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 College 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 should not have Presumed to have made You a Dedication; for I am Obliged to tell the World of my Misfortune. You never saw one Line of these Elegies, and so are absolutely disengaged from all Inadvertencies, Faults, and Follies, 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 wished 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 showed them to some of my Acquaintance in the Country, 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 Universal as now, for Men to think it a Detraction from their own Character, to give another Man his; and when Homer has been Burlesqued, Virgil Travestied, Waller Criticised on, and Cowley Condemned, no Body must take it ill. Cowley▪ was a Man of Admirable Wit, and his Writings will Challenge a Respect, till our Poets are inspired. Waller indeed writ with more Art, and was the first of our Countrymen 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 Critics, 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 Pursue the Design of Entertaining myself, 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 extreme 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 Country, 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 wished he had done it seldomer, than to be wondered 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 suffered not so much for his own Fault, as Caesar's, that he was Conscious of something that made Caesar uneasy; I don't think it was any Familiarity with Livia, or Julia, that gave him Augustus' 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 wronged him in his Wife, or Daughter, Banishment had not been Punishment enough: And had it been Livia, he durst not so much as have mentioned 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 Amassed 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 judged very Fortunate, by those of several Ages since. The two Seneca's, Marcus and Lucius, Velleius Paterculus, Quintilian, 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 applieth himself to his Book, that it should go to Rome, and admonishes what's to be done.  

GO to famed Rome, my Book, thy Verses show,  
A Privilege thy Master had till now;  
Go but Undressed, Forlorn, Unhappy go.  
No Crown adorns a wretched Exile's Brow,  
No Garb's allowed, but what his Sorrows show.  
Vermilion, Purple, that are Fine and Gay,  
With these, while others Titles flourished 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 ashamed 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 loved Place, that I so long have known;  
If you should meet a Man should 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 'tis just, he suffered as he ought;  
Be sure you don't defend, tho' you could wound,  
A Cause that's ill, Protected, ill is found.  
If you should find a Friend that should Bemoan,  
And often weep his much loved Ovid gone,  
And softly whispering, to avoid a Crime,  
Wish that his Caesar would forgive the sin;  
Who e'er he is, we wish him happy too,  
That seems to feel the ills the wretched know:  
To all he asks may Heaven indulgent be,  
May Caesar's Face again Look Liberty,  
And grant the Privilege at Home to die.  
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 Virtue was, may be esteemed a Crime,  
The Muse ne'er smiles, but when the Poet does,  
And who can smile with Clouds upon his Brows?  
In blessed Security, and Ease, I write,  
My Thoughts were free, my Verses smooth and sweet;  
But since Fates Storms have tossed 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 preferred 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 should 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 have dearly suffered for th' Offence,  
Lost my Estate, as well as Innocence;  
But thou, perhaps, wilt look for th' highest Place,  
Expect that Caesar should Applaud thy Verse;  
That thou shouldst 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 'tis they Punished me,  
The sad remembrance often makes me sigh:  
The fearful Dove once struck, she always fears  
The stronger Hawk, when e'er the Bird appears;  
The Lamb from the Devouring Wolf once free,  
For ever after Dreads to be his Prey.  
Could the lost Phaeton but live again,  
He willingly would 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' Euboean shore;  
The Boat that Ovid and his Fortunes had,  
Their Navy like, o'th' fatal Place's afraid,  
Where angry storms a dreadful Shipwreck made.  
Beware, regard the Instances I've told,  
Rather be timorous, 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, assayed,  
He purchased this, his Folly named the Flood.  
How to advise thee well is hard, but go,  
Time, Place and ev'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 should take you as you stand,  
And kindly give you to his Caesar's hand,  
He that first gave the wound, that caused the pain,  
May, like Achilles' Spear, relieve the same,  
But while you'd help, be careful 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 Author 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'er 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'd have you talk, and in your talk,  
Tell 'em how different from the Man I was, I walk,  
When Fortune smiled, and all my Thoughts were Gay,  
When she seemed fond to heap her Goods on me;  
Tell 'em I'm Changed, and look like some of them,  
Am wrinkled, old, deformed, and ugly seen:  
I have more Cautions, more I am afraid,  
These very dangerous times, my Book, you'll need,  
But shouldst thou carry all that crowded lie,  
The Thousand Fears that trouble me,  
Thou'dst swell, the strongest could not carry Thee.    

ELEGY II.  
Ovid Prays the Gods would deliver him from the Dangers of a Shipwreck, and in the Elegy describes the Tempest.  

YE Gods, whose Power the roughest Torrent finds,  
Conduct our Ship, half Ruined by the Winds,  
Why should your Wrath, with Caesar's, be increased?  
One God has Frowned, another has been pleased,  
Mars hated Troy, Apollo kind was found,  
Venus protected, Pallas would have Drowned;  
Aencas strength in Juno's rage had failed,  
Had not another Deity prevailed;  
Neptune pursued Ulysses with his Hate,  
While good Minerva, snatched 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 Prayers to Heaven 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, almost show the Shades below.  
All the vast space I see, is Air, and Floods,  
Tossed by the Waves, and Threatened 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, Fight 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 Threatening 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 would double every pointed Ill,  
And I, for her, two Deaths at least should feel;  
This Flash would 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 don't 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 would have done,  
Are nigh, and ready to perform the same,  
The Wat'ry People that inhabit Seas,  
Can claim no Privilege, at all of these:  
Believe me Heaven, worthy such a Fate,  
Besides 'tis I, that am unfortunate,  
Why should these suffer that are hither sent,  
Not for their Crimes, they're innocent,  
'Tis I, not they, deserved the Banishment.  
Ye Gods, whose Voices calm, or swell the Flood,  
Too long an Instance of your Power you've showed,  
Your Thunder stop, that I may safely tread  
The Distant Shoar, that Caesar has decreed,  
Should you resolve to take away my Breath,  
Caesar, he judged my Crime was less than Death;  
He could have killed, without your Leave, or Power,  
When e'er he speaks, the Criminal's no more;  
And tho' before his Throne I guilty stand,  
I never did, ye Gods, your Heaven offend;  
Nay, should 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'er tempted me to this,  
Those little Thoughts, I always could despise,  
Nor yet a Rambling Humour, that once swayed,  
And carried me to Athens, when unbread,  
No Curiosity to see the Towns,  
That Asia from the Neighbouring Quarter Bounds,  
Nor does my Vanity to Egypt lead,  
To see how Nilus seven Streams are said;  
I rather wish the Winds would guide the Ship,  
Conduct us safely through the troubled Deep,  
And tho' I see Augustus Face no more,  
Banished the Court, Despised, Forlorn, and Poor,  
I'm Shipwrackt yet, a second Punishment,  
Denied the very place of Banishment,  
Too great a Favour to be safely sent.  
If any part of Ovid, Gods, you love,  
My Prayers your Goodness, one would think should move,  
Your later Orders should the storm appease,  
Confine the Winds, and plain the swelling Seas,  
Caesar, tho' angry, he expected this.  
When to the Pontic Land he ordered me,  
He little thought I in a storm should die;  
The first severe; my Crime I don't defend,  
At most, I dare but lessen, what he has condemned.  
The Gods they know, what Princes cannot plead,  
No wicked meaning in my Fault I had,  
Blind Error led me through untrodden Ways,  
And Folly lost me in the wondrous Maze,  
But if Augustus' House I always loved,  
Next Heaven, Augustus' Power approved,  
If I have offered in Augustus' Name,  
If I have prayed 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 fond pray,  
May I expect my Death without Delay.  
Enough: my Prayers already reach the Skies,  
And mount a Welcome, Happy Sacrifice,  
The Clouds are by the stronger Powers chased,  
The Winds allayed, the Seas already pleased,  
The Gods I prayed, by me were ne'er deceived,  
Or e'er provoked, but always were believed.  
And being unprovok'd, they've all relieved.    

