  
                   
                     And
                     thinks
                     no
                     Blessings
                     like
                     his
                     
                     Pyrrha's
                     Arms
                     ;
                  
                   
                     Ne'er
                     doubts
                     at
                     all
                     ,
                     but
                     you
                     will
                     always
                     Prove
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Constant
                     like
                     him
                     ,
                     Engaging
                     still
                     in
                     Love
                     :
                  
                   
                     Unhappy
                     Men
                     !
                     to
                     whom
                     unknown
                     you
                     shine
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Who
                     fondly
                     think
                     you're
                     Good
                     ,
                     because
                     you
                     'r
                     Fine
                     ,
                  
                   
                     I
                     felt
                     the
                     Storm
                     my Self
                     ,
                     and
                     then
                     I
                     Vow'd
                     ,
                  
                   
                     For
                     ever
                     after
                     to
                     Adore
                     th'
                     Assisting
                     God
                     ,
                  
                   
                     And
                     here
                     ,
                     this
                     Table
                     shows
                     I
                     dread
                     the
                     Flood
                     .
                  
                
              
               
                 
                   To
                   Clarinda
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     TO
                     Pray's
                     a
                     Priviledge
                     the
                     Gods
                     allow
                     ,
                  
                   
                     They
                     kindly
                     give
                     us
                     leave
                     to
                     Love
                     'em
                     too
                     ,
                  
                   
                     And
                     what
                     the
                     Gods
                     Approve
                     ,
                     I
                     hope
                     you
                     do
                     .
                  
                   
                     Poets
                     ,
                     like
                     me
                     ,
                     Complain
                     ,
                     Admire
                     ,
                     Adore
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Love
                     ,
                     Write
                     ,
                     Dye
                     ,
                     and
                     Dying
                     ,
                     own
                     your
                     Pow'r
                     ,
                  
                   
                   
                     And
                     tho'
                     the
                     Nymph's
                     as
                     Good
                     ,
                     and
                     Fair
                     as
                     you
                     ,
                  
                   
                     T
                     was
                     ne'er
                     Clarinda
                     thought
                     a
                     Crime
                     to
                     Bow.
                  
                   
                     The
                     Sun
                     ,
                     his
                     Beams
                     does
                     equally
                     Display
                     ,
                  
                   
                     And
                     kindly
                     gives
                     the
                     Good
                     ,
                     and
                     Bad
                     ,
                     a
                     Day
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Your
                     Charms
                     ,
                     as
                     powerful
                     are
                     ,
                     as
                     great
                     as
                     his
                     ,
                  
                   
                     More
                     than
                     his
                     Heat
                     ,
                     your
                     Wit
                     ,
                     and
                     Beauty
                     ,
                     please
                     ;
                  
                   
                     But
                     shou'd
                     your
                     Influence
                     no
                     farther
                     go
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Than
                     those
                     that
                     live
                     ,
                     and
                     look
                     ,
                     and
                     talk
                     like
                     you
                     ,
                  
                   
                     As
                     just
                     Astraea
                     ,
                     from
                     the
                     World
                     you
                     'd
                     Fly
                     ,
                  
                   
                     And
                     Heav'n
                     Oblige
                     with
                     better
                     Company
                     .
                  
                
                 
                   
                     Gods
                     !
                     when
                     we
                     View
                     the
                     Beauties
                     of
                     your
                     Mind
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Unmixt
                     with
                     Pri
                     de
                     ,
                     Ambition
                     ,
                     or
                     Design
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Nature
                     had
                     fondly
                     giv'n
                     so
                     vast
                     a
                     store
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Had
                     not
                     your
                     Family
                     bin
                     Prodigies
                     before
                     ;
                  
                   
                     Wit
                     unaffected
                     ,
                     States
                     ,
                     and
                     Empires
                     Rules
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Endears
                     the
                     Good
                     ,
                     exposes
                     Fops
                     and
                     Fools
                     .
                  
                   
                     If
                     Wit
                     alone
                     Commands
                     ,
                     and
                     makes
                     a
                     Slave
                     ,
                  
                   
                     How
                     many
                     Thousands
                     must
                     Clarinda
                     have
                     ?
                  
                   
                     Whose
                     Tongue
                     ,
                     or
                     Eyes
                     ,
                     can
                     either
                     Kill
                     or
                     Save
                     .
                  
                
                 
                   
                   
                     When
                     Beauty
                     mov'd
                     ,
                     and
                     Love
                     ,
                     and
                     Wit
                     ,
                     first
                     Took
                     ,
                  
                   
                     In
                     soft
                     ,
                     engaging
                     Numbers
                     ,
                     Lovers
                     spoke
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Easy
                     you
                     Reign'd
                     ,
                     and
                     willingly
                     they
                     Bore
                     ,
                  
                   
                     The
                     pleasing
                     Bondage
                     of
                     so
                     just
                     a
                     Pow'r
                     ;
                  
                   
                     Like
                     them
                     of
                     old
                     ,
                     we
                     Love
                     ,
                     and
                     like
                     them
                     too
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Artless
                     we
                     Write
                     ,
                     of
                     any
                     thing
                     ,
                     but
                     you
                     .
                  
                
                 
                   
                     Heaven
                     ne'er
                     wants
                     it's
                     Thunder
                     ,
                     yet
                     the
                     Air
                  
                   
                     Is
                     sometimes
                     Calm
                     ,
                     Serene
                     ,
                     and
                     very
                     Clear
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Shou'd
                     Storms
                     arise
                     ,
                     and
                     Winds
                     for
                     ever
                     Blow
                     ,
                  
                   
                     While
                     Nature
                     Triumph'd
                     in
                     so
                     Wild
                     a
                     Show
                     ,
                  
                   
                     No
                     longer
                     we
                     shou'd
                     Relish
                     Life
                     below
                     .
                  
                   
                     Like
                     Heav'n
                     ,
                     Madam
                     ,
                     let
                     your
                     Goodness
                     move
                     ,
                  
                   
                     While
                     we
                     Return
                     our
                     Wonder
                     ,
                     and
                     our
                     Love
                     ,
                  
                   
                     And
                     tho'
                     you
                     gently
                     Reign
                     ,
                     yet
                     like
                     the
                     Skies
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Command
                     your
                     Lightning
                     ,
                     when
                     we
                     Dare
                     Despise
                     .
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Upon
                   Philis
                   Frowning
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     PHilis
                     ,
                     those
                     Frowns
                     will
                     never
                     Punish
                     now
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Had
                     you
                     but
                     Frown'd
                     some
                     Twenty
                     Years
                     ago
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Some
                     injudicious
                     Lover
                     might
                     have
                     Whin'd
                     ,
                  
                   
                     And
                     sigh'd
                     ,
                     because
                     his
                     Philis
                     were
                     unkind
                     ;
                  
                   
                     Age
                     now
                     hath
                     made
                     your
                     Forehead
                     far
                     from
                     streight
                     ,
                  
                   
                     By
                     Planting
                     Wrinkles
                     ,
                     that
                     the
                     Young
                     Men
                     hate
                     ;
                  
                   
                     Nor
                     do
                     the
                     Elder
                     love
                     a
                     Wither'd
                     Face
                     ,
                  
                   
                     By
                     which
                     they
                     Read
                     their
                     own
                     ,
                     as
                     in
                     a
                     Glass
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Deaths
                     Heads
                     ,
                     and
                     Skeletons
                     ,
                     Physitians
                     keep
                     ,
                  
                   
                     But
                     never
                     lay
                     'em
                     by
                     'em
                     when
                     they
                     sleep
                     .
                  
                   
                     Then
                     Smile
                     ,
                     my
                     Philis
                     ,
                     do
                     ,
                     and
                     Paint
                     thy
                     Skin
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Defye
                     the
                     Girls
                     ,
                     and
                     try
                     to
                     be
                     Fifteen
                     .
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   
                     To
                     a
                  
                   young
                   Lady
                   of
                   Sixteen
                   ,
                   upon
                   her
                   Marrying
                   a
                   Man
                   of
                   Seventy
                   Three
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     IN
                     vain
                     ,
                     Clarana
                     ,
                     Nature
                     gave
                     you
                     Charms
                     ,
                  
                   
                     To
                     spend
                     your
                     Youth
                     ,
                     in
                     Nisus
                     Frozen
                     Arms
                     ;
                  
                   
                     To
                     hug
                     a
                     Poor
                     ,
                     Insensible
                     ,
                     Old
                     Man
                     ;
                  
                   
                     Whose
                     Teeth
                     ,
                     and
                     Eyes
                     ,
                     as
                     well
                     as
                     Tast
                     ,
                     is
                     gone
                     ;
                  
                   
                     Or
                     shou'd
                     he
                     have
                     a
                     Tooth
                     ,
                     (
                     which
                     few
                     believe
                     )
                  
                   
                     'T
                     is
                     Odds
                     ,
                     but
                     with
                     a
                     Kiss
                     ,
                     the
                     Tooth
                     you
                     have
                     ▪
                  
                   
                     Had
                     you
                     bin
                     ever
                     Lewd
                     ,
                     I
                     shou'd
                     have
                     thought
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Some
                     Pious
                     Fancy
                     had
                     the
                     Pennance
                     Taught
                     ;
                  
                   
                     Yet
                     this
                     can
                     never
                     be
                     ,
                     no
                     Fear
                     of
                     Evil
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Cou'd
                     ever
                     make
                     Clarana
                     love
                     the
                     Devil
                     ;
                  
                   
                     No
                     Popish
                     Priest
                     cou'd
                     such
                     damn'd
                     Doctrine
                     tell
                     ,
                  
                   
                     To
                     Merit
                     Heaven
                     ,
                     send
                     a
                     Soul
                     to
                     Hell
                     ;
                  
                   
                     'T
                     was
                     Gold
                     that
                     Reconcil'd
                     the
                     Difference
                     ,
                  
                   
                     And
                     made
                     Sixteen
                     with
                     Seventy
                     three
                     dispence
                     .
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Vpon
                   a
                   Young
                   Ladies
                   Birth-Day
                   .
                   
                     Aged
                     7.
                  
                   
                
                 
                   
                     WHen
                     Bolder
                     Atheists
                     Nature's
                     power
                     deny
                     ,
                  
                   
                     She
                     gives
                     the
                     Wandring
                     World
                     a
                     Prodigy
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Easily
                     Confounds
                     their
                     deepest
                     laid
                     Design
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Proving
                     her
                     Care
                     ,
                     with
                     something
                     strangely
                     Fine
                     '
                  
                   
                     Such
                     was
                     her
                     Work
                     ,
                     when
                     this
                     Day
                     's
                     Welcome
                     Light
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Made
                     her
                     ,
                     in
                     you
                     ,
                     Assert
                     her
                     utmost
                     Right
                     ,
                  
                   
                     When
                     Heav'n
                     return'd
                     ,
                     for
                     Pains
                     your
                     Mother
                     knew
                     ,
                  
                   
                     The
                     most
                     Engaging
                     Blessing
                     ,
                     Heav'n
                     cou'd
                     do
                     ,
                  
                   
                     And
                     Blest
                     not
                     only
                     her
                     ,
                     but
                     All
                     ,
                     in
                     you
                     .
                  
                   
                     Long
                     may
                     you
                     live
                     ,
                     our
                     Wonder
                     ,
                     and
                     our
                     Care
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Witty
                     as
                     Great
                     ,
                     and
                     Good
                     ,
                     as
                     you
                     are
                     Fair
                     ,
                  
                   
                   
                     You
                     need
                     not
                     
                     Kneller's
                     Paint
                     ,
                     nor
                     
                     Waller's
                     Pen
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Nature
                     ,
                     without
                     their
                     Art
                     ,
                     design'd
                     your
                     Reign
                     :
                  
                   
                     When
                     Age
                     shall
                     ripen
                     all
                     those
                     Growing
                     Charms
                     ,
                  
                   
                     And
                     e'ery
                     Look
                     with
                     wonderous
                     Force
                     Alarms
                     ;
                  
                   
                     When
                     willingly
                     a
                     Thousand
                     Lovers
                     Dye
                     ,
                  
                   
                     And
                     tell
                     their
                     Heart
                     ,
                     by
                     speaking
                     with
                     their
                     Eye
                     ,
                  
                   
                     A
                     mighty
                     Empire
                     ,
                     Madam
                     ,
                     then
                     you
                     'll
                     know
                     ,
                  
                   
                     While
                     none
                     Contends
                     for
                     Empire
                     ,
                     but
                     for
                     you
                     .
                  
