SYLVAE: OR, THE Second Part OF POETICAL Miscellanies.  
— Non deficit alter  
Aureus; & simili frondescit virga metallo.  Virg. 
LONDON, Printed for jacob Tonson, at the judges-head in Chancery-lane near Fleetstreet, 1685.   

PREFACE.  
FOr this last half Year I have been troubled with the disease (as I may call it) of Translation; the cold Prose fits of it, (which are always the most tedious with me) were spent in the History of the League; the hot, (which succeeded them) in this Volume of Verse Miscellanies. The truth is, I fancied to myself a kind of ease in the change of the Paroxysm; never suspecting but that the humour would have wasted itself in two or three Pastorals of Theocritus, and as many Odes of Horace. But finding, or at least thinking I found, something that was more pleasing in them, than my ordinary productions, I encouraged myself to renew my old acquaintance with Lucretius and Virgil; and immediately fixed upon some parts of them which had most affected me in the reading. These were my natural Impulses for the undertaking: But there was an accidental motive, which was full as forcible, and God forgive him who was the occasion of it. It was my Lord Roscomon's Essay on translated Verse, whose made me uneasy till I tried whether or no I was capable of following his Rules, and of reducing the speculation into practice. For many a fair Precept in Poetry, is like a seeming Demonstration in the Mathematics; very specious in the Diagram, but failing in the Mechanic Operation. I think I have generally observed his instructions; I am sure my reason is sufficiently convinced both of their truth and usefulness; which, in other words, is to confess no less a vanity than to pretend that I have at least in some places made Examples to his Rules. Yet withal, I must acknowledge, that I have many times exceeded my Commission; for I have both added and omitted, and even sometimes very boldly made such expositions of my Authors, as no Dutch Commentator will forgive me. Perhaps, in such particular passages, I have thought that I discovered some beauty yet undiscovered by those Pedants, which none but a Poet could have found. Where I have taken away some of their Expressions, and cut them shorter, it may possibly be on this consideration, that what was beautiful in the Greek or Latin, would not appear so shining in the English: And where I have enlarged them, I desire the false Critics would not always think that those thoughts are wholly mine, but that either they are secretly in the Poet, or may be fairly deduced from him: or at least, if both those considerations should fail, that my own is of a piece with his, and that if he were living, and an Englishman, they are such, as he would probably have written.  
For, after all, a Translator is to make his Author appear as charming at possibly he can, provided he maintains his Character, and makes him not unlike himself. Translation is a kind of Drawing after the Life; where every one will acknowledge there is a double sort of likeness, a good one and a bad. 'Tis one thing to draw the Out-lines true, the Features like, the Proportions exact, the Colouring itself perhaps tolerable, and another thing to make all these graceful, by the posture, the shadowings, and chief by the Spirit which animates the whole. I cannot without some indignation, look on an ill Copy of an excellent Original▪ Much less can I behold with patience Virgil, Homer, and some others, whose beauties I have been endeavouring all my Life to imitate, so abused, as I may say to their Faces by a botching Interpreter. What English Readers unacquainted with Greek or Latin will believe me or any other Man, when we commend those Authors, and confess we derive all that is pardonable in us from their Fountains, if they take those to be the same Poets, whom our Oglebies have Translated? But I dare assure them, that a good Poet is no more like himself, in a dull Translation, than his Carcase would be to his living Body. There are many who understand Greek and Latin, and yet are ignorant of their Mother Tongue. The proprieties and delicacies of the English are known to few; 'tis impossible even for a good Wit, to understand and practise them without the help of a liberal Education, long Reading, and digesting of those few good Authors we have amongst us, the knowledge of Men and Manners, the freedom of habitudes and conversation with the best company of both Sexes; ●nd in short, without wearing off the ru●t which ●e contracted, while he was laying in a stock of Learning. Thus difficult it is to understand the ●urity of English, and critically to discern not ●nly good Writers from bad, and a proper stile ●rom a corrupt, but also to distinguish that which ●s pure in a good Author, from that which is vi●ious and corrupt in him. And for want of all these ●equisites, or the greatest part of them, most of ●ur ingenious young Men, take up some cried up English Poet for their Model, adore him, and ●itate him as they think, without knowing where●● he is defective, where he is Boyish and trifling, ●herein either his thoughts are improper to his subject, or his Expressions unworthy of his Thoughts, or the turn of both is unharmonious. Thus it appears necessary that a Man should be nice Critic in his Mother Tongue, before he attempts to Translate a foreign Language. Nei●●er is it sufficient that he be able to judge of ●ords and Style; but he must be a Master of them too: He must perfectly understand his Author's Tongue, and absolutely command his own: So that to be a thorough Translator, he must be a thorough Poet. Neither is it enough to give his Author's sense, in good English, in Poetical expressions, and in Musical numbers: For, though all these are exceeding difficult to perform, there yet remains an harder task; and 'tis a secret of which few Translatours have sufficiently thought. I have already hinted a word or two concerning it; that is, the maintaining the Character of an Author, which distinguishes him from all others, an● makes him appear that individual Poet whom you would interpret. For example, not only the thoughts, but the Style and Versification of Virgil and Ovid, art very different: Yet I see, even in our best Poets, who have Translated some parts of them, that they have confounded their several Talents; and by endeavouring only at the sweetness and harmony of Numbers, have made them both so much alike, that if I did not know the Originals, I should never be able to judge by the Copies, which was Virgil, and which was Ovid. It was objected against a late noble Painter, that he drew many graceful Pictures, but few of them were like. And this happened to him, because he always studied himself more than those who sat to him. In such Translatours I can easily distinguish the hand which performed the Work, but I cannot distinguish their Poet from another. Suppose two Authors are equally sweet, yet there is a great distinction to be made in sweetness, as in that of Sugar, and that of Honey. I can make the difference more plain, by giving you, (if it be worth knowing) my own method of proceeding, in my Translations out of four several Poets in this Volume; Virgil, Theocritus, Lucretius and Horace. In each of these, before I undertook them, I considered, the Genius and distinguishing Character of my Author. I looked on Virgil, as a succinct and grave Majestic Writer; one who weighed not only every thought, but every Word and Syllable. Who was still aiming to crowd his sense into as narrow a compass as possibly he could; for which reason he is so very Figurative, that he requires, (I may almost say) a Grammar apart to construe him. His Verse is every where sounding the very thing in your Ears, whose sense it bears: Yet the Numbers are perpetually varied, to increase the delight of the Reader; so that the same sounds are never repeated twice together. On the contrary, Ovid and Claudian, though they Writ in Styles differing from each other, yet have each of them but one sort of Music in their Verses. All the versification, and little variety of Claudian, is included within the compass of four or five Lines, and then he gins again in the same tenor; perpetually closing his sense at the end of a Verse, and that Verse commonly which they call golden, or two Substantives and two Adjectives with a Verb betwixt them to keep the peace. Ovid with all his sweetness, has as little variety of Numbers and sound as he: He is always as it were upon the Hand-gallop, and his Verse runs upon Carpet ground. He avoids like the other all Synalaepha's, or cutting off one Vowel when it comes before another, in the following word: So that minding only smoothness, he wants both Variety and Majesty. But to return to Virgil, though he is smooth where smoothness is required, yet he is so far from affecting it, that he seems rather to disdain it. Frequently makes use of Synalaepha's, and concludes his sense in the middle of his Verse. He is every where above conceits of Epigrammatick Wit, and gross Hyperboles: He maintains Majesty in the midst of plainess; he shines, but glares not; and is stately without ambition, which is the vice of Lucan. I drew my definition of Poetical Wit from my particular consideration of him: For propriety of thoughts and words are only to be found in him; and where they are proper, they will be delightful. Pleasure follows of necessity, as the effect does the cause; and therefore is not to be put into the definition. This exact propriety of Virgil, I particularly regarded, as a great part of his Character; but must confess to my shame, that I have not been able to Translate any part of him so well, as to make him appear wholly like himself. For where the Original is close, no Version can reach it in the same compass. Hannibal Caro's in the Italian, is the nearest, the most Poetical, and the most Sonorous of any Translation of the Aeneids; yet, though he takes the advantage of blank Verse, he commonly allows two Lines for one of Virgil, and does not always hit his sense. Tasso tells us in his Letters, that Sperone Speroni, a great Italian Wit, who was his Contemporary, observed of Virgil and Tully; that the Latin Orator, endeavoured to imitate the Copiousness of Homer the Greek Poet; and that the Latin Poet, made it his business to reach the conciseness of Demosthenes the Greek Orator. Virgil therefore being so very sparing of his words, and leaving so much to be imagined by the Reader, can never be translated as he ought, in any modern Tongue: To make him Copious is to alter his Character; and to Translate him Line for Line is impossible; because the Latin is naturally a more succinct Language, than either the Italian, Spanish, French, or even than the English, (which by reason of its Monosyllables is far the most compendious of them) Virgil is much the closest of any Roman Poet, and the Latin Hexameter, has more Feet than the English Heroick.  
Besides all this, an Author has the choice of his own thoughts and words, which a Translator has not; he is confined by the sense of the Inventor to those expressions, which are the nearest to it: So that Virgil studying brevity, and having the command of his own Language, could bring those words into a narrow compass, which a Translator cannot render without Circumlocutions. In short they who have called him the torture of Grammarians, might also have called him the plague of Translatours; for he seems to have studied not to be Translated. I own that endeavouring to turn his Nisus and Euryalus as close as I was able; I have performed that Episode too literally; that giving more scope to Mezentius and Lausus, that Version which has more of the Majesty of Virgil, has less of his conciseness; and all that I can promise for myself, is only that I have done both, better than Ogleby, and perhaps as well as Caro. So, that methinks I come like a Malefactor, to make a Speech upon the Gallows, and to warn all other Poets, by my sad example, from the Sacrilege of Translating Virgil. Yet, by considering him so carefully as I did before my attempt, I have made some faint resemblance of him; and had I taken more time, might possibly have succeeded better; but never so well, as to have satisfied myself.  
He who excels all other Poets in his own Language, were it possible to do him right, must appear above them in our Tongue, which, as my Lord Roscomon justly observes approaches nearest to the Roman in its Majesty: Nearest indeed, but with a vast interval betwixt them. There is an inimitable grace in Virgil's words, and in them principally consists that beauty, which gives so unexpressible a pleasure to him who best understands their force; this Diction of his, I must once again say, is never to be Copied, and since it cannot, he will appear but lame in the best Translation. The turns of his Verse, his break, his propriety, his numbers, and his gravity, I have as far imitated, as the poverty of our Language, and the hastiness of my performance would allow. I may seem sometimes to have varied from his sense; but I think the greatest variations may be fairly deduced from him; and where I leave his Commentators, it may be I understand him better: At least I Writ without consulting them in many places. But two particular Lines in Mezentius and Lausus, I cannot so easily excuse; they are indeed remotely allied to Virgil's sense; but they are too like the trifling tenderness of Ovid; and were Printed before I had considered them enough to alter them: The first of them I have forgotten, and cannot easily retrieve, because the Copy is at the Press: The second is this; 
— When Lausus died, I was already slain.   
This appears pretty enough at first sight, but I am convinced for many reasons, that the expression is too bold, that Virgil would not have said it, though Ovid would. The Reader may pardon it, if he please, for the freeness of the confession; and instead of that, and the former, admit these two Lines which are more according to the Author, 
Nor ask I Life, nor fought with that design;  
As I had used my Fortune, use thou thine.   
Having with much ado got clear of Virgil, I have in the next place to consider the genius of Lucretius, whom I have Translated more happily in those parts of him which I undertook. If he was not of the best age of Roman Poetry, he was at least of that which preceded it; and he himself refined it to that degree of perfection, both in the Language and the thoughts, that he left an easy task to Virgil; who as he succeeded him in time, so he Copied his excellencies: for the method of the Georgics is plainly derived from him. Lucretius had chosen a Subject naturally crabbed; he therefore adorned it with Poetical descriptions, and Precepts of Morality, in the beginning and ending of his Books. Which you see Virgil has imitated with great success, in those four Book●, which in my Opinion are more perfect in their kind, than even his Divine Aenoids. The turn of his Verse he has likewise followed, in those places which Lucretius has most laboured, and some of his very Lines he has transplanted into his own Works, without much variation. If I am not mistaken, the distinguishing Character of Lucretius; (I mean of his Soul and Genius) is a certain kind of noble pride, and positive assertion of his Opinions. He is every where confident of his own reason, and assuming an absolute command not only over his vulgar Reader, but even his Patron Memmius. For he is always bidding him attend, as if he had the Rod over him; and using a Magisterial authority, while he instructs him. From his time to ours, I know none so like him, as our Poet and Philosopher of Malmsbury. This is that perpetual Dictatorship, which is exercised by Lucretius; who though often in the wrong, yet seems to deal bonâ fide with his Reader, and tells him nothing but what he thinks; in which plain sincerity, I believe he differs from our Hobbs, who could not but be convinced, or at least doubt of some eternal Truths which he has opposed. But for Lucretius, he seems to disdain all manner of Replies, and is so confident of his cause, that he is before hand with his Antagonists; Urging for them, whatever he imagined they could say, and leaving them as he supposes, without an objection for the future. All this too, with so much scorn and indignation, as if he were assured of the Triumph, before he entered into the ●●sts. From this sublime and daring Genius of his▪ it must of necessity come to pass, that his thoughts must be Masculine, full of Argumentation, and that sufficiently warm. From the same fiery temper proceeds the loftiness of his Expressions, and the perpetual torrent of his Verse, where the barrenness of his Subject does not too much constrain the quickness of his Fancy. For there is no doubt to be made, but that he could have been every where as Poetical, as he is in his Descriptions, and in the Moral part of his Philosophy, if he had not aimed more to instruct in his Systeme of Nature, than to delight. But he was bend upon making Memmius a Materialist, and teaching him to defy an invisible power: In short, he was so much an Atheist, that he forgot sometimes to be a Poet. These are the considerations which I had of that Author, before I attempted to translate some parts of him. And accordingly I laid by my natural Diffidence and Scepticism for a while, to take up that Dogmatical way of his, which as I said, is so much his Character, as to make him that individual Poet. As for his Opinions concerning the mortality of the Soul, they are so absurd, that I cannot if I would believe them. I think a future state demonstrable even by natural Arguments; at least to take away rewards and punishments, is only a pleasing prospect to a Man, who resolves before hand not to live morally. But on the other side, the thought of being nothing after death is a burden unsupportable to a virtuous Man, even though a Heathen. We naturally aim at happiness, and cannot bear to have it confined to the shortness of our present Being, especially when we consider that virtue is generally unhappy in this World, and vice fortunate. So that 'tis hope of Futurity alone, that makes this Life tolerable, in expectation of a better. Who would not commit all the excesses to which he is prompted by his natural inclinations, if he may do them with security while he is alive, and be uncapable of punishment after he is dead! if he be cunning and secret enough to avoid the Laws, there is no band of morality to restrain him: For Fame and Reputation are weak ties; many men have not the least sense of them: Powerful men are only awed by them, as they conduce to their interest, and that not always when a passion is predominant; and no Man will be contained within the bounds of duty, when he may safely transgress them. These are my thoughts abstractedly, and without entering into the Notions of our Christian Faith, which is the proper business of Divines.  
But there are other Arguments in this Poem (which I have turned into English,) not belonging to the Mortality of the Soul, which are strong enough to a reasonable Man, to make him less in love with Life, and consequently in less apprehensions of Death. Such as are the natural Satiety, proceeding from a perpetual enjoyment of the same things; the inconveniencies of old age, which make him uncapable of corporeal pleasures; the decay of understanding and memory, which render him contemptible and useless to others; these and many other reasons so pathetically urged, so beautifully expressed, so adorned with examples, and so admirably raised by the Prosopopeia of Nature, who is brought in speaking to her Children, with so much authority and vigour, deserve the pains I have taken with them, which I hope have not been unsuccessful, or unworthy of my Author. At least I must take the liberty to own, that I was pleased with my own endeavours, which but rarely happens to me, and that I am not dissatisfied upon the review, of any thing I have done in this Author.  
'Tis true, there is something, and that of some moment, to be objected against my Englishing the Nature of Love, from the Fourth Book of Lucretius: And I can less easily answer why I Translated it, than why I thus Translated it. The Objection arises from the Obscenity of the Subject; which is aggravated by the too lively, and alluring delicacy of the Verses. In the first place, without the least Formality of an excuse, I own it pleased me: and let my Enemies make the worst they can of this Confession; I am not y●t so secure from that passion, but tha● I want my Author's Antidotes against it. He has given the truest and most Philosophical account both of the Disease and Remedy, which I ever found in any Author: For which reasons I Translated him. But it will be asked why I turned him into this luscious English, (for I will not give it a worse word:) instead of an answer, I would ask again of my Supercilious Adversaries, whether I am not bound when I Translate an Author, to do him all the right I can, and to Translate him to the best advantage? If to mince his meaning, which I am satisfied was honest and instructive, I had either omitted some part of what he said, or taken from the strength of his expression, I certainly had wronged him; and that freeness of thought and words, being thus cashiered in my hands, he had no longer been Lucretius. If nothing of this kind be to be read, Physicians must not study Nature, Anatomies must not be seen, and somewhat I could say of particular passages in Books, which to avoid profaneness I do not name: But the intention qualifies the act; and both mine and my Authors were to instruct as well as please. 'tis most certain that barefaced Bawdry is the poorest pretence to wit imaginable: If I should say otherwise, I should have two great authorities against me: The one is the Essay on Poetry, which I publicly valued before I knew the Author of it, and with the commendation of which, my Lord Roscomon so happily gins his Essay on Translated Verse: The other is no less than our admired Cowley; who says the same thing in other words: For in his Ode concerning Wit, he writes thus of it; 
Much less can that have any place  
At which a Virgin hides her Face:  
Such dross the fire must purge away; 'tis just  
The Author blush, there where the Reader must.   
Here indeed Mr. Cowley goes farther than the Essay; for he asserts plainly that obscenity has no place in Wit; the other only says, 'tis a poor pretence to it, or an ill sort of Wit, which has nothing more to support it than barefaced Ribaldry; which is both unmannerly in itself, and fulsome to the Reader. But neither of these will reach my case: For in the first place, I am only the Translator, not the Inventor; so that the heaviest part of the censure falls upon Lucretius, before it reaches me: in the next place, neither he nor I have used the grossest words; but the cleanliest Metaphors we could find, to palliate the broadness of the meaning; and to conclude, have carried the Poetical part no farther, than the Philosophical exacted. There is one mistake of mine which I will not ●ay to the Printers charge, who has enough to answer for in false pointings: 'tis in the word Viper: I would have the Verse run thus, 
The Scorpion, Love, must on the wound be bruised.  There are a sort of blundering half-witted people, who make a great deal of noise about a Verbal slip; though Horace would instruct them better in true Criticism: Non ego paucis offendor maculis quas aut incuria fudit, aut humana parùm cavit natura. True judgement in Poetry, like that in Painting, takes a view of the whole together, whether it be good or not; and where the beauties are more than the Faults, concludes for the Poet against the little judge; 'tis a sign that malice is hard driven, when 'tis forced to lay hold on a Word or Syllable; to arraign a Man is one thing, and to cavil at him is another. In the midst of an ill natured Generation of Scribblers, there is always justice enough left in Mankind, to protect good Writers: And they too are obliged, both by humanity and interest, to espouse each others cause, against false Critics, who are the common Enemies. This last consideration puts me in mind of what I own to the Ingenious and Learned Translator of Lucretius; I have not here designed to rob him of any part of that commendation, which he has so justly acquired by the whole Author, whose Fragments only fall to my Portion. What I have now performed, is no more than I intended above twenty years ago: The ways of our Translation are very different; he follows him more closely than I have done; which became an Interpreter of the whole Poem. I take more liberty, because it best suited with my design, which was to make him as pleasing as I could. He had been too voluminous had he used my method in so long a work, and I had certainly taken his, had I made it my business to Translate the whole. The preference than is justly his; and I join with Mr. Evelyn in the confession of it, with this additional advantage to him; that his Reputation is already established in this Poet, mine is to make its Fortune in the World. If I have been any where obscure, in following our common Author, or if Lucretius himself is to be condemned, I refer myself to his excellent Annotations, which I have often read, and always with some new pleasure.  
My Preface gins already to swell upon me, and looks as if I were afraid of my Reader, by so tedious a bespeaking of him; and yet I have Horace and Theocritus upon my hands; but the Greek Gentleman shall quickly be dispatched, because I have more business with the Roman.  
That which distinguishes Theocritus from all other Poets, both Greek and Latin, and which raises him even above Virgil in his Eclogues, is the inimitable tenderness of his passions; and the natural expression of them in words so becoming of a Pastoral. A simplicity shines through all he writes: he shows his Art and Learning by disguising both. His Shepherds never rise above their Country Education in their complaints of Love: There is the same difference betwixt him and Virgil, as there is betwixt Tasso's Aminta, and the Pastor Fido of Guarini. Virgil's Shepherds are too well read in the Philosophy of Epicurus and of Plato; and Guarini's seem to have been bred in Courts. But Theocritus and Tasso, have taken theirs from Cottages and Plains. It was said of Tasso, in relation to his similitudes, Mai esce del Bosco: That he never departed from the Woods, that is, all his comparisons were taken from the Country: The same may be said, of our Theocritus; he is softer than Ovid, he touches the passions more delicately; and performs all this out of his own Fond, without diving into the Arts and Sciences for a supply. Even his Doric Dialect has an incomparable sweetness in its Clownishness, like a fair Shepherdess in her Country Russet, talking in a Yorkshire Tone. This was impossible for Virgil to imitate; because the severity of the Roman Language denied him that advantage. Spencer has endeavoured it in his Shepherd's Calendar; but neither will it succeed in English, for which reason I forbore to attempt it, For Theocritus writ to Sicilians, who spoke that Dialect; and I direct this part of my Translations to our Ladies, who neither understand, nor will take pleasure in such homely expressions. I proceed to Horace.  
Take him in parts, and he is chief to be considered in his three different Talents, as he was a Critic, a Satirist, and a Writer of Odes. His Morals are uniform, and run through all of them; For let his Dutch Commentatours say what they will, his Philosophy was Epicurean; and he made use of Gods and providence, only to serve a turn in Poetry. But since neither his Criticisms (which are the most instructive of any that are written in this Art) nor his Satyrs (which are incomparably beyond juvenal's, if to laugh and rally, is to be preferred to railing and declaiming,) are no part of my present undertaking, I confine myself wholly to his Odes: These are also of several sorts; some of them are Panegyrical, others Moral, the rest jovial, or (if I may so call them) Bacchanalian. As difficult as he makes it, and as indeed it is, to imitate Pindar, yet in his most elevated flights, and in the sudden changes of his Subject with almost imperceptible connexion's, that Theban Poet is his Master. But Horace is of the more bounded Fancy, and confines himself strictly to one sort of Verse, or Stanza in every Ode. That which will distinguish his Style from all other Poets, is the Elegance of his Words, and the numerousness of his Verse; there is nothing so delicately turned in all the Roman Language. There appears in every part of his Diction, or, (to speak English) in all his Expressions, 〈◊〉 kind of noble and bold Purity. His Words are chosen with as much exactness as Virgil's; but there seems to be a greater Spirit in them. There is a secret Happiness attends his Choice, which in Petronius is called Curiosa Felicitas, ●nd which I suppose he had from the Feliciter ●udere of Horace himself. But the most distinguishing part of all his Character, seems to me, to be his Briskness, his jollity, and his good Humour: And those I have chief endeavoured to Copy; his other Excellencies, I confess are above my Imitation. One Ode, which infinitely pleased me in the reading, I have attempted to translate in Pindaric Verse: 'tis that which is inscribd to the present Earl of Rochester, to whom I have particular Obligations, which this small Testimony of my Gratitude can never pay. 'Tis his Darling in the Latin, and I have taken some pains to make it my Masterpiece in English: For which reason, I took this kind of Verse, which allows more Latitude than any other. Every one knows it was introduced into our Language, in this Age, by the happy Genius of Mr. Cowley. The seeming easiness of it, has made it spread; but it has not been considered enough, to be so well cultivated. It languishes in almost every hand but his, and some very few, (whom to keep the rest in countenance) I do not name. He, indeed, has brought it as near Perfection as was possible in so short a time. But if I may be allowed to speak my Mind modestly, and without Injury to his sacred Ashes, somewhat of the Purity of English, somewhat of more equal Thoughts, somewhat of sweetness in the Numbers, in one Word, somewhat of a finer turn and more Lyrical Verse is yet wanting. As for the Soul of it, which consists in the Warmth and Vigour of Fancy, the masterly Figures, and the copiousness of Imagination, he has excelld all others in this kind. Yet, if the kind itself be capable of more Perfection, though rather in the Ornamental parts of it, than the Essential, what Rules of Morality or respect have I broken, in naming the defects, that they may hereafter be amended? Imitation is a nice point, and there are few Poets who deserve to be Models in all they write. Miltons' Paradise Lost is admirable; but am I therefore bound to maintain, that there are no flats amongst his Elevations, when 'tis evident he creeps along sometimes, for above an Hundred lines together? cannot I admire the height of his Invention, and the strength of his expression, without defending his antiquated words, and the perpetual harshness of their sound? 'Tis as much commendation as a Man can bear, to own him excellent; all beyond it is Idolatry. Since Pindar was the Prince of Lyric Poets; let me have leave to say, that in imitating him, our numbers should for the most part be Lyrical: For variety, or rather where the Majesty of the thought requires it, they may be stretched to the English Heroick of five Feet, and to the French Alexandrine of Six. But the ear must preside, and direct the judgement to the choice of numbers: Without the nicety of this, the Harmony of Pindaric Verse can never be complete; the cadency of one line must be a rule to that of the next; and the sound of the former must slide gently into that which follows; without leaping from one extreme into another. It must be done like the shadowings of a Picture, which fall by degrees into a darker colour. I shall be glad if I have so explained myself as to be understood, but if I have not, quod nequeo dicere & sentio tantùm, must be my excuse. There remains much more to be said on this subject; but to avoid envy, I will be silent. What I have said is the general Opinion of the best judges, and in a manner has been forced from me, by seeing a noble sort of Poetry so happily restored by one Man, and so grossly copied, by almost all the ●est: A musical ear, and a great genius, if another Mr. Cowley could arise, in another age may bring it to perfection. In the mean time, 
— Fungar vice cotis acutum  
Reddere quae ferrum valet, expers ipsa secandi:   
I hope it will not be expected from me, that I should say any thing of my fellow undertakers in this Miscellany. Some of them are too nearly related to me, to ●e commended without suspicion of partiality: Others I am sure need it not; and the rest I have not perused. To conclude, I am sensible that I have written this too hastily and too loosely; I fear I have been tedious, and which is worse, it comes out from the first draught, and uncorrected. This I grant is no excuse; for it may be reasonably urged, why did he not write with more leisure, or, if he had it not (which was certainly my case) why did he attempt to write on so nice a subject? The objection is unanswerable, but in part of recompense, let me assure the Reader, that in hasty productions, he is sure to meet with an Authors present sense, which cooler thoughts would possibly have disguised. There is undoubtedly more of spirit, though not of judgement in these uncorrect Essays, and consequently though my hazard be the greater, yet the Readers pleasure is not the less.  
John Dryden.   