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'er;  
And yet no mind I had to think that I,  
Must leave not only them, but Italy;  
All Preparations for the way delayed,  
As Caesar had forgiven, and I had stayed,  
Servants, nor yet Companions did I choose,  
Nor Gold, nor clothes of necessary Use,  
Amazed! I stood like one by Thunder struck,  
That lives, but never can forget the stroke,  
When some faint Dawning of my Sense appeared,  
My Griefs looked less, tho' still they showed I feared '  
I called my Friends the very few that stayed,  
Sighing— at last, Farewell, my Friends, I said;  
Friends in misfortunes are so rarely known,  
I rather wondered of the many, I had one:  
My Wife she locked me in a close Embrace,  
Fixed her swollen Eyes, and pressed me to her Face,  
My Daughter that to Africa I sent,  
Knew nothing of her Father's Banishment,  
Too many they, alas, at Home that stayed,  
And wept as tho' some Funeral they had,  
If great Examples, humble Sorrows take,  
Such was the Groans, when ancient Troy was sacked,  
'Twas then, when Night her deepest mourning had,  
All things but us, so silent, they seemed dead.  
I fixed my Eye upon the lofty Capitol,  
Joined 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 Heaven, your other Seat,  
Tho' I too late my wounded Body guard,  
Torn by the Sentence that I lately heard,  
Let Banishment if not atone, suffice,  
To reconcile me to the People's Voice;  
Tell Caesar tho' I sinned, 'twas Ignorance,  
Design ne'er prompted to the great Offence.  
This you can witness, and can witness true,  
Tell Caesar this, he must believe from you.  
Thus I implored, while still my Wife she prays,  
With Tears repeated for the God's delays,  
Till Sobs cut off the Privilege of Words,  
And Wild Disorders no Relief affords,  
Her Breath returned, 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 loved  
My Family, so much my Country moved:  
How often did I say to those that pressed,  
That I would use the little Time I'd left!  
Why do you urge me? whither should I go?  
Where? do but tell me what you'd have me do.  
How often did I drive th' uneasy thoughts away!  
E'en to the utmost minute of my stay;  
Thrice I the Threshold touched, and tried 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 fastened on my Wife!  
My mind obedient, giving all my Life;  
How much we loved, while Dear Delights surprise!  
How we improved each Night with lasting Joys!  
Why should I go, I said, to Scythia?  
Leave much loved Rome, and try the Faithless Sea.  
Ah cruel Sentence! that must absence give,  
For Love, a faint remembrance only leave,  
'Twas 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 talked, the Fleeting Minutes passed,  
Half Words imperfectly my Thoughts expressed,  
I Kissed, and Sighed, and sadly looked the Rest.  
When Day broke through the Windows of the East,  
Stars disappeared, but Lucifer increased,  
So strangely, so unmanned, I lifeless stood,  
Nor thinking, speaking, looking as I should,  
No more my Brains their ancient Uses know,  
Than Legs cut off, without the Body go.  
So Priam grieved, when he too late beheld  
The Grecian Horse, with chosen Soldiers filled;  
Like Trojans then, tho' much in number less,  
My Family their Griefs in Cries express,  
My Wife while standing, leaning on my Neck,  
Mixed 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 disordered all,  
Wild as my Griefs, my Face a Funeral,  
With much ado, I spoke the last Farewell.  
They say, for now no more her Form I saw,  
Half dead she fell, when I resolved to go,  
With all the Instances of Horror seen,  
Dissolved in Tears, careless, deformed, 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,  
Formed by their own, and as exactly true:  
Thus tho' distracted, still she often prayed,  
Again, she would 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 fond would 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 forced unwillingly to go,  
Bless me! what boisterous, strange, unheard of Winds,  
Blackens the Sea, and shakes the quicker Sands?  
A Daring Wave, that undistinguished flies,  
Profane, assaults the very Deities,  
As tho' because, upon our Ship they're made,  
The Gods no other place had ever had,  
No, never thundered from their blessed 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 Pampered 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 chained up an Awkward Wind again,  
Much worse we'ad fared, for back we went,  
Half to the Place from whence Augustus sent,  
Which made me Pray, with earnest Accents too,  
The Gods would hear me, that Augustus knew;  
Hear 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 Privilege a while to Breath,  
And if your Power can reverse my Doom,  
Let Caesar smile, and I again see Rome.    

ELEGY IU.  
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', 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 could do,  
Advised me kindly, and would often Sigh,  
And argue still, when I resolved to die:  
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 breathe 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,  
Dispense her best, nothing of what I feel:  
But had not Winds detained me on the Sea,  
Than I'd known less, much less perhaps of thee:  
Famed Pirithous, ne'er knew his Theseus' Faith,  
Till his last Act had hurried him to Death,  
When Theseus does 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 would remain:  
As Gold refined by Fire, is purer far,  
So Friends by being tried more certain are,  
While Fortune drops her use of Wings, and stays,  
Always appearing in an easy Dress,  
Airy, yet constant, when less free, still good,  
While thus, her Fav'rite's lifted by the Crowd,  
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 flattering Crew,  
Not one, my Friend, that stays or loves like you,  
Regardless, as a Man unknown, he goes,  
And he that cringed but yesterday, scarce bows:  
This from th' Unfortunate, I early drew,  
But little thought, that I should prove it true,  
Not four I'd left, that would 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 Heaven curse your good Design,  
Caesar he loved, 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 betrayed,  
Then Pray those Guardians that our Earth attend,  
They'd Punish less, when we their Power offend.  
If any one would know my present Grief,  
It's so Prodigious, it is past Belief,  
The Stars are, than my Wrongs in number less,  
Nor can the Atoms that i'th' Sun increase,  
Distinctly, all the wondrous Tale express.  
So strange, so terrible the thousands seem,  
They're more than ere the Melancholy Dream,  
Part, tho' uppermost, are yet suppressed,  
And never must go farther than my Breast:  
Ye Poets, that Ulysses wrongs recite,  
Instead of his, your Ovid's Sufferings write:  
'Tis true, he spent a certain Term of Years,  
And wand'ring bend beneath some Cares,  
Between Dulichium, and Troy he steered,  
This was no Distance to be so much feared,  
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 Ulysses 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.  
Ulysses' 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 would be their Aid;  
A Goddess Guarded him with nicest care,  
Snatched 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 Skies,  
Much better was his Fate, my Friend, than mine,  
Jove ruins me, while Neptune threatened him:  
But then, think how the greatest part is made,  
Only supposed, the half he never had,  
My Griefs are all too certain, much too plain,  
No Fable does embellish aught that's mine.  
Besides: At last he reached his Household Gods,  
Prayed his Penates in their old Abodes,  
But I can never hope Ulysses' Place,  
Till Caesar smiles, and Heaven thunders less.    

ELEGY V.  
He writes to his Wife, and taketh 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 Wracked by his Misfortunes.  

APollo Lydia loved, but not as I,  
My Dearest Wife, have always, Child, loved thee,  
Philetus tho' his Nymph, and Song, Divine,  
Loved not his Battis, with a Love like mine,  
You so entirely have each part of me,  
That my Affection almost 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 would Rob me of my Life, Estate,  
And all the Goods I ever valued 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 escaped their Shepherd ' care,  
He takes his Prey, nor will the weakest spare,  
Or as a Vulture Hover to feeze,  
Some wretched Carcase, that unburied lies,  
So did these strive, by Force to ruin me,  
While guarded still on ev'ry side by Thee,  
Hector's Andromache, of Old so Famed,  
Must not be mentioned, Dear, when you are named,  
She wept her Hector, whom Achilles slew,  
Paid the accustomed Rites that Widows do,  
But living, never could 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 herself much less had owned,  
She at the most, had been but second found,  
Whether indulgent Nature gave you this,  
Fond to Compose foe great, exact a piece,  
Or if a less than Heaven we admit,  
Some Pious Matron made you so complete,  
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 would tell,  
Was but my Mind as undisturbed, and free,  
Easie, my Dear, as you have known it be,  
Generous, I'd give you then the highest Place,  
Set you with Heroines of the nicest Race,  
And make the wondering 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 used to wear his Picture, engraven upon Golden Plates.  