                
              
               
                 
                   To
                   Philis
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     FOr
                     God
                     sake
                     ,
                     Philis
                     ,
                     be
                     n't
                     so
                     Coy
                     ,
                  
                   
                     I
                     never
                     lov'd
                     you
                     yet
                     ,
                     not
                     I
                     :
                  
                   
                     Had
                     you
                     Drest
                     well
                     ,
                     been
                     Fair
                     ,
                     and
                     Clear
                     ,
                  
                   
                     And
                     Sweet
                     ,
                     and
                     Clean
                     ,
                     as
                     others
                     are
                     ;
                  
                   
                     Good
                     natur'd
                     ,
                     humble
                     ,
                     Modest
                     ,
                     Witty
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Fine
                     ,
                     Well-bred
                     ,
                     and
                     something
                     Pretty
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Amidst
                     ten
                     thousand
                     Lovers
                     then
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Philis
                     ,
                     't
                     is
                     odds
                     ,
                     but
                     you
                     'd
                     had
                     some
                     ;
                  
                   
                   
                     Nay
                     ,
                     I
                     perhaps
                     might
                     then
                     been
                     Caught
                     ,
                  
                   
                     However
                     ,
                     Lov'd
                     you
                     in
                     a
                     Fit
                     ,
                  
                   
                     When
                     Drunk
                     ,
                     or
                     Mad
                     ,
                     to
                     Philis
                     run
                     ,
                  
                   
                     And
                     Kist
                     her
                     Mouth
                     ,
                     and
                     Curst
                     my
                     own
                     :
                  
                   
                     Tho'
                     this
                     may
                     lucky
                     prove
                     ,
                     't
                     is
                     true
                     ,
                  
                   
                     To
                     any
                     one
                     that
                     Marrys
                     you
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Shou'd
                     he
                     be
                     Ill
                     ,
                     and
                     want
                     to
                     Spew
                     ,
                  
                   
                     'T
                     is
                     only
                     ,
                     Philis
                     ,
                     viewing
                     you
                     ;
                  
                   
                     Or
                     shou'd
                     he
                     be
                     advis'd
                     to
                     Sh
                     —
                     te
                     ,
                  
                   
                     The
                     self-same
                     Object
                     do's
                     the
                     Feat
                     ;
                  
                   
                     But
                     shou'd
                     my
                     Philis
                     e'er
                     be
                     Wed
                     ,
                  
                   
                     What
                     Monsters
                     ,
                     Philis
                     ,
                     must
                     you
                     Breed
                     ;
                  
                   
                     With
                     staring
                     Eyes
                     ,
                     and
                     Asses
                     Ears
                     ,
                  
                   
                     With
                     Monkeys
                     Tales
                     ,
                     and
                     Skins
                     like
                     Bears
                     ;
                  
                   
                     For
                     fear
                     of
                     this
                     live
                     Virgin
                     still
                     ,
                  
                   
                     And
                     venture
                     leading
                     Apes
                     in
                     Hell.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   A
                   SONG
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     CLarinda
                     still
                     disputes
                     my
                     Love
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Unkind
                     denys
                     my
                     Flame
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Tho'
                     all
                     my
                     Looks
                     my
                     Passion
                     prove
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Yet
                     still
                     I
                     Love
                     in
                     vain
                     .
                  
                
                 
                   
                     When
                     Gods
                     above
                     their
                     Lightning
                     Throw
                     ,
                  
                   
                     The
                     strongest
                     feel
                     their
                     Pow'r
                     ,
                  
                   
                     But
                     this
                     ,
                     Clarinda
                     ,
                     they
                     ne'er
                     do
                     ,
                  
                   
                     'Till
                     we
                     refuse
                     t'
                     Adore
                     .
                  
                
                 
                   
                     But
                     you
                     as
                     Good
                     ,
                     was
                     you
                     as
                     Kind
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Can
                     Unprovok'd
                     Destroy
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Careless
                     behold
                     the
                     Swain
                     you
                     find
                     ,
                  
                   
                     When
                     he
                     for
                     you
                     must
                     Dye
                     .
                  
                
                 
                   
                     And
                     tho'
                     none
                     Boasts
                     a
                     better
                     Right
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Yet
                     let
                     me
                     this
                     Advise
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Conceal
                     those
                     Beauty
                     's
                     that
                     Invite
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Or
                     Pity
                     him
                     that
                     Dyes
                     .
                  
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 Hor.
                 ODE
                 34.
                 lib.
                 1.
                 
              
               
                 He
                 Resolves
                 to
                 be
                 Religious
                 .
              
               
                 
                   I
                   Who
                   the
                   Deitys
                   so
                   seldom
                   Pray'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   follow'd
                   the
                   Delights
                   of
                   Sense
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   no
                   Religion
                   ever
                   yet
                   Obey'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   Epicurus
                   fond
                   Pretence
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   impious
                   Error
                   ,
                   have
                   at
                   last
                   perceiv'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   At
                   last
                   grown
                   Good
                   ,
                   and
                   Vertue
                   's
                   Rules
                   believ'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   For
                   very
                   lately
                   ,
                   Jove
                   ,
                   I
                   angry
                   heard
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Rolling
                   Thunder
                   rent
                   the
                   Sky
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Wondering
                   World
                   ,
                   amaz'd
                   ,
                   were
                   all
                   affraid
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Trembl'd
                   at
                   his
                   Majesty
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Lightning
                   Prov'd
                   his
                   awful
                   Reign
                   and
                   Pow'r
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   made
                   me
                   too
                   ,
                   tho'
                   very
                   late
                   ,
                   Adore
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   How
                   did
                   he
                   shake
                   Remotest
                   Lands
                   and
                   Seas
                   ?
                
                 
                   The
                   Noise
                   ,
                   disturb'd
                   the
                   very
                   Dead
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Ghosts
                   in
                   Wild
                   Disorder
                   all
                   Arose
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Pluto
                   ,
                   tho'
                   a
                   God
                   ,
                   Obey'd
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Lightning
                   Pierc'd
                   his
                   Shady
                   Walks
                   ,
                   so
                   Bright
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Weaker
                   Flames
                   were
                   all
                   Extinguisht
                   quite
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   How
                   does
                   he
                   sport
                   with
                   greatest
                   Monarchs
                   Pow'r
                   ?
                
                 
                   Snatch
                   from
                   their
                   Heads
                   the
                   Glorious
                   Crown
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   make
                   the
                   Meanest
                   ,
                   Royal
                   Ensigns
                   Wear
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   Prove
                   all
                   Kingdoms
                   are
                   his
                   Own
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   under
                   him
                   ,
                   we
                   see
                   Blind
                   Fortune
                   Reigns
                   ,
                
                 
                   Never
                   more
                   pleas'd
                   than
                   in
                   the
                   greatest
                   Change.
                   
                
              
            
             
               
                 ODE
                 9.
                 
                 Hor.
                 Lib.
                 3.
                 
              
               
                 A
                 Dialogue
                 betwixt
                 Hor.
                 and
                 Lydia
                 .
              
               
                 
                   Horace
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     WHile
                     I
                     was
                     welcome
                     to
                     my
                     
                     Lydia's
                     Arms
                     ,
                  
                   
                     And
                     no
                     smooth
                     Youth
                     had
                     any
                     Part
                     ,
                  
                   
                     How
                     did
                     I
                     Prize
                     my
                     
                     Lydia's
                     melting
                     Charms
                     ?
                  
                   
                     And
                     eager
                     ,
                     gave
                     her
                     all
                     my
                     Heart
                     :
                  
                   
                   
                     No
                     joys
                     like
                     what
                     her
                     amorous
                     looks
                     cou'd
                     Teach
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Each
                     happy
                     Smile
                     was
                     worth
                     a
                     Crown
                     ,
                  
                   
                     No
                     Persian
                     King
                     was
                     ever
                     half
                     so
                     Rich
                     ,
                  
                   
                     As
                     I
                     ,
                     while
                     Lydia
                     was
                     my
                     Own.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                   Lydia
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     Whilst
                     Horace
                     Soul
                     ,
                     my
                     Beauty
                     cou'd
                     Inspire
                     ,
                  
                   
                     And
                     
                     Chloe's
                     Charms
                     ,
                     ne'er
                     Warm'd
                     his
                     Breast
                     ,
                  
                   
                     How
                     did
                     I
                     meet
                     him
                     with
                     a
                     Glowing
                     Fire
                     !
                  
                   
                     And
                     never
                     thought
                     my self
                     so
                     Blest
                     .
                  
                
                 
                   
                     His
                     Seeming
                     Passion
                     gave
                     Assurance
                     too
                     ,
                  
                   
                     While
                     Woods
                     resounded
                     
                     Lydia's
                     Name
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Too
                     Credulous
                     Lydia
                     thought
                     him
                     True
                     ,
                  
                   
                     And
                     often
                     boasted
                     of
                     the
                     same
                     .
                  
                
              
               
                 
                   Horace
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     Ah
                     
                       Lydia
                       ,
                       Chloe
                    
                     now
                     has
                     all
                     my
                     Heart
                     ,
                  
                   
                     For
                     her
                     I
                     willingly
                     wou'd
                     dye
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Chloe
                     ,
                     that
                     Sings
                     ,
                     and
                     Plays
                     ,
                     so
                     fine
                     a
                     Part
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Chloe
                     ,
                     her self
                     ,
                     all
                     Harmony
                     .
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Lydia
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     Ah
                     
                       Horace
                       ,
                       Calais
                    
                     succeeds
                     you
                     now
                     ,
                  
                   
                     And
                     Boasts
                     a
                     finer
                     Mien
                     ,
                     and
                     Air
                     ,
                  
                   
                     So
                     much
                     in
                     Feats
                     of
                     Love
                     out-does
                     you
                     too
                     ,
                  
                   
                     I
                     'de
                     dye
                     two
                     Deaths
                     to
                     save
                     my
                     Dear
                     .
                  
                
              
               
                 
                   Horace
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     What
                     if
                     my
                     former
                     Love
                     returns
                     again
                     ?
                  
                   
                     And
                     I
                     ,
                     for
                     Lydia
                     shou'd
                     dye
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Fondly
                     admire
                     each
                     Smile
                     ,
                     and
                     Dread
                     each
                     Frown
                     '
                  
                   
                     And
                     
                     Chloe's
                     Charms
                     again
                     deny
                     .
                  
                
              
               
                 
                   Lydia
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     Tho'
                     lovely
                     Calais
                     shines
                     like
                     any
                     Star
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Is
                     Young
                     ,
                     and
                     Gay
                     ,
                     and
                     Constant
                     too
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Yet
                     I
                     must
                     Own
                     ,
                     I
                     love
                     my
                     Horace
                     more
                     ,
                  
                   
                     And
                     I
                     had
                     rather
                     live
                     with
                     you
                     .
                  
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 ODE
                 19.
                 
                 Hor.
                 Lib.
                 1.
                 
              
               
                 
                   To
                   Glycera
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     VEnus
                     engages
                     with
                     her
                     Art
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Officious
                     Cupid
                     Plays
                     his
                     Part
                     ;
                  
                   
                     Besides
                     ,
                     my
                     Inclinations
                     move
                     ,
                  
                   
                     And
                     Wanton
                     ,
                     still
                     are
                     Pressing
                     Love
                     ;
                  
                   
                     Glycera
                     ,
                     more
                     Bright
                     than
                     Marbles
                     Shines
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Glycera
                     ,
                     my
                     very
                     Soul
                     inclines
                     ;
                  
                   
                     Her
                     Pretty
                     Womanly
                     Disdain
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Doubles
                     my
                     Love
                     ,
                     as
                     well
                     as
                     Pain
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Every
                     well
                     Appointed
                     Frown
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Makes
                     me
                     ,
                     Glycera
                     ,
                     more
                     your
                     own
                     :
                  
                   
                     How
                     have
                     I
                     view'd
                     that
                     lovely
                     Face
                     !
                  