A TABLE OF THE POEMS, CONTAINED In the Second Part of MISCELLANY POEMS.  
THE entire Episode of Nisus and Euryalus Translated from the 5th. and 9th. Books of Virgil's Aeneids, by Mr. Dryden. 
Pag. 1  The entire Episode of Mezentius and Lausus, Translated out of the 10th. Book of Virgil's Aeneids by Mr. Dryden. 
P. 32  The Speech of Venus to Vulcan, Translated out of the 8th. Book of Virgil's Aeneids by Mr. Dryden. 
48  The beginning of the First Book of Lucretius, Translated by Mr. Dryden. 
52  The beginning of the Second Book of Lucretius, Translated by Mr. Dryden. 
56  The Translation of the latter part of the Third Book of Lucretius, Against the Fear of Death, by Mr. Dryden. 
60  Lucretius the Fourth Book, concerning the Nature of Love; beginning at this Line, Sic igitur Veneris qui telis accipit ictum, etc. by Mr. Dryden. 
80  From Lucretius, Book the Fifth, Tum porro puer, etc. by Mr. Dryden. 
P. 98  Theocrit. Idyllium, the 18th. the Epithalamium of Helen and Menelaus, by Mr. Dryden. 
100  Theocrit. Idyllium the 23d. the Despairing Lover, by Mr. Dryden. 
107  Daphnis from Theocritus, Idyll. 27. by Mr. Dryden. 
134  The third Ode of the first Book of Horace Inscribed to the Earl of Roscomon on his intended Voyage to Ireland, by Mr. Dryden. 
124  The 9th. Ode of the first Book of Horace, by an unknown hand. 
128  The 29th. Ode of the 3d. Book of Horace, paraphrased in Pindaric Verse, and inscribed to the Right Honourable Laurence Earl of Rochester, by Mr. Dryden. 
131  From Horace Epode 2d. by Mr. Dryden. 
135  Part of Virgil's 4th. Georgick, Englished by an unknown Hand. 
P. 145  The Sixth Elegy of the first Book of Tibullus. 
155  Ovid's Dream. 
158  A Prologue intended for the Play of Duke and no Duke. 
162  The Fourth Ode of the Second Book of Horace. 
166  The First Idyllium of Theocritus, Translated into English. 
353  The Reapers, the 10th. Idyllium of Theocritus, Englished by William Bowles Fellow of King's College in Cambridge. 
367  The 12th. Idyllium of Theocritus. 
373  The 19th. Idyllium of Thocritus. 
378  The Complaint of Ariadna out of Catullus, by Mr. William Bowles. 
P. 380  The 20th. Idyllium of Theocritus, by Mr. William Bowles. 
388  To Lesbian out of Catullus. 
392  To Lesbian. 
394  To Lesbian, A Petition to be freed from Love. 
399  The 12th. Elegy of the 2d. Book of Ovid, Englished. 
397  The 16th. Elegy of the 2d. Book of Ovid. 
395  The 19th. Elegy of the 3d. Book. 
432  Of Nature's Changes from Lucretius, Book the 5th. by a Person of Quality. 
406  The 7th. Ode of the 4th. Book of Horace, Englished by an unknown Hand. 
418  The 10th. Ode of the 2d. Book of Horace. 
P. 420  The 18th. Epistle of the first Book of Horace. 
423  The 2d. satire of the first Book of Horace, Englished by Mr. Stafford. 
436  The 4th. Elegy of the 2d. Book of Ovid. 
44●  Elegy the 11th. Lib. 5. De Trist. Ovid complains of his three years' banishment. 
44●  An Ode Sung before the King on New-Years Day. 
449  Upon the late Ingenious Translation of Pere Simon● Critical History, by H. D. Esq 
452  Horti Arlingtonianis, ad Clarissimum Dominum Henricum, Comitem Arlingtoniae, etc. by Mr Charles Dryden. 
457  A New Song. 
46●  A Song. 
P. 467  On the Death of Mr. Oldham. 
468  On the Kings-House now Building at Winchester. 
475  The Episode of the Death of Camilla, translated out of the Eleventh Book of Virgil's Aeneids, by Mr. Stafford. 
481    

The entire Episode of Nisus and Euryalus, translated from the 5 th'. and and 9 th'. Books of Virgil's Aeneids.  
Connection of the First Part of the Episode in the fifth Book, with the rest of the foregoing Poem.  
Aeneas having buried his Father Anchises in Sicily; and setting sail from thence in search of Italy, is driven by a Storm on the same Coasts from whence he departed: After a years wand'ring, he is hospipitably received by his friend Acestes, King of that part of the Island, who was born of Trojan Parentage: He applies himself to celebrate the memory of his Father with divine honours; and accordingly institutes Funeral Games, and appoints Prizes for those who should conquer in them. One of these Games was a Foot Race; in which Nysus and Euryalus were engaged amongst other Trojans and Sicilians.  
FRom thence his way the Trojan Hero bend,  
Into a grassy Plain with Mountains penned,  
Whose Brows were shaded with surrounding wood;  
Full in the midst of this fair Valley, stood  
A native Theatre, which rising slow,  
By just degrees, o'er looked the ground below:  
A numerous Train attend in solemn state:  
High on the new raised Turf their Leader sat.  
Here those, who in the rapid Race delight,  
Desire of honour, and the Prize invite:  
The Trojans and Sicilians mingled stand,  
With Nisus and Euryalus, the foremost of the Band.  
Euryalus with youth and beauty crowned,  
Nisus for friendship to the Boy renowned.  
Diores next of Priam's Regal Race,  
Then Salius, joined with Patron, took his place:  
But from Epirus one derived his birth,  
The other owed it to Arcadian Earth.  
Then two Sicilian Youths; the name of this  
Was Helimus, of that was Panopes:  
Two jolly Huntsmen in the Forest bred,  
And owning old Acestes for their Head.  
With many others of obscurer name,  
Whom Time has not delivered o'er to Fame:  
To these Aeneas in the midst arose,  
And pleasingly did thus his mind expose.  
Not one of you shall unrewarded go;  
On each I will two Cretan Spears bestow,  
Pointed with polished Steel; a Battle-ax too,  
With Silver studded; these in common share,  
The foremost three shall Olive Garlands wear:  
The Victor, who shall first the Race obtain,  
Shall for his Prize a well breathed Courser gain,  
Adorned with Trappings; to the next in fame,  
The Quiver of an Amazonian Dame,  
With feathered Thracian Arrows well supplied  
Hung on a golden Belt, and with a Jewel tied:  
The third this Grecian Helmet must content.  
He said: to their appointed Base they went.  
With beating hearts th' expected Sign receive,  
And starting all at once, the Station leave.  
Spread out, as on the Wing of Winds they flew,  
And seized the distant Goal with eager view:  
Shot from the Crowd, swift Nisus all o'er past,  
Not storms, nor thunder equal half his haste:  
The next, but though the next, yet far disjoined,  
Came Salius, then, a distant space behind  
Euryalus the third.  
Next Helymus, whom young Diores plied,  
Step after Step, and almost side by side;  
His shoulders pressing, and in longer space,  
Had won, or left at least a doubtful Race.  
Now spent, the Goal they almost reach at last,  
When eager Nisus, hapless in his haste,  
Slipped first, and slipping, fell upon the plain,  
Moist with the blood of Oxen lately slain;  
The careless Victor had not marked his way,  
But treading where the treacherous puddle lay,  
His heels flew up, and on the grassy floor,  
He fell besmeared with filth and holy gore.  
Nor mindless then Euryalus of thee,  
Nor of the sacred bonds of amity,  
He strove th' immediate Rival to oppose,  
And caught the foot of Salius as he risen;  
So Salius lay extended on the Plain:  
Euryalus springs out the prize to gain,  
And cuts the Crowd; applauding peals attend  
The Conqur'or to the Goal, who conquered thro' his friend.  
Next Helimus, and then Diores came,  
By two misfortunes, now the third in fame.  
But Salius enters, and exclaiming loud  
For Justice, deafens and disturbs the Crowd:  
Urges his cause may in the Court be heard,  
And pleads the Prize is wrongfully conferred.  
But favour for Euryalus appears,  
His blooming beauty and his graceful tears  
Had bribed the Judges to protect his claim:  
Besides Diores does as loud exclaim,  
Who vainly reaches at the last Reward,  
If the first Palm on Salius be conferred.  
Then thus the Prince; let no disputes arise;  
Where Fortune placed it, I award the Prize.  
But give me leave, her Errors to amend,  
At least to pity a deserving friend.  
Thus having said,  
A Lions Hid, amazing to behold,  
ponderous with bristles, and with paws of gold,  
He gave the Youth, which Nisus grieved to view:  
If such rewards to vanquished men are due,  
Said he, and falling is to rise by you,  
What prize may Nisus from your bounty claim,  
Who merited the first rewards and fame!  
In falling both did equal fortune try,  
Would fortune make me fall as happily.  
With this he pointed to his face, and showed  
His hands and body all besmeared with blood:  
Th' indulgent Father of the people smiled,  
And caused to be produced a massy Shield  
Of wondrous art by Didymaon wrought,  
Long since from Neptune's bars in triumph brought;  
With this, the graceful Youth he gratified;  
Then the remaining presents did divide.  