YOu that my Picture fond used 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 Poetic, 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!  
'Tis 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 changed shapes, tho' there is scarce a thought,  
Good as designed, and finished as it ought,  
No sooner was the fatal Sentence Read,  
But all my Art, was with my Freedom fled,  
Imperfect thus, what I'd with pains begun,  
I burned the scattered Papers that I'd done,  
As Thestius, is said, to burn her Son.  
And yet methoughts 'twas very hard, that they,  
Should feel the flames, that could not disobey,  
But so it was, partly indeed, in spite,  
To the first Muse, that flattered me to write,  
Till by Degrees, the Tribe my Ruin prove,  
Falsely persuading 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' Critics, they may damn 'em by a Law,  
They should 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, whosoever thou art,  
Don't you too nicely view an Orphan's Part,  
Snatched from his Parent's Funeral in haste,  
Kicked into th' World unlicked, by much too Fast,  
What tho' we Judgement 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 spangled be,  
And Ploughs shall make deep Furrows in the Sky▪  
The Elements shall change their wont state,  
Water shall burn, and Fire like Water, wet:  
All this, tho' strange, I Prophesy, since you  
Prove false, I've known so long, and thought so true,  
Lord! That a Man could 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 should hate,  
And all the Offices of Kindness quit!  
What if you had a well-bred Visit paid?  
And looked, and talked, as other Courtiers did,  
Offered some Reasons to allay my Grief,  
This had seemed kind, and that is some Relief,  
Tho' your sincerity could give no Tears,  
You might have Flattered with affected Prayers,  
However, at the least, you might have said,  
Farewell, I'm sorry, as the People did,  
Some that were Strangers, and no ways allied,  
Did more than this, affectionately cried,  
Then, how much more, might I expect from you▪  
That called me Friend, and all my Secrets knew,  
The Dear Companion of my tender Hours,  
My Goods, myself, my very Soul was yours,  
How blessed 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,  
Could ne'er nurse you, no Monsters she can have,  
Rather some Rock within the Scythian Sea,  
Damned for a thousand Murders every day,  
Where Female Tigers Nursed you at their Breast,  
Found you a Man, but Changed 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 Prayers, for me, the Gods despise,  
The same, for you, may Mount a Sacrifice.  
While Fortune's yours, a Crowd will hovering be,  
Fond Commending all they hear, and see;  
No sooner does the Fickle Goddess Frown▪  
But all your Parasites, my Friend, are gone:  
As Doves for new built Houses do prepare,  
While Ruined Towers all neglected are,  
As gathering Ants to crowded Barns do come,  
So does the Vulgar to the Richest Run:  
As in the Sun your Shakstone dow does Attend,  
And Walks, and Turns, and Cringes as you Bend,  
But when a Cloud appears, the Part's no more,  
Tho' it seemed more than half of you, before▪  
So vulgar Souls will Dance to Fortune's Light,  
A Cloud once spread, they Vanish out of sight.  
Heaven 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 Crowds, for Favours, would 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 fiery Bolts, the strongest easily Tear:  
Yet Caesar, in adversity has said,  
That Man's the best that by his Friend has stayed:  
When good Orestes Worth fierce Thoas knew,  
He Praised the Love in Pylades he saw:  
Hector, he often Patroclus approved,  
Tho' he his Enemy Achilles loved:  
When Theseus waited on his Friend in Death,  
Pluto could scarce believe so great a Truth,  
Convinced, he Mourned, and pitied 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 Gathering Flood would Threaten like a Sea,  
You that have Courage to be Good, that Dare,  
In greatest Dangers, for your Friend appear,  
Not meanly moved, as sordid Spirits are.  
Nor is your Judgement 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,  
Easily I can, your Growing Fortune Read,  
Some Greatness yet, as I have often said,  
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,  
Ruined my Fortunes when I came to Write;  
Your better Arts, not like my Trifling Skill,  
Has raised your Honour, and must raise it still;  
But yet you know, I ne'er was ill inclined,  
My Thoughts were Sallis 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 wont Force repeat:  
I Boarded her, when I to Corinth came,  
And long without a Change I kept the same;  
Through many Dangers I have safely steered,  
Always entreating Pallas, when I feared,  
And now I hope to Make the distant Land,  
The Getick Coast, Augustus does command;  
She bore me once, through boisterous, troubled Seas,  
A long, and mighty dangerous Way to Pass,  
When standing to the Left, (we shunned before)  
With much ado we made the Imbrian shore,  
Then with a gentle Wind, and calmer Sea,  
She easily Touched at Samos in her Way;  
O' th' other hand, there stands a lofty Wood,  
Famed for its Growth, and for its neighbouring Flood,  
Here I the wide Bistonian Fields survey,  
Walking a Foot, while she puts off to Sea,  
From Hellespont, Dardania she Gained,  
And Lampsacus, for her Priapus Famed,  
Then to the Seas, the same Leander crossed,  
When Beauteous Hero urged 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 lie 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 Wand'ring, Made,  
With all the Household 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 Power,  
Heaven knows we can't at this time Compass more.  
And you two Brothers, you this Island Prays,  
Conduct us in our double, different ways,  
Let one the Euxine make with happy Gales,  
While the other to Bistonia sails,  
Let Winds Convey us to the Place we would,  
Tho' different both, yet both have very good.    

ELEGY X.  
This is an Apology for the foregoing 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 Adriatic with her Billows tossed,  
The rest I Finished when the Isthmus passed,  
We all took Ship again, and sailed in haste,  
So odd a Thought, amazed the Cycladeses,  
To see a Poet writing on the Seas;  
I Wondered too, the Patience of my Muse,  
That in a Storm, she should 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' Threatening Signs they dreadfully appeared,  
And Waters in Disorder showed they Feared,  
Sometimes the Ship seemed Buried 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 do, half words he stammering said,  
And Promised all the Gods he would be good;  
The Gods, regardless, would not take his Word,  
Nor any Comfort for his Prayers afford:  
All things looked Ghastly that I heard, and saw,  
While still Death's Image kept within my view,  
When various Thoughts were struggling in my Mind,  
I Prayed, I Feared▪ my Fears, my Prayers inclined,  
One while I'd Pray to make the distant Land,  
Then I'd in haste recall that Prayer again,  
Tho' Heaven knows, I feared the Winds and See,  
Yet still the Land, seemed fiercer much than they,  
At Home, where Tempests only make a Noise,  
There, ah there! at Rome, I ' add 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 Battles that they Fight:  
Besides, to these with Disrepute I go,  
Banished by Caesar, so at Home a Foe:  
These Thoughts, a Storm within my Breast had made,  
The other might, this never could be laid.  
Now Reader, if you're generous, and good,  
If you can Pardon, as a Reader should,  
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 sat,  
My Body ne'er was used 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.  