                   
                     How
                     do
                     I
                     still
                     with
                     Wonder
                     Gaze
                     !
                  
                   
                     Venus
                     left
                     her
                     Cyprian
                     Grove
                     ,
                  
                   
                     And
                     came
                     to
                     teach
                     me
                     all
                     her
                     Love
                     ,
                  
                   
                   
                     As
                     soon
                     as
                     I
                     the
                     Goddess
                     met
                     ,
                  
                   
                     She
                     told
                     me
                     ,
                     she
                     wou'd
                     have
                     me
                     Write
                     ,
                  
                   
                     But
                     Write
                     no
                     more
                     ,
                     says
                     she
                     ,
                     of
                     Wars
                     ,
                  
                   
                     That
                     fill
                     your
                     Head
                     with
                     idle
                     Fears
                     ,
                  
                   
                     How
                     Parthians
                     Fight
                     ,
                     and
                     Fighting
                     Fly
                     ,
                  
                   
                     What
                     is
                     such
                     Stuff
                     to
                     you
                     or
                     I
                     ?
                  
                   
                     Write
                     me
                     some
                     Stories
                     that
                     may
                     move
                     ,
                  
                   
                     And
                     Melt
                     the
                     Longing
                     Girl
                     with
                     Love
                     ;
                  
                   
                     While
                     trembling
                     Limbs
                     ,
                     and
                     sparkling
                     Eyes
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Disorder'd
                     words
                     ,
                     and
                     short-breath'd
                     Sighs
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Show
                     how
                     she
                     Loves
                     ,
                     and
                     Loving
                     ,
                     Dyes
                     .
                  
                   
                     In
                     this
                     the
                     Goddess
                     I
                     'll
                     Obey
                     ,
                  
                   
                     In
                     this
                     same
                     Place
                     an
                     Altar
                     lay
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Here
                     Offer
                     at
                     the
                     Goddess
                     Shrine
                     ,
                  
                   
                     And
                     Beg
                     she
                     wou'd
                     ,
                     as
                     now
                     Incline
                     ,
                  
                   
                     And
                     make
                     the
                     Charming
                     Glycera
                     mine
                     .
                  
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   The
                   Parting
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     
                     CLarinda's
                     Eyes
                     have
                     prov'd
                     Love's
                     Empire
                     True
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Made
                     me
                     ,
                     tho'
                     long
                     a
                     Rebel
                     ,
                     Own
                     it
                     too
                     ;
                  
                   
                     When
                     I
                     ,
                     Commanded
                     ,
                     took
                     my
                     last
                     Farewell
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Gods
                     !
                     what
                     strange
                     Disorders
                     did
                     I
                     feel
                     !
                  
                   
                     How
                     my
                     swol'n
                     Eyes
                     discharg'd
                     ther
                     mighty
                     store
                     !
                  
                   
                     And
                     Wept
                     ,
                     as
                     tho'
                     they'ad
                     never
                     Wept
                     before
                     ;
                  
                   
                     As
                     Snow
                     around
                     the
                     Taller
                     Mountains
                     hangs
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Which
                     Rain
                     dissolves
                     ,
                     and
                     to
                     the
                     Valleys
                     brings
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Whos
                     's
                     Rapid
                     Torrent
                     threatens
                     all
                     the
                     Way
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Not
                     stopt
                     by
                     Houses
                     till
                     it
                     Reach
                     the
                     Sea
                     :
                  
                   
                     So
                     was
                     it
                     ,
                     when
                     my
                     Eyes
                     ,
                     brim-full
                     ,
                     o'erflow'd
                     ,
                  
                   
                     None
                     saw
                     the
                     Stream
                     ,
                     but
                     fear'd
                     the
                     growing
                     Flood
                     ;
                  
                   
                     And
                     had
                     not
                     I
                     ,
                     thro'
                     Weakness
                     ,
                     Dy'd
                     away
                     ,
                  
                   
                     No
                     doubt
                     ,
                     but
                     I
                     my Self
                     had
                     made
                     a
                     Sea
                     :
                  
                   
                   
                     Often
                     I
                     'ad
                     heard
                     of
                     Venus
                     ,
                     and
                     her
                     Son
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Often
                     been
                     told
                     what
                     Miracles
                     they'ad
                     done
                     ;
                  
                   
                     How
                     they
                     cou'd
                     make
                     the
                     Obstinatest
                     sigh
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Nay
                     more
                     ,
                     much
                     more
                     ,
                     admire
                     ,
                     adore
                     ,
                     and
                     dye
                     ;
                  
                   
                     But
                     these
                     were
                     idle
                     ,
                     senceless
                     Tales
                     to
                     me
                     ,
                  
                   
                     An
                     Infidel
                     in
                     Love's
                     Divinity
                     :
                  
                   
                     Venus
                     ,
                     I
                     thought
                     ,
                     might
                     Charm
                     some
                     Amorous
                     Youth
                     ,
                  
                   
                     And
                     
                     Cupid's
                     Beauty
                     might
                     have
                     bin
                     a
                     Truth
                     ,
                  
                   
                     But
                     to
                     Believe
                     his
                     Arrows
                     ,
                     Bow
                     ,
                     and
                     Darts
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Were
                     Form'd
                     to
                     Murder
                     ,
                     or
                     to
                     Soften
                     Hearts
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Were
                     Stuff
                     ,
                     I
                     thought
                     ,
                     but
                     find
                     it
                     very
                     True
                     ,
                  
                   
                     And
                     willingly
                     Retract
                     my
                     Error
                     now
                     .
                  
                   
                     Some
                     Months
                     agon
                     ,
                     as
                     I
                     Clarinda
                     Gaz'd
                     ,
                  
                   
                     My
                     Heart
                     unusual
                     Pulses
                     Beat
                     ,
                     amaz'd
                     ,
                  
                   
                     I
                     unaccountably
                     began
                     to
                     Sigh
                     ,
                  
                   
                     But
                     soon
                     ,
                     disorder'd
                     all
                     ,
                     thought
                     Death
                     were
                     nigh
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Ne'er
                     Dreamt
                     of
                     Love
                     ,
                     i'
                     th'
                     least
                     ,
                     not
                     I
                     ;
                  
                   
                     Till
                     One
                     ,
                     whom
                     long
                     Experience
                     made
                     Wise
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Told
                     me
                     't
                     was
                     Love
                     ,
                     the
                     Symptoms
                     had
                     bin
                     his
                     :
                  
                   
                   
                     No
                     sooner
                     had
                     he
                     told
                     me
                     what
                     he
                     knew
                     ,
                  
                   
                     But
                     strait
                     an
                     Arrow
                     from
                     Love's
                     Quiver
                     flew
                     ,
                  
                   
                     And
                     prov'd
                     his
                     Story
                     litterally
                     True.
                  
                   
                     Forgive
                     me
                     ,
                     Cupid
                     ,
                     tho'
                     I
                     late
                     Adore
                     ,
                  
                   
                     I
                     Feel
                     ,
                     as
                     well
                     as
                     Dread
                     the
                     Conquerour
                     ,
                  
                   
                     And
                     if
                     I
                     e'er
                     again
                     Reflect
                     on
                     Thee
                     ,
                  
                   
                     May
                     I
                     be
                     Damn'd
                     for
                     my
                     Apostacy
                     .
                  
                
                 
                   
                     Forgive
                     me
                     ,
                     Venus
                     ,
                     for
                     I
                     've
                     injur'd
                     you
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Profane
                     ,
                     ne'er
                     Worshipt
                     ,
                     as
                     I
                     Ought
                     to
                     do
                     ;
                  
                   
                     Forgive
                     me
                     ,
                     lovely
                     Maid
                     ,
                     to
                     you
                     I
                     Bow
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Fore
                     you
                     have
                     sinn'd
                     ,
                     and
                     humbly
                     Own
                     it
                     too
                     ;
                  
                   
                     To
                     see
                     Clarinda
                     ,
                     and
                     to
                     Rail
                     at
                     Love
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Deserv'd
                     no
                     less
                     than
                     Thunder
                     from
                     above
                     :
                  
                   
                     Tho'
                     you
                     'ave
                     no
                     need
                     of
                     Forreign
                     Aid
                     ,
                     or
                     Skill
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Your
                     Eyes
                     with
                     Lightning
                     can
                     as
                     surely
                     Kill
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Sooner
                     the
                     Gyants
                     might
                     their
                     Heaven
                     Scale
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Than
                     I
                     against
                     
                     Clarinda's
                     Force
                     ,
                     Prevail
                     ;
                  
                   
                     But
                     Oh!
                     when
                     I
                     a
                     full
                     Obedience
                     show'd
                     ,
                  
                   
                     And
                     Own'd
                     you
                     Fair
                     ,
                     and
                     found
                     you
                     very
                     Good
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Not
                     Proud
                     ,
                     Reserv'd
                     ,
                     nor
                     yet
                     more
                     Free
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Than
                     Well-bred
                     Ladies
                     always
                     ought
                     to
                     be
                     ,
                  
                   
                   
                     How
                     happy
                     was
                     I
                     thought
                     by
                     all
                     that
                     knew
                     !
                  
                   
                     How
                     smoothly
                     did
                     the
                     pleasing
                     Minutes
                     Flow
                     !
                  
                   
                     Till
                     that
                     ,
                     (
                     too
                     too
                     severe
                     Decree
                     )
                     that
                     Day
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Curse
                     on
                     it's
                     Light
                     !
                     that
                     Hurry'd
                     me
                     away
                     ;
                  
                   
                     Not
                     Trembling
                     Ghosts
                     with
                     more
                     Abhorrence
                     Go
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Change
                     their
                     Abodes
                     ,
                     for
                     Gloomy
                     Walks
                     below
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Than
                     I
                     ,
                     Confounded
                     ,
                     from
                     Clarinda
                     Went
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Plung'd
                     in
                     the
                     Deepest
                     Sea
                     of
                     Discontent
                     .
                  
                
              
            
             
               
                 Horace
                 ,
                 ODE
                 29.
                 
                 Lib.
                 1.
                 
              
               
                 
                   To
                   Iccius
                   .
                
                 
                   Upon
                   his
                   Changing
                   his
                   Study
                   of
                   Philosophy
                   for
                   that
                   of
                   War.
                   
                
                 
                   
                     MUch
                     did
                     I
                     wonder
                     ,
                     Iccius
                     ,
                     when
                     I
                     heard
                     ,
                  
                   
                     That
                     you
                     ,
                     mov'd
                     with
                     th'
                     Arabian
                     Gold
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Had
                     Chang'd
                     the
                     Course
                     that
                     you
                     so
                     long
                     had
                     steer'd
                     ,
                  
                   
                     And
                     all
                     your
                     Ease
                     ,
                     and
                     Freedom
                     sold
                     .
                  
                
                 
                   
                   
                     That
                     you
                     Philosophy
                     shou'd
                     leave
                     for
                     War
                     !
                  
                   
                     And
                     growing
                     Old
                     ,
                     begin
                     to
                     Fight
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Chains
                     for
                     Sabean
                     Kings
                     ,
                     and
                     Medes
                     prepare
                     ,
                  
                   
                     A
                     Work
                     you
                     never
                     thought
                     of
                     yet
                     .
                  
                
                 
                   
                     What
                     lovely
                     Virgin
                     shall
                     Entreat
                     my
                     Friend
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Rob'd
                     of
                     the
                     Charming
                     Youth
                     she
                     lov'd
                     ?
                  
                   
                     What
                     Royal
                     Boy
                     your
                     Hapiness
                     attend
                     ,
                  
                   
                     With
                     joys
                     that
                     Iccius
                     always
                     Mov'd
                     ?
                  
                
                 
                   
                     Who
                     now
                     Affirms
                     that
                     Floods
                     mayn't
                     backwards
                     Run
                     ?
                  
                   
                     Nay
                     
                     Tyber's
                     self
                     ,
                     forsake
                     her
                     Course
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Like
                     other
                     Streams
                     ,
                     see
                     Springs
                     where
                     she
                     begun
                     ,
                  
                   
                     And
                     '
                     ffright
                     the
                     Mountains
                     with
                     their
                     Force
                     .
                  