Connection of the remaining part of the Episode, translated out of the 9 th'. Book of Virgil's Aeneids, with the foregoing part of the Story.  
The War being now broken out betwixt the Trojans and Latins; and Aeneas being overmatched in numbers by his Enemies, who were aided by King Turnus, he fortifies his Camp, and leaves in it his young Son Ascanius, under the direction of his chief Counselors and Captains; while he goes in person, to beg Succours from King Evander and the Tuscans. Turnus takes advantage of his absence, and assaults his Camp: The Trojans in it, are reduced to great extremities; which gives the Poet the occasion of continuing this admirable Episode, wherein he describes the friendship, the generosity, the adventures, and the death of Nisus and Euryalus.  
THe Trojan Camp the common danger shared;  
By turns they watched the Walls; and kept the Nightly Guard:  
To Warlike Nisus fell the Gate by Lot,  
(Whom Hyrtacus on Huntress Ida got:  
And sent to Sea Aeneas to attend,)  
Well could he dart the Spear, and shafts unerring send.  
Beside him stood Euryalus, his ever Faithful friend.  
No Youth in all the Trojan Host was seen  
More beautiful in arms, or of a Nobler mien;  
Scarce was the Down upon his Chin begun;  
One was their Friendship, their desire was one:  
With minds united in the Field they warred,  
And now were both by Choice upon the Guard.  
Then Nisus thus:  
Or do the Gods this Warlike warmth inspire,  
Or makes Each Man a God of his desire?  
A Noble Ardour boils within my Breast,  
Eager of Action, Enemy of Rest;  
That urges me to Fight, or undertake  
Some Deed that may my Fame immortal make.  
Thou seest the Foe secure: How faintly shine  
Their scattered Fires, the most in Sleep supine;  
Dissolved in Ease, and drunk with Victory:  
The few awake the fuming Flagon Ply;  
All hushed around: Now hear what I revolve,  
Within my mind, and what my labouring thoughts resolve.  
Our absent Lord both Camp and Council mourn;  
By Message both would hasten his return:  
The gifts proposed if they confer on thee,  
(For Fame is recompense enough to me)  
Methinks beneath you Hill, I have espied  
A way that safely will my Passage guide.  
Euryalus stood Listening while he spoke,  
With Love of praise, and Noble envy struck;  
Then to his ardent Friend, exposed his mind:  
All this alone, and leaving me behind!  
Am I unworthy, Nisus, to be joined,  
Thinkest thou my Share of honour I will yield,  
Or send thee unassisted to the Field?  
Not so my Father taught my Childhood Arms,  
Born in a Siege, and bred amongst Alarms:  
Nor is my Youth unworthy of my Friend,  
Or of the heaven-born Hero I attend.  
The thing called Life with ease I can disdain;  
And think it oversold to purchase Fame.  
To whom his Friend;  
I could think, alas, thy Tender years  
Would minister new matter to my Fears:  
Nor is it just thou shouldst thy Wish obtain;  
So jove in Triumph bring me back again;  
To those dear eyes; or if a God there be  
To pious Friends, propitious more than he.  
But if some one, as many sure there are,  
Of adverse accidents in doubtful War,  
If one should reach my Head there let it fall,  
And spare thy life, I would not perish all:  
Thy Youth is worthy of a longer Date;  
Do thou remain to mourn thy Lover's fate;  
To bear my mangled body from the Foe,  
Or buy it back, and Funeral rites bestow.  
Or if hard Fortune shall my Corpse deny  
Those deuce, with empty Marble to supply.  
O let not me the Widow's tears renew,  
Let not a Mother's curse my name pursue;  
Thy pious Mother, who in Love to thee,  
Left the Fair Coast of fruitful Sicily;  
Her Age committing to the Seas and Wind,  
When every weary Matron stayed behind.  
●o this Euryalus, thou pleadest in vain,  
●nd but delayest the cause thou canst not gain:  
●o more, 'tis loss of time: with that he wakes  
●he nodding Watch; each to his Office takes!  
●he Guard relieved, in Company they went  
To find the Council at the Royal Tent.  
Now every living thing lay void of care,  
●nd Sleep, the common gift of Nature, share:  
Mean time the Trojan Peers in Council sat  
And called their Chief Commanders, to debate  
The weighty business of th' endangered State.  
What next was to be done, who to be sent  
T' inform Aeneas of the Foes intent.  
●n midst of all the quiet Camp they held  
Nocturnal Council; each sustains a Shield  
Which his o'er laboured Arm can hardly rear;  
And leans upon a long projected Spear.  
Now Nisus and his Friend approach the Guard,  
And beg admittance, eager to be heard,  
Th' affair important; not to be deferred.  
Ascanius bids them be conducted in;  
Then thus, commanded, Nisus does begin.  
Ye Trojan Fathers lend attentive Ears;  
Nor judge our undertaking by our years.  
The Foes securely drenched in Sleep and wine  
Their Watch neglect; their Fires but thinly shine.  
And where the Smoke in thickening Vapours flies  
Covering the plain, and Clouding all the Skies,  
Betwixt the spaces we have marked a way,  
Close by the Gate and Coasting by the Sea;  
This Passage undisturbed, and unespyed  
Our Steps will safely to Aeneas guide,  
Expect each hour to see him back again  
Loaded with spoils of Foes, in Battle slain:  
Snatch we the Lucky Minute while we may,  
Nor can we be mistaken in the way:  
For Hunting in the Vale, we oft have seen  
The rising Turrets with the stream between:  
And know its winding Course, with every ford.  
He paused, and Old Alethes took the Word.  
Our Country Gods in whom our trust we place,  
Will yet from ruin save the Trojan race;  
While we behold such springing worth appear,  
In youth so brave, and breasts so void of fear.  
(With this he took the hand of either Boy,  
Embraced them closely both, and wept for joy:)  
Ye brave young men, what equal gifts can we,  
What recompense for such desert, decree!  
The greatest sure and best you can receive,  
The Gods, your virtue and your fame will give:  
The Rest, our grateful General will bestow;  
And young Ascanius, till his Manhood, owe.  
And I whose welfare in my Father lies,  
(Ascanius adds,) by all the Deities  
By our great Country, and our household Gods,  
By Hoary Vesta's rites, and dark abodes,  
Adjure you both, on you my Fortune stands,  
That and my Faith I plight into your hands,  
Make me but happy in his safe return,  
(For I No other loss but only his can mourn,)  
Nisus your gift shall two large Goblets be,  
Of Silver wrought with curious Imagery,  
And high embossed: which when old Priam reigned  
My conquering Sire, at sacked Arisba gained.  
And more two Tripods cast in antique mould,  
With two great Talents of the finest Gold.  
Besides a Boul which Tyrian Art did grave;  
The Present that Sidonian Dido gave.  
But if in Conquered Italy we reign,  
When Spoils by Lot the Victors shall obtain,  
Thou saw'st the Courser by proud Turnus pressed;  
That, and his golden Arms, and sanguine Crest,  
And Shield, from lot exempted, thou shalt share;  
With these, twelve captive damsels young and fair:  
Male Slaves as many; well appointed all  
With Vests and Arms, shall to thy portion fall:  
And last a fruitful Field to thee shall rest,  
The large demenes the Latian King possessed.  
But thou, whose years are more to mine allied,  
No fate my vowed affection shall divide  
From thee O wondrous Youth: be ever mine,  
Take f●ll possession, all my Soul is thine:  
My life's Companion, and my bosom Friend;  
One faith, one fame, one fate shall both attend.  
My peace shall be committed to thy care,  
And to thy Conduct my concerns in war.  
Then thus the bold Euryalus replied;  
What ever fortune, good or bad, betid,  
The same shall be my Age, as now my Youth;  
No time shall find me wanting to my truth.  
This only from your bounty let me gain;  
(And this not granted, all rewards are vain:)  
Of Priam's Royal Race my Mother came,  
And sure the best that ever bore the name:  
Whom neither Troy, nor Sicily could hold  
From me departing; but o'er spent and old,  
My fate she followed; ignorant of this  
What ever danger: Neither parting kiss,  
Nor pious Blessing taken, her I leave:  
And in this only Act of all my life deceive.  
By this your hand and conscious Night I swear,  
My youth so sad a farewell could not bear.  
Be you her Patron fill my vacant place;  
(Permit me to presume so great a grace;)  
Support her Age forsaken and distressed;  
That hope alone will fortify my breast,  
Against the worst of fortunes and of fears:  
He said; th' Assistants shed presaging tears.  
But above all, Ascanius moved to see  
That image of paternal piety.  
Then thus replied.—  
So great beginnings in so green an Age  
Exact that Faith, which firmly I engage;  
Thy Mother all the privilege shall claim  
Cre●sa had; and only want the name.  
Whatever event thy enterprise shall have,  
'Tis Merit to have born a Son so brave.  
By this my Head, a sacred Oath, I swear,  
(My Father used it) what returning, here  
Crowned with success, I for thyself prepare,  
Thy Parent and thy Family shall share:  
He said; and weeping while he spoke the word,  
From his broad Belt he drew a shining Sword,  
Magnificent with Gold; Lycaon made,  
And in an Ivory scabbard sheathed the Blade.  
This was his Gift: while Mnestheus did provide  
For Nisus Arms; a grisley Lions Hid;  
And true Alethes changed with him his helm of temper tried.  
Thus armed they went: the noble Trojans wait  
Their going forth, and follow to the Gate.  
With Prayers and Vows above the rest appears  
Ascanius, manly far above his years.  
And Messages committed to their care;  
Which all in Winds were lost, and empty air.  
The Trenches first they passed; then took their way,  
Where their proud foes in pitched Pavilions lay.  
To many fatal e'er themselves were slain:  
The careless Host dispersed upon the Plain  
They found, who drunk with Wine supinely snore▪  
Unharnessed Chariots stand upon the shore;  
Midst wheels, and reins, and arms, the Goblet by,  
A Medley of Debauch and War they lie▪  
Observing Nisus showed his friend the sight;  
Then thus: behold a Conquest without fight.  
Occasion calls the Sword to be prepared:  
Our way lies there, stand thou upon the guard;  
And look behind, while I securely go  
To cut an ample passage through the Foe.  
Softly he spoke; then stalking took his way,  
With his drawn Sword, where haughty Rhamnes lay,  
His head raised high, on Tapestry beneath,  
And heaving from his breast, he puffed his breath.  
A King, and Prophet by King Turnus loved,  
But fate by Prescience cannot be removed.  
Three sleeping Slaves he soon subdues: then spies  
Where Rhemus, with his proud Retinue, lies:  
His Armour Bearer first, and next he kills  
His Charioteer, entrenched betwixt the wheels,  
And his loved Horses; last invades their Lord,  
Full on his Neck he aims the fatal Sword:  
The Gasping head flies off: a purple ●loud,  
Flows from the Trunk, that wallows in the blood;  
Which by the spurning heels, dispersed around  
The bed, besprinkles and bedews the ground.  
Then Lamyrus with Lamus and the young  
Serranus, who with gaming did prolong  
The night: oppressed with wine and slumber lay  
The beauteous Youth, and dreamt of lucky Play;  
More lucky had it been protracted till the day.  
The famished Lion thus with hunger bold,  
O'er leaps the fences of the nightly fold,  
The peaceful Flock devours, and tears, and draws;  
Wrapped up in silent fear, they lie and pant beneath his paws.  
Nor with less rage Euryalus employs  
The vengeful Sword, nor fewer foes destroys;  
But on th' ignoble Crowd his fury flew;  
Which Fadus, Hebesus, and Rhaetus slew,  
With Abaris; in sleep the rest did fall;  
But Rhaetus waking, and observing all:  
Behind a mighty Jar he slunk for fear;  
The sharp edged Iron found and reached him there:  
Full as he risen he plunged it in his side;  
The cruel Sword returned in crimson died.  
The wound a blended stream of wine and blood  
Pours out; the purple Soul comes floating in the 'slud.  
Now where Messapus quartered they arrive;  
The fires were fainting there, and just alive;  
The warlike Horses tied in order fed;  
Nisus the discipline observed, and sed,  
Our eagerness of blood may both betray:  
Behold the doubtful glimmering of the day,  
Foe to these nightly thefts: No more my, friend  
Here let our glutted execution End;  
A Lane through slaughtered Bodies we have made  
The bold Euryalus, though loath, obeyed:  
Rich Arms and Arras which they scattered find,  
And Plate, a precious load they leave behind.  
Yet fond of Gaudy spoils, the Boy would stay  
To make the proud Caparisons his prey,  
Which decked a neighbouring steed.—  
Nor did his eyes less longingly behold  
The Girdle studded o'er with Nails of Gold,  
Which Rhamnes wore: This present long ago  
On Remulus did Caedicus bestow,  
And absent joined in hospitable Ties.  
He dying to his Heir bequeathed the prize:  
Till by the conquering Rutuli oppressed  
He fell, and they the glorious gift possessed.  
These gaudy spoils Euryalus now bears;  
And vainly on his brawny Shoulders wears:  
Messapus Helm, he found amongst the dead,  
Garnished with plumes, and fitted to his head.  
They leave the Camp and take the safest road;  
Mean time a Squadron of their foes abroad,  
Three hundred Horse with Bucklers armed, they spied,  
Whom Volscens by the King's command did guide:  
To Turnus these were from the City sent,  
And to perform their Message sought his Tent.  
Approaching near their utmost lines they draw;  
When bending towards the left, their Captain saw  
The faithful pair; for through the doubtful shade  
His glittering Helm Euryalus betrayed;  
On which the Moon with full reflection played.  
'Tis not for nought (cried Volscens from the crowd)  
These Men go there, then raised his voice aloud:  
Stand, stand! why thus in Arms? And whether bend?  
From whence, to whom, and on what errand sent?  
Silent they make away; and hast their flight  
To Neighbouring Woods; and trust themselves to night.  
The speedy horsemen spur their Steeds to get  
'Twixt them and home; and every path beset,  
And all the wind of the well known Wood;  
Black was the Brake, and thick with Oak it stood,  
With fern all horrid, and perplexing thorn,  
Where tracks of Bears had scarce a passage worn.  
The darkness of the shades; his heavy prey,  
And fear, misled the younger from his way:  
But Nisus hit the turns with happier haste,  
Who now, unknowing, had the danger past,  
And Alban Lakes from Alba's name so called;  
Where King Latinus then his Oxen Stalled.  
Till turning at the length he stood his ground,  
And vainly cast his longing eyes around  
For his lost friend!  
Ah! wretch, he cried, where have I left behind.  
Where shall I hope th' unhappy Youth to find!  
Or what way take! again he ventures back,  
And treads the Mazes of his former tract,  
Thro the wild wood: at last he hears the Noise  
Of trampling Horses, and the rider's voice.  
The Sound approached, and suddenly he viewed  
His Foes enclosing, and his friend pursued,  
Fore laid, and taken, while he strove in vain  
The Covert of the Neighbouring Wood to gain.  
What should he next attempt, what arms employ  
With fruitless force to free the Captive Boy?  
Or tempt unequal numbers with the Sword;  
And die by him whom living he adored?  
Resolved on death his dreadful Spear he shook,  
And casting to the Moon a mournful look,  
Fair Queen, said he, who dost in woods delight,  
Grace of the Stars, and Goddess of the Night;  
Be present, and direct my Dart aright.  
If e'er my pious Father for my sake,  
Did on thy Altars grateful offerings make,  
Or I increased them with successful toils;  
And hung thy Sacred Roof with savage Spoils,  
Through the brown shadows guide my flying Spear  
To reach this Troop: Then poising from his ear  
The quivering Weapon with full force he threw;  
Through the divided shades the deadly Javelin flew;  
On Sulmo's back it splits; the double dart,  
Drove deeper onward, and transfixed his heart.  
He staggers round, his eyeballs roll in death;  
And with short Sobs, he gasps away his breath.  
All stand amazed; a second Javelin flies  
From his stretched arm, and hisses through the Skies:  
The Lance through Tagus' Temples forced its way;  
And in his brainpan warmly buried lay.  
Fierce Volscens foams with rage; and gazing round,  
Descried no Author of the Fatal wound,  
Nor where to fix revenge: But thou he cries,  
Shalt pay for both; and at the Prisoner flies,  
With his drawn Sword: Then, struck with deep despair,  
That fatal fight the Lover could not bear;  
But from his Covert rushed in open view;  
And sent his voice before him as he flew;  
Me, me, employ your Sword on me alone:  
The crime confessed; the fact was all my own.  
He neither could nor durst, the guiltless Youth,  
Ye Moon and Stars bear witness to the Truth;  
His only fault, if that be to offend,  
Was too much loving his unhappy friend.  
Too late alas, he speaks;  
The Sword, which unrelenting fury guides  
Driven with full force had pierced his tender sides;  
Down fell the beauteous Youth, the gaping wound  
Gushed out a Crimson stream and stained the ground:  
His nodding neck reclines on his white breast,  
Like a fair Flower, in furrowed Fields oppressed,  
By the keen Share: or Poppy on the plain,  
Whose heavy head is overcharged with rain.  
Disdain, despair, and deadly vengeance vowed,  
Drove Nisus headlong on the Hostile Crowed;  
Vols●ens he seeks, at him alone he bends;  
Born back, and pushed by his surrounding friends,  
He still pressed on; and kept him still in sight;  
Then whirled aloft his Sword with all his might;  
Th' unerring Weapon slew; and winged with death,  
Entered his gaping Mouth, and stopped his breath.  
Dying he slew: and staggering on the plain,  
Sought for the Body of his Lover slain:  
Then quietly on his dear Breast he fell;  
Content in death to be revenged so well,  
O happy pair! for if my verse can give  
Eternity; your fame shall ever live:  
Fixed as the Capitols Foundations lies,  
And spread where ere the Roman Eagle flies.    