Urged by my Fate, I write, again I Try,  
As tho' the Muses had not Ruined me,  
'Twas they Persuaded, Caesar, what you Read,  
And thought my Life was like my Verses, lewd;  
Had I been Wise, I ' add Hated 'em at first,  
The Learned Sisters, as the Poets boast,  
A Rhyming Crew, their smiles, like a Disease,  
Quickly Confound their very Votary's;  
This I have often known, and yet possessed,  
To these I fly, of these alone seek Rest:  
So beaten Fencers, Challenges repeat,  
And give their Mangled Bodies to be hit,  
So Shipwrecked Vessels, plough the swelling Main,  
And dare the very selfsame Rocks again:  
Lesle may my Dangers be, rather like him,  
He that was healed and wounded with the same,  
My Muse that moved the great Augustus so,  
May she the same Augustus soften now,  
The Gods, they say, in numbers soon hear,  
And always answer first a Poet's Prayer,  
So, Caesar made the Italian Matron's bow,  
In Numbers offer, what their Opis knew;  
So, Phoebus was addressed 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 should sin,  
And impudently move your Wrath again,  
But had not I, offending, urged you so,  
You than had wanted to forgive me now,  
Should Jove as often thunder, as we sin,  
Unarmed, the God, a thousand times had been;  
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 would,  
Nor yet less good, than great, does Caesar live,  
So many Instances of both we have.  
Often the Parthians have owned you kind,  
So Godlike is the Temper of your Mind,  
You Pardoned, tho' again the People sinned,  
Riches, and Honours, I have known you give,  
To Enemies, that would 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 threatened all before,  
That very day, your Anger has been o'er,  
Both Sides to th' Temple have their Offerings brought,  
The Conquered pleased, so brave the Victor fought,  
And as your Soldier 's fond to overcome,  
Others by yours, are Proud to be outdone:  
My Case is better than a Foe's appears,  
I make no Plots, nor cause you open Wars,  
I Swear by Heaven, and every Blessed Abode,  
By Caesar's dearest self, a Present God,  
My Soul does such Obedience afford,  
Entirely yours, it knows no other Lord;  
I've wished 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 Prayer I made.  
My Books, tho' one of them became my Crime,  
They most, nay That, does often Caesar Name;  
By this I my Obedience gave,  
Not that you, Lustre from my Lines could have,  
To such a Height no Poet e'er could 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 pleased the God,  
He loved the Song, and owned the Story true,  
How Giants Pelion on Ossa threw,  
Such Beauty in the Thought, so strong the Sense,  
Poets have had a Privilege e'er since,  
The Gods a thousand Bullocks they have had,  
All bleeding fresh upon their Altars laid,  
And yet though used to Plenty, when a Lamb,  
A single Offering to their Temple came,  
The Gods would smile, and take the Sacrifice,  
For this alone, they'd Bless their Votary's:  
Unlucky Chance! or rather damned Design,  
Who e'er he was at first, was so unkind,  
To read my Verses to so chaste 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 loser Lines have such Impressions made,  
You think the Present, as the other, Bad;  
Some jealous Favourite invented this,  
Thus to undo me by an Artifice;  
Methinks I hear how spitefully he read,  
What envious Comments on my Words he made,  
How he would blush, as Counterfeits they faint;  
Good Lord! a Man should be so impudent!  
This is not strange, since every 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 should deserve a Frown from you,  
To think I so much Goodness should provoke,  
To please a Humour that my Fancy took:  
To see my old Acquaintance, how they run,  
As I'd been mad, or some Infection known,  
As when a weakened House at last gives way,  
The Parts affected bear the most, they say,  
So Fortune fickle, when she changes shape,  
All things disordered, and unhappy look.  
It is not many Months ago, since you,  
My Life, and Manners, and my Business knew,  
Often I've pleaded the Defendant's Part,  
Not without Reputation, and some Art,  
And tho' Superior Judges have looked on,  
They've all approved of what the Lawyer's done▪  
In private things I've wholly been in trust,  
When both sides pleased have owned me very just▪  
Ah me! that I should 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 perished too;  
No vile Design the angry Nymph could know,  
Actaeon's only Crime was, that he saw,  
For this he undistinguished falls a Prey,  
Torn by his Dogs, that always did obey:  
So when we Heaven 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 Way remote from it,  
That very day, my House but small, yet Good,  
Was lost, and ruined, tho' the Building stood,  
Yet not so small, but Honours she could 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,  
Myself an Ample Fortune by my Wit.  
Tho' my late Lines are loose, and wanton Read,  
While Nature prompted, and my Passion swayed,  
The Thoughts are manly, and the Verses good,  
Smooth are my Numbers, and my Sense entire,  
Melting the Words, and apt for soft Desire,  
That wondering Poets shall for Ages read,  
And praise their Ovid for the Lines he made:  
Curse o' my Fate! one single Fault should damn!  
Banish the Poet, and confound his Theme!  
From Love, from Stories of the Gods, and Men,  
Forced to attempt Excuses for my Crime,  
Lost in the Mass ill-shuffled Fates have Hurled,  
Wanting a Voice, like that that made the World,  
Should Caesar call, my Wrongs would all obey,  
And I for ever boast his Liberty,  
This would complete the Favours I enjoy.  
For more I feared, than in your Anger was,  
That you my Life, at least Estate would 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 Damned,  
Or by a private way of Justice named,  
'Twas Caesar's Mouth pronounced my Banishment,  
But called it by a lesser Punishment,  
Only Confined me to a distant Clime,  
There to Reflect his Goodness, and my Sin;  
And generous Souls are moved 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 inclined,  
But when they're resolute, they should 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 heavens thunderstruck,  
Ugly, despised, 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 suffering Trees, and kindly grow,  
Tho' Gods themselves the Bolts in anger threw;  
Thus when like Heaven, I know you to be kind,  
Your greatest Anger to be still confined,  
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 quashed 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 Heaven, 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 Household 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 formed her for a Blessing here,  
Caesar was then th' Almighty's chiefest Care,  
'Twas then, he showed the Wonders he could do,  
And showed 'em all, in Livia, and you.  
Your Son, that Promises his Part so soon,  
May Heaven 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 Business irksome grow,  
May he do all the Wonders that you do!  
May Victory that long has known your Tent,  
Come to his Colours, and herself Present,  
Hover, with Wings officious fly,  
And Crown him, with the Choicest Laurels nigh,  
One Half still present, Governing at Home,  
Your other self Commanding, far from Rome!  
Pardon me now, if private Sufferings 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 called the same,  
The Power much at one your Subjects know,  
As God's above, so Caesar Rules below;  
Then spare, as Fathers of their Country do,  
And take the Honours that I own your Due;  
I dare not Pray you would forgive my Sin,  
Tho' Gods, they say, as kind as this have been,  
Only confine me to a nearer Shore,  
A gentler Banishment, I'll ask no more;  
This will Alleviate the Cares I know,  
Lessen the present Ills, that Wrack me now,  
In Wide, remotest Lands, to live alone,  
With such inhuman Creatures, far from Home!  
Others there are that have offended you,  
Their Crimes notorious as mine could 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 Shores, below, Sarmatia stands:  
Recall me hence, tho' you deny me Peace,  
'Tis Hell, to live in such a Place as this.  
Besides: We have an old Italian Law,  
Approved of long, and not disputed now,  
That Freeborn Subjects, of a Roman Race,  
By Birth have Title to a better place,  
Their Princes safe, they must not Captives be,  
This early showed a Right to Liberty.  
I shan'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 ere my Muse,  
With these they've often vexed your Royal Breast,  
Provoked your Anger, and destroyed my Rest;  
And all they said, you thought severely true,  
Nor do I wonder you believed 'em so,  
Since Gods have been deceived 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 lie?  
The thoughts of Empire left, for Poetry:  
Easie the Weight, must on your Shoulders sit,  
Had you yourself considered 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 flies before your Bolder Son,  
Early made Brave, by Victories you won;  
No Head but yours, could so much Business do,  
With so much Ease, such mighty Order too:  
Your thoughts to travel all your Empire o'er,  
And you, Unruffled, manage such a Power,  
No Part but Governed by your proper Care,  
Yet none to Want what's necessary there,  
Shows that your Soul had a peculiar Mould,  
Formed 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 Business seen,  
That you should think of any thing of mine!  
I own my Verses lose, 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 every Look;  
One she reads Annals, there perhaps she'll find,  
How Ilia, a Vestal was inclined,  
When dreaming, Mars compressed the lovely Maid,  
And Blest her with the Double Birth she had;  
Let her but look the well writ Aeneids o'er,  
She wishes, sighs, and thinks on Venus' Power,  
Pity's poor Dido, when Aeneas sails,  
And Wonders that the Queen no more Prevails;  
There's nothing, tho' the purest of the Kind,  
That mayn't Corrupt a Heart, that's ill inclined,  
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, Wear Swords alike,  
Because one Robs, shall t' other take a Stick?  
Or shall we pious, ancient Cloisters 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 herself a Beauty for his sake▪  
Another, she at Juno's Altar Prays,  
And thinks how Fair Europa Crossed the Seas,  
Pity's poor Juno, by her Jove betrayed,  
The God so often Changing as he did,  
But Wishes still she'd been the Charming Maid.  
Should she Minerva's awful Statue see,  
So Good, so Tall, so full of Majesty,  
Some Story still her strong desire would sinned,  
How Erictihon was born a'fore his Time,  
Because the Goddess hid him, as they say,  
And sure if Goddesses such Pranks will play,  
Inferior Nymphs their waiting Women may.  
All things, a Person easily turns to ill,  
Whose chiefest Law's the Dictates of his Will;  
The gravest Matrons have beheld in paint,  
The lewdest Forms, the Artist could invent;  
The Vestals have beheld th' Intrigue of Stews,  
The various ways, those Proftitutes abuse,  
And yet the Painter if the Piece was good,  
Received the Praises that an Artist should:  
But why? Oh why? did I unhappy write,  
Fond o' th' Fantastic 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 Battles, Wars, not whine out Love?  
Troy had engaged me in a Noble Strain,  
And inoffensive too, my Thoughts had been,  
Here I had told the Grecian Policy,  
And Troy's unfo rtunate Security:  
Or had this been an antiquated Theme,  
I might have sung as well of greater Rome,  
This had been pious, and a Subject's part,  
Duty excused the Nicety of Art;  
Tho' Caesar had not been obliged by this,  
His Worth, so much exceeding all my Praise,  
He must have pardoned an officious Muse.  
As Phoebus' darting Rays affect our Eyes,  
So Caesar's Glories in the View surprise,  
When with a Naked Eye we see each Light,  
'Tis 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 should he launch into the Swelling Main,  
His Boat would be too small, his Art in vain;  
So tho' I've writ with Reputation too,  
Of trivial Subjects, Stories that I knew,  
Should 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 been,  
And Jove, and Caesar, suffered in the Strain.  
Once I begun the mighty Task, and Tried,  
I sung of Wars, as other Poets did,  
But still, my Hero so surpassed the rest,  
I must have Writ the worst, if not the best:  
Then I resolved 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 Dies.  
Curse o' this Thought! why did I learn to Read?  
Why did my Tutor teach me as he did?  
And yet I suffer through Mistake, as tho'  
Unlawful Ways of Love I did pursue;  
As tho' I'd sought t' abuse the Nuptial Rites,  
And gratify myself 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 wronged the meanest Person's Bed;  
My Life and Verse, have always differed 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.  
Sapph had never reached 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 Burned themselves with strong Desire,  
Dissemble still, and make their Lovers die,  
But Dye to Live, and Meet with greater Joy:  
What are the Iliads, that the World approves,  
But Wars, occasioned by Forbidden Loves?  
How Helen, melted by her Paris Voice,  
Yields to his Charms, and eagerly enjoys:  
Had not Ulysses' Wife so many Won,  
Homer, his Odysseys 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 ' Revenged,  
To let 'em lie, till he prepares the Chains.  
Many the Instances I yet could heap,  
Would not the Reader, and my Muse both sleep.  
Catullus always most Correctly Writ,  
His Lesbian the Subject of his Wit:  
Hortensius, and Servus, loved like me,  
And who would fear to Fellow such as they?  
Gallus, for Lycoris was never Blamed,  
Talking too much, not Writing, Gallus Damned,  
Tibullus writes, how freely Women swear,  
What strange deluding sort of things they are;  
They value strictest Oaths, no more than Wind,  
When e'er 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 admired, and Women loved, he showed,  
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 feared not, where so many Ships had Past,  
Or thought my Bark would Shipwrackt be at last:  
Had I but Played the Droll in Mimic Wit,  
Had then been safe, and pleased a laughing Pit,  
All Ages, Sexes, Flock with haste 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 Buffooned it when I writ,  
And all my Nonsense would have been Sheer Wit.  
Shall stammering Mimics then Protected live?  
And others want the Favours that they have?  
Shall Ovid suffer, while he would Delight?  
Others be safe, that do, what Ovid writ?  
My Lines by th' Mob, as theirs, huzzaed have been '  
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 Battles speak,  
And show in Arms, how like a God you look,  
While others, skilled i'th'▪ art of Heraldry,  
Tell all the Wonders of your Family,  
How for some Ages, Hero's have been bred,  
And how Augustus does the rest exceed:  
This I have often wished, but wished in vain,  
Nature designing me a weaker strain,  
Far from the best, yet not the worst, so mean.  
Virgil, the Wonder of a Wondrous Age,  
Whose Art does still some mighty things Presage,  
Whose Writings give unto our Poet's Laws,  
Whether a great or humble Theme they choose:  
If Warriors read, in him their Art they find,  
Honour, and Courage, in the Trojans joined:  
If Lovers take his Aeneids down,  
They read, how Dido, and the Hero's found,  
How Jove, he Thundered in the World above,  
Kindly assisting their Design of Love;  
Thus he in Notès, so artfully could 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 Burned,  
How proud Alexis, Corydon he scorned:  
He showed how Nysa, Mopsus loved,  
A Humour Women always moved;  
Tho' Mopsus Nature had designed a Jest,  
Mopsus was Rich, and Nysa loved him best.  
Thus when the Mantuan Poet led the way,  
I thought to follow such a Guide as he,  
To write like him, could ne'er have ruined me:  
Nor yet, do I, more serious Subjects want,  
Some Books of Sacred Feasts, I have in Print:  
One while, my Muse, in Tragic Buskins Trod,  
All very solemn, grave, and some said good:  
Another Work, with Care and Pains I wrote,  
Tho' in my Sentence 'twas unfortunate;  
Wanting the Authors last performing Stroke,  
To give it Graces for the nicest Look,  
In this, (my Metamorphosis) I show,  
The Face of things, from Nothing, down to you:  
Would you, in this, but Read my Innocence,  
You'd find how much the Poet loved the Prince;  
You'd Read in every Line my very Soul,  
Entirely yours, without Reserves at all:  
Nor was I ever Tempted when I writ,  
Inferior Men, with disrespect to Treat,  
I always hated a Satiric Wit,  
Ne'er Wounding any, but the Author, yet.  
This showed the Temper of a Peaceful Mind,  
Formed in my Infancy, by Age refined;  
For this, no well-bred Roman triumphs now,  
Pleased at the Punishment I undergo,  
But rather Mourns, the dismal story told,  
And often wishes that I were recalled.  
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, whosoever thou art,  
Pity a poor, unhappy Wanderer's Part,  
The Wretched Off spring of a Wretched Man,  
Banished his Country to a Foreign Land,  
But be ned afraid, nor Blush at what he gives,  
No thoughts of Love are Read within these Leaves;  
The Author's not so senseless, 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,  
'Twas then a lasting Train of Ills he laid,  
Pleased with the Fond Ideas that he had,  
He writ of Love, and Flattered every Sense,  
Promised himself no Injuries from thence:  
Had he but thought, how Fond Pygmalion Wooed,  
How proudly, when he loved, the Statue stood,  
No living Beauty he had ever Took,  
Or Dared the Lightning that those Angels Look;  
Or had but Caesar spoke such Writings Sin,  
He'ad sooner angered any God than him:  
But now his Subjects changed, 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 should stammer at his Mother Tongue,  
Or write, as they that have been absent long,  
'Tis this damned Jargon, that the Country 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 wheresoever 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 Palace there, not far from it;  
This is the Place, where bold Evander dwelled,  
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 surprised, I innocently cried,  
Is ned 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,  
'Twas Caesar's Palace, and he'ad known it long;  
I could 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 Triumphs here?  
And Laurels wanting for so many are?  
Or is it Holiday? 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 myself, 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 Exiles Son.  
Next, by a Vast, but gradual Ascent,  
Where Great Apollo's Temples were, we went,  
Where Books are seen, of various Subjects writ,  
Contained within a Place that joins to it;  
And here I thought my Kindred Books to see,  
All but th' unfortunate, our Misery.  
But e'er I looked the several Classes over,  
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, Repulsed with shame;  
At this a sad Reflection made me sigh,  
By Birth, that I should 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 die.  