                
                 
                   
                     Since
                     you
                     ,
                     your
                     well
                     chose
                     Books
                     aside
                     have
                     laid
                     ,
                  
                   
                     And
                     all
                     the
                     Pleasure
                     Learning
                     brings
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Begin
                     to
                     learn
                     a
                     bloody
                     dangerous
                     Trade
                     ,
                  
                   
                     That
                     always
                     promis'd
                     better
                     Things
                     .
                  
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 ODE
                 31.
                 
              
               
                 He
                 asks
                 a
                 moderate
                 Fortune
                 ,
                 with
                 much
                 Health
                 .
              
               
                 
                   WHat
                   will
                   the
                   Poet
                   ask
                   the
                   Gods
                   to
                   day
                   ?
                
                 
                   For
                   what
                   ,
                   when
                   he
                   performs
                   his
                   Offerings
                   ,
                   Pray
                   ?
                
                 
                   Not
                   for
                   the
                   Rich
                   
                   Sardinia's
                   Fruitful
                   Ground
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Fatted
                   Herds
                   ,
                   in
                   Dry
                   Calabria
                   found
                   ;
                
                 
                   Not
                   Gold
                   ,
                   nor
                   Ivory
                   ,
                   nor
                   Richest
                   Meads
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   Deep
                   ,
                   but
                   Pleasant
                   Lyris
                   silent
                   Glides
                   ;
                
                 
                   Let
                   them
                   that
                   have
                   'em
                   ,
                   Prune
                   their
                   Tender
                   Trees
                   ,
                
                 
                   Manage
                   with
                   Care
                   ,
                   what
                   ever
                   Fortune
                   gives
                   ;
                
                 
                   Let
                   the
                   Rich
                   Merchant
                   ,
                   safe
                   Arriv'd
                   at
                   last
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   Golden
                   Goblets
                   ,
                   drink
                   a
                   mighty
                   Draught
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thank
                   Heaven
                   for
                   his
                   Deliverance
                   from
                   Harms
                   ,
                
                 
                   Out-sailing
                   Pyrats
                   ,
                   and
                   out
                   living
                   Storms
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Olives
                   ,
                   and
                   Mallows
                   ,
                   rather
                   be
                   my
                   Food
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ease
                   ,
                   my
                   Delight
                   ,
                   and
                   Books
                   ,
                   my
                   Chiefest
                   Good.
                   
                
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 Golden
                 Age.
                 
              
               
                 
                   SUch
                   was
                   the
                   World
                   ,
                   when
                   no
                   Contention
                   Reign'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   Heaven
                   with
                   Ease
                   ,
                   and
                   Plenty
                   ,
                   blest
                   Mankind
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   Nature
                   ,
                   in
                   a
                   Pure
                   ,
                   but
                   simple
                   Dress
                   ,
                
                 
                   Taught
                   Men
                   the
                   truest
                   way
                   to
                   Happiness
                   ;
                
                 
                   E'er
                   Artifice
                   ,
                   Intrigue
                   ,
                   Cunning
                   ,
                   Design
                   ,
                
                 
                   Had
                   yet
                   employ'd
                   the
                   Busie
                   States-Man's
                   Mind
                   ;
                
                 
                   E'er
                   Bolder
                   Atheists
                   durst
                   Dispute
                   the
                   Earth
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   make
                   it
                   take
                   an
                   Accidental
                   Birth
                   ;
                
                 
                   Owe
                   all
                   its
                   Order
                   to
                   a
                   Lucky
                   Chance
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   Merry
                   Attoms
                   were
                   dispos'd
                   to
                   Dance
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   make
                   it
                   an
                   Eternal
                   Being
                   have
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   God
                   was
                   always
                   ,
                   and
                   must
                   always
                   live
                   :
                
                 
                   As
                   Light
                   by
                   Emanation
                   from
                   the
                   Sun
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   Heaven
                   ,
                   and
                   Earth
                   ,
                   and
                   Seas
                   ,
                   from
                   God
                   to
                   come
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   No
                   ,
                   the
                   later
                   Traces
                   of
                   th'
                   Almighty's
                   Care
                   ,
                
                 
                   Taught
                   'em
                   much
                   juster
                   Notions
                   of
                   his
                   Pow'r
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   he
                   ,
                   in
                   Time
                   ,
                   Call'd
                   from
                   Eternal
                   Night
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Glorious
                   Day
                   ,
                   with
                   Chearful
                   Beams
                   of
                   Light
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   made
                   a
                   shapeless
                   Lump
                   ,
                   of
                   Form
                   admit
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Order
                   shine
                   thro'
                   all
                   the
                   Parts
                   of
                   it
                   ;
                
                 
                   Long
                   e'er
                   Ambition
                   yet
                   the
                   People
                   knew
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   Interest
                   ,
                   to
                   make
                   what
                   's
                   False
                   ,
                   seem
                   True
                   ,
                
                 
                   Princes
                   (
                   for
                   e'ery
                   Parent
                   were
                   as
                   such
                   )
                
                 
                   Ne'er
                   thought
                   of
                   Fighting
                   ,
                   but
                   of
                   Loving
                   ,
                   much
                   ;
                
                 
                   No
                   Swords
                   ,
                   or
                   Spears
                   ,
                   were
                   yet
                   Contriv'd
                   ,
                   or
                   Made
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   impious
                   Ships
                   ,
                   the
                   Foaming
                   Billows
                   dar'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   Men
                   ,
                   and
                   Boats
                   ,
                   the
                   swelling
                   Surges
                   Feard
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Aged
                   Oak
                   ,
                   ne'er
                   sopt
                   in
                   Briny
                   Seas
                   ,
                
                 
                   Securely
                   kept
                   the
                   Wood
                   ,
                   its
                   Native
                   Place
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   Marm'ring
                   Winds
                   the
                   Younger
                   Branches
                   Bow'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Body
                   stood
                   ,
                   as
                   mighty
                   Mountains
                   did
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ne'er
                   Mov'd
                   ,
                   but
                   when
                   the
                   laboring
                   Earth
                   in
                   Pain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Prest
                   with
                   some
                   Pent-up
                   Wind
                   ,
                   began
                   to
                   Groan
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   in
                   extremity
                   ,
                   by
                   Force
                   o'erthrow
                   ,
                
                 
                   Vast
                   Trees
                   ,
                   strong
                   Houses
                   ,
                   Tallest
                   Mountains
                   too
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Ocean
                   was
                   ,
                   as
                   Heaven
                   at
                   first
                   Design'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   certain
                   Boundary
                   to
                   part
                   Mankind
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Floating
                   Monsters
                   kept
                   their
                   Watery
                   home
                   ,
                
                 
                   Not
                   more
                   avoiding
                   Men
                   ,
                   than
                   they
                   did
                   Them
                   ;
                
                 
                   '
                   Til
                   Wanton
                   Luxury
                   began
                   to
                   please
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Taught
                   the
                   World
                   t'
                   invade
                   their
                   Propertys
                   ,
                
                 
                   Brave
                   Death
                   ,
                   for
                   various
                   sorts
                   of
                   Meat
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   satisfie
                   a
                   Foolish
                   Appetite
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   what
                   's
                   still
                   worse
                   ,
                   for
                   Gold
                   ,
                   they
                   cou'd
                   not
                   Eat
                   .
                
                 
                   Wou'd
                   Heav'n
                   I
                   '
                   ad
                   been
                   at
                   first
                   th'
                   Almighty's
                   Care
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   had
                   an
                   early
                   Being
                   any
                   where
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   else
                   had
                   been
                   reserv'd
                   for
                   later
                   Days
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   Men
                   by
                   long
                   Experience
                   grow
                   Wise
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 The
                 Second
                 Idyllium
                 of
                 Moschus
                 .
              
               
                 EUROPA
                 .
              
               
                 
                   WHen
                   first
                   
                     Europa
                     ,
                     Venus
                  
                   care
                   appear'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   sudden
                   Dream
                   ,
                   the
                   Lovely
                   Nymph
                   prepar'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   was
                   then
                   ,
                   when
                   Night
                   ,
                   her
                   Darker
                   Work
                   had
                   done
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Blushing
                   Morn
                   ,
                   her
                   Chearful
                   Dress
                   put
                   on
                   ,
                
                 
                   Europa
                   Dreamt
                   ,
                   (
                   and
                   sure
                   in
                   Dreams
                   there
                   is
                
                 
                   More
                   than
                   we
                   think
                   ,
                   at
                   least
                   there
                   was
                   in
                   this
                   )
                
                 
                   She
                   Dream't
                   ,
                   two
                   different
                   Lands
                   to
                   her
                   laid
                   Claim
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   One
                   she
                   knew
                   ,
                   the
                   Other
                   not
                   by
                   Name
                   ,
                
                 
                   These
                   like
                   Two
                   Matrons
                   ,
                   both
                   ,
                   their
                   Right
                   declare
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   each
                   Asserted
                   what
                   she
                   saw
                   in
                   Her
                   :
                
                 
                   One
                   said
                   ,
                   and
                   justly
                   too
                   ,
                   she
                   Brought
                   her
                   Forth
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   other
                   ,
                   Pow'r
                   pleaded
                   ,
                   tho'
                   not
                   Birth
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   For
                   Jove
                   himself
                   ,
                   Europa
                   is
                   design'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Too
                   great
                   a
                   Blessing
                   for
                   a
                   Humane
                   Mind
                   :
                
                 
                   This
                   ,
                   tho'
                   a
                   Dream
                   ,
                   the
                   Tender
                   Nymph
                   had
                   Movd
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   Wisht
                   ,
                   she
                   Fear'd
                   ,
                   and
                   what
                   she
                   Fear'd
                   ,
                   she
                   Lov'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Tell
                   me
                   ,
                   ye
                   Gods
                   ,
                   (
                   she
                   said
                   )
                   for
                   you
                   must
                   know
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whose
                   Eyes
                   discover
                   Fate
                   in
                   Embrio
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   makes
                   the
                   poor
                   Europa
                   Tremble
                   so
                   ?
                
                 
                   The
                   Stranger
                   that
                   I
                   saw
                   ,
                   so
                   Charming
                   was
                   ,
                
                 
                   Such
                   Sweetness
                   in
                   her
                   Words
                   ,
                   her
                   Looks
                   ,
                   her
                   Face
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   harm
                   ,
                   can
                   sure
                   ,
                   with
                   so
                   much
                   Goodness
                   Dwell
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   yet
                   ,
                   methinks
                   ,
                   I
                   strange
                   Disorders
                   feel
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   Thought
                   distracts
                   ,
                   but
                   why
                   ,
                   I
                   cannot
                   tell
                   :
                
                 
                   This
                   said
                   ,
                   her
                   little
                   Play-fellows
                   she
                   sought
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thinking
                   ,
                   that
                   they
                   might
                   some
                   Relief
                   have
                   brought
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   they
                   ,
                   alas
                   !
                   of
                   what
                   she
                   felt
                   ,
                   Untaught
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   these
                   she
                   often
                   Past
                   her
                   Hours
                   away
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   was
                   till
                   now
                   ,
                   as
                   Undisturb'd
                   as
                   they
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Tender
                   Nymphs
                   lament
                   her
                   Growing
                   Cares
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   kindly
                   ●●sh
                   that
                   all
                   her
                   Fears
                   were
                   theirs
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   One
                   takes
                   her
                   by
                   the
                   Hand
                   ,
                   and
                   gently
                   leads
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Maid
                   still
                   Trembling
                   ,
                   to
                   the
                   Verdant
                   Meads
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   various
                   kinds
                   of
                   Plants
                   their
                   Care
                   became
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Flowers
                   ,
                   willing
                   to
                   be
                   Cropt
                   by
                   them
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   Golden
                   Cup
                   ,
                   the
                   Fam'd
                   Europa
                   bore
                   ,
                
                 
                   Finer
                   than
                   Vulcan
                   e'er
                   had
                   made
                   before
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Gift
                   ,
                   the
                   God
                   on
                   Lybia
                   bestow'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   first
                   she
                   Blest
                   th
                   admiring
                   
                   Neptune's
                   Bed
                   ;
                