The entire Episode of Mezentius and Lausus, translated out of the 10 th'. Book of Virgil's Aeneids▪  
Connection of the Episode, with the foregoing Story.  
Mezentius was King of Etruria, or Tuscany; from whence he was expelled by his Subjects, for his Tyrannical government, and cruelty; and a new King Elected. Being thus banished he applies himself to King Turnus, in whose Court he, and his Son Lausus take Sanctuary Turnus for the Love of Lavinia making War with Aeneas, Mezentius engages in the cause of his Benefactor, and performs many great actions, particularly in revenging himself on his late Subjects, wh● now assisted Aeneas out of hatred to him Mezentius is every where described by Virgil as an Atheist; his Son Lausus i● made the Pattern of silial Piety and Virtue: And the death of those two is the subject of this Noble Episode.  
THus equal deaths are dealt, and equal chance;  
By turns they quit their ground, by turns advance:  
Victors and vanquished in the various field;  
Nor wholly overcome, nor wholly yield:  
The Gods from Heaven, survey the doubtful strife,  
And mourn the Miseries of humane life.  
Above the rest two Goddesses appear  
Concerned for each: Here Venus, juno there.  
Amidst the Crowd, infernal A●è shakes  
Her Scourge aloft, and hissing Crest of Snakes.  
Once more Mezentius, with a proud disdain,  
Brandished his Spear, and rushed into the Plain:  
Where, towering in the midmost ranks, he stood,  
Like vast Orion stalking o'er the flood:  
When with his brawny Breast, he cuts the waves;  
His shoulders scarce the topmost billow laves.  
Or like a Mountain Ash, whose roots are spread,  
Deep fixed in earth; in clouds he hides his head.  
Thus armed, he took the field:—  
The Trojan Prince beheld him from a far;  
With joyful eyes, and undertook the war.  
Collected in himself, and like a Rock  
Poised on his base; Mezentius stood the shock  
Of his great Foe: then measuring with his eyes  
The space his spear could reach, aloud he cries:  
My own right hand and Sword assist my stroke;  
(Those only Gods Mezentius will invoke.)  
His Armour, from the Trojan Pirate torn,  
Shall by my Lausus be in triumph worn.  
He said; and strait with all his force he threw  
The massy Spear; which, hissing as it ●lew,  
Reached the celestial Shield; that stopped the course:  
But glanceing thence, the yet unbroken force,  
Took a new bend obliquely, and, betwixt  
The Side and Bowels, famed Anthores fixed.  
Anthores had from Argos travelled far,  
Alcides' friend, and brother of the War,  
Till, tired with toils, fair Italy he chose;  
And in Evander's Palace, sought repose:  
Now falling by another's wound, his eyes  
He casts to Heaven; on Argos thinks, and dies.  
The pious Trojan than his javelin sent;  
The Shield gave way, through treble plates it went  
Of solid brass, of linen trebbly rolled,  
●nd three Bull Hides, which round the Buckler fold:  
●ll these it past with unresisted course,  
●ranspeir●'d his thigh, and spent its dying force.  
●he gaping wound gushed out a crimson flood:  
●he Trojan glad with sight of hostile blood,  
His Falchion drew, to closer fight addressed,  
And with new force his fainting foe oppressed.  
His Father's danger Lausus viewed with grief,  
He sighed, he wept, he ran to his relief:  
And here, O wondrous Youth, 'tis here, I must  
To thy immortal memory be just,  
And sing an act, so noble and so new,  
Posterity shall scarce believe it true.  
Pained with his wound, and useless for the fight,  
The Father sought to save himself by flight;  
Encumbered, slow he dragged the Spear along,  
Which pierced his thigh, and in his Buckler hung  
The pious Youth resolved to undergo  
The lifted sword, springs out to face his Foe,  
Protects his Father, and prevents the blow.  
Shouts of applause ran ringing through the field,  
To see the Son the vanquished Father shield;  
●ll fir'd with Noble Emulation, strive;  
●nd with a storm of darts, to distance drive  
●he Trojan chief, who held at bay, from far,  
●n his Vulcanian Orb sustained the War.  
●s when thick Hail comes rattling in the wind,  
●he Ploughman, Passenger, and labouring Hind  
●or shelter to the Neighbouring Covert fly,  
●r housed, or safe in Hollow Caverns lie,  
●ut that o'erblown, when heaven above'em smiles,  
●eturn to Travel, and renew their toils:  
●Eneas thus overwhelmed; on every side  
●he Storm of darts undaunted did abide;  
●nd thus to Lausus loud, with friendly threatening cried.  
●hy wilt thou rush to certain death? and rage  
〈◊〉 rash attempts beyond thy tender age?  
betrayed by pious Love? nor thus forborn  
●he Youth desists, but with insulting scorn:  
Provokes the lingering Prince, whose patience tired  
Gave place; and all his breast with fury fired.  
For now the Fates prepared their cruel Shears;  
And lifted high, the conquering Sword appears,  
Which full descending with a fearful sway,  
Thro'Sheild & Cuirasse forced th' impetuous way,  
And buried deep in his fair bosom lay.  
The springing streams through the thin Armour strove,  
And drenched the golden Coat his careful Mother wove:  
And life at length forsook his heaving heart,  
Loath from so sweet a Mansion to departed.  
But when, with blood and paleness all bespread,  
The pious Prince beheld young Lausus dead,  
He grieved, he wept: the sight an image brought  
Of his own filial love; a sadly pleasing thought.  
Then stretched his hand to raise him up, and said;  
Poor hapless youth, what praises can be paid  
To love so great; to such transcendent store  
Of early worth, and sure presage of more!  
Accept what e'er Aeneas can afford:  
Untouched thy Arms; untaken be thy Sword;  
And all that pleased thee living, still remain  
Inviolate; and sacred to the slain.  
Thy body on thy Parents I bestow,  
To please thy Ghost; at least if shadows know  
Or have a taste of humane things below.  
There to thy fellow Ghosts, with glory tell,  
'Twas by the great Aeneas hand I fell.  
With this he bids his distant Friends draw near,  
Provokes their Duty, and prevents their fear;  
Himself assists to raise him from the ground,  
His Locks deformed with Blood, that welled from out his wound.  
Mean time the Father, now no Father, stood,  
And washed his wounds by Tiber's yellow flood,  
Oppressed with anguish, panting, and o'er spent,  
His fainting Limbs against a tree he leaned:  
A bough his brazen Helmet did sustain,  
His heavier arms lay scattered on the plain:  
Of Youth a chosen Troop around him stand,  
His head hung down, and rested on his hand;  
His grizly Beard his pensive bosom sought,  
And all on Lausus, ran his restless thought.  
Careful, concerned his danger to prevent,  
Much he enquired, and many a message sent:  
To warn him from the Field; alas in vain  
Behold his mournful followers bear him slain  
On their broad shields; still gushed the gaping wound,  
And drew a bloody trail along the ground.  
Far off he heard their cries; far off divined  
The dire event with a forebodeing mind.  
With dust he sprinkled first his Hoary head,  
Then both his lifted Arms to Heaven he spread;  
Last, the dear Corpse embracing, thus he s●d.  
What joys, alas, could this frail being give!  
That I have been so covetous to live.  
To see my Son, and such a Son, resign  
His life a ransom for preserving mine!  
And am I then preserved, and art thou lost,  
How much too dear has that redemption cost.  
'tis now my bitter banishment I feel,  
This is a wound too deep for time to heal.  
My guilt thy growing virtues did defame;  
My blackness blotted thy unblemished Name.  
Chased from a Throne, abandoned, and exiled  
For foul misdeeds, were punishments too mild  
I owed my people these; and from their hate  
With less injustice could have born my fate.  
And yet live, and yet support the sight  
Of hateful men, and of more hated Light!  
But will not long. With that he raised from ground  
His fainting Limbs, that staggered with his wound▪  
Yet with a mind resolved, and unapaled  
With pains or perils, for his Courser called.  
Well-mouthed, well managed, whom himself did dress  
With daily care; and mounted with success,  
His Aid in Arms; his Ornament in peace.  
Soothing his Courage with a gentle stroke,  
The Horse seemed sensible, while thus he spoke.  
O Rhaebus we have lived too long for me;  
(If long and Life were terms that could agree!)  
This day, thou either shalt bring back the head,  
And bloody Trophies of the Trojan dead;  
This day, thou either shalt revenge my woe  
For Murdered Lausus on his cruel Foe,  
Or if inexorable Fate deny  
Our Conquest, with thy Conquered Master die.  
For after such a Lord, I rest secure,  
Thou wilt not Foreign reins, or Trojan load endure.  
He said; and strait th' officious Courser kneel,  
To take his wont weight: His hands he fills  
With pointed Javelins; on his head he laced  
His glittering Helm, which terribly was graced  
With crested Horsehair, nodding from afar,  
Then spurred his thundering Steed, amidst the War.  
Love, anguish, wrath, and grief to madness wrought,  
Despair, and secret shame, and conscious thought  
Of inborn Worth, his labouring Soul oppressed;  
Rolled in his eyes, and raged within his breast.  
Then loud he called Aeneas, thrice by Name;  
The loud repeated voice to glad Aeneas came.  
Great jove said he; and the far shooting God,  
Inspire thy mind, to make thy challenge good.  
He said no more; but hastened to appear,  
And threatened with his long protended spear.  
To whom Mezentius thus; thy vaunts are vain,  
My Lausus lies extended on the plain;  
He's lost; thy conquest is already won:  
This was my only way to be undone.  
Nor fate I fear, but all the Gods defy!  
Forbear thy threats; my business is to die:  
But first receive this parting Legacy.  
He said; and strait a whirling dart he sent;  
Another after, and another went.  
Round in a spacious Ring he rides the field,  
And vainly plies th' impenetrable Shield.  
Thrice road he round, and thrice Aeneas wheeled:  
Turned as he turned, the Golden Orb withstood  
The strokes, and bore about an Iron wood.  
Impatient of delay; and weary grown  
Still to defend, and to defend alone;  
To wrench the Darts that in his Buckler light,  
Urged and o'er laboured in unequal fight,  
At last resolved, he throws with all his force  
Full at the Temples of the warlike Horse:  
Betwixt the Temples passed th' unerring spear,  
And piercing stood transfixed from ear to ear.  
Seized with the sudden pain, surprised with fright,  
The Courser bounds aloft and stands upright:  
He beats his Hoofs a while in air; then pressed  
With anguish, Floundering falls the generous beast  
And his cast rider, with his weight oppressed.  
From either Host the mingled shouts and cries  
Of Trojans and Rutilians rend the Skies.  
Aeneas hastening waved his fatal Sword,  
High o'er his head, with this reproachful word:  
Now, where are now thy vaunts, the fierce disdain  
Of proud Mezentius, and the lofty strain?  
Struggling, and wildly staring on the Skies,  
With scarce recovered breath, he thus replies:  
Why these insulting threats, this waste of breath,  
To Souls undaunted, and secure of Death.  
'Tis no dishonour for the brave to die;  
Nor came I hear with hope of Victory;  
But, with a glorious Fate, to end my pain;  
When Lausus fell, I was already slain:  
Nor ask I life,  
My dying Son contracted no such band:  
Nor would I take it from his Mud'rers hand.  
For this, this only favour let me sue,  
(If pity to a conquered foe be due)  
Refuse not that: But let my body have  
The last retreat of humane kind; a Grave.  
Too well I know my injured people's hate;  
Protect me from their vengeance after fate;  
This refuge for my poor remains provide;  
And lay my much loved Lausus by my side;  
He said; and to the Sword his throat applied.  
The Crimson stream distained his Arms around;  
And the disdainful Soul came rushing through the wound.   

THE SPEECH OF VENUS TO VULCAN:  
Wherein she persuades him to make Arms for her Son Aeneas, then engaged in ● War against the Latins, and King Turnus: Translated out of the Eighth Book of Virgil's Aeneids.  
NOw Night with Sable wings the World o'er spread;  
But Venus, not in vain, surprised with dread  
Of Latian arms, before the tempest breaks,  
Her Husband's timely succour thus bespeaks,  
Couched in his golden Bed:—  
(And, that her pleasing Speech his mind may move,  
Inspires it with diviner charms of Love:)  
While adverse Fate conspired with Grecian Powers,  
To levelly with the ground the Trojan towers,  
I begged no aid th' unhappy to restore,  
Nor did thy succour, nor thy art implore;  
Nor sought, their sinking Empire to sustain,  
To urge the labour of my Lord in vain.  
Tho' much I owed to Priam's House, and more,  
The dangers of Aeneas did deplore:  
But now, by Ioves command, and Fates decree,  
His Race is doomed to reign in Italy,  
With humble suit I ask thy needful art,  
O still propitious Power, O Sovereign of my heart,  
A Mother stands a suppliant for a Son:  
By silver footed Thetis thou wert won  
For fierce Achilles, and the rosy Morn  
Moved thee with Arms her Memnon to adorn;  
Are these my tears, less powerful on thy mind?  
Behold what warlike Nations are combined,  
With fire and sword▪ My people to destroy,  
And twice to triumph over Me and Troy.  
She said; and strait her arms of snowy hue,  
About her unresolving Husband threw;  
Her soft embraces soon infuse desire,  
His bones and marrow sudden warmth inspire;  
And all the Godhead feels the wont fire.  
Not half so swift the rolling thunder flies,  
Or streaks of lightning flash along the skies.  
The Goddess pleased with her successful wiles,  
And, conscious of her conquering Beauty, smiles.  
Then thus the good old God, (soothed with her charms,  
Panting, and half dissolving in her arms▪)  
Why seek you reasons for a Cause so just,  
Or your own beauty or my love distrust?  
Long since had you required my helpful hand,  
You might the Artist, and his Art command  
To arm your Trojans: nor did jove or Fate,  
Confine their Empire to so short a date:  
And if you now desire new Wars to wage,  
My care, my skill, my labour I engage,  
Whatever melting Metals can conspire,  
Or breathing bellows, or the forming fire,  
I freely promise; all your doubts remove,  
And think no task is difficult to love.  
He said; and eager to enjoy her charms,  
He snatched the lovely Goddess to his arms;  
Till all infused in joy he lay possessed  
Of full desire, and sunk to pleasing rest.   

LUCRETIUS The beginning of the First Book.  
DElight of Humane kind, and Gods above;  
Parent of Rome; Propitious Queen of Love;  
Whose vital power, Air, Earth, and Sea supplies;  
And breeds what e'er is born beneath the rolling Skies:  
For every kind, by thy prolifique might,  
Springs, and beholds the Regions of the light:  
Thee, Goddess thee, the clouds and tempests fear,  
And at thy pleasing presence disappear:  
For thee the Land in fragrant Flowers is dressed,  
For thee the Ocean smiles, and smooths her wavy breast;  
And Heaven itself with more serene, and purer light is blest.  
For when the rising Spring adorns the Mead,  
And a new Scene of Nature stands displayed,  
When teeming Budds, and cheerful greene's appear,  
And Western gales unlock the lazy year,  
The joyous Birds thy welcome first express,  
Whose native Songs thy genial fire confess:  
Then savage Beasts bound o'er their slighted food,  
Struck with thy darts, and tempt the raging flood:  
All Nature is thy Gift; Earth, Air, and Sea:  
Of all that breaths, the various progeny,  
Stung with delight, is goaded on by thee.  
O'er barren Mountains, o'er the flowery Plain,  
The levy Forest, and the liquid Main  
Extends thy uncontrolled and boundless reign.  
Through all the living Regions dost thou move,  
And scatter'st, where thou goest, the kindly seeds of Love:  
Since then the race of every living thing,  
Obeys thy power; since nothing new can spring  
Without thy warmth, without thy influence bear '  
Or beautiful, or lovesome can appear,  
Be thou my aid: My tuneful Song inspire,  
And kindle with thy own productive fire;  
While all thy Province Nature, I survey,  
And sing to Memmius an immortal lay  
Of Heaven, and Earth, and every where thy wondrous power display.  
To Memmius, under thy sweet influence born,  
Whom thou with all thy gifts and graces dost adorn.  
The rather, then assist my Muse and me,  
Infusing Verses worthy him and thee.  
Mean time on Land and Sea let barbarous discord cease,  
And lull the listening world in universal peace.  
To thee, Mankind their soft repose must owe,  
For thou alone that blessing canst bestow;  
Because the brutal business of the War  
Is managed by thy dreadful Servant's care:  
Who oft retires from fight fields, to prove  
The pleasing pains of thy eternal Love:  
And panting on thy breast, supinely lies,  
While with thy heavenly form he feeds his famished eyes:  
Sucks in with open lips, thy balmy breath,  
By turns restored to life, and plunged in pleasing death.  
There while thy curling limbs about him move,  
Involved and fettered in the links of Love,  
When wishing all, he nothing can deny,  
Thy Charms in that auspicious moment try;  
With winning eloquence our peace implore,  
And quiet to the weary World restore.   

LUCRETIUS The beginning of the Second Book.  
Suave Mari magno, etc.  
'TIs pleasant, safely to behold from shore  
The rolling Ship; and hear the Tempest roar:  
Not that another's pain is our delight;  
But pains unfelt produce the pleasing sight▪  
'Tis pleasant also to behold from far  
The moving Legions mingled in the War:  
But much more sweet thy labouring steps to guide,  
To Virtue's heights, with wisdom well supplied,  
And all the Magazines of Learning fortified:  
From thence to look below on humane kind,  
Bewildered in the Maze of Life, and blind:  
To see vain fools ambitiously contend  
For Wit and Power; their lost endeavours bend  
T'outshine each other, waste their time and health,  
In search of honour, and pursuit of wealth.  
O wretched man! in what a mist of Life,  
Enclosed with dangers and with noisy strife,  
He spends his little Span: And overfeeds  
His crammed desires, with more than nature needs:  
For Nature wisely stints our appetite,  
And craves no more than undisturbed delight;  
Which minds unmixed with cares, and fears, obtain;  
A Soul serene, a body void of pain.  
So little this corporeal frame requires;  
So bounded are our natural desires,  
That wanting all, and setting pain aside,  
With bare privation, sense is satisfied.  
If Golden Sconces hang not on the Walls,  
To light the costly Suppers and the Balls;  
If the proud Palace shines not with the state  
Of burnished Bowls, and of reflected Plate,  
If well tuned Harps, nor the more pleasing sound  
Of Voices, from the vaulted roofs rebound,  
Yet on the grass beneath a poplar shade  
By the cool stream, our careless limbs are laid,  
With cheaper pleasures innocently blest,  
When the warm Spring with gaudy flowers is dressed  
Nor will the ragging Fevers fire abate,  
With Golden Canopies and Beds of State:  
But the poor Patient will as soon be sound,  
On the hard mattress, or the Mother ground.  
Then since our Bodies are not cased the more  
By Birth, or Power, or Fortune's wealthy store,  
'tis plain, these useless ●oyes of every kind  
As little can relieve the labouring mind:  
Unless we could suppose the dreadful sight  
Of marshaled Legions moving to the fight  
Could with their sound, and terrible array  
Expel our fears, and drive the thoughts of death away;  
But, since the supposition vain appears,  
Since clinging cares, and trains of inbred fears,  
Are not with sounds to be affrighted thence,  
But in the midst of Pomp pursue the Prince,  
Not awed by arms, but in the presence bold,  
Without respect to Purple, or to Gold;  
Why should not we these pageantries despise;  
Whose worth but in our want of reason lies?  
For life is all in wand'ring errors led;  
And just as Children are surprised with dread,  
And tremble in the dark, so riper years  
Even in broad day light are possessed with fears:  
And shake at shadows fanciful and vain,  
As those which in the breasts of Children reign.  
These bugbears of the mind, this inward Hell,  
No rays of outward sunshine can dispel;  
But nature and right reason, must display  
Their beams abroad, and bring the darksome soul to day.   