WHen the Gods Curse, in Sufferings like mine,  
Tho' great their Wrath, yet greater is the Sin;  
That I to Scythia should Banished be!  
Live in Disgrace, and die with Infamy!  
The Muses that I doted on, and Prayed,  
So passionately courted, as I did;  
The Deities, I so entirely loved,  
That took my Offerings, and my Songs approved,  
These might, one would have thought, the Gods have moved.  
Apollo too, the Patron of our Right,  
Refused his Interest, and left me quite.  
Abandoned, 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 business to the last;  
Tender, and Delicate, no Labours knew,  
Or Heats, and Colds, as Travellers do,  
That I, should such an Alteration bear!  
The Icy Seas, and Frosts, so common here,  
Spent by Fatigues, that I should think to write!  
That it should 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 passed the Dangers of the Seas,  
And reached 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,  
Gushed out with Tears, that long had been confined,  
Such Floods I wept, as when great Waters flow,  
From tallest Mountains, covered o'er with Snow,  
Dissolved by Rains, that Threaten all below.  
While Rome, the great, the good, the much loved Place,  
My House, my Wife, my Friends, my Fears increase,  
Often I ask to Die, but ask in vain,  
As Heaven reserved me for a farther Pain;  
But that can't be, so exquisite my Grief,  
The Torments that I know exceed Belief:  
Why has the Fatal Steel escaped 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 ned, my Dear, too much surprised at this  
Take the true Reason, tho' I'm loath to tell,  
So much you love, so very much I feel:  
A sudden Illness seized me with a mighty force,  
And tho' so bad at first, I still grew worse,  
While shooting Pains distorted every joint,  
And frequent Sweats made all my Members faint;  
My Fingers, they refused the Work they knew,  
And disobeyed, tho' I designed it you;  
No Means was left, but by another's hand,  
And this is that, my Dearest Wife, I send:  
The want of Health's no small, no trivial Ill,  
The Bravest pity, when the Pains they feel;  
When wearied Nature, Staggered with the Weight,  
Disordered, 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 Physician to Relieve the Sick,  
No healing Cordials to support the Weak,  
No Witty Friend is found within this Place,  
With pleasing Stories, to divert in such a Case,  
And make the sluggish Minutes mend their Pace:  
In various Postures on my Bed I lie,  
Restless in all, yet still the same I Try,  
While crowding Thoughts are shuffling in my Mind,  
But you, as always, I the deepest find;  
Fond of your Name, the wont Sound I speak,  
Improperly, they say, and Nonsense make,  
So much I love, that should my Faltering Tongue,  
Too Weak, refuse to speak as it has done;  
Should you appear, the Strings would artful Play,  
Tho' shrunk before, would all Obedience be,  
A thousand little tender things I'd say,  
Talk like a Lover, on his Wedding-day,  
And more than talk, I'd love, my Dear, as he.  
Such joy, would give new Measure to my Days,  
While I not only lived, but lived with Ease;  
But if the Thread of Life the Sisters spun,  
Was but designed till now, and's almost done,  
It had been kind to let me stayed at Home,  
And there, ye Gods, expected till it Run;  
Then I'd a Grave within my Country had,  
And all my Friends, the decent Rites had paid,  
Secure I'd slept, without Reflection laid;  
Now in a distant Land, remote from all,  
Living, and dying, I unpityed 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 increase your Grief;  
Inur'd to Sorrows, you know better things,  
You know, too much Concern, a Weakness bring;  
Long you have learned the Melancholy Trade,  
Read all the Mysteries it ever had;  
Besides, Child, Death itself no Punishment,  
You lost your Husband in his Banishment,  
The worst of Deaths the Gods conned e'er invent,  
A Death with infamy, to th' Vilest scent;  
And now if Heaven would pardon what is past,  
This Prayer I'd make, and breath it with my last▪  
May no Remains of me, but all entire,  
Stretched on the Pile, in fiercest Flames expire;  
For should what fond Pythagoras says, be true,  
That after Death, our Souls a Being know,  
More Wretched still, to die in such a Place,  
Unknown the Way, I should be Doomed to this;  
Converse with Ghosts, that Devils lived,  
That never could on Earth be once believed,  
This makes me Charge those Servants that I have,  
To see all Burnt, some Ashes only save,  
And these enclosed within a well made Urn,  
To Italy, with haste I would have Born,  
And thus, tho' dead, my Dear, I shall return.  
And who can blame your pious care in this,  
'Tis all inhuman, if it should displease,  
The Theban dead, his Corpse were stole away,  
And buried too, in spite of a Decree:  
Let well-chose Sweets be scattered o'er my Grave,  
And let my Marble this Inscription have;   

Here, in this Melancholy Vault below,  
Lies injured Ovid, all that's Ovid now,  
Undone, and ruined, while he he strove to move,  
By telling Stories of endearing Love:  
Now whosoever thou art, that passest by,  
Pray Heaven that Ovid may securely lie,  
Since thou thyself hast loved as well as he.   

This is enough to signify 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 could find,  
Could I with strength deliver all my Mind:  
Take then unfinished, what your Husband gives,  
May you enjoy, and long, the World he leaves:  
May you of Blessings have so vast a store,  
Till Heaven 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 IU.  
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 thyself 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, tried by the nicest Laws,  
This I'd Prefer, by much, before a Court,  
With all the Powdered Fops that there Resort,  
Scarce in appearance Men, so Antic dressed,  
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 untouched are found.  
The naked Sailyard all Attempts defies,  
Fearless of all the force of Waves, and Skies,  
While swelling Sails are driven through dangerous ways,  
Russled by Winds, that trouble widest Seas;  
O, had I took, what here I now advise,  
You ' add 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 Famed 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 Skies;  
When Daedalus fell, he rose again with ease,  
But t'other falling from a Precipice,  
Died i'th' Attempt, and dying Named the Seas.  
Believe me, Friend, and take my very Soul,  
The Truths I tell, are good, and studied 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 Virtuous than Great,  
He answers all the Ends the Gods enjoin,  
No time, but's very well employed by him;  
What e'er he says, is all severely true,  
He does not talk, as Parasites in Courts must do,  
He's always just to what he does 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 should.  
Often I think, with what a kind sad look,  
When I left Rome, your last Farewell you took;  
With what affection you returned my Kiss,  
How much concern you showed in the Surprise,  
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,  
Breathed out my Name, with Infamy,  
You, like a Guardian Angel, still stood firm,  
And for my Sake, opposed the loudest Storm;  
For this, the World shall pay eternal Praise,  
And read your Name in never dying Verse;  
My Person's Banished, but my Name's still free,  
And boasts, a great, and glorious Liberty.    