                 
                   Lybia
                   with
                   this
                   did
                   Telephessa
                   Try
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   none
                   so
                   Worthy
                   of
                   the
                   Gift
                   as
                   she
                   ,
                
                 
                   At
                   last
                   the
                   Cap
                   the
                   Young
                   Europa
                   had
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fair
                   
                   Telephessa's
                   Daughter
                   ,
                   yet
                   a
                   Maid
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Tender
                   Io
                   ,
                   Inachus's
                   Care
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   first
                   by
                   Jove
                   Transform'd
                   ,
                   was
                   Painted
                   here
                   ▪
                
                 
                   The
                   Story
                   told
                   ,
                   what
                   Pains
                   he
                   took
                   to
                   Gain
                   ,
                
                 
                   At
                   once
                   his
                   Love
                   ,
                   and
                   Cheat
                   his
                   jealous
                   Queen
                   ▪
                
                 
                   Here
                   Mercury
                   ,
                   and
                   Argus
                   hundr'd
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   live
                   less
                   strange
                   ,
                   than
                   when
                   beheld
                   on
                   this
                   ▪
                
                 
                   Such
                   was
                   the
                   Cup
                   the
                   young
                   Europa
                   bore
                   ,
                
                 
                   Worthy
                   great
                   
                   Vulcan's
                   Art
                   ,
                   and
                   worthy
                   her
                   ▪
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Nymphs
                   no
                   sooner
                   in
                   the
                   Meadows
                   were
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   Dasies
                   ,
                   Violets
                   ,
                   and
                   Cowslips
                   are
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   all
                   to
                   Gather
                   what
                   they
                   like
                   ,
                   Prepare
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   still
                   Europa
                   did
                   the
                   rest
                   Surpass
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   much
                   in
                   Air
                   ,
                   in
                   Mien
                   ,
                   in
                   Wit
                   ,
                   and
                   Face
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   Venus
                   do's
                   before
                   the
                   Graces
                   shine
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   Art
                   ,
                   and
                   Beauty
                   ,
                   speak
                   her
                   most
                   Divine
                   :
                
                 
                   While
                   thus
                   she
                   shone
                   ,
                   a
                   Wondering
                   God
                   lookt
                   down
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   looking
                   ,
                   quickly
                   left
                   his
                   Starry
                   Throne
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                   Europa's
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   far
                   brighter
                   than
                   the
                   Light
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   Gilds
                   the
                   Spangl'd
                   Firmament
                   by
                   Night
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   Juno
                   ,
                   always
                   jealous
                   of
                   her
                   Jove
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   well
                   she
                   knew
                   how
                   Venus
                   Arts
                   cou'd
                   move
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   jilt
                   the
                   Queen
                   ,
                   he
                   Chang'd
                   the
                   God
                   ,
                   and
                   Fled
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   as
                   a
                   Bull
                   ,
                   within
                   those
                   Pastures
                   Fed
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   Fair
                   Europa
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Virgins
                   Play'd
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   Bull
                   ,
                   but
                   still
                   a
                   Form
                   Divine
                   he
                   bore
                   ,
                
                 
                   Finer
                   by
                   much
                   than
                   e'er
                   they'ad
                   seen
                   before
                   ,
                
                 
                   Europa
                   went
                   ,
                   (
                   her
                   little
                   Friends
                   stood
                   by
                   )
                
                 
                   To
                   Touch
                   the
                   Charming
                   Bull
                   that
                   Graz'd
                   so
                   nigh
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Bull
                   Came
                   on
                   ,
                   and
                   like
                   a
                   Lover
                   Bow'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   steal
                   a
                   Kiss
                   ,
                   and
                   Wonder'd
                   when
                   she
                   stood
                   ;
                
                 
                   Europa
                   Wip'd
                   the
                   Eager
                   Foam
                   away
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Kist
                   his
                   Lips
                   ,
                   and
                   Bid
                   the
                   Virgins
                   stay
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   Low'd
                   ,
                   but
                   with
                   so
                   soft
                   ,
                   so
                   smooth
                   an
                   Air
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Sound
                   was
                   Musick
                   to
                   the
                   Nicest
                   Ear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   Bent
                   his
                   Knees
                   ,
                   and
                   Greedy
                   View'd
                   her
                   Face
                   ,
                
                 
                   Proud
                   to
                   Lye
                   down
                   ,
                   and
                   Tumble
                   where
                   she
                   was
                   .
                
                 
                   Europa
                   ,
                   Pleas'd
                   to
                   see
                   a
                   Sight
                   so
                   new
                   ,
                
                 
                   Call'd
                   all
                   the
                   Nymphs
                   ,
                   and
                   scarce
                   believ'd
                   it
                   True
                   ;
                
                 
                   Often
                   ,
                   my
                   Friends
                   ,
                   We'ave
                   in
                   these
                   Meadows
                   Play'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   yet
                   ,
                   we
                   never
                   play'd
                   till
                   now
                   ,
                   she
                   said
                   ,
                
                 
                   Let
                   's
                   sit
                   upon
                   this
                   Bull
                   ,
                   his
                   Back
                   's
                   so
                   Broad
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   strength
                   's
                   so
                   great
                   ,
                   he
                   'll
                   eas'ly
                   bear
                   the
                   Load
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Look's
                   so
                   pleasing
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Air
                   's
                   so
                   Free
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   differs
                   from
                   the
                   rest
                   ,
                   as
                   much
                   as
                   we
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   Soul
                   he
                   has
                   ,
                   such
                   as
                   great
                   Heroes
                   know
                   ,
                
                 
                   Cou'd
                   he
                   but
                   speak
                   ,
                   like
                   them
                   ,
                   I
                   'de
                   love
                   him
                   too
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   this
                   she
                   sate
                   upon
                   the
                   Bull
                   ,
                   and
                   Rode
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   other
                   Virgins
                   came
                   to
                   Mount
                   the
                   God
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   But
                   Jove
                   ,
                   secure
                   of
                   what
                   he
                   lov'd
                   so
                   Dear
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   hasty
                   Flight
                   ,
                   he
                   made
                   the
                   distant
                   Shore
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Leapt
                   the
                   Deep
                   ,
                   tho'
                   he
                   Europa
                   Bore
                   :
                
                 
                   She
                   call'd
                   her
                   Play-fellows
                   ,
                   but
                   all
                   in
                   vain
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   lest
                   his
                   Heaven
                   above
                   ,
                   for
                   her
                   ,
                   not
                   them
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Sea
                   once
                   Gain'd
                   ,
                   the
                   Foaming
                   Waves
                   he
                   Treads
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   all
                   the
                   Watery
                   People
                   move
                   their
                   Heads
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Sea-Nymphs
                   pay
                   their
                   Homage
                   to
                   the
                   Pair
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   Worship
                   Jove
                   himself
                   ,
                   no
                   more
                   than
                   her
                   ;
                
                 
                   Prodigious
                   Whales
                   their
                   mighty
                   Bodies
                   Move
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   Neptune
                   Taught
                   the
                   Honours
                   due
                   to
                   Jove
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   he
                   himself
                   appear'd
                   amidst
                   the
                   Throng
                   ,
                
                 
                   While
                   Tritons
                   sweetly
                   sung
                   the
                   Marri'ge
                   Song
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   was
                   Europa
                   in
                   the
                   Deep
                   Carest
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Debt
                   but
                   just
                   ,
                   to
                   her
                   that
                   Jove
                   had
                   Blest
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   still
                   ,
                   her
                   Country
                   left
                   ,
                   Companions
                   too
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   yet
                   no
                   Shore
                   she
                   saw
                   ,
                   no
                   Mountain
                   knew
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   was
                   Heaven
                   all
                   above
                   ,
                   't
                   was
                   Sea
                   below
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   sight
                   so
                   sad
                   ,
                   Oblig'd
                   the
                   Nymph
                   to
                   say
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whoe'er
                   thou
                   art
                   ,
                   that
                   thus
                   canst
                   make
                   thy
                   Way
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   wou'dst
                   thou
                   have
                   the
                   Poor
                   Europa
                   stray
                   ?
                
                 
                 
                   Ships
                   big
                   as
                   Mountains
                   ,
                   thro'
                   the
                   Seas
                   have
                   steer'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   Balls
                   I
                   thought
                   ,
                   the
                   Waves
                   had
                   always
                   fear'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   What
                   Drink
                   can
                   I
                   in
                   Briny
                   Waters
                   find
                   ?
                
                 
                   What
                   Meat
                   ?
                   if
                   th'
                   art
                   a
                   God
                   ,
                   like
                   Heav'n
                   be
                   Kind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Conduct
                   me
                   Back
                   ,
                   and
                   leave
                   me
                   there
                   behind
                   :
                
                 
                   Dolphins
                   avoid
                   the
                   Land
                   ,
                   and
                   Bulls
                   the
                   Sea
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   Land
                   ,
                   or
                   Water
                   ,
                   all
                   's
                   the
                   same
                   to
                   thee
                   ;
                
                 
                   Next
                   thou
                   'lt
                   with
                   Wings
                   ,
                   like
                   Birds
                   ,
                   perhaps
                   prepare
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   Mount
                   the
                   Skies
                   ,
                   and
                   Cut
                   the
                   Yielding
                   Air
                   ▪
                
                 
                   Unhappy
                   Maid
                   !
                   so
                   late
                   my
                   Mother's
                   Care
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   whom
                   I
                   Wander
                   now
                   ,
                   unknown
                   ,
                   or
                   where
                   ,
                
                 
                   Kind
                   Neptune
                   hear
                   thy
                   Suppliant's
                   Pray'r
                   ,
                
                 
                   Grant
                   me
                   Relief
                   ,
                   and
                   Ease
                   my
                   Wonderous
                   Fear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Allay'd
                   alone
                   by
                   this
                   ,
                   in
                   hopes
                   that
                   you
                   ,
                
                 
                   May
                   prove
                   the
                   God
                   ,
                   that
                   Bears
                   Europa
                   now
                   .
                
                 
                   At
                   this
                   the
                   Bull
                   ,
                   in
                   happy'st
                   Accents
                   spoke
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Jove
                   discover'd
                   ,
                   in
                   each
                   Word
                   ,
                   and
                   Look
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fear
                   not
                   Europa
                   ,
                   Heavens
                   peculiar
                   Care
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   he
                   Conducts
                   you
                   ,
                   that
                   design'd
                   you
                   Fair
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Your
                   Guide
                   with
                   Thunder
                   shakes
                   the
                   Sky
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   Earth
                   or
                   Heav'n
                   disputes
                   his
                   Majesty
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   shall
                   he
                   fear
                   the
                   Surges
                   of
                   the
                   Sea
                   ?
                
                 
                   Crete
                   shall
                   Receive
                   my
                   Charge
                   ,
                   and
                   own
                   you
                   Queen
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   Rusfling
                   Cares
                   shall
                   ever
                   Interveen
                   ,
                
                 
                   Betwixt
                   this
                   Day
                   ,
                   and
                   Ages
                   yet
                   unseen
                   :
                
                 
                   Lockt
                   in
                   your
                   Arms
                   ,
                   in
                   Balmy
                   Joyes
                   I
                   'll
                   lye
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   then
                   ,
                   my
                   Dear
                   ,
                   I
                   'll
                   prove
                   Divinity
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Race
                   of
                   Heroes
                   shall
                   Europa
                   Grace
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   Father's
                   Courage
                   ,
                   with
                   their
                   Mother's
                   Face
                   ,
                
                 
                   These
                   prove
                   their
                   Force
                   ,
                   and
                   make
                   the
                   Trembling
                   Earth
                   ,
                
                 
                   Admire
                   their
                   Power
                   ,
                   and
                   freely
                   own
                   their
                   Birth
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   while
                   he
                   spoke
                   ,
                   her
                   Ghastly
                   Thoughts
                   all
                   Fled
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   willingly
                   Europa
                   lost
                   her
                   Maiden-Head
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 Idyll
                 .
                 3.
                 
              
               
                 
                 Bion's
                 EPITAPH
                 .
              