TRANSLATION OF THE Latter Part of the Third Book OF LUCRETIUS; Against the Fear of Death.  
WHat has this Bugbear death to frighten Man,  
If Souls can die, as well as Bodies can?  
For, as before our Birth we felt no pain  
When Punic arms infested Land and Main,  
When Heaven and Earth were in confusion hurled  
For the debated Empire of the World,  
Which awed with dreadful expectation lay,  
Sure to be Slaves, uncertain who should sway:  
●o, when our mortal frame shall be disjoined,  
The lifeless Lump, uncoupled from the mind,  
●rom sense of grief and pain we shall be free;  
We shall not feel, because we shall not Be.  
Though Earth in Seas, and Seas in Heaven were lost,  
We should not move, we only should be tossed.  
Nay, even suppose when we have suffered Fate,  
The Soul could feel in her divided state,  
what's that to us, for we are only we  
While Souls and bodies in one frame agree?  
Nay, tho' our Atoms should revolve by chance,  
And matter leap into the former dance;  
Tho' time our Life and motion could restore,  
And make our Bodies what they were before,  
What gain to us would all this bustle bring,  
The new made man would be another thing;  
When once an interrupting pause is made,  
That individual Being is decayed.  
We, who are dead and gone, shall bear no part  
In all the pleasures, nor shall feel the smart,  
Which to that other Mortal shall accrue,  
Whom of our Matter Time shall mould anew.  
For backward if you look, on that long space  
Of Ages past, and view the changing face  
Of Matter, tossed and variously combined  
In sundry shapes, 'tis easy for the mind  
From thence t' infer, that Seeds of things have bee●  
In the same order as they now are seen:  
Which yet our dark remembrance cannot trace,  
Because a pause of Life, a gaping space  
Has come betwixt, where memory lies dead,  
And all the wand'ring motions from the sen● are fled.  
For who so e'er shall in misfortunes live  
Must Be, when those misfortunes shall arrive;  
And since the Man who Is not, feels not woe.  
(For death exempts him, and wards off the blow,  
Which we, the living, only feel and bear)  
What is there left for us in death to fear?  
When once that pause of life has come between,  
'tis just the same as we had never been.  
And therefore if a Man bemoan his lot,  
That after death his mouldering limbs shall rot,  
Or flames, or jaws of Beasts devour his Mass,  
Know he's an unsincere, unthinking Ass.  
A secret Sting remains within his mind,  
The fool is to his own cast offals kind;  
He boasts no sense can after death remain,  
Yet makes himself a part of life again▪  
As if some other He could feel the pain.  
●f, while he live, this thought molest his head,  
What Wolf or Vulture shall devour me dead,  
He wastes his days in idle grief, nor can  
Distinguish 'twixt the Body and the Man:  
But thinks himself can still himself survive;  
And what when dead he feels not, feels alive.  
Then he repines that he was born to die,  
Nor knows in death there is no other He,  
No living He remains his grief to vent,  
And o'er his senseless Carcase to lament.  
If after death 'tis painful to be torn  
By Birds and Beasts then why not so to burn,  
Or drenched in floods of honey to be soaked,  
Embalmed to be at once preserved and choked;  
Or on an eyrie Mountain's top to lie  
Exposed to cold and heavens inclemency,  
Or crowded in a Tomb to be oppressed  
With Monumental Marble on thy breast?  
But to be snatched from all thy household joys  
From thy chaste Wife, and thy dear prattling boys  
Whose little arms about thy Legs are cast  
And climbing for a Kiss prevent their Mother's haste,  
Inspiring secret pleasure through thy Breast,  
All these shall be no more: thy Friends oppressed,  
Thy Care and Courage now no more shall free:  
Ah Wretch, thou criest, ah! miserable me,  
One woeful day sweeps children, friends, and wife,  
And all the brittle blessings of my life!  
Add one thing more, and all thou sayest is true;  
Thy want and wish of them is vanished too,  
Which well considered were a quick relief,  
To all thy vain imaginary grief.  
For thou shalt sleep and never wake again,  
And quitting life, shall quit thy living pain.  
But we thy friends shall all those sorrows find,  
Which in forgetful death thou leav'st behind,  
No time shall dry our tears, nor drive thee from our mind.  
The worst that can befall thee, measured right,  
Is a sound slumber, and a long good night.  
Yet thus the fools, that would be thought the Wits,  
Disturb their mirth with melancholy sits,  
When healths go round, and kindly brimmers flow,  
Till the fresh Garlands on their foreheads glow,  
They whine, and cry, let us make haste to live,  
Short are the joys that humane Life can give.  
Eternal Preachers, that corrupt the draught,  
And palls the God that never thinks, with thought;  
Idiots with all that thought, to whom the worst  
Of death, is want of drink, and endless thirst,  
Or any fond desire as vain as these.  
For even in sleep, the body wrapped in ease,  
Supinely lies, as in the peaceful grave,  
And wanting nothing, nothing can it crave.  
Were that sound sleep eternal it were death,  
Yet the first Atoms then, the seeds of breath  
Are moving near to sense, we do but shake  
And rouse that sense, and strait we are awake.  
Then death to us, and death's anxiety  
Is less than nothing, if a less could be.  
For than our Atoms, which in order lay,  
Are scattered from their heap, and puffed away,  
And never can return into their place,  
When once the pause of Life has left an empty space.  
And last, suppose Great Nature's Voice should call  
To thee, or me, or any of us all,  
What dost thou mean, ungrateful wretch, thou vain,  
Thou mortal thing, thus idly to complain,  
And sigh and sob, that thou shalt be no more?  
For if thy life were pleasant heretofore,  
If all the bounteous blessings I could give  
Thou hast enjoyed, if thou hast known to live,  
And pleasure not leaked through thee like a Seive,  
Why dost thou not give thanks as at a plenteous feast  
Crammed to the throat with life, and rise and take thy rest?  
But if my blessings thou hast thrown away,  
If indigested joys passed through and would not stay,  
Why dost thou wish for more to squander still?  
If Life be grown a load, a real ill,  
And I would all thy cares and labours end,  
Lay down thy burden fool, and know thy friend.  
To please thee I have emptied all my store,  
I can invent, and can supply no more;  
But run the round again, the round I ran before.  
Suppose thou art not broken yet with years,  
Yet still the self same Scene of things appears,  
And would be ever, couldst thou ever live;  
For life is still but Life, there's nothing new to give.  
What can we plead against so just a Bill?  
We stand convicted, and our cause goes ill.  
But if a wretch, a man oppressed by fate,  
Should beg of Nature to prolong his date,  
She speaks aloud to him with more disdain,  
Be still thou Martyr fool, thou covetous of pain.  
But if an old decrepit Sot lament;  
What thou (She cries) who hast outlived content!  
Dost thou complain, who hast enjoyed my store?  
But this is still th' effect of wishing more!  
Unsatisfied with all that Nature brings;  
Loathing the present, liking absent things;  
From hence it comes thy vain desires at strife  
Within themselves, have tantalised thy Life,  
And ghastly death appeared before thy sight  
ere thou hadst gorged thy Soul, & senses with delight.  
Now leave those joys unsuiting to thy age,  
To a fresh Comer, and resign the Stage.  
Is Nature to be blamed if thus she chide?  
No sure; for 'tis her business to provide,  
Against this ever changing Frames decay,  
New things to come, and old to pass away.  
One Being worn, another Being makes;  
Changed but not lost; for Nature gives and takes:  
New Matter must be found for things to come,  
And these must waste like those, and follow Nature's doom.  
All things, like thee, have time to rise and rot;  
And from each others ruin are begot;  
For life is not confined to him or thee;  
'Tis given to all for use; to none for Property.  
Consider former Ages past and gone,  
Whose Circles ended long ere thine begun,  
Then tell me Fool, what part in them thou hast?  
Thus may'st thou judge the future by the past.  
What horror seest thou in that quiet state,  
What Bugbear dreams to fright thee after Fate?  
No Ghost, no Goblins, that still passage keep,  
But all is there serene, in that eternal sleep.  
For all the dismal Tales that Poets tell,  
Are verified on Earth, and not in Hell.  
No Tantalus looks up with fearful eye,  
Or dreads th'impending Rock to crush him from on high:  
But fear of Chance on earth disturbs our easy hours:  
Or vain imagined wrath, of vain imagined Powers.  
No Tityus torn by Vultures lies in Hell;  
Nor could the Lobes of his rank liver swell  
To that prodigious Mass for their eternal meal.  
Not tho' his monstrous bulk had covered o'er  
Nine spreading Acres, or nine thousand more;  
Not tho' the Globe of earth had been the Giant's floor,  
Nor in eternal torments could he lie;  
Nor could his Corpse sufficient food supply.  
But he's the Tityus, who by Love oppressed,  
Or Tyrant Passion preying on his breast,  
And ever anxious thoughts is robbed of rest.  
The Sisyphus is he, whom noise and strife  
Seduce from all the soft retreats of life,  
To vex the Government, disturb the Laws,  
Drunk with the Fumes of popular applause,  
He courts the giddy Crowd to make him great,  
And sweats & toils in vain, to mount the sovereign Seat▪  
For still to aim at power, and still to fail,  
Ever to strive and never to prevail,  
What is it, but in reasons true account  
To heave the Stone against the rising Mount;  
Which urged, and laboured, and forced up with pain,  
Recoils & rowls impetuous down, and smokes along the plain.  
Then still to treat thy ever craving mind  
With every blessing, and of every kind,  
Yet never fill thy ravening appetite,  
Though years and seasons vary thy delight,  
Yet nothing to be seen of all the store,  
But still the Wolf within thee barks for more;  
This is the Fables moral, which they tell  
Of fifty foolish Virgins damned in Hell  
To leaky Vessels, which the Liquor spill;  
To Vessels of their Sex, which none could ever fill.  
As for the Dog, the Furies, and their Snakes,  
The gloomy Caverns, and the burning Lakes,  
And all the vain infernal trumpery,  
They neither are, nor were, nor e'er can be.  
But here on Earth the guilty have in view  
The mighty pains to mighty mischiefs due:  
Racks, Prisons, Poisons, the Tarpeian Rock,  
Stripes, Hangmen, Pitch, and suffocating Smoke,  
And last, and most, if these were cast behind,  
Th' avenging horror of a Conscious mind,  
Whose deadly fear anticipates the blow,  
And sees no end of Punishment and woe:  
But looks for more, at the last gasp of breath:  
This makes an Hell on Earth, and Life a death.  
Mean time, when thoughts of death disturb thy head;  
Consider, Ancus great and good is dead;  
Ancus thy better far, was born to die,  
And thou, dost thou bewail mortality?  
So many Monarches with their mighty State,  
Who ruled the World, were overruled by fate.  
That haughty King, who Lorded o'er the Main,  
And whose stupendous Bridge did the wild Wave restrain,  
(In vain they foamed, in vain thy threatened wreck  
While his proud Legions marched upon their back:)  
Him death, a greater Monarch, overcame;  
Nor spared his guards the more, for their immortal name.  
The Roman chief, the Carthaginian dread,  
Scipio the Thunder Bolt of War is dead,  
And like a common Slave, by fate in triumph led.  
The Founders of invented Arts are lost;  
And Wits who made Eternity their boast;  
Where now is Homer who possessed the Throne?  
Th' immortal Work remains, the mortal Author's gone.  
Democritus perceiving age invade,  
His Body weakened, and his mind decayed,  
Obeyed the summons with a cheerful face;  
Made haste to welcome death, and met him half the race.  
That stroke, even Epicurus could not bar,  
Though he in Wit surpassed Mankind, as far  
●s does the midday Sun, the midnight Star.  
And thou, dost thou disdain to yield thy breath,  
Whose very life is little more than death?  
More than one half by Lazy sleep possessed;  
And when awake, thy Soul but nods at best,  
Day-Dreams and sickly thoughts revolving in thy breast.  
Eternal troubles haunt thy anxious mind,  
Whose cause and cure thou never hop'st to find;  
But still uncertain, with thyself at strife,  
Thou wanderest in the Labyrinth of Life.  
O, if the foolish race of man, who find  
A weight of cares still pressing on their mind,  
Could find as well the cause of this unrest,  
And all this burden lodged within the breast,  
Sure they would change their course; nor live as now,  
Uncertain what to wish or what to vow.  
Uneasy both in Country and in Town,  
They search a place to lay their burden down.  
One restless in his Palace, walks abroad,  
And vainly thinks to leave behind the load.  
But strait returns; for he's as restless there;  
And finds there's no relief in open Air.  
●nother to his Villa would retire,  
●nd spurs as hard as if it were on fire;  
●o sooner entered at his Country door,  
〈◊〉 he gins to stretch, and yawn, and snore;  
●r seeks the City which he left before.  
●hus every man o'er works his weary will,  
●o eat himself, and to shake off his ill;  
●he shaking Fit returns and hangs upon him still.  
●o prospect of repose, nor hope of ease;  
●he Wretch is ignorant of his disease;  
Which known would all his fruitless trouble spare;  
●or he would know the World not worth his care:  
●hen would he search more deeply for the cause;  
●nd study Nature well, and Nature's Laws:  
●or in this moment lies not the debate;  
●ut on our future, fixed, Eternal State;  
●hat never changing state which all must keep  
Whom Death has doomed to everlasting sleep.  
Why are we then so fond of mortal Life,  
Beset with dangers and maintained with strife.  
A Life which all our care can never save;  
One fate attends us; and one common Grave.  
Besides we tread but a perpetual round,  
We ne'er strike out; but beat the former ground  
And the same Maukish joys in the same tract are found.  
For still we think an absent blessing best;  
Which cloys, and is no blessing when possessed;  
A new arising wish expels it from the Breast.  
The Feav'rish thirst of Life increases still;  
We call for more and more and never have our fill:  
Yet know not what to morrow we shall try,  
What dregs of life in the last draught may lie.  
Nor, by the longest life we can attain;  
One moment from the length of death we gain;  
For all behind belongs to his Eternal reign.  
When once the Fates have cut the mortal Thread,  
The Man as much to all intents is dead,  
Who dies to day, and will as long be so,  
●s he who died a thousand years ago.   