ELEGY V.  
To his Friend.  
Whom he calls by a Feigned 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,  
Professed a Friendship ever since proved true;  
Nor had I long, my Friend, the Blessing known,  
Which made it dearer than it would have been,  
That you, while I, undone, neglected stood,  
Should then, an early Friendship too, make good,  
Was such a generous, and noble thought,  
It reached the highest Pitch that Friendship ought;  
Nor yet does 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 almost 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 owned, he soon Forgives the Crime,  
And ne'er upbraids, till he's provoked again;  
So fiercest Lions, tho' their Power great,  
Pardon the Weak, when Prostrate at their Feet,  
Such an Acknowledgement decides the Fray,  
And this is certainly the nobler way;  
But Wolves, and Bears, of an inferior 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 Wrongs was read in Fierce Achilles' Face;  
Such thoughts as these, make me expect Relief,  
That Heaven will one day mitigate my Grief:  
Had I been conscious of some Mighty Fault,  
I durst not then, so much as this have Thought;  
Had I in Wine profaned great Caesar's Name,  
Managed reflectingly so good a Theme;  
Had I been Treacherous, I should desire to die,  
Rather than live with so much infamy;  
But for beholding what I could not shun,  
Banished, for what my Eyes have only done,  
Is hard, and yet for this I'm Banished Rome.  
Now, what I ask, is, you would intercede,  
If Liberty is never to be had,  
Pray my Removal from this horrid Place,  
And I'll rest satissyed, my Friend, with this.    

ELEGY VI.  
To Perilla.  

GO to Perhilla, Letter, hasty Go,  
Tell her of every Circumstance you know;  
You'll find her Waiting by her Mother stand,  
Listening, 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 melancholy still, or No?  
Whether my Health e'ent injured 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 Die:  
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,  
Busied in other Studies, left her Poetry?  
She had a sort of Right, by Birth to plead,  
Her Father's Wit, has always been allowed;  
'Twas very hard, should Children only live,  
Entitled to Diseases, that their Parents have;  
Sometimes a Father's Wit's a happy Share,  
A Promising Portion, in the meanest Heir;  
When Nature in Perilla proved her Care,  
And Formed her Perfect, as the Nicest are,  
When every Stroke Foretold a certain Reign,  
And Pregnant Wit, early deserved a Name,  
'Twas then, I brought her to the sacred Spring,  
And gave her to the Nine a grateful Offering,  
They soon inspired 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 Lesbian sung a nobler Song,  
Lesbian with Pains had Read the Muses long,  
Perilla in her Infant Age writ strong.  
Often with Prayers, I blessed th' Auspicious Sign,  
Kissed the young Girl, in all her Actions Mine,  
Often I wondered at the mighty Power,  
A Tale I'd heard, but never knew before;  
Thus was my thoughts Raise d to a vast Height,  
To see my Darling Care, Perhilla Great,  
When straight, 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, 'tis 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 Ploughed the lovely Face,  
And all Perilla's thousand Charms, decrease,  
Her Eyes less sprightly, and her Lips less red,  
Ne'er 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 over 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 Burden now,  
Sail with more care, than usually you do,  
Safely convey him, to the Attic Lands,  
The best of Poets, and the best of Friends,  
In this you will Preserve my better Half,  
My Virgil, Dearer to me than myself.  
His Heart was more than Brass, who first durst go,  
And visit distant Shores, as we do now,  
Safe in a Ship, the Floating Monsters see,  
And be no more Concerned 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 pursued him with his Power,  
Sent him Diseases, never known before:  
While Death moved slowly, in a lazy Pace,  
Age's Man lived, 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 Heaven 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 Power, which Nature's wiser Laws deny.  
Through Hell below, the Fierce Alcides Ran,  
A Place, where none, one would have thought, would gone.  
Grown Giants in Impiety, we swell,  
And Brave the Gods, that would 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, unskilled in Pyrrha's Wanton Art,  
Offers his Love, and gives thee all his Heart?  
With Choice Perfumes, like a dressed, amorous Beau,  
Courts Charming Pyrrha, as I used to do;  
Knocks at thy Door, and fears to be denied,  
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 used 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 fond think you're Good, because you're Fine,  
I felt the Storm myself, and then I Vowed,  
For ever after to Adore th' Assisting God,  
And here, this Table shows I dread the Flood.    

To Clarinda.  

TO Pray's a Privilege 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 Power,  
And tho' the Nymphs as Good, and Fair as you,  
'twas 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 should 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 Heaven Oblige with better Company.   

Gods! when we View the Beauties of your Mind,  
Unmixed with Pri de, Ambition, or Design,  
Nature had fond given so vast a store,  
Had not your Family been 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 moved, and Love, and Wit, first Took,  
In soft, engaging Numbers, Lovers spoke,  
Easy you Reigned, and willingly they Bore,  
The pleasing Bondage of so just a Power;  
Like them of old, we Love, and like them too,  
Artless we Write, of any thing, but you.   

Heaven ne'er wants its Thunder, yet the Air  
Is sometimes Calm, Serene, and very Clear,  
Should Storms arise, and Winds for ever Blow,  
While Nature Triumphed in so Wild a Show,  
No longer we should Relish Life below.  
Like Heaven, 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 Frowned some Twenty Years ago,  
Some injudicious Lover might have Whined,  
And sighed, because his Philis were unkind;  
Age now hath made your Forehead far from straight,  
By Planting Wrinkles, that the Young Men hate;  
Nor do the Elder love a Withered Face,  
By which they Read their own, as in a Glass,  
Death's Heads, and Skeletons, Physicians keep,  
But never lay 'em by 'em when they sleep.  
Then Smile, my Philis, do, and Paint thy Skin,  
Defy 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 Taste, is gone;  
Or should he have a Tooth, (which few believe)  
'Tis Odds, but with a Kiss, the Tooth you have▪  
Had you been ever Lewd, I should have thought,  
Some Pious Fancy had the Penance Taught;  
Yet this can never be, no Fear of Evil,  
Could ever make Clarana love the Devil;  
No Popish Priest could such damned Doctrine tell,  
To Merit Heaven, send a Soul to Hell;  
'Twas Gold that Reconciled the Difference,  
And made Sixteen with Seventy three dispense.    

Upon a Young Lady's Birthday. Aged 7.  

WHen Bolder Atheists Nature's power deny,  
She gives the Wand'ring 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 Heaven returned, for Pains your Mother knew,  
The most Engaging Blessing, Heaven could do,  
And Blessed 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, designed your Reign:  
When Age shall ripen all those Growing Charms,  
And every Look with wondrous Force Alarms;  
When willingly a Thousand Lovers Dye,  
And tell their Heart, by speaking with their Eye,  
A mighty Empire, Madam, than you'll know,  
While none Contends for Empire, but for you.    

To Philis.  

FOr God sake, Philis, be ned so Coy,  
I never loved you yet, not I:  
Had you Dressed well, been Fair, and Clear,  
And Sweet, and Clean, as others are;  
Good natured, humble, Modest, Witty,  
Fine, Well-bred, and something Pretty,  
Amidst ten thousand Lovers then,  
Philis, 'tis odds, but you'd had some;  
Nay, I perhaps might then been Caught,  
However, Loved you in a Fit,  
When Drunk, or Mad, to Philis run,  
And Kissed her Mouth, and Cursed my own:  
Tho' this may lucky prove, 'tis true,  
To any one that Marrys you,  
Should he be Ill, and want to Spew,  
'Tis only, Philis, viewing you;  
Or should he be advised to Sh—te,  
The selfsame Object does the Feat;  
But should my Philis e'er be Wed,  
What Monsters, Philis, must you Breed;  
With staring Eyes, and Asses Ears,  
With Monkey's 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 Power,  
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 Die.   

And tho' none Boasts a better Right,  
Yet let me this Advise,  
Conceal those Beauty's that Invite,  
Or Pity him that Dies.     

Hor. ODE 34. lib. 1.  
He Resolves to be Religious.  

I Who the Deitys so seldom Prayed,  
But followed the Delights of Sense,  
That no Religion ever yet Obeyed,  
But Epicurus fond Pretence,  
My impious Error, have at last perceived,  
At last grown Good, and virtue's Rules believed.   

For very lately, Jove, I angry heard,  
His Rolling Thunder rend the Sky,  
The Wondering World, amazed, were all afraid,  
And Trembled at his Majesty,  
His Lightning Proved his awful Reign and Power,  
And made me too, tho' very late, Adore,   

How did he shake Remotest Lands and Seas?  
The Noise, disturbed the very Dead,  
The Ghosts in Wild Disorder all Arose,  
And Pluto, tho' a God, Obeyed,  
The Lightning Pierced his Shady Walks, so Bright,  
His Weaker Flames were all Extinguished quite.   

How does he sport with greatest Monarches Power?  
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 pleased 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 Prise my Lydia's melting Charms?  
And eager, gave her all my Heart:  
No joys like what her amorous looks could 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 could Inspire,  
And Chloes Charms, ne'er Warmed his Breast,  
How did I meet him with a Glowing Fire!  
And never thought myself 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 would die,  
Chloe, that Sings, and Plays, so fine a Part,  
Chloe, herself, all Harmony.   Lydia. 