               
                 
                   WEep
                   all
                   ye
                   Woods
                   ,
                   in
                   mournful
                   Whispers
                   Breath
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   tell
                   the
                   Neighb'ring
                   Groves
                   of
                   
                   Bion's
                   Death
                   ;
                
                 
                   Ye
                   Murm'ring
                   Brooks
                   ,
                   the
                   Fatal
                   News
                   declare
                   ,
                
                 
                   'Till
                   distant
                   Seas
                   the
                   dismal
                   Tidings
                   hear
                   ;
                
                 
                   Ye
                   tender
                   Plants
                   Lament
                   ,
                   your
                   Loss
                   Bemoan
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   more
                   your
                   juices
                   boast
                   ,
                   your
                   Virtues
                   own
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   just
                   you
                   perish
                   ,
                   when
                   your
                   
                   Bion's
                   gone
                   :
                
                 
                   Ye
                   springing
                   Flowers
                   ,
                   with-hold
                   your
                   Fragrant
                   Smell
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ye
                   Roses
                   ,
                   Violets
                   ,
                   and
                   Cowslips
                   tell
                   ,
                
                 
                   How
                   good
                   he
                   liv'd
                   ,
                   how
                   much
                   lamented
                   sell
                   .
                
                 
                   Sing
                   ye
                   Sicilian
                   Muses
                   
                   Bion's
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   only
                   you
                   can
                   sound
                   a
                   Grief
                   so
                   great
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Let
                   tuneful
                   Philomel
                   ,
                   from
                   thickest
                   Boughs
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   dying
                   Notes
                   ,
                   the
                   Herdsman's
                   Death
                   disclose
                   ,
                
                 
                   'Till
                   
                   Arethusa's
                   streams
                   receive
                   the
                   News
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Doric
                   Muse
                   no
                   longer
                   loves
                   the
                   Plains
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   hates
                   the
                   Herdsmen
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   Skill
                   disdains
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   Bion
                   sung
                   ,
                   so
                   good
                   his
                   Song
                   ,
                   his
                   Theme
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   proudly
                   boasted
                   ,
                   what
                   she
                   heard
                   from
                   him
                   .
                
                 
                   Ye
                   Swans
                   ,
                   that
                   sporting
                   on
                   the
                   Waters
                   Play
                   ,
                
                 
                   Droop
                   all
                   your
                   Wings
                   ,
                   and
                   Weep
                   the
                   Fatal
                   Day
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   Notes
                   ,
                   such
                   as
                   were
                   his
                   ,
                   your
                   Tuneful
                   Voices
                   Try
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   Common
                   Breath
                   shou'd
                   sound
                   his
                   Elegy
                   ;
                
                 
                   Acquaint
                   the
                   Distant
                   Virgins
                   with
                   your
                   Song
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   often
                   heard
                   the
                   Musick
                   of
                   his
                   Tongue
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Sigh'd
                   ,
                   as
                   Mov'd
                   by
                   that
                   ,
                   his
                   Wonderous
                   Skill
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   Panting
                   Breasts
                   ,
                   and
                   Wishing
                   Eyes
                   reveal
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   they
                   ,
                   unhappy
                   Nymphs
                   ,
                   wou'd
                   fain
                   conceal
                   .
                
                 
                   Sing
                   ye
                   Sicilian
                   Muses
                   ,
                   
                   Bion's
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   only
                   you
                   can
                   sound
                   a
                   Grief
                   so
                   great
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Cows
                   ,
                   so
                   late
                   ,
                   th'
                   Indulgent
                   Herdsman's
                   care
                   ,
                
                 
                   Refuse
                   their
                   Food
                   ,
                   and
                   Wander
                   any
                   where
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   No
                   more
                   ,
                   an
                   Aged
                   Oak
                   shall
                   boast
                   he
                   sate
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   kindly
                   made
                   her
                   swelling
                   Root
                   his
                   Seat
                   ;
                
                 
                   No
                   more
                   ,
                   her
                   List'ning
                   Boughs
                   shall
                   hear
                   him
                   Play
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Curse
                   the
                   Wind
                   ,
                   that
                   bore
                   the
                   Sound
                   away
                   .
                
                 
                   Sing
                   ye
                   Sicilian
                   Muses
                   ,
                   
                   Bion's
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   only
                   you
                   can
                   sound
                   a
                   Grief
                   so
                   great
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   When
                   first
                   his
                   Death
                   the
                   great
                   Apollo
                   knew
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   Mourn'd
                   ,
                   they
                   Satyrs
                   Wept
                   ,
                   Priapus
                   too
                   ,
                
                 
                   Pan
                   mist
                   his
                   Notes
                   ,
                   and
                   sighing
                   ,
                   sadly
                   said
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lament
                   ye
                   Nymphs
                   ,
                   the
                   Artful
                   
                   Bion's
                   dead
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   listning
                   Eccho
                   ,
                   in
                   her
                   Cavern
                   ly's
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   
                     Bi
                     n
                  
                   dumb
                   ,
                   and
                   scorns
                   the
                   Vulgar
                   Noise
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Trees
                   refuse
                   their
                   Fruit
                   ,
                   their
                   Leaves
                   all
                   Cast
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Withering
                   Flowers
                   fondly
                   Breath
                   their
                   last
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Dolphin
                   Weeps
                   ,
                   and
                   Wanders
                   o'er
                   the
                   Shore
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Nightingale
                   ,
                   in
                   Notes
                   unknown
                   before
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   Grief
                   instructed
                   ,
                   sings
                   the
                   Word
                   ,
                   
                     No
                     more
                  
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   thousand
                   Birds
                   beside
                   ,
                   so
                   late
                   his
                   Care
                   ,
                
                 
                   Affrighted
                   ,
                   tell
                   their
                   Parents
                   what
                   they
                   hear
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   gratefully
                   to
                   sing
                   his
                   Death
                   prepare
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   But
                   who
                   shall
                   e'er
                   Attempt
                   his
                   Oaten
                   Pipe
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   lately
                   sounded
                   by
                   so
                   Sweet
                   a
                   Lip
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Eccho
                   keeps
                   the
                   happy
                   Songs
                   he
                   made
                   ,
                
                 
                   Pan
                   has
                   his
                   Pipe
                   ,
                   but
                   Pan
                   to
                   Play
                   's
                   affraid
                   .
                
                 
                   Sing
                   ye
                   Sicilian
                   Muses
                   ,
                   
                   Bion's
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   only
                   you
                   can
                   speak
                   a
                   Grief
                   so
                   great
                   .
                
                 
                   Poor
                   Galatea
                   Weeps
                   ,
                   she
                   who
                   so
                   late
                   ,
                
                 
                   Admir'd
                   his
                   Strains
                   ,
                   and
                   list'ning
                   fate
                
                 
                   And
                   often
                   Wish'd
                   ,
                   she
                   cou'd
                   his
                   Songs
                   repeat
                   .
                
                 
                   Had
                   Cyclop
                   Play'd
                   like
                   him
                   ,
                   his
                   Tunes
                   so
                   good
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Nymph
                   had
                   follow'd
                   ,
                   never
                   Fled
                   the
                   God
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   
                   Bion's
                   sake
                   ,
                   she
                   Treads
                   the
                   lonesom
                   Shore
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Feeds
                   the
                   Herds
                   ,
                   with
                   him
                   she
                   Fed
                   before
                   ;
                
                 
                   No
                   more
                   endearing
                   Songs
                   ,
                   the
                   Muses
                   Boast
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   him
                   their
                   Songs
                   are
                   gone
                   ,
                   their
                   Numbers
                   lost
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   more
                   the
                   Tender
                   Virgins
                   Kisses
                   Move
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   more
                   they
                   hear
                   the
                   Stories
                   of
                   his
                   Love
                   :
                
                 
                   Attend
                   ye
                   Loves
                   ,
                   and
                   speak
                   your
                   Venus
                   Loss
                   ,
                
                 
                   More
                   than
                   Adonis
                   she
                   her
                   
                   Bion's
                   was
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   When
                   Homer
                   Dy'd
                   ,
                   Caliope
                   she
                   Sung
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   told
                   the
                   Wonders
                   of
                   her
                   
                   Homer's
                   Tongue
                   ,
                
                 
                   How
                   he
                   cou'd
                   Move
                   ,
                   for
                   Thunder
                   in
                   his
                   Song
                   :
                
                 
                   Bion
                   a
                   Bard
                   ,
                   as
                   great
                   as
                   he
                   ,
                   's
                   no
                   more
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Thoughts
                   as
                   good
                   ,
                   his
                   Verse
                   ,
                   his
                   Skill
                   ,
                   his
                   Pow'r
                
                 
                   One
                   drunk
                   the
                   Stream
                   from
                   Pegasus
                   that
                   flow'd
                   ▪
                
                 
                   The
                   other
                   
                   Arethusa's
                   ,
                   full
                   as
                   good
                   ;
                
                 
                   One
                   told
                   of
                   Wars
                   ,
                   what
                   Wonders
                   some
                   had
                   done
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   Menelaus
                   ,
                   and
                   great
                   Thetis
                   Son
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   other
                   sung
                   his
                   Pan
                   ,
                   his
                   Pan
                   his
                   Care
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Pan
                   ,
                   the
                   Virgins
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Herds
                   ,
                   his
                   Fear
                   ;
                
                 
                   He
                   taught
                   the
                   Youth
                   t'
                   attempt
                   the
                   lovely
                   Prise
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   tell
                   his
                   Heart
                   ,
                   by
                   speaking
                   with
                   his
                   Eyes
                   ;
                
                 
                   He
                   taught
                   the
                   Nymph
                   ,
                   to
                   Move
                   the
                   Roughest
                   Swain
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   make
                   him
                   sigh
                   ,
                   admire
                   ,
                   and
                   dye
                   in
                   vain
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   own
                   a
                   Conquest
                   ,
                   when
                   she
                   pleas'd
                   to
                   Reign
                   .
                
                 
                   Sing
                   ye
                   Sicilian
                   Muses
                   ,
                   
                   Bion's
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   only
                   you
                   can
                   sound
                   a
                   Grief
                   so
                   great
                   .
                
                 
                   Vast
                   Cities
                   Mourn'd
                   ,
                   that
                   once
                   admir'd
                   his
                   Song
                   ,
                
                 
                   Not
                   Asera
                   ,
                   for
                   her
                   Hesiod
                   ,
                   wept
                   so
                   long
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Boetian
                   Woods
                   their
                   lofty
                   Pindar
                   spar'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   less
                   Reluctance
                   ,
                   than
                   his
                   Death
                   they
                   heard
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   strong
                   Wall'd
                   Lesbus
                   ,
                   lov'd
                   Alcaeus
                   less
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Ceius
                   City
                   will
                   the
                   same
                   Confess
                   ;
                
                 
                   
                     Parus
                     Archilochus
                  
                   lov'd
                   less
                   by
                   far
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   
                     Mitylena
                     Sappho
                  
                   ,
                   tho'
                   her
                   Care
                   ;
                
                 
                   Ausonian
                   Strains
                   ,
                   my
                   Numbers
                   Move
                   ,
                
                 
                   Such
                   as
                   the
                   Muses
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   Bion
                   ,
                   love
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whose
                   Pipe
                   ,
                   rather
                   than
                   all
                   his
                   Herds
                   ,
                   I
                   'de
                   have
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Plants
                   ,
                   the
                   Product
                   of
                   a
                   Fruitful
                   Earth
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   dye
                   like
                   us
                   ,
                   but
                   know
                   a
                   second
                   Birth
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   Man
                   ,
                   tho'
                   great
                   ,
                   tho'
                   good
                   ,
                   tho'
                   strong
                   ,
                   tho'
                   Wise
                   ,
                
                 
                   Can
                   dye
                   but
                   once
                   ,
                   and
                   never
                   more
                   must
                   rise
                   :
                
                 
                   Cou'd
                   any
                   thing
                   Exempt
                   ,
                   our
                   
                   Bion's
                   Skill
                
                 
                   Had
                   sav'd
                   the
                   Bard
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   had
                   known
                   him
                   still
                   ;
                
                 
                   'T
                   was
                   Poyson
                   kill'd
                   him
                   ,
                   but
                   't
                   was
                   very
                   strange
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   sweeter
                   Breath
                   the
                   Poyson
                   did
                   not
                   Change
                   ,
                
                 
                   O
                   that
                   I
                   ,
                   as
                   Orpheus
                   once
                   ,
                   cou'd
                   Tread
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   ,
                   as
                   Alcides
                   ,
                   or
                   Vlysses
                   did
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   'de
                   quickly
                   pay
                   a
                   Visit
                   to
                   his
                   shade
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   if
                   he
                   Plays
                   below
                   ,
                   I
                   'de
                   hear
                   ,
                   and
                   see
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   Modes
                   ,
                   what
                   Strains
                   ,
                   will
                   please
                   the
                   Deity
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   vain
                   Eurydice
                   had
                   Orpheus
                   Mourn'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Without
                   his
                   Musick
                   she
                   had
                   ne'er
                   return'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   Orpheus
                   her
                   ,
                   may
                   I
                   ,
                   my
                   Friend
                   receive
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   'll
                   Pipe
                   to
                   Try
                   ,
                   and
                   Dye
                   ,
                   to
                   make
                   him
                   live
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 Anacreon
                 ,
                 ODE
                 3.
                 