LUCRETIUS The Fourth Book.  
Concerning the Nature of Love; Beginning at this Line, Sic igitur, Veneris qui telis accipit ictum, etc.  
THus therefore, he who feels the Fiery dart  
Of strong desire transfix his amorous heart,  
Whether some beauteous Boys alluring face,  
Or Lovelyer Maid with unresisted Grace,  
From her each part the winged arrow sends,  
From whence he first was struck, he thither tends▪  
Restless he roams, impatient to be freed,  
And eager to inject the sprightly seed.  
For fierce desire does all his mind employ,  
And ardent Love assures approaching joy.  
Such is the nature of that pleasing smart,  
Whose burning drops distil upon the heart,  
The Fever of the Soul shot from the fair,  
And the cold Ague of succeeding care.  
If absent, her Idea still appears;  
And her sweet name is chiming in your ears:  
But strive those pleasing fantomes to remove,  
And shun th' Aerial images of Love;  
That feed the flame: When one molests thy mind  
Discharge thy loins on all the leaky kind;  
For that's a wiser way than to restrain  
Within thy swelling nerves, that hoard of pain.  
For every hour some deadlier symptom shows,  
And by delay the gathering venom grows,  
When kindly applications are not used;  
The Viper Love must on the wound be bruised:  
On that one object 'tis not safe to stay,  
But force the tide of thought some other way:  
The squandered Spirits prodigally throw;  
And in the common Glebe of Nature sow.  
Nor wants he all the bliss, that Lovers feign,  
Who takes the pleasure, and avoids the pain;  
For purer joys in purer health abound;  
And less affect the sickly than the sound.  
When Love its utmost vigour does employ,  
Even then, 'tis but a restless wand'ring joy:  
Nor knows the Lover, in that wild excess,  
With hands or eyes, what first he would possess:  
But strains at all; and fastening where he strains,  
Too closely presses with his frantic pains:  
With biteing kisses hurts the twining fair,  
Which shows his joys imperfect, unsincere:  
For stung with inward rage, he flings around,  
And strives t' avenge the smart on that which gave the wound.  
But love those eage● bivings does restrain,  
And mingling pleasure mollities the pain.  
●or ardent hope still flatters anxious grief,  
And sends him to his Foe to seek relief:  
Which yet the nature of the thing denies;  
●or Love, and Love alone of all our joys  
●y full possession does but fan the fire,  
●he more we still enjoy, the more we still desire.  
●ature for mea●, and drink provides a space;  
●nd when received they fill their certain place;  
●ence thirst and hunger may be satisfied,  
●ut this repletion is to Love denied:  
●orm, feature, colour, whatsoever delight  
provokes the Lovers endless appetite,  
These fill no space, nor can we thence remove  
With lips, or hands, or all our instruments of love:  
〈◊〉 our deluded grasp we nothing find,  
〈◊〉 thin aerial shapes, that fleet before the mind.  
As he who in a dream with drought is cursed,  
And finds no real drink to quench his thirst,  
Runs to imagined Lakes his heat to steep,  
And vainly swills and labours in his sleep;  
So Love with fantomes cheats our longing eyes,  
Which hourly seeing never satisfies;  
Our hands pull nothing from the parts they strain▪  
But wander o'er the lovely limbs in vain:  
Nor when the Youthful pair more clossely join,  
When hands in hands they lock, and thighs in thigh they twin●  
Just in the raging foam of full desire,  
When both press on, both murmur, both expire,  
They gripe, they squeeze, their humid tongue they dart,  
As each would force their way to tother's heart:  
In vain; they only cruse about the coast,  
For bodies cannot pierce, nor be in bodies lost:  
As sure they strive to be, when both engage,  
In that tumultuous momentany rage,  
●o ' tangled in the Nets of Love they lie,  
Till Man dissolves in that excess of joy.  
Then, when the gathered bag has burst its way,  
And ebbing tides the slackened nervs betray,  
● pause ensues; and Nature nods a while,  
Till with recruited rage new Spirits boil;  
●nd then the same vain violence returns,  
With flames renewed th' erected furnace burns.  
●gen they in each other would be lost,  
●ut still by adamantine bars are crossed;  
●ll ways they try, successeless all they prove,  
●o cure the secret sore of lingering love.  
●esides—  
They waste their strength in the venereal strife,  
●nd to a Woman's will enslave their life;  
●h' Estate runs out, and mortgages are made,  
●ll Offices of friendship are decayed;  
●heir fortune ruined, and their fame betrayed.  
Assyrian Ointment from their temples flows,  
And Diamond Buckles sparkle at their shoes.  
The cheerful Emerald twinkles on their hands,  
With all the luxury of foreign lands:  
And the blue Coat that with imbroid'ry shines,  
Is drunk with sweat of their o'er laboured loins.  
Their frugal Father's gains they mis-employ,  
And turn to Point, and Pearl, and every female toy.  
French fashions, costly treats are their delight;  
The Park by day, and Plays and Balls by night.  
In vain:—  
For in the Fountain where their Sweets are sought▪  
Some bitter bubbles up, and poisons all the draught▪  
First guilty Conscience does the mirror bring,  
Then sharp remorse shoots out her angry sting,  
And anxious thoughts within themselves at strife,  
Upbraid the long misspent, luxurious life.  
Perhaps the fickle fair One proves unkind,  
Or drops a doubtful word, that pains his mind;  
And leavs a rankling jealousy behind.  
Perhaps he watches closely her amorous eyes,  
And in the act of ogling does surprise;  
And thinks he sees upon her cheeks the while,  
The dimpled tracks of some foregoing smile;  
His raging Pulse beats thick, and his penned Spirits boil.  
This is the product even of prosperous Love,  
Think then what pangs disastrous passions prove!  
Innumerable Ills; disdain, despair,  
With all the meager Family of Care:  
Thus, as I said, 'tis better to prevent,  
Than flatter the Disease, and late repent:  
Because to shun th' allurement is not hard,  
To minds resolved, forewarned, and well prepared:  
But wondrous difficult, when once beset,  
To struggle through the straits, and break th' involving Net.  
Yet thus ensnared thy freedom thou may'st gain,  
If, like a fool, thou dost not hug thy chain;  
If not to ruin obstinately blind,  
And wilfully endeavouring not to find,  
Her plain defects of Body and of mind.  
For thus the Bedlam train of Lovers use,  
T' enhance the value, and the faults excuse.  
And therefore 'tis no wonder if we see  
They dote on Dowdyes, and Deformity:  
Even what they cannot praise, they will not blame  
But veil with some extenuating name:  
The Sallow Skin is for the Swarthy put,  
And love can make a Slattern of a Slut:  
If Cat-eyed, than a Pallas is their love,  
If freckled she's a particoloured Dove.  
If little, then she's life and soul all o'er:  
An Amazon, the large two handed Whore.  
She stammers, oh what grace in lisping lies,  
If she says nothing, to be sure she's wise.  
If shrill, and with a voice to drown a Choir,  
Sharp witted she must be, and full of fire.  
The lean, consumptive Wench with coughs decayed,  
●s called a pretty, tied, and slender Maid.  
Th' o'er grown, a goodly Ceres is expressed,  
A bedfellow for Bacchus at the least.  
●lat Nose the name of satire never misses,  
And hanging blobber lips, but pout for kisses.  
The task were endless all the rest to trace:  
Yet grant she were a Venus for her face,  
And shape, yet others equal beauty share;  
And time was you could live without the fair:  
●he does no more, in that for which you woe,  
Then homelier women full as well can do.  
Besides she daubs, and stinks so much of paint,  
Her own Attendants cannot bear the scent:  
But laugh behind, and by't their lips to hold;  
Mean time excluded, and exposed to cold,  
The whining Lover stands before the Gates,  
And there with humble adoration waits:  
Crowning with flowers the threshold and the floor,  
And printing kisses on th' obdurate door:  
Who if admitted in that nick of time,  
If some unsavoury Whiff, betray the crime,  
Invents a quarrel strait, if there be none,  
Or makes some faint excuses to be gone:  
And calls himself a doting fool to serve,  
Ascribing more than Woman can deserve.  
Which well they understand like cunning Queans;  
And hid their nastiness behind the Scenes.  
From him they have allured, and would retain,  
But to a piercing eye, 'tis all in vain:  
For common sense brings all their cheats to view,  
And the false light discovers by the true:  
Which a wise Harlot owns, and hopes to find  
A pardon for defects, that run through all the kind.  
Nor always do they feign the sweets of Love,  
When round the panting Youth their pliant limbs they move;  
And cling, and heave, and moisten every kiss,  
They often share, and more than share the bliss:  
From every part, even to their inmost Soul,  
They feel the trickling joys, and run with vigour to the Goal.  
Stirred with the same impetuous desire  
Birds, Beasts, and Herds, and Mares, their Males require:  
Because the throbbing Nature in their veins  
Provokes them to assuage their kindly pains:  
The lusty leap th' expecting Female stands,  
By mutual heat compelled to mutual Bands.  
Thus Dogs with lolling Tongues by love are tied;  
Nor shouting boys, nor blows their union can divide:  
At either end they strive the link to lose;  
In vain, for stronger Venus holds the noose.  
Which never would those wretched Lovers do,  
But that the common heats of Love they know;  
The pleasure therefore must be shared in common too.  
And when the Woman's more prevailing juice  
Sucks in the man's, the mixture will produce  
The Mother's likeness; when the man prevails,  
His own resemblance in the seed he Seals.  
But when we see the new begotten race  
Reflect the features of each Parent's face,  
Then of the Fathers and the Mother's blood,  
The justly tempered seed is understood:  
When both conspire, with equal ardour bend,  
From every limb the due proportion sent,  
When neither party foils, when neither foiled,  
This gives the blended features of the Child.  
Sometimes the Boy, the Grandsire's image bears;  
Sometimes the more remote Progenitor he shares;  
Because the genial Atoms of the seed  
Lie long concealed ere they exert the breed:  
And after sundry Ages passed, produce  
The tardy likeness of the latent juice.  
Hence Families such different figures take,  
And represent their Ancestors in face and Hair, and make.  
Because of the same Seed, the voice, and hair,  
And shape, and face, and other members are,  
And the same antique mould the likeness does prepare.  
Thus oft the Father's likeness does prevail  
In Females, and the Mothers in the Male.  
For since the seed is of a double kind.  
From that where we the most resemblance find,  
We may conclude the strongest tincture sent,  
And that was in conception prevalent.  
Nor can the vain decrees of Powers above,  
Deny production to the act of Love,  
Or hinder Fathers of that happy name,  
Or with a barren Womb the Matron shame;  
As many think, who stain with Victims Blood  
The mournful Altars, and with incense load:  
To bless the show'ry seed with future Life,  
And to impregnate the well laboured Wife.  
In vain they weary Heaven with Prayer, or fly  
To Oracles, or Magic numbers try:  
For barrenness of Sexes will proceed.  
Either from too Condensed, or watery seed;  
The ●a●ry juice too soon dissolves away,  
And in the parts projected will not stay;  
The too Condensed, unsould, unwieldly mass  
Drops short, nor carries to the destined place:  
Nor pierces to the parts, nor, though injected home,  
Will mingle with the kindly moisture of the womb.  
For Nuptials are unlike in their success,  
Some men, with fruitful seed some Women bless;  
And from some men some Women fruitful are;  
●ust as their constitutions join or jar:  
And many, seeming barren Wives have been,  
Who, after matched with more prolifique men,  
Have filled a Family with prattling boys:  
And many not supplied at home with joys,  
Have found a friend abroad, to ease their smart,  
And to perform the Sapless Husband's part.  
●o much it does import, that seed with seed  
shoved of the kindly mixture make the breed:  
And thick with thin, and thin with thick should join,  
●o to produce and propagate the Line.  
Of such concernment too is Drink and food,  
T'incrassate, or attenuate the blood.  
Of like importance is the posture too,  
In which the genial feat of Love we do:  
For as the Females of the four foot kind,  
Receive the leapings of their Males behind;  
So the good Wives, with loins uplifted high,  
And leaning on their hands the fruitful stroke may try:  
For in that posture will they best conceive:  
Not when supinely laid they frisk and heave;  
For active motions only break the blow,  
And more of Strumpets than of Wives they show;  
When answering stroke with stroke, the mingled liquors flow.  
Endearments eager, and too brisk a bound,  
Throws off the Ploughshare from the furrowed ground.  
But common Harlots in conjunction heave,  
Because 'tis less their business to conceive  
Than to delight, and to provoke the deed;  
A trick which honest Wives but little need.  
Nor is it from the Gods, or Cupid's dart,  
That many a homely Woman takes the heart;  
But Wives well humoured, dutiful, and chaste,  
And clean, will hold their wand'ring Husbands fast,  
Such are the links of Love, and such a Love will last.  
For what remains, long habitude, and use,  
Will kindness in domestic Bands produce:  
For Custom will a strong impression leave;  
Hard bodies, which the lightest stroke receive,  
In length of time, will moulder and decay,  
And stones with drops of rain are washed away.   

From LUCRETIUS Book the Fifth.  
Tum porrò puer, etc.  
THus like a Sailor by the Tempest hurled  
A shore, the Babe is shipwrecked on the World:  
Naked he lies, and ready to expire;  
Helpless of all that humane wants require:  
Exposed upon unhospitable Earth,  
From the first moment of his hapless Birth.  
Strait with forebodeing cries he fills the Room;  
(Too true presages of his future doom.)  
But Flocks, and Herds, and every Savage Beast  
By more indulgent Nature are increased.  
They want no Rattles for their froward mood,  
Nor Nurse to reconcile them to their food,  
With broken words; nor Winter blasts they fear  
Nor change their habits with the changing year:  
Nor, for their safety, Citadels prepare;  
Nor forge the wicked Instruments of War:  
Unlaboured Earth her bounteous treasure grants,  
And Nature's lavish hands supplies their common wants.   

Theocrit. Idyllium the 18th. THE EPITHALAMIUM OF HELEN and MENELAUS.  
TWelve Spartan Virgins, noble, young, and fair,  
With Violet wreaths adorned their flowing hair;  
And to the pompous Palace did resort,  
Where Menelaus kept his Royal Court.  
There hand in hand a comely Choir they led;  
To sing a blessing to his Nuptial Bed,  
Which curious Needles wrought, and painted flowers bespread.  
Ioves beauteous Daughter now his Bride must be,  
And jove himself was less a God than he:  
For this their artful hands instruct the Lute to sound,  
Their feet assist their hands and justly beat the ground.  
This was their song: Why happy Bridegroom, why  
●'re yet the Stars are kindled in the Sky,  
●'re twilight shades, or Evening dews are shed,  
Why dost thou steal so soon away to Bed?  
Has Somnus brushed thy Eyelids with his Rod,  
Or do thy Legs refuse to bear their Load,  
With flowing bowls of a more generous God?  
●f gentle slumber on thy Temples creep,  
But naughty Man thou dost not mean to sleep)  
●etake thee to thy Bed thou drowsy Drone,  
●eep by thyself and leave thy Bride alone:  
●o leave her with her Maiden Mates to play  
●t sports more harmless, till the break of day:  
Give us this Evening; thou hast Morn and Night,  
And all the year before thee, for delight.  
O happy Youth! to thee among the crowd  
Of Rival Princes, Cupid sneezed aloud;  
And every lucky Omen sent before,  
To meet thee landing on the Spartan shore.  
Of all our Heroes thou canst boast alone,  
That jove, when e'er he Thunders, calls thee Son,  
Betwixt two Sheets thou shalt enjoy her bare;  
With whom not Grecian Virgin can compare:  
So soft, so sweet, so balmy, and so fair.  
A boy, like thee, would make a Kingly line:  
But oh, a Girl, like her, must be divine.  
Her equals, we, in years, but not in face,  
Twelve score Viragoes of the Spartan Race,  
While naked to Eurota's banks we bend,  
And there in manly exercise contend,  
When she appears, are all eclipsed and lost;  
And hid the beauties that we made our boast.  
So, when the Night, and Winter disappear,  
The Purple morning rising with the year  
Salutes the spring, as her Celestial eyes  
Adorn the World, and brighten all the Skies:  
So beauteous Helen shines among the rest,  
Tall, slender, strait, with all the Graces blest:  
As Pines the Mountains, or as fields the Corn,  
Or as Thessalian Steeds the race adorn:  
So Rosy coloured Helen is the pride  
Of Lacedaemon, and of Greece beside.  
Like her no Nymph can willing Ozyers bend  
In basket-works, which painted streaks commend:  
With Pallas in the Loomb she may contend.  
But none, ah none can animate the Lyre,  
And the mute strings with Vocal Soul inspire,  
Whether the Learned Minerva be her Theme,  
Or chaste Diana bathing in the Stream;  
None can record their Heavenly praise so well  
As Helen, in whose eyes ten thousand Cupids dwell.  
O fair, O Graceful! yet with Maids enrolled,  
But whom to morrows Sun a Matron shall behold▪  
Yet e'er to morrows Sun shall show his head,  
The dewy paths of meadows we will tread,  
For Crowns and Chaplets to adorn thy head.  
Where all shall weep, and wish for thy return,  
As bleating Lambs their absent mother mourn.  
Our Noblest Maids shall to thy name bequeath  
The boughs of Lotos', formed in to a wreath.  
This Monument thy Maiden beauties due,  
High on a Plane tree shall be hung to view:  
On the smooth rind the Passenger shall see  
Thy Name engraved; and worship Helen's Tree:  
Balm, from a Silver box distilled around,  
Shall all bedew the roots and scent the sacred ground;  
The balm, 'tis true, can aged Plants prolong,  
But Helen's name will keep it ever young.  
Hail Bride, hail Bridegroom, son in Law to jove!  
With fruitful joys, Latona bless your Love;  
Let Venus furnish you with full desires,  
Add vigour to your wills and fuel to your ●ires:  
Almighty jove augment your wealthy store,  
Give much to you, and to his Grandsons more.  
From generous Loins a generous race will spring,  
Each Girl, like her, a Queen; each Boy, like you, a King.  
Now sleep if sleep you can; but while you rest,  
Sleep close, with folded arms, and breast to breast.  
Rise in the morn; but oh before you rise,  
Forget not to perform your morning Sacrifice.  
We will be with you e'er the crowing Cock  
Salutes the light, and struts before his feathered Flock:  
Hymen, oh Hymen, to thy Triumphs run,  
And view the mighty spoils thou hast in Battle won.   

Idyllium the 23d. THE Despairing LOVER.  
WIth inauspicious love, a wretched Swain  
Pursued the fairest Nymph of all the Plain;  
Fairest indeed, but prouder far than fair,  
She plunged him hopeless in a deep despair:  
Her heavenly form too haughtily she prized,  
His person hated, and his Gifts despised:  
Nor knew the force of Cupid's cruel darts,  
Nor feared his awful power on humane hearts;  
But either from her hopeless Lover fled,  
Or with disdainful glances shot him dead.  
No kiss, no look, to cheer the drooping Boy▪  
No word she spoke, she scorned even to deny.  
But as a hunted Panther casts about  
Her glaring eyes, and pricks her listening ears to scout,  
So she, to shun his Toils, her cares employed,  
And fiercely in her savage freedom joyed.  
Her mouth she writhed, her forehead taught to frown,  
He eyes to sparkle fires to love unknown:  
Her sallow Cheeks her envious mind did show,  
And every feature spoke aloud the curstness of a Shrew.  
Yet could not he his obvious Fate escape,  
His love still dressed her in a pleasing shape:  
And every sullen frown, and bitter scorn  
But fanned the fuel that too fast did burn.  
Long time, unequal to his mighty pain,  
He strove to curb it, but he strove in vain:  
At last his woes broke out, and begged relief  
With tears, the dumb petitioners of grief.  
With Tears so tender, as adorned his Love;  
And any heart, but only hers would move:  
Trembling before her bolted doors he stood;  
And there poured out th' unprofitable flood:  
Staring his eyes, and haggard was his look;  
Then kissing first the threshold, thus he spoke.  
Ah Nymph more cruel than of humane Race,  
Thy Tygress heart belies thy Angel Face:  
Too well thou showest thy Pedigree from Stone;  
Thy Grandames was the first by Pyrrha thrown:  
Unworthy thou to be so long desired;  
But so my Love, and so my fate required.  
I beg not now (for 'tis in vain) to live;  
But take this gift, the last that I can give.  
This friendly Cord shall soon de●ide the strife,  
Betwixt my lingering Love and loathsome life;  
This moment puts an end to all my pain;  
I shall no more despair, nor thou disdain.  
Farewell ungrateful and unkind, I go  
Condemned by thee to those sad shades below.  
I go th' extremest remedy to prove,  
To drink Oblivion, and to drench my Love.  
There happily to lose my long desires:  
But ah, what draught so deep to quench my fires!  
Farewell ye never opening Gates, ye Stones  
And Threshold guilty of my Midnight Moans:  
What I have suffered here ye know too well;  
What I shall do the Gods and I can tell.  
The Rose is fragrant, but it fades in time,  
The Violet sweet, but quickly past the prime;  
White Lilies hang their heads and soon decay,  
And whiter Snow in minutes melts away:  
Such is your blooming youth, and withering so;  
The time will come, it will, when you shall know  
The rage of Love; your haughty heart shall burn  
In flames like mine, and meet a like return.  
Obdurate as you are, oh, hear at least  
My dying prayers, and grant my last request!  
When first you open your doors, and passing by  
The sad ill Omend Object meets your Eye,  
Think it not lost, a moment if you stay;  
The breathless wretch, so made by you, survey:  
Some cruel pleasure will from thence arise,  
To view the mighty ravage of your Eyes.  
I wish, (but oh my wish is vain I fear,)  
The kind Oblation of a falling Tear:  
Then lose the knot, and take me from the place,  
And spread your Mantle o'er my grizly Face;  
Upon my livid Lips bestow a kiss:  
O envy not the dead, they feel not bliss!  
Nor fear your kisses can restore my breath;  
Even you are not more pitiless than death.  
Then for my Corpse a homely Grave provide,  
Which Love and me from public Scorn may hid.  
Thrice call upon my Name, thrice beat your breast  
And hail me thrice to everlasting rest:  
Last let my Tomb this sad inscription bear,  
A wretch whom Love has killed lies buried here:  
Oh, Passengers Amintas Eyes beware.  
Thus having said, and furious with his Love;  
He heaved with more than humane force, to move  
A weighty Stone, (the labour of a Team,)  
And raised from thence he reached the Neighbouring Beam:  
Around its bulk a sliding knot he throws;  
And fitted to his Neck the fatal noose:  
Then spurning backward took a swing, till death  
Crept up, and stopped the passage of his Breath.  
The bounce burst open the door; the Scornful Fai●  
Relentless looked, and saw him beat his quivering fee● in Air  
Nor wept his fate, nor cast a pitying eye,  
Nor took him down, but brushed regardless by:  
And as she passed, her chance or fate was such,  
Her Garments touched the dead, polluted by the touch.  
Next to the dance, thence to the Bath did move;  
The bath was sacred to the God of Love:  
Whose injured Image, with a wrathful Eye,  
Stood threatening from a Pedestal on high:  
Nodding a while; and watchful of his blow,  
He fell; and falling crushed th' ungrateful Nymph below:  
Her gushing Blood the Pavement all besmeared;  
And this her last expiring Voice was heard;  
Lover's farewell, revenge has reached my scorn;  
Thus warned, be wise, and love for love return.   