Ah Horace, Calais succeeds you now,  
And Boasts a finer Mien, and Air,  
So much in Feats of Love outdoes you too,  
I'd die two Deaths to save my Dear.   Horace. 

What if my former Love returns again?  
And I, for Lydia should die,  
Fond admire each Smile, and Dread each Frown '  
And Chloes 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 viewed 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 would have me Write,  
But Write no more, says she, of Wars,  
That fill your Head with idle Fears,  
How Parthians Fight, and Fight 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,  
Disordered words, and short-breathed 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 would, as now Incline,  
And make the Charming Glycera mine.    

The Parting.  

CLarinda's Eyes have proved 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 swollen Eyes discharged there mighty store!  
And Wept, as though they'ad never Wept before;  
As Snow around the Taller Mountains hangs,  
Which Rain dissolves, and to the Valleys brings,  
Whose Rapid Torrent threatens all the Way,  
Not stopped by Houses till it Reach the Sea:  
So was it, when my Eyes, brimful, overflowed,  
None saw the Stream, but feared the growing Flood;  
And had not I, through Weakness, Died away,  
No doubt, but I myself had made a Sea:  
Often I'd heard of Venus, and her Son,  
Often been told what Miracles they'ad done;  
How they could make the Obstinatest sigh,  
Nay more, much more, admire, adore, and die;  
But these were idle, senseless Tales to me,  
An Infidel in Love's Divinity:  
Venus, I thought, might Charm some Amorous Youth,  
And Cupid's Beauty might have been a Truth,  
But to Believe his Arrows, Bow, and Darts,  
Were Formed to Murder, or to Soften Hearts,  
Were Stuff, I thought, but find it very True,  
And willingly Retract my Error now.  
Some Months agone, as I Clarinda Gazed,  
My Heart unusual Pulses Beat, amazed,  
I unaccountably began to Sigh,  
But soon, disordered all, thought Death were nigh,  
Ne'er Dreamt of Love, i'th' least, not I;  
Till One, whom long Experience made Wise,  
Told me 'twas Love, the Symptoms had been his:  
No sooner had he told me what he knew,  
But straight an Arrow from Love's Quiver flew,  
And proved his Story literally True.  
Forgive me, Cupid, tho' I late Adore,  
I Feel, as well as Dread the Conqueror,  
And if I e'er again Reflect on Thee,  
May I be Damned for my Apostasy.   

Forgive me, Venus, for I've injured you,  
Profane, ne'er Worshipped, as I Ought to do;  
Forgive me, lovely Maid, to you I Bow,  
Before you have sinned, and humbly Own it too;  
To see Clarinda, and to Rail at Love,  
Deserved no less than Thunder from above:  
Tho' you have no need of Foreign Aid, or Skill,  
Your Eyes with Lightning can as surely Kill,  
Sooner the Giants might their Heaven Scale,  
Than I against Clarinda's Force, Prevail;  
But Oh! when I a full Obedience showed,  
And Own'd you Fair, and found you very Good,  
Not Proud, Reserved, 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 its Light! that Hurried me away;  
Not Trembling Ghosts with more Abhorrence Go,  
Change their Abodes, for Gloomy Walks below,  
Than I, Confounded, from Clarinda Went,  
Plunged 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, moved with th' Arabian Gold,  
Had Changed the Course that you so long had steered,  
And all your Ease, and Freedom sold.   

That you Philosophy should 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,  
Robbed of the Charming Youth she loved?  
What Royal Boy your Happiness attend,  
With joys that Iccius always Moved?   

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 promised 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 Arrived at last,  
In Golden Goblets, drink a mighty Draught,  
Thank Heaven for his Deliverance from Harms,  
Out-sailing Pirates, 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 Reigned,  
When Heaven with Ease, and Plenty, blessed Mankind,  
When Nature, in a Pure, but simple Dress,  
Taught Men the truest way to Happiness;  
E'er Artifice, Intrigue, Cunning, Design,  
Had yet employed the Busy 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 Atoms were disposed 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 Power,  
That he, in Time, Called from Eternal Night,  
A Glorious Day, with Cheerful Beams of Light,  
And made a shapeless Lump, of Form admit,  
And Order shine through all the Parts of it;  
Long e'er Ambition yet the People knew,  
Or Interest, to make what's False, seem True,  
Princes (for every Parent were as such)  
Ne'er thought of Fight, but of Loving, much;  
No Swords, or Spears, were yet Contrived, or Made,  
No impious Ships, the Foaming Billows dared,  
But Men, and Boats, the swelling Surges Feared:  
The Aged Oak, ne'er sopped in Briny Seas,  
Securely kept the Wood, its Native Place,  
Tho' Marm'ring Winds the Younger Branches Bowed,  
The Body stood, as mighty Mountains did,  
Ne'er Moved, but when the labouring Earth in Pain,  
Pressed with some Pent-up Wind, began to Groan,  
And in extremity, by Force overthrow,  
Vast Trees, strong Houses, Tallest Mountains too;  
The Ocean was, as Heaven at first Designed,  
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 Properties,  
Brave Death, for various sorts of Meat,  
To satisfy a Foolish Appetite,  
Or what's still worse, for Gold, they could not Eat.  
Would Heaven I ' add been at first th' Almighty's Care,  
And had an early Being any where,  
Or else had been reserved for later Days,  
When Men by long Experience grow Wise.    

The Second Idyllium of Moschus.  
EUROPA.  

WHen first Europa, Venus care appeared,  
A sudden Dream, the Lovely Nymph prepared,  
'Twas then, when Night, her Darker Work had done,  
And Blushing Morn, her Cheerful Dress put on,  
Europa Dreamt, (and sure in Dreams there is  
More than we think, at least there was in this)  
She Dreamt, 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, Power pleaded, tho' not Birth,  
For Jove himself, Europa is designed,  
Too great a Blessing for a Humane Mind:  
This, tho' a Dream, the Tender Nymph had Moved,  
She Wished, she Feared, and what she Feared, she Loved.  
Tell me, ye Gods, (she said) for you must know,  
Whose Eyes discover Fate in Embryo,  
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 Playfellows 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 Undisturbed 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 Cropped by them:  
A Golden Cup, the Famed Europa bore,  
Finer than Vulcan e'er had made before,  
A Gift, the God on Lybia bestowed,  
When first she Blessed 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' Care,  
As first by Jove Transformed, 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 hundred 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 Daisies, 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 does before the Grace's shine,  
When Art, and Beauty, speak her most Divine:  
While thus she shone, a Wondering God looked down,  
And looking, quickly left his Starry Throne,  
Europa's Eyes, far brighter than the Light,  
That Gilds the Spangled Firmament by Night;  
But Juno, always jealous of her Jove,  
For well she knew how Venus' Arts could move,  
To jilt the Queen, he Changed the God, and Fled,  
And as a Bull, within those Pastures Fed,  
Where Fair Europa, and the Virgins Played:  
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 Grazed so nigh,  
The Bull Came on, and like a Lover Bowed,  
To steal a Kiss, and Wondered when she stood;  
Europa Wiped the Eager Foam away,  
And Kissed his Lips, and Bid the Virgins stay,  
He Lowed, but with so soft, so smooth an Air,  
The Sound was Music to the Nicest Ear,  
Then Bend his Knees, and Greedy Viewed her Face,  
Proud to Lie down, and Tumble where she was.  
Europa, Pleased to see a Sight so new,  
Called all the Nymphs, and scarce believed it True;  
Often, my Friends, We've in these Meadows Played,  
And yet, we never played till now, she said,  
Let's sit upon this Bull, his Back's so Broad,  
His strength's so great, he'll easily bear the Load,  
His Looks 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,  
Could he but speak, like them, I'd love him too,  
With this she sat upon the Bull, and Road,  
The other Virgins came to Mount the God,  
But Jove, secure of what he loved so Dear,  
With hasty Flight, he made the distant Shore,  
And Leapt the Deep, tho' he Europa Bore:  
She called her Playfellows, but all in vain,  
He lest his Heaven above, for her, not them;  
The Sea once Gained, 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 Honour's due to Jove,  
And he himself appeared amidst the Throng,  
While Triton's 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,  
'Twas Heaven all above, 'twas Sea below:  
A sight so sad, Obliged the Nymph to say,  
Whoever thou art, that thus canst make thy Way,  
Where wouldst thou have the Poor Europa stray?  
Ships big as Mountains, through the Seas have steered,  
But Balls I thought, the Waves had always feared;  
What Drink can I in Briny Waters find?  
What Meat? if thouart a God, like Heaven 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 Prayer,  
Grant me Relief, and Ease my Wondrous Fear,  
Allayed alone by this, in hopes that you,  
May prove the God, that Bears Europa now.  
At this the Bull, in happi'st Accents spoke,  
And Jove discovered, in each Word, and Look,  
Fear not Europa, Heavens peculiar Care,  
'Tis he Conducts you, that designed you Fair,  
Your Guide with Thunder shakes the Sky,  
When Earth or Heaven 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 Intervene,  
Betwixt this Day, and Ages yet unseen:  
Locked in your Arms, in Balmy Joys I'll lie,  
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 Maidenhead.    

Idyll. 3.  
Bion's EPITAPH.  