              
               
                 
                   WHen
                   silent
                   Night
                   ,
                   the
                   Wand'ring
                   Signs
                   employ'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Weary
                   Mortals
                   welcome
                   Sleep
                   enjoy'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Young
                   Cupid
                   came
                   ,
                   and
                   made
                   a
                   Woeful
                   Noise
                   ,
                
                 
                   Knocking
                   ,
                   and
                   calling
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   loud
                   ,
                   shrill
                   Voice
                   ,
                
                 
                   Open
                   your
                   Doors
                   ,
                   my
                   Friend
                   ,
                   no
                   harm
                   I
                   'll
                   do
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   'm
                   but
                   a
                   Boy
                   ,
                   a
                   very
                   young
                   one
                   too
                   ,
                
                 
                   All
                   Wet
                   ,
                   I
                   'ave
                   Wander'd
                   in
                   a
                   Rainy
                   Night
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Moon
                   ,
                   or
                   Stars
                   ,
                   scarce
                   giving
                   any
                   Light
                   :
                
                 
                   Mov'd
                   by
                   so
                   sad
                   a
                   Tale
                   ,
                   I
                   hasty
                   ran
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   struck
                   a
                   Light
                   ,
                   and
                   let
                   the
                   Traveller
                   in
                   ,
                
                 
                   Amaz'd
                   !
                   I
                   saw
                   a
                   Youth
                   all
                   Arm'd
                   appear
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Quiver
                   ,
                   Bow
                   ,
                   and
                   Pointed
                   Arrows
                   Bear
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   hasted
                   to
                   the
                   Fire
                   ,
                   his
                   Form
                   scarce
                   seen
                   ,
                
                 
                   'Till
                   I
                   drew
                   near
                   ,
                   and
                   Warm'd
                   his
                   Hands
                   with
                   mine
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Cold
                   by
                   th'
                   Heatexpell'd
                   ,
                   he
                   Pertly
                   spoke
                   ,
                
                 
                   Let
                   us
                   go
                   take
                   my
                   Bow
                   ,
                   my
                   Friend
                   ,
                   and
                   look
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   all
                   is
                   Right
                   ,
                   for
                   if
                   it
                   's
                   spoyl'd
                   I
                   'm
                   Broke
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   drew
                   his
                   Bow
                   ,
                   and
                   by
                   a
                   Wonderous
                   Slight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Through
                   all
                   my
                   Flesh
                   ,
                   my
                   very
                   Heart
                   he
                   Hit
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Frenzy
                   siez'd
                   me
                   ,
                   and
                   I
                   Feel
                   it
                   yet
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 ODE
                 12.
                 
                 Anac
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Swallow
                 .
              
               
                 
                   SAy
                   ,
                   thou
                   damn'd
                   Disturber
                   of
                   my
                   Rest
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thou
                   Pratling
                   Swallow
                   ,
                   worst
                   of
                   all
                   thy
                   Nest
                   ,
                
                 
                   How
                   shall
                   I
                   Punish
                   thee
                   ?
                   for
                   I
                   'll
                   no
                   more
                
                 
                   Endure
                   thy
                   Early
                   Noise
                   ,
                   as
                   heretofore
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   What
                   if
                   I
                   Clipt
                   thy
                   Wings
                   ?
                   or
                   Cut
                   thy
                   Tongue
                   ?
                
                 
                   As
                   
                     Tereus
                     ,
                     Philomela
                  
                   serv'd
                   when
                   Young
                   ?
                
                 
                   For
                   when
                   Bathillus
                   Moves
                   with
                   softest
                   Charms
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   I
                   all
                   Melting
                   Lye
                   within
                   his
                   Arms
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Boy
                   I
                   loose
                   ,
                   by
                   your
                   Confounded
                   Note
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   often
                   Eccho'd
                   through
                   your
                   Squeaking
                   Throat
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 ODE
                 15.
                 
                 Anac
                 .
              
               
                 
                   I
                   Value
                   not
                   great
                   Gyges
                   Wealth
                   ,
                   not
                   I
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   all
                   the
                   Gold
                   the
                   Richest
                   Kings
                   enjoy
                   ,
                
                 
                   Give
                   me
                   Refreshing
                   Oyntments
                   ,
                   that
                   are
                   Fine
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Oyl
                   ,
                   to
                   make
                   my
                   Beard
                   and
                   Temples
                   shine
                   ;
                
                 
                   Let
                   sweetest
                   Roses
                   Grace
                   each
                   Curling
                   Hair
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   thus
                   Adorn'd
                   ,
                   than
                   they
                   ,
                   I
                   'm
                   greater
                   far
                   ▪
                
                 
                   To
                   Day
                   I
                   'll
                   live
                   ,
                   and
                   make
                   it
                   all
                   my
                   Own
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   who
                   can
                   tell
                   the
                   Curse
                   to
                   Morrow
                   may
                   bring
                   on
                   ?
                
                 
                   Then
                   take
                   great
                   Bacchus
                   ,
                   all
                   my
                   Sacrifice
                   ,
                
                 
                   Let
                   some
                   invidious
                   ,
                   Damn'd
                   Disease
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shou'd
                   think
                   I
                   '
                   ad
                   Drunk
                   enough
                   ,
                   and
                   bid
                   me
                   Cease
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 ODE
                 26.
                 
              
               
                 
                   AS
                   Bacchus
                   with
                   his
                   Fiery
                   Face
                   is
                   seen
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   I
                   ,
                   when
                   Drunk
                   ,
                   a
                   Hero
                   ,
                   look
                   like
                   him
                
                 
                   Richer
                   than
                   Craesus
                   too
                   ,
                   I
                   seem
                   to
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   thinking
                   so
                   ,
                   at
                   least
                   am
                   full
                   as
                   Rich
                   as
                   he
                   ;
                
                 
                   I
                   Laugh
                   ,
                   and
                   Sing
                   ,
                   as
                   happy
                   Mortals
                   do
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   when
                   the
                   Ivy
                   Chaplets
                   Deck
                   my
                   Brow
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   scorn
                   whatever
                   else
                   is
                   found
                   Below
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   Noise
                   of
                   War
                   makes
                   some
                   in
                   Haste
                   get
                   up
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   they
                   take
                   their
                   Arms
                   ,
                   I
                   take
                   my
                   Cup
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   I
                   have
                   often
                   in
                   my
                   Drinking
                   said
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   '
                   ad
                   rather
                   far
                   be
                   very
                   Drunk
                   ,
                   than
                   Dead
                   ,
                
              
            
             
               
                 ODE
                 40.
                 
              
               
                 
                   WHile
                   Cupid
                   snatcht
                   some
                   Roses
                   from
                   a
                   Tree
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thoughtless
                   of
                   Harm
                   ,
                   an
                   envious
                   ,
                   spiteful
                   Bee
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Fixes
                   her
                   Sting
                   ,
                   and
                   Draws
                   his
                   Tender
                   Blood
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Boy
                   Affrighted
                   ,
                   Shrieks
                   ,
                   and
                   Crys
                   aloud
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Runs
                   ,
                   and
                   Flys
                   ,
                   to
                   tell
                   his
                   Wretched
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   More
                   sad
                   by
                   much
                   ,
                   than
                   ever
                   happen'd
                   yet
                   ;
                
                 
                   Venus
                   receives
                   him
                   with
                   a
                   Parent
                   's
                   Care
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   still
                   his
                   Wound
                   Torments
                   him
                   with
                   new
                   Fear
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   Dye
                   ,
                   I
                   Dye
                   ,
                   I
                   Dye
                   ,
                   I
                   'm
                   Kill'd
                   ,
                   he
                   sayd
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   Moment
                   ,
                   Mother
                   ,
                   you
                   will
                   see
                   me
                   Dead
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   little
                   Prickly
                   Serpent
                   ,
                   such
                   as
                   Fly
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   think
                   the
                   People
                   say
                   it
                   is
                   a
                   Bee
                   ,
                
                 
                   Assaulted
                   me
                   ,
                   and
                   stung
                   me
                   as
                   you
                   see
                   .
                
                 
                   Venus
                   smil'd
                   ,
                   and
                   Kist
                   her
                   Son
                   ,
                   and
                   said
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Danger
                   's
                   not
                   so
                   great
                   as
                   you
                   're
                   affraid
                   ;
                
                 
                   If
                   little
                   Bees
                   can
                   sting
                   with
                   so
                   much
                   Force
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   Pointed
                   Darts
                   ,
                   my
                   Dear
                   ,
                   must
                   needs
                   be
                   Worse
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 ODE
                 52.
                 
              
               
                 The
                 Rose
                 .
              
               
                 
                   I
                   Sing
                   the
                   Happy
                   Product
                   of
                   the
                   Spring
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Rose
                   ,
                   the
                   Sweetest
                   ,
                   Dearest
                   Offering
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   It
                   's
                   Fragant
                   Smell
                   ,
                   like
                   that
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   above
                   ,
                
                 
                   Commands
                   at
                   once
                   ,
                   our
                   Wonder
                   ,
                   and
                   our
                   Love
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Graces
                   choose
                   it
                   in
                   their
                   Amorous
                   Play
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   finest
                   Drest
                   ,
                   with
                   this
                   alone
                   they
                   're
                   Gay
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Prickly
                   Arms
                   that
                   Nature
                   has
                   bestow'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Proves
                   thee
                   much
                   more
                   her
                   Care
                   ,
                   and
                   not
                   less
                   Good
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   if
                   with
                   these
                   the
                   Gatherer
                   you
                   hurt
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   full
                   Amends
                   your
                   Odors
                   make
                   him
                   sor't
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   Prest
                   ,
                   the
                   softest
                   Bosom
                   may
                   Admit
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   tho'
                   't
                   was
                   Fine
                   before
                   ,
                   't
                   is
                   still
                   more
                   Sweet
                   ;
                
                 
                   Bacchus
                   invites
                   thee
                   ,
                   as
                   a
                   Welcome
                   Guest
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   e'er
                   the
                   Deity
                   prepares
                   a
                   Feast
                   .
                
                 
                   Aurora
                   ,
                   when
                   she
                   Rises
                   ,
                   views
                   thy
                   Form
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Grants
                   thy
                   Beauties
                   Finer
                   than
                   her
                   own
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Nymphs
                   ,
                   with
                   Roses
                   ,
                   all
                   Adorn
                   their
                   Bed
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   
                     Cyprian
                     Venus
                  
                   ,
                   by
                   the
                   Poets
                   too
                   is
                   said
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   Blush
                   with
                   such
                   ,
                   or
                   scarce
                   so
                   good
                   a
                   Red
                   :
                
                 
                   Thou
                   art
                   a
                   Med'cine
                   to
                   the
                   Fainting
                   Sick
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   Nature
                   sinks
                   ,
                   thou
                   Fetchest
                   back
                   the
                   Weak
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   if
                   they
                   Dye
                   ,
                   thou
                   keep'st
                   their
                   Bodies
                   sweet
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   spite
                   of
                   Time
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   the
                   Injuries
                   of
                   it
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   When
                   Poets
                   prove
                   thy
                   first
                   ,
                   and
                   mighty
                   Birth
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   bring
                   thy
                   Origin
                   from
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   not
                   Earth
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   spring
                   with
                   Venus
                   ,
                   when
                   the
                   Foaming
                   Sea
                   ,
                
                 
                   Gave
                   Venus
                   Birth
                   ,
                   her
                   Sweets
                   they
                   say
                   ,
                   gave
                   Thee
                   ▪
                
              
            
             
               
                 ODE
                 28.
                 