DAPHNIS. From Theocritus Idyll. 27.  Daphnis. 
THe Shepherd Paris bore the Spartan Bride  
By force away, and then by force enjoyed;  
But I by free consent can boast a Bliss,  
A fairer Helen, and a sweeter kiss.  Chloris 
Kisses are empty joys and soon are o'er.  Daph. 
A Kiss betwixt the lips is something more.  Chlo. 
I wipe my mouth, and where's your kissing then?  Daph, 
I swear you wipe it to be kissed again.  Chlo. 
Go tend your Herd, and kiss your Cows at home;  
I am a Maid, and in my Beauty's bloom▪  Daph. 
'Tis well remembered, do not waste your time;  
But wisely use it e'er you pass your prime.  Chlo. 
Blown Roses hold their sweetness to the last,  
And Raisins keep their luscious native taste.  Daph. 
The Sun's too hot; those Olive shades are near;  
I fain would whisper something in your ear.  Chlo. 
'Tis honest talking where we may be seen,  
God knows what secret mischief you may mean;  
I doubt you'll play the Wag and kiss again.  Daph. 
At least beneath you Elm you need not fear;  
My Pipe's in tune, if you're disposed to hear.  Chlo. 
Play by yourself, I dare not venture thither:  
You, and your naughty Pipe go hang together.  Daph. 
Coy Nymph beware, lest Venus you offend:  Chlo. 
I shall have chaste Diana still to friend.  Daph. 
You have a Soul, and Cupid has a Dart;  Chlo. 
Diana will defend, or heal my heart.  
Nay, sie what mean you in this open place;  
Unhand me, or, I swore, I'll scratch your face.  
Let go for shame; you make me mad for spite;  
My mouth's my own; and if you kiss I'll by't.  Daph. 
Away with your dissembling Female tricks:  
What would you escape the fate of all your Sex?  Chlo. 
I swear I'll keep my Maidenhead till death,  
And die as pure as Queen Elizabeth.  Daph. 
Nay mum for that; but let me lay thee down;  
Better with me, than with some nauseous Clown.  Chlo. 
I'd have you know, if I were so inclined,  
I have been would by many a wealthy Hind;  
But never found a Husband to my mind.  Daph. 
But they are absent all; and I am here;  Chlo. 
The matrimonial Yoke is hard to bear;  
And Marriage is a woeful word to hear,  Daph. 
A scar Crow, set to frighten fools away;  
Marriage has joys; and you shall have a say.  Chlo. 
Sour sauce is often mixed with our delight,  
You kick by day more than you kiss by night.  Daph. 
Shame stories all; but say the worst you can,  
A very Wife fears neither God nor Man.  Chlo. 
But Childbirth is they say, a deadly pain;  
It costs at least a Month to knit again,  Daph. 
Diana cures the wounds Lucina made;  
Your Goddess is a Midwife by her Trade.  Chlo. 
But I shall spoil my Beauty if I bear.  Daph. 
But Mam and Dad are pretty names to hear.  Chlo. 
But there's a Civil question used of late?  
Where lies my jointure, where your own Estate?  Daph. 
My Flocks, my Fields, my Wood, my Pastures take,  
With settlement as good as Law can make.  Chlo. 
Swear than you will not leave me on the common,  
But marry me, and make an honest Woman.  Daph. 
I swear by Pan (tho' he wears horns you'll say)  
Cudgelled and kicked, I'll not be forced away.  Chlo, 
I bargain for a wedding Bed at least,  
A house, and handsome Lodging for a guest.  Daph, 
A house well furnished shall be thine to keep;  
And for a flock bed I can sheer my Sheep.  Chlo. 
What Tale shall I to my old Father tell?  Daph. 
'Twill make him Chuckle thou'rt bestowed so well.  Chlo. 
But after all, in troth I am to blame  
To be so loving, ere I know your Name.  
A pleasant sounding name a pretty thing:  Daph. 
Faith, mine's a very pretty name to sing;  
They call me Daphnis: Lycidas my Sire,  
Both sound as well as Woman can desire.  
Nomaea bore me; Farmers in degree,  
He a good Husband, a good Housewife she.  Chlo. 
Your kindred is not much amiss, 'tis true,  
Yet I am somewhat better born than you.  Daph. 
I know your Father, and his Family;  
And without boasting am as good as he  
Menelaus; and no Master goes before.  Chlo. 
Hang both our Pedigrees; not one word more;  
But if you love me let me see your Living,  
Your House and Home; for seeing is believing.  Daph. 
See first you Cypress Grove, (a shade from noon;)  Chlo. 
Browse on my goats; for I'll be with you soon.  Daph. 
Feed well my Bulls, to whet your appetite;  
That each may take a lusty Leap at Night.  Chlo. 
What do you mean (uncivil as you are,)  
To touch my breasts, and leave my bosom bare?  Daph. 
These pretty bubbies first I make my own.  Chlo. 
Pull out your hand, I swear, or I shall swoon.  Daph. 
Why does thy ebbing blood forsake thy face?  Chlo. 
Throw me at least upon a cleaner place:  
My Linen ruffled, and my Waistcoat soiling  
What do you think new clothes, were made for spoiling?  Daph. 
I'll lay my Lambskins underneath thy back  Chlo. 
My Head Geer'es off; what filthy work you make!  Daph. 
To Venus first, I lay these offerings by;  Chlo. 
Nay first look round, that no body be nigh:  
Methinks I hear a whispering in the Grove:  Daph. 
The Cypress Trees are telling Tales of love.  Chlo. 
You tear off all behind me, and before me;  
And I'm as naked as my Mother bore me.  Daph. 
I'll buy thee better clothes than these I tear,  
And lie so close, I'll cover thee from Air.  Chlo 
YE are liberal now; but when your turn is sped,  
You'll wish me choked with every crust of Bread.  Daph. 
I'll give thee more, much more than I have told;  
Would I could coin my very heart to Gold.  Chlo. 
Forgive thy handmaid (Huntress of the wood,)  
I see there's no resisting flesh and blood!  Daph. 
The noble deed is done; my Herds I'll cull;  
Cupid, be thine a Calf; & Venus, thine a Bull.  Chlo. 
A Maid I came, in an unlucky hour,  
But hence return, without my Virgin flour.  Daph. 

A Maid is but a barren Name at best;  
If thou canst hold, I bid for twins at least.   

Thus did this happy Pair their love dispense  
With mutual joys, and gratified their sense;  
The God of Love was there a bidden Guest;  
And present at his own Mysterious Feast.  
His azure Mantle underneath he spread,  
And scattered Roses on the Nuptial Bed;  
While folded in each others arms they lay,  
He blew the flames, and furnished out the play,  
And from their Foreheads wiped the balmy sweat away.  
First risen the Maid and with a glowing Face,  
Her down cast eyes beheld her print upon the grass;  
Thence to her Herd she sped herself in haste:  
The Bridegroom started from his Trance at last,  
And pipeing homeward jocoundly he passed.    

Horat. Ode 3. Lib. 1. Inscribed to the Earl of Roscomon, on his intended Voyage to IRELAND.  
SO may th'auspicious Queen of Love,  
And the twin Stars, (the Seed of jove,)  
And he, who rules the raging wind  
To thee, O sacred Ship, be kind,  
And gentle Breezes fill thy Sails,  
Supplying soft Etesian Gales,  
As thou to whom the Muse commends,  
The best of Poets and of Friends,  
Dost thy committed Pledge restore:  
And land him safely on the shore:  
And save the better part of me,  
From perishing with him at Sea.  
Sure he, who first the passage tried,  
In hardened Oak his heart did hid,  
And ribs of Iron armed his side!  
Or his at least, in hollow wood,  
Who tempted first the briny Flood:  
Nor feared the winds contending roar,  
Nor billows beating on the shore;  
Nor Hyades portending Rain;  
Nor all the Tyrants of the Main.  
What form of death could him affright,  
Who unconcerned with steadfast sight,  
Could view the Surges mounting steep,  
And monsters rolling in the deep?  
Could through the ranks of ruin go,  
With Storms above, and Rocks below!  
In vain did Nature's wise command,  
Divide the Waters from the Land,  
If daring Ships, and Men profane,  
Invade th' inviolable Main:  
Th' eternal Fences over leap;  
And pass at will the boundless deep.  
No toil, no hardship can restrain  
Ambitious Man inur'd to pain;  
The more confined, the more he tries,  
And at forbidden quarry flies.  
Thus bold Prometheus did aspire,  
And stole from heaven the seed of Fire:  
A train of Ills, a ghastly crew,  
The Robbers blazing tract pursue;  
Fierce Famine, with her Meager face,  
And Fevers of the fiery Race,  
In swarms th' offending Wretch surround,  
All brooding on the blasted ground:  
And limping Death, lashed on by Fate,  
Comes up to shorten half our date.  
This made not Dedalus beware,  
With borrowed wings to sail in Air:  
To Hell Aloides forced his way,  
●lung'd through the Lake, and snatched the Prey.  
Nay scarce the Gods, or heavenly Climes  
Are safe from our audacious Crimes;  
We reach at Jove's Imperial Crown,  
And pull the unwilling thunder down.   

Horace Lib. 1. Ode 9  

I.  
BEhold you ' Mountains hoary height  
Made higher with new Mounts of Snow;  
Again behold the Winter's weight  
Oppress the labouring Woods below:  
And streams with Icy letters bound,  
Benumbed and cramped to solid ground.   

II.  
With well heaped Logs dissolve the cold,  
And feed the genial heat with fires;  
Produce the Wine, that makes us bold,  
And sprightly Wit and Love inspires:  
For what hereafter shall betid,  
God, if 'tis worth his care, provide.   

III.  
Let him alone with what he made,  
To toss and turn the World below;  
At his command the storms invade;  
The winds by his Commission blow;  
Till with a Nod he bids 'em cease,  
And then the Calm returns, and all is peace.   

iv  
To morrow and her works defy,  
Lay hold upon the present hour,  
And snatch the pleasures passing by,  
To put them out of Fortune's power:  
Nor love, nor love's delights disdain,  
What e'er thou gettest to day is gain.   

V  
Secure those golden early joys,  
That Youth unsowred with sorrow bears,  
ere withering time the taste destroys,  
With sickness and unwieldy years!  
For active sports, for pleasing rest,  
This is the time to be possessed;  
The best is but in season best.   

VI  
The pointed hour of promised bliss,  
The pleasing whisper in the dark,  
The half unwilling willing kiss,  
The laugh that guides thee to the mark,  
When the kind Nymph would coyness feign,  
And hides but to be found again,  
These, these are joys the Gods for Youth ordain.    

Horat. Ode 29. Book 3. paraphrased in Pindaric Verse; AND Inscribed to the Right Honourable Laurence Earl of Rochester.  

I.  
DEscended of an ancient Line,  
That long the Tuscan Sceptre swayed,  
Make haste to meet the generous wine,  
Whose piercing is for thee delayed:  
The rosy wreath is ready made;  
And artful hands prepare  
The fragrant Syrian Oil, that shall perfume thy hair.   

II.  
When the Wine sparkles from a far,  
And the well-natured Friend cries, come away;  
Make haste, and leave thy business and thy care,  
No mortal interest can be worth thy stay.   

III.  
Leave for a while thy costly Country Seat;  
And, to be Great indeed, forget  
The nauseous pleasures of the Great:  
Make haste and come:  
Come and forsake thy cloying store;  
Thy Turret that surveys, from high,  
The smoke, and wealth, and noise of Rome;  
And all the busy pageantry  
That wise men scorn, and fools adore:  
Come, give thy Soul a lose, and taste the pleasures of the poor   

IU.  
Sometimes 'tis grateful to the Rich, to try  
A short vicissitude, and fit of Poverty:  
A savoury Dish, a homely Treat,  
Where all is plain, where all is neat,  
Without the stately spacious Room,  
The Persian Carpet, or the Tyrian Loom,  
Clear up the cloudy foreheads of the Great.   

V  
The Sun is in the Lion mounted high;  
The Syrian Star  
Barks from a far;  
And with his sultry breath infects the Sky;  
The ground below is parched, the heavens above us fry.  
The Shepherd drives his fainting Flock,  
Beneath the covert of a Rock;  
And seeks refreshing Rivulets nigh:  
The Sylvans to their shades retire,  
Those very shades and streams, new shades and streams require;  
And want a cooling breeze of wind to fan the raging fire.   

iv  
Thou, what besits the new Lord mayor,  
And what the City Faction dare,  
And what the Gallique Arms will do,  
And what the Quiver bearing Foe,  
Art anxiously inquisitive to know:  
But God has, wisely, hid from humane sight  
The dark decrees of future fate;  
And sown their seeds in depth of night;  
He laughs at all the giddy turns of State;  
When Mortals search too soon, and fear too late.   

VII.  
Enjoy the present smiling hour;  
And put it out of Fortune's power:  
The tide of business, like the running stream,  
Is sometimes high, and sometimes low,  
A quiet ebb, or a tempestuous flow,  
And always in extreme.  
Now with a noiseless gentle course  
It keeps within the middle Bed;  
Anon it lifts aloft the head,  
And bears down all before it, with impetuous force:  
And trunks of Trees come rolling down,  
Sheep and their Folds together drown:  
Both House and Homested into Seas are borne,  
And Rocks are from their old foundations torn,  
And woods made thin with winds, their scattered honours mourn.   

VIII.  
Happy the Man, and happy he alone,  
He, who can call to day his own:  
He, who secure within, can say  
To morrow do thy worst, for I have lived to day.  
Be fair, or foul, or rain, or shine,  
The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate are mine  
Not Heaven itself upon the past has power;  
But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.   

IX.  
Fortune, that with malicious joy,  
Does Man her slave oppress,  
Proud of her Office to destroy,  
Is seldom pleased to bless  
Still various and unconstant still;  
But with an inclination to be ill;  
Promotes, degrades, delights in strife,  
And makes a Lottery of life.  
I can enjoy her while she's kind;  
But when she dances in the wind,  
And shakes her wings, and will not stay,  
I puff the Prostitute away:  
The little or the much she gave, is quietly resigned:  
Content with poverty, my Soul, I arm;  
And Virtue, tho' in rags, will keep me warm.   

X.  
What is it to me,  
Who never sail in her unfaithful Sea,  
If Storms arise, and Clouds grow black;  
If the Mast split and threaten wreck,  
Then let the greedy Merchant fear  
For his ill gotten gain;  
And pray to Gods that will not hear,  
While the debating winds and billows bear  
His Wealth into the Main.  
For me secure from Fortune's blows,  
(Secure of what I cannot lose,)  
In my small Pinnace I can sail,  
Contemning all the blustering roar;  
And running with a merry gale,  
With friendly Stars my safety seek  
Within some little winding Creek;  
And see the storm a shore.    

FROM HORACE Epod. 2d.  
HOw happy in his low degree  
How rich in humble Poverty, is he,  
Who leads a quiet country life!  
Discharged of business, void of strife,  
And from the gripeing Scrivener free.  
(Thus ere the Seeds of Vice were sown,  
Lived Men in better Ages born,  
Who Ploughed with Oxen of their own  
Their small paternal field of Corn.)  
Nor Trumpets summon him to War  
Nor drums disturb his morning Sleep,  
Nor knows he Merchants gainful care,  
Nor fears the dangers of the deep.  
The clamours of contentious Law,  
And Court and state he wisely shuns,  
Nor bribed with hopes nor dared with awe  
To servile Salutations runs:  
But either to the clasping Vine  
Does the supporting Poplar Wed,  
Or with his pruning hook disjoin  
Unbearing Branches from their Head,  
And grafts more happy in their stead:  
Or climbing to a hilly Steep  
He views his Herds in Vales afar  
Or Sheers his overburdened Sheep,  
Or mead for cooling drink prepares,  
Of Virgin honey in the Jars.  
Or in the now declining year  
When bounteous Autumn rears his head,  
He joys to pull the ripened Pear,  
And clustering Grapes with purple spread.  
The fairest of his fruit he serves,  
Priapus thy rewards:  
Sylvanus too his part deserves,  
Whose care the fences guards.  
Sometimes beneath an ancient Oak,  
Or on the matted grass he lies;  
No God of Sleep he need invoke,  
The stream that o'er the pebbles flies  
With gentle slumber crowns his Eyes.  
The Wind that Whistles through the sprays  
Maintains the consort of the Song;  
And hidden Birds with native lays  
The golden sleep prolong.  
But when the blast of Winter blows,  
And hoary frost inverts the year,  
Into the naked Woods he goes  
And seeks the tusky Boar to rear,  
With well-mouthed hounds and pointed Spear.  
Or spreads his subtle Nets from sight  
With twinkling glasses to betray  
The Larks that in the Meshes light,  
Or makes the fearful Hare his prey.  
Amidst his harmless easy joys  
No anxious care invades his health,  
Nor Love his peace of mind destroys,  
Nor wicked avarice of Wealth.  
But if a chaste and pleasing Wife,  
To ease the business of his Life,  
Divides with him his household care,  
Such as the Sabine Matrons were,  
Such as the swift Apulians Bride,  
Sunburnt and Swarthy tho' she be,  
Will fire for Winter Nights provide,  
And without noise will oversee,  
His Children and his Family,  
And order all things till he come,  
Sweaty and overlaboured, home;  
If she in pens his Flocks will fold,  
And then produce her Dairy store,  
With Wine to drive away the cold,  
And unbought dainties of the poor;  
Not Oysters of the Lucrine Lake  
My sober appetite would wish,  
Nor Turbet, or the Foreign Fish  
That rolling Tempests overtake,  
And hither waft the costly dish.  
Not Heathpout, or the rarer Bird,  
Which Phasis, or jonia yields,  
More pleasing morsels would afford  
Than the fat Olives of my fields;  
Than Shards or Mallows for the pot,  
That keep the loosened Body sound,  
Or than the Lamb that falls by Lot,  
To the just Guardian of my ground,  
Amidst these feasts of happy Swains,  
The jolly Shepherd smiles to see  
His flock returning from the Plains;  
The Farmer is as pleased as he  
To view his Oxen, sweeting smoke,  
Bear on their Necks the loosened Yoke.  
To look upon his menial Crew,  
That fit around his cheerful hearth,  
And bodies spent in toil renew  
With wholesome Food and Country Mirth●  
This Morecraft said within himself;  
Resolved to leave the wicked Town,  
And live retired upon his own;  
He called his Money in:  
But the prevailing love of pelf,  
Soon split him on the former shelf,  
And put it out again.   

Part of Virgil's 4th. Georgick.  Aristeus, having lost his Bees, goes by his Mother's direction to Proteus to know why the Gods had sent this Plague; Proteus tells him they sent it to revenge the injury he had done Orpheus, in being the the cause of his Bride's death, and so goes on with the Story of his Passion. 

NOw scorching Sirius burned the thirsty Moors,  
And Seas contracted left their naked shores;  
The Earth lay chopped, no Spring supplied his flood,  
And midday Rays boiled up the streams to mud:  
When Proteus coming to his usual Cave,  
The Sea Calf following spouts the brackish wave:  
Spread o'er the sand the scattered Monsters lay,  
He (like a Shepherd at the close of day,  
When Heifers seek their stalls, and round a Rock  
The bleating Lambs the hungry Wolves provoke)  
Sits midst the Beach, and counts the scaly flock.  
Scarce was he laid, scarce sleep had sealed his eyes,  
When Aristeus, eager to surprise,  
Invades and binds him: Straight he starts and roars,  
And with shrill noises fills the echoing shores:  
He flies to his old Arts and strives to escape,  
By frequent change, and varying of his shape:  
All monstrous forms put on, he would appear  
A Flame, a Flood, a Lion, or a Bear:  
When nought availed he turned himself again;  
And thus spoke with the accent of a Man:  
By whose advice hast thou so rashly pressed,  
Bold Youth, on me? And what dost thou request?   

You know, Great God, you know, the Swain replied  
For who can cheat you? who his wants can hid?  
But strive to change no more: I humbly come,  
And by the God's commands, to know my doom:  
For what I'm punished, when these plagues arose,  
And by what means I may retrieve my loss:  
This said, the angry God with fury shook,  
His eyes shot flame, and horror changed his look,  
He gnashed his teeth, and thus at last he spoke.   