WEep all ye Woods, in mournful Whispers Breath,  
And tell the Neighbouring Groves of Bion's Death;  
Ye Murmuring 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,  
'Tis just you perish, when your Bion's gone:  
Ye springing Flowers, withhold your Fragrant Smell,  
Ye Roses, Violets, and Cowslips tell,  
How good he lived, how much lamented sell.  
Sing ye Sicilian Muses Bion's Fate,  
For only you can sound a Grief so great.  
Let tuneful Philomela, 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 Water's Play,  
Droop all your Wings, and Weep the Fatal Day,  
In Notes, such as were his, your Tuneful Voices Try,  
No Common Breath should sound his Elegy;  
Acquaint the Distant Virgins with your Song,  
That often heard the Music of his Tongue,  
And Sighed, as Moved by that, his Wondrous Skill,  
But Panting Breasts, and Wishing Eyes reveal,  
What they, unhappy Nymphs, would 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 sat,  
And kindly made her swelling Root his Seat;  
No more, her Listening 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 Mourned, they Satyrs Wept, Priapus too,  
Pan missed his Notes, and sighing, sadly said,  
Lament ye Nymphs, the Artful Bion's dead;  
The listening Echo, in her Cavern ly's,  
As By n dumb, and scorns the Vulgar Noise,  
The Trees refuse their Fruit, their Leaves all Cast,  
And Withering Flowers fond 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 Echo keeps the happy Songs he made,  
Pan has his Pipe, but Pan to Play's afraid.  
Sing ye Sicilian Muses, Bion's Fate,  
For only you can speak a Grief so great.  
Poor Galatea Weeps, she who so late,  
Admired his Strains, and listening fate  
And often Wished, she could his Songs repeat.  
Had Cyclops Played like him, his Tunes so good,  
The Nymph had followed, 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 Muse's 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 Died, Calliope she Sung,  
And told the Wonders of her Homer's Tongue,  
How he could 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 Power  
One drunk the Stream from Pegasus that flowed▪  
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 Prize,  
And tell his Heart, by speaking with his Eyes;  
He taught the Nymph, to Move the Roughest Swain,  
And make him sigh, admire, and die in vain,  
And own a Conquest, when she pleased to Reign.  
Sing ye Sicilian Muses, Bion's Fate,  
For only you can sound a Grief so great.  
Vast Cities Mourned, that once admired his Song,  
Not Asera, for her Hesiod, wept so long:  
Boetian Woods their lofty Pindar spared,  
With less Reluctance, than his Death they heard;  
The strong Walled Lesbus, loved Alcaeus less,  
And Ceius City will the same Confess;  
Parus Archilochus loved less by far,  
And Mitylena Sapph, tho' her Care;  
Ausonian Strains, my Numbers Move,  
Such as the Muses, and their Bion, love,  
Whose Pipe, rather than all his Herds, I'd have.  
The Plants, the Product of a Fruitful Earth,  
They die like us, but know a second Birth;  
But Man, tho' great, tho' good, tho' strong, tho' Wise,  
Can die but once, and never more must rise:  
Could any thing Exempt, our Bion's Skill  
Had saved the Bard, and all had known him still;  
'Twas Poison killed him, but 'twas very strange,  
His sweeter Breath the Poison did not Change,  
O that I, as Orpheus once, could Tread,  
Or, as Alcides, or Ulysses did,  
I'd quickly pay a Visit to his shade.  
And if he Plays below, I'd hear, and see,  
What Modes, what Strains, will please the Deity,  
In vain Eurydice had Orpheus Mourned,  
Without his Music she had ne'er returned,  
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 Wandering Signs employed,  
And Weary Mortals welcome Sleep enjoyed,  
Young Cupid came, and made a Woeful Noise,  
Knocking, and call, 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 Wandered in a Rainy Night,  
The Moon, or Stars, scarce giving any Light:  
Moved by so sad a Tale, I hasty ran,  
And struck a Light, and let the Traveller in,  
Amazed! I saw a Youth all Armed appear,  
A Quiver, Bow, and Pointed Arrows Bear,  
He hasted to the Fire, his Form scarce seen,  
Till I drew near, and Warmed his Hands with mine,  
The Cold by th' Heatexpelled, he Pertly spoke,  
Let us go take my Bow, my Friend, and look,  
If all is Right, for if it's spoiled I'm Broke.  
He drew his Bow, and by a Wondrous Slight,  
Through all my Flesh, my very Heart he Hit,  
A Frenzy seized me, and I Feel it yet.    

ODE 12. Anac.  
The Swallow.  

SAy, thou damned Disturber of my Rest,  
Thou Prattling 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 Clipped thy Wings? or Cut thy Tongue?  
As Tereus, Philomela served when Young?  
For when Bathillus Moves with softest Charms,  
And I all Melting Lie within his Arms,  
The Boy I lose, by your Confounded Note,  
So often Echoed 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 Ointments, that are Fine,  
And Oil, to make my Beard and Temples shine;  
Let sweetest Roses Grace each Curling Hair,  
And thus Adorned, 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, Damned Disease,  
Should think I ' add 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 Croesus' 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 ' add rather far be very Drunk, than Dead,    

ODE 40.  

WHile Cupid snatched 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 Cries aloud,  
And Runs, and Flies, to tell his Wretched Fate,  
More sad by much, than ever happened 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 Killed, he said,  
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 smiled, and Kissed her Son, and said,  
The Danger's not so great as you're afraid;  
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 Fragrant Smell, like that of Heaven above,  
Commands at once, our Wonder, and our Love;  
The Graces choose it in their Amorous Play,  
When finest Dressed, with this alone they're Gay;  
The Prickly Arms that Nature has bestowed,  
Proves thee much more her Care, and not less Good,  
For if with these the Gatherer you hurt,  
A full Amends your Odours make him sored;  
When Pressed, the softest Bosom may Admit,  
And tho' 'twas Fine before, 'tis 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 Medicine 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 Heaven, 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 Odours that Perfume,  
Or give her Breath, and there's no need of them.  
Paint her with Eyes, that would 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 Ecstasy of Bliss,  
A Prince would give a Kingdom for a Kiss.  
Paint her, when strongest Passions Heave her Breast,  
And leave a Deep Impression to be Guest;  
Could Pulses in your Colours Dance like Hers,  
The World would 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 fixed 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 idyl. of Bion.  

A Youth a shooting in a Wood,  
With eager Hast his Game pursued,  
Where sporting Cupid soon appeared,  
The Boy of Cupid ne'er had heard;  
But pleased, to see a Bird, tho' high,  
So Tame, as if it could not Fly,  
His Arrows Fixed, his Bow he Drew,  
But all his Arrows awkward Flew,  
While Cupid leaped from Bough to Bough;  
His Arrows spent, away he ran,  
Where soon he met an Older Man,  
And told him all, and Cupid showed,  
The God still Perching in the Wood:  
The Old Man smiled, and told the Boy,  
No Arrows could that Game destroy:  
Be gone, he said, your Sport give over,  
To Kill that Bird's in no Man's Power,  
When Prompting Nature speaks you Fit,  
The Bird that now will not be Hit,  
Will then upon your Shoulders fit.    

The Third idyl. of Bion.  

WHen happy Dreams, which make the Wretched Blessed,  
Had Banished Cares, and Charmed my Soul to Rest,  
Amazed, methoughts I saw a Goddess stand,  
Holding a little Wanton by the Hand;  
My Head I Moved, my Weary Body Bowed,  
Thinking the Airy Phantom would have Fled:  
When Venus told me, she had Cupid brought,  
To learn to Sing, (an Art I some times Taught)  
This said, The Goddess smiled, and left her Son,  
Fond of my Charge, I Pastorals begun;  
I showed how Pan, with happy Strains was Moved,  
What Sounds Apollo, and Minerva, loved;  
But sporting Cupid, still Untaught, Remained,  
Laughed at my Method, and my Skill disdained,  
A thousand little Wanton Songs begun,  
And told me Stories, what the Gods had done,  
Who loved his Mother, who her Favour Won.  
While I, pleased 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 Threatening Dangers that Arise;  
The strongest Wine, the soon does inspire,  
And gives a double Portion of Love's Fire;  
Insured by Wine, no Tedious Disease  
Disturbs our Mirth, or Dares our Body seize;  
Our Spirits are Sublime, Refined, and Free,  
And like our Notions, Airy, Brisk, and Gay;  
Our Pleasing Joys are Constant too, and long,  
For when the Vintage, and the Seasons done,  
A kind succeeding Vintage still comes on.    

ODE 56.  

MY Hoary Temples speak me very Old,  
And all my Crown once Covered, 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 Weakened 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 Seats so Deep,  
So Pitchy Dark, as well as Wondrous 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 called me too;  
I Ran with haste, and soon Embraced the Bard,  
Wondered to see Anacreon, but not Scared;  
His Visage spoke him Old, but Fair, and Clear,  
Comely, and Merry, as he always Were,  
His Lips were Coloured, and his Breath as Fine,  
As when alive, Perfumed with Richest Wine;  
Young Cupid Waited on him, as a Friend,  
And when he Reeled, he held him by the Hand;  
The Poet Kindly gave me, as I Stood,  
A well Chose Garland, Rich, and very Good,  
I Fond Fixed 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.