              
               
                 To
                 a
                 Painter
                 .
              
               
                 
                   PAint
                   me
                   ,
                   Great
                   Artist
                   ,
                   my
                   
                   Clarinda's
                   Face
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   Shape
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   the
                   Beauty's
                   that
                   she
                   has
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   if
                   your
                   Colours
                   will
                   admit
                   a
                   Gum
                   ,
                
                 
                   Draw
                   her
                   with
                   all
                   the
                   Odors
                   that
                   Perfume
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   give
                   her
                   Breath
                   ,
                   and
                   there
                   's
                   no
                   need
                   of
                   them
                   .
                
                 
                   Paint
                   her
                   with
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   that
                   wou'd
                   a
                   Hermit
                   Move
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   make
                   him
                   leave
                   his
                   Cell
                   ,
                   and
                   Own
                   his
                   Love
                   ;
                
                 
                   
                   Minerva's
                   never
                   Darted
                   such
                   a
                   Flame
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   was
                   Great
                   Venus
                   ,
                   greater
                   Power
                   ,
                   like
                   them
                   :
                
                 
                   Make
                   her
                   Endearing
                   Cheeks
                   with
                   lovely
                   Red
                   ,
                
                 
                   Like
                   Virgin
                   Blushes
                   in
                   the
                   Marri'ge
                   Bed
                   ;
                
                 
                   Her
                   Pleasing
                   Lips
                   ,
                   with
                   Extasie
                   of
                   Bliss
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Prince
                   wou'd
                   give
                   a
                   Kingdom
                   for
                   a
                   Kiss
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Paint
                   her
                   ,
                   when
                   strongest
                   Passions
                   Heave
                   her
                   Breast
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   leave
                   a
                   Deep
                   Impression
                   to
                   be
                   Ghest
                   ;
                
                 
                   Cou'd
                   Pulses
                   in
                   your
                   Colours
                   Dance
                   like
                   Hers
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   World
                   wou'd
                   quickly
                   Turn
                   Idolaters
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Painter's
                   Skill
                   exceed
                   the
                   Poet's
                   Thought
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   Mankind
                   would
                   Wonder
                   at
                   your
                   Art
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   Draw
                   her
                   Good
                   ,
                   as
                   all
                   her
                   Actions
                   are
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   such
                   a
                   Garb
                   as
                   Vestal
                   Virgins
                   Wear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   if
                   you
                   can
                   ,
                   let
                   some
                   small
                   part
                   be
                   seen
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   tell
                   the
                   many
                   Thousand
                   Charms
                   within
                   .
                
                 
                   Enough
                   :
                   Her
                   Form
                   is
                   fixt
                   within
                   my
                   Eye
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   'll
                   Draw
                   her
                   thus
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   the
                   World
                   shall
                   see
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   nicest
                   Piece
                   that
                   e'er
                   a
                   Painter
                   Drew
                   ,
                
                 
                   Clarinda
                   ,
                   Looking
                   ,
                   Thinking
                   ,
                   Speaking
                   too
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 Second
                 Idyll
                 .
                 of
                 Bion.
                 
              
               
                 
                   A
                   Youth
                   a
                   shooting
                   in
                   a
                   Wood
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   eager
                   Hast
                   his
                   Game
                   pursu'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   VVhere
                   sporting
                   Cupid
                   soon
                   appear'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Boy
                   of
                   Cupid
                   ne'er
                   had
                   heard
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   But
                   pleas'd
                   ,
                   to
                   see
                   a
                   Bird
                   ,
                   tho'
                   high
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   Tame
                   ,
                   as
                   if
                   it
                   cou'd
                   not
                   Fly
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Arrows
                   Fixt
                   ,
                   his
                   Bow
                   he
                   Drew
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   all
                   his
                   Arrows
                   awkward
                   Flew
                   ,
                
                 
                   VVhile
                   Cupid
                   leap'd
                   from
                   Bough
                   to
                   Bough
                   ;
                
                 
                   His
                   Arrows
                   spent
                   ,
                   away
                   he
                   ran
                   ,
                
                 
                   VVhere
                   soon
                   he
                   met
                   an
                   Older
                   Man
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   told
                   him
                   all
                   ,
                   and
                   Cupid
                   show'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   God
                   still
                   Perching
                   in
                   the
                   VVood
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Old
                   Man
                   smil'd
                   ,
                   and
                   told
                   the
                   Boy
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   Arrows
                   cou'd
                   that
                   Game
                   destroy
                   :
                
                 
                   Be
                   gone
                   ,
                   he
                   said
                   ,
                   your
                   Sport
                   give
                   o'er
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   Kill
                   that
                   Bird
                   's
                   in
                   no
                   Man's
                   Pow'r
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   Prompting
                   Nature
                   speaks
                   you
                   Fit
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Bird
                   that
                   now
                   will
                   not
                   be
                   Hit
                   ,
                
                 
                   Will
                   then
                   upon
                   your
                   Shoulders
                   fit
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 Third
                 Idyll
                 .
                 of
                 Bion.
                 
              
               
                 
                   WHen
                   happy
                   Dreams
                   ,
                   which
                   make
                   the
                   Wretched
                   Blest
                   ,
                
                 
                   Had
                   Banish'd
                   Cares
                   ,
                   and
                   Charm'd
                   my
                   Soul
                   to
                   Rest
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Amaz'd
                   ,
                   methoughts
                   I
                   saw
                   a
                   Goddess
                   stand
                   ,
                
                 
                   Holding
                   a
                   little
                   Wanton
                   by
                   the
                   Hand
                   ;
                
                 
                   My
                   Head
                   I
                   Mov'd
                   ,
                   my
                   Weary
                   Body
                   Bow'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thinking
                   the
                   Airy
                   Phantom
                   wou'd
                   have
                   Fled
                   :
                
                 
                   When
                   Venus
                   told
                   me
                   ,
                   she
                   had
                   Cupid
                   brought
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   learn
                   to
                   Sing
                   ,
                   (
                   an
                   Art
                   I
                   some
                   times
                   Taught
                   )
                
                 
                   This
                   said
                   ,
                   The
                   Goddess
                   smil'd
                   ,
                   and
                   left
                   her
                   Son
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fond
                   of
                   my
                   Charge
                   ,
                   I
                   Pastorals
                   begun
                   ;
                
                 
                   I
                   show'd
                   how
                   Pan
                   ,
                   with
                   happy
                   Strains
                   was
                   Mov'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   Sounds
                   Apollo
                   ,
                   and
                   Minerva
                   ,
                   lov'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   sporting
                   Cupid
                   ,
                   still
                   Untaught
                   ,
                   Remain'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Laugh'd
                   at
                   my
                   Method
                   ,
                   and
                   my
                   Skill
                   disdain'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   thousand
                   little
                   Wanton
                   Songs
                   begun
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   told
                   me
                   Stories
                   ,
                   what
                   the
                   Gods
                   had
                   done
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   lov'd
                   his
                   Mother
                   ,
                   who
                   her
                   Favour
                   Won
                   .
                
                 
                   While
                   I
                   ,
                   pleas'd
                   with
                   th'
                   endearing
                   Thought
                   ,
                
                 
                   Knew
                   what
                   he
                   said
                   ,
                   but
                   what
                   I
                   did
                   ,
                   Forgot
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 Anacreon
                 ,
                 ODE
                 50.
                 
              
               
                 
                   BAcchus
                   Descends
                   ,
                   and
                   leavs
                   his
                   Heaven
                   above
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   Teach
                   us
                   how
                   to
                   drink
                   ,
                   and
                   how
                   to
                   love
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   He
                   makes
                   us
                   in
                   our
                   Cups
                   ,
                   all
                   Great
                   ,
                   and
                   Wise
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   scorn
                   the
                   Threatning
                   Dangers
                   that
                   Arise
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   strongest
                   Wine
                   ,
                   the
                   soonest
                   do's
                   inspire
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   gives
                   a
                   double
                   Portion
                   of
                   Love's
                   Fire
                   ;
                
                 
                   Ensur'd
                   by
                   Wine
                   ,
                   no
                   Tedious
                   Disease
                
                 
                   Disturbs
                   our
                   Mirth
                   ,
                   or
                   Dares
                   our
                   Body
                   sieze
                   ;
                
                 
                   Our
                   Spirits
                   are
                   Sublime
                   ,
                   Refin'd
                   ,
                   and
                   Free
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   like
                   our
                   Notions
                   ,
                   Airy
                   ,
                   Brisk
                   ,
                   and
                   Gay
                   ;
                
                 
                   Our
                   Pleasing
                   Joys
                   are
                   Constant
                   too
                   ,
                   and
                   long
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   when
                   the
                   Vintage
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Season's
                   done
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   kind
                   succeeding
                   Vintage
                   still
                   comes
                   on
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 ODE
                 56.
                 
              
               
                 
                   MY
                   Hoary
                   Temples
                   speak
                   me
                   very
                   Old
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   my
                   Crown
                   once
                   Cover'd
                   ,
                   now
                   all
                   Bald
                   ,
                
                 
                   Youth
                   hath
                   withdrawn
                   her
                   Image
                   from
                   my
                   Face
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   made
                   my
                   Mouth
                   ,
                   the
                   Force
                   of
                   Time
                   Confess
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   small
                   Remains
                   of
                   Life
                   are
                   a
                   ▪
                   most
                   spent
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   VVeakn'd
                   Nature
                   staggers
                   ,
                   and
                   I
                   Faint
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   think
                   the
                   lonesom
                   ,
                   Melancholy
                   Road
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Journey
                   to
                   the
                   Shades
                   ,
                   the
                   Dead
                   all
                   Tread
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Stygean
                   God's
                   Infernal
                   Seat's
                   so
                   Deep
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   Pitchy
                   Dark
                   ,
                   as
                   well
                   as
                   Wonderous
                   Steep
                   !
                
                 
                   Secure
                   he
                   keeps
                   the
                   Passengers
                   Below
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   none
                   Return
                   ,
                   to
                   tell
                   us
                   what
                   they
                   do
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 A
                 DREAM
                 .
              
               
                 
                   I
                   Dreamt
                   ,
                   and
                   in
                   my
                   Dream
                   ,
                   methoughts
                   I
                   saw
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Good
                   Anacreon
                   ,
                   he
                   call'd
                   me
                   too
                   ;
                
                 
                   I
                   Ran
                   with
                   hast
                   ,
                   and
                   soon
                   Embrac'd
                   the
                   Bard
                   ,
                
                 
                   Wonder'd
                   to
                   see
                   Anacreon
                   ,
                   but
                   not
                   Scar'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   His
                   Visage
                   spoke
                   him
                   Old
                   ,
                   but
                   Fair
                   ,
                   and
                   Clear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Comely
                   ,
                   and
                   Merry
                   ,
                   as
                   he
                   always
                   Were
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Lips
                   were
                   Colour'd
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Breath
                   as
                   Fine
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   when
                   alive
                   ,
                   Perfum'd
                   with
                   Richest
                   Wine
                   ;
                
                 
                   Young
                   Cupid
                   Waited
                   on
                   him
                   ,
                   as
                   a
                   Friend
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   when
                   he
                   Reel'd
                   ,
                   he
                   held
                   him
                   by
                   the
                   Hand
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Poet
                   Kindly
                   gave
                   me
                   ,
                   as
                   I
                   Stood
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   well
                   Chose
                   Garland
                   ,
                   Rich
                   ,
                   and
                   very
                   Good
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   Fondly
                   Fixt
                   the
                   Present
                   to
                   my
                   Head
                   ,
                
                 
                   Proud
                   of
                   a
                   Gift
                   the
                   Great
                   Anacreon
                   made
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ever
                   since
                   the
                   Fatal
                   Time
                   I
                   knew
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   Thirst
                   like
                   him
                   ,
                   and
                   Burn
                   as
                   Lovers
                   do
                   .
                
              
            
             
               FINIS
               .