No common Gods, no common Gods pursue,  
Thou sufferest what to thy great crimes is due;  
At wretched Orpheus' suit these plagues commence,  
Tho' (fate being kind) too small for thy offence.  
To Heaven's strict Justice he his wrongs applied,  
And called down vengeance for his perished Bride:  
She, while she fled from thee, unhappy Maid,  
By heedless fear to treacherous Banks betrayed,  
ne'er saw the Snake glide o'er the grassy ground,  
But e'er she knew the foe, she felt the wound:  
Her fellow Dryads filled the Hills with cries,  
In groans the softened Rhodope replies;  
Rough Thrace, the Geteses, and Hebrus streams lament,  
Forget their fury, and in grief consent:  
While he to doleful tunes his strings does move,  
And strove to solace his uneasy Love:  
Thee, thou, Dear Bride, on Desert shores alone  
He mourned at rising, and at setting Sun:  
His restless Love did natural fears expel,  
He dared to enter the black Jaws of Hell,  
He saw the Grove, where gloomy horrors spread,  
The Ghosts and ghastly Tyrant of the dead;  
With those rough Powers, that there severely reign,  
Unused to pity, when poor men complain:   

He struck his Harp, and straight a numerous throng  
Of Airy people fled to hear the Song,  
Thither vast troops of wretched Lovers came,  
And shrieked at the remembrance of their flame;  
With heavy grief and gloomy thoughts oppressed,  
Meagre each shape, and wounds in every breast;  
(How deep, ah me! and wide must mine appear,  
If so much Beauty can be so severe!)  
With these, mixed troops of Fathers, Husbands, Wives,  
As thick as swarms of Bees fly round their Hives  
At Evening close, or when a Tempest drives:  
With Ghosts of Heroes, and of Babes exposed,  
And Sons whose dying eyes their Mothers closed:  
Which now the dull unnavigable flood,  
With black Cocytus' horrid, weeds, and mud  
And Styx, in nine large Channels spread, confine▪   

The wondrous numbers softened all beneath,  
Hell, and the inmost flinty seats of Death;  
Snakes round the Furies heads did upward rear,  
And seemed to listen to the pleasing Air;  
While fiery Styx in milder streams did roll,  
And Cerberus gaped, but yet forbore to howl,  
Ixion's Wheel stood still, all tortures ceased,  
And Hell amazed knew an usual rest.   

All dangers passed beyond the reach of fear,  
Restored Eurydice breathed the upper air,  
Following behind (for moved by his complaint  
Hell added this condition to the grant)  
When fury soon the heedless Lover seized,  
(To be forgiven, if Hell could be appeased)  
Fornear the confines of Aetherial Air,  
Unmindful and unable to forbear,  
He stopped, looked back, (what cannot love persuade?)  
To take one view of the unhappy Maid:  
Here all his Pains were lost, one greedy look  
Defeats his hopes, and Hell's conditions broke,  
Thrice Styx resounded, thrice Avernus shook:  
A fatal Messenger from Pluto flew,  
And snatched the forfeit from a second view:   

Backward she fell; ah me! too greedy Youth,  
(She cried) what fury now hath ruined both!  
Death summons me again, cold fates surprise,  
And Icy sleep spreads o'er my nodding eyes:  
Wrapped up in night I feel the Stygian shore,  
And stretch my arms to thee in vain, ah thine no more!   

This scarced pronounced, like smoke dispersed in air  
So vanished the twice-lost unhappy Fair:  
And left him catching at the flying shade;  
He stood distracted, much he would have said,  
In vain; for Charon would not wa●t him o'er,  
Once he had passed, and now must hope no more  
What should he do? where should he seek repose?  
Where fly the trouble of his second loss?  
In what soft numbers should the wretch complain?  
And beg his dear Eurydice again?  
She now grew cold in Charon's boat beneath,  
And sadly sailed to the known seats of Death:  
But while nine circling months in order turned,  
Beneath bleak rocks (thus Fame reports) he mourned;  
By freezing Sirymon's unfrequented stream,  
Eurydice, his lost Eurydice, his theme;  
And while he sang this sad event of Love,  
He tamed fierce Tigers, and made Oaks to move:  
With such soft Tunes, and such a doleful Song  
Sweet Nightingales bewail their ravished young,  
Which some hard hearted Swain hath born away  
While Callow Birds, or killed the easy prey;  
Restless they sit, renew their mournful strains,  
And with sad Passion fill their neighbouring Plains.   

No face could win him, and no charms could move,  
He fled the heinous thoughts of second Love:  
In vain the Thracians wooed, wit, wealth, esteem,  
Those great Enticers, lost their force on him:  
Alone he wandered through the Scythian Snows,  
Where Icy Tanais freezeth as it flows;  
Through fields still white with frost, or beat with hail,  
Constant to grief, and eager to bewail:  
Eurydice the God's vain gift employs  
His thoughts, and makes him deaf to other joys.   

The slighted Thracians heat this scorn increased,  
They breathed revenge, and fired at Bacchus' feast,  
(For what so soon as wine makes fury burn?  
And what can wound a Maid so deep as scorn?)  
Full of their God they wretched Orpheus tore,  
Scattered his limbs, and drank his reeking gore:  
His head torn off, as Hebrus rolled along  
Eurydice fell from his dying tongue.  
His parting Soul, when flying through the wound,  
Cried ah Eurydice, the floods around  
Eurydice, Eurydice the banks resound.    

The Sixth ELEGY Of the First Book of TIBULLUS.  
OFt I by Wine have tried to lull my cares,  
But vexing grief turned all my wine to Tears;  
Each sprightly bottle did but still supply  
Another Fountain for my weeping Eye:  
I changed my Love, but midst the kind embrace  
I think on her, and my attempt decays:  
The Maid deluded from my feeble Arms  
Strait starts, and shriek's and much complains of Charms:  
I know, says she, strong charms thy force restrain,  
You used to prove yourself a greater Man;  
Go dull unactive Load, thy strength restore,  
Then come prepared, and mock my hopes no more.  
Ah me! no Charms but her bewitching face,  
Damps all my thoughts, and deadens my embrace:  
Yet now a wealthy Fool and Bawd conspire,  
A griping Bawd, to blast my just desire;  
And what can the poor Man securely hold  
Against the force of Treachery and gold!  
I faint, I die, ye● ere I mount above,  
I'll call down vengeance for my injured love;  
Let hatred blast her, and the public scorn,  
Who drew the fair One first to be forsworn.  
Unpityed, hated, let her range the Streets,  
Worried by Dogs, and cursed by all she meets:  
At night let groaning Spectres round her wait,  
And break her rest complaining of their Fate▪  
All this will come, I shall be pleased to see  
The speedy punishment of Treachery:  
No slow delay shall coming fate prolong;  
For Venus soon resents a Lovers wrong:  
But take heed Fair one, be no longer awed,  
But fly the cunning precepts of the Bawd;  
The Rich man's bribes, her greedy hope devours,  
She pleads for her own profit, not for yours:  
For though the wealthy may present you more,  
He cannot pay the service of the poor.  
The poor is ready, he will ne'er disdain  
The meanest servile Office of thy Train;  
He'll bear thy Chair, of the preferment proud,  
Or force a passage for you through the Crowd.  
What ever friendships strictest 'tis can crave,  
Or utmost duty challenge from a Slave:  
In vain, I sing, nor will my words command,  
This Gate ne'er opens to an empty hand:  
But, happy Sir, who dost thy conquest boast  
And triumph in the spoils that I have lost,  
Take heed, I warm Thee, my approaches fear;  
What you must suffer learn by what I bear:   

OVID's Dream.  
'tWas Night and lazy sleep my Eyes confined,  
But left an open passage to my mind:  
These wondrous visions made a frightful train  
In too surprising figures to be vain:  
At a large Mountain's foot, a Grove arose,  
The shades lay thick and Birds beneath the boughs;  
A Green spread wide the wand'ring Eye detains,  
Watered with springs that murmured through the Plains:  
Beneath the shade, methoughts, I careless lay,  
To cool the former fury of the day;  
Yet though I found the outward warmth retreat,  
I still was fire, and felt an inward heat.  
When lo a Cow, that left the meaner Herd  
For better Pastures, to my eyes appeared;  
More white than falling snow to mortal view,  
Or Milk just frothing from the burdened Ewe:  
For common sight can make but small pretence  
Compared to fancy unconfined by sense:  
A Bull, the happy Consort of the Cow,  
Lay by her side, looked pleased, and seemed to low.  
But whilst he lay, and gently chewed the Cud,  
Feeding again upon his former Food,  
Sleep weakening all his strength, he bent his head,  
And lay extended on the grassy bed:  
And as he slept a Pie fled nimbly down,  
Chattered a while, drew near, than bolder grown  
Pecked at the Cow; then chattered once again,  
The Cow appeared uneasy at the Pain;  
Till chattering on, he seemed to please the Beast,  
Then ●led, but left a stain upon her breast.  
The Cow looked round upon her sleeping Mate,  
As loath to leave him, and yet urged by fate;  
Thrice looked, thrice lowed, but yet at last she fled  
To other Bulls, and wantonly she fed:  
Forgot the Pastures of the former Plain,  
And never looked upon her Mate again.  
Heaven! What's foreshowed me by this strange portent:  
If 'tis not a mere fancy what is meant?  
Tell sacred Augur, you are used to see  
Events in Cau●es, and read Fates decree.  
At this the Augur shook his reverend head,  
And pondering all the circumstances, said:  
The heat which you did to the shades remove  
To cool but could not, was the Heat of Love:  
The Cow, thy Mistress; white before betrayed;  
White is the decent colour for a Maid:  
The Bull thyself, tho' scorned and hated now,  
The happy equal Consort of the Cow:  
The Pie th●t pecked, the Bawd, whose treacherous art  
Prevailed upon thy Mistress easy heart,  
And drew her to be false; what weak designs,  
And small Temptations, win when Nature joins!  
The stain upon her Breast declares her sin,  
And shows the Scarlet faults that lurk within:  
My Blood grew cold at this surprising fright,  
I waked, and all around stood deepest night.   

A PROLOGUE Intended for the DUKE and no DUKE.  
A Pox! Who'd be a Poet in our days?  
When every Coxcomb crowns his Head with Bays,  
And stands a saucy Candidate for Praise.  
The surly Scribblers sturdy Vice engage,  
And draw their blunted satire on the Age.  
Vainly they strive and weakly for renown.  
So Spaniards first make War then lose the Town:  
They fellow fools to their Tribunal call,  
There's no spare Fop now left amongst you all.  
They've robbed our Poet of you quite to day,  
You were the standing Prologue to each Play.  
The want of you may chance to spoil his treat,  
A well dressed Fop was the best dish of Meat:  
But 'tis not civil you to entertain  
With the chawed Fragments of yourselves again▪  
To court the Ladies is in vain, I ●ear,  
They're all bespoke by some small Sonniteer.  
You cannot spy a damsel in this throng  
But's a elected Phyllis for a Song.  
For our good natured Fools, of late incline,  
In senseless Sonnets much to sigh and whine;  
Thinking their Wit, and Passion to rehearse,  
The Maudlin Blockheads love to weep in Verse.  
But still the Poet is the Lover's Foe,  
And makes the Nation merry with his Woe.  
Who would not laugh, tho' he is vexed, to see  
Nokes put to act the great Marc-Antony.  
Heaven send us help in these Poetic times,  
And free us from the Pestilence of Rhimes;  
There's not a word of sense remains, God knows,  
When Songs are stripped of Rhyme to Naked Prose.  
Our Poet's at a loss to find a way  
To recommend to you his Farce or Play,  
He will not use the Painter's surest Art  
To win to day the Male and Female heart.  
Course painting will delight your wanton eye  
If in it naked Nature you deserie.  
Adam and Eve must not their Fig leaves wear,  
But they, good old Folks, too must both stand bare.  
He that will please our most Religious Age  
Must bring a naked Muse upon the Stage;  
Lewdness of Wit has been the single Test  
And fulsome Baudy's your beloved Jest.  
Our Poet fears that this will prove too chaste,  
For you will see her stripped but to the Waste;  
But if the modest damsel you refuse,  
Next Venture, Posture Mall shall be his Muse.   

The Fourteenth Ode Of the Second Book of HORACE.  

I.  
AH! Friend, the posting years how fast they ●ly?  
Nor can the strickest Piety  
Defer encroaching Age,  
Or Death's resistless Rage,  
If you each day  
A Hecatomb of Bulls should slay,  
The smoking Host could not subdue  
The Tyrant to be kind to you.  
From Geryons Head he snatched the Triple Crown.  
Into th' infernal Lake the Monarch tumbled down.  
The Prince, and Peasant of this World must be  
Thus wa●ted to Eternity.   

TWO  
In vain from bloody Wars are Mortals free,  
Or the rough Storms of the Tempestuous Sea.  
In vain they take such care  
To shield their bodies from Autumnal Air.  
Dismal Cocytus they must ferry o'er,  
Whose languid stream moves dully by the shore.  
And in their passage we shall see  
Of tortured Ghosts the various Misery.   

III.  
Thy stately House, thy pleasing Wife  
And Children, (blessings dear as Life,)  
Must all be left nor shalt thou have  
Of all thy grafted Plants, one Tree;  
Unless the dismal Cypress follow thee,  
The short-lived Lord of all, to thy cold Grave.  
But the imprisoned Burgundy  
Thy jolly Heir shall strait set free.  
Released from Lock, and Key, the sparkling Wine  
Shall flow, and make the drunken Pavement shine.    

THE First IDYLLIUM OF THEOCRITUS, Translated into English.  THYRSIS. 
Goatherd, the Music of you whistling Pine,  
Tho' sweet, yet is not half so sweet as thine,  
Thou, when the sound of thy shrill Pipe is heard  
Art next to our great Master Pan preferred:  
Next him in Skill, and next him in Reward.  
If Pan receive a Goat of horned Brow,  
A younger Goat is thy unquestioned Due:  
If He a younger Goat, a Kid belongs to You.  
And Kids you know, until the swelling Teat  
Yields Milk, are no unpalatable Meat.  Goatherd. 
Sweeter thy Numbers, Shepherd, and thy Song,  
Than that fair lovely Stream which down along  
From yonder Hillock's gently rising Side  
Pours the smooth Current of its easy Tide.  
If a white Ewe the Muses Offering be,  
A Spotless Lamb shall be thy second Fee:  
If there's a Lamb; the Ew's reserved for thee.  Thyrsis. 
And wilt thou, Goatherd, on yond rising ground,  
With Streams refreshed, & spreading Myrtles crowned,  
Say, wilt thou one sweet charming Song rehearse?  
I'll feed thy Flock, and listen to thy Verse.  Goatherd. 
Shepherd, I dare not tread that hallowed Ground:  
'Tis now high Noon, and Pan will hear the sound.  
Wearied with Sport, he there lies down to rest:  
And 'tis an angry God when at the best.  
But, Thyrsis, you can Daphnis Story tell,  
And understand the Rural Numbers well.  
Let us retire then to the Sylvan Shade,  
By reverend Oaks extended Branches made,  
Where an old Seat stands reared upon the Green:  
Hard by Priapus, and the Nymphs are seen.  
There if thou sing one of thy Noblest Lays,  
And thy loud voice in such sweet Accents raise,  
As when you baffled Chrome, and won the Bays;  
Thrice shalt thou milk my Goat; come, prithee do:  
Two Pails she fills, although she suckles Two:  
Besides a brave large Goblet shall be thine;  
New made, new turned, and smelling wondrous fine.  
Sweet wholesome Wax the inner Hollow hides,  
And two neat handles grace the well wrought sides.  
About the brim a creeping Ivy twines,  
Through whose brown leaves the brighter Crocus shines.  
Within, a Woman's lovely Image stands:  
(A noble Piece! not wrought by Mortal Hands!)  
Around her Head a braided Fillet goes:  
A decent Veil adown her Shoulders flows.  
By Her two blooming Youths by Turns complain,  
Each striving who shall the blessed Conquest gain:  
Both eagerly contend, but both in vain.  
She now on This her wanton Glances throws,  
And now on That a careless Smile bestows:  
Whilst they their big swollen Eyelids hardly rear,  
And silently accuse the Cruel Fair.  
Next on a Cliff a Fisherman you'll view,  
Who eagerly does his Loved Sport pursue.  
His gathered Net just hovering o'er the Sea,  
He labours at the Cast on his half bended Knee.  
You'd swear his active Limbs worked to and fro,  
So tied he is, so fitted for the Throw.  
His Neck enlarged with swelling Veins appears:  
Much is his Strength, tho' many are his Years.  
Not far from hence a seeming Vineyard grows,  
The Vines all neatly set in graceful Rows,  
Whose weighty Clusters bend the yielding Boughs.  
And a Young Lad on a Trees neighbo'ring Root  
Sits idly by, to watch the ripening Fruit.  
By him, two Foxes unregarded Steal:  
Each craftily designs a different Meal.  
One towards the Vineyard casts a longing Eye;  
Looks to, and fro; and then creeps softly by:  
Whilst t'other couched in a close Ambuscade  
To intercept the Scrip and Vict'als laid,  
resolves not first to quit the destined Prey,  
Till he has sent the Younker Supperless away.  
Mean while with both his Hands, and both his Eyes,  
He's plaiting Straws, and making Traps for Flies.  
With Art and Care he the fine Play-thing twines,  
Survey's it, and applauds his own Designs:  
Unmindful of his Bag, or of his Vines.  
The Cup besides a Wood-bine does contain,  
Which round the Bottom wreath's its leafy Train,  
Admired and Envied by each gazing Swain!  
I know, you'll say yourself, 'tis strangely fine!  
The Workman, and the Workmanship Divine!  
I bought it, when I crossed th' Aetolian Seas,  
The price a dainty Kid, and a large New-milk Cheese;  
Unused it lies, unsullied, neat and trim:  
Nor have my Lips once touched the shining Brim.  
With This I'd willingly reward thy Pains,  
Wouldst thou but sing those my beloved Strains.  
Nor envy I thy Skill: No— envious Death  
Too soon (alas!) will stop that charming Breath:  
Come on then, Sing, Dear Shepherd, while you may.  Thyrsis. 
Begin, Sweet Muse, begin the Rural Lay.  
'Tis Thyrsis sings, Thyrsis on Aetna born:  
The grateful Hills do his loved Notes return.  
Where were the Nymphs? Where in that fatal day,  
When Daphnis, lovely Daphnis, pined away?  
Did ye by Peneus, or on Pindus' stray?  
(For sure ye were not by Anapus side,  
Nor Aetna's Top, nor Acis Silver Tide.)  
Begin, Sweet Muse, begin the Rural Lay.  
For him the Panthers and the Tigers mourned:  
They came, they saw; and with swollen Eyes returned.  
Lions themselves, did uncouth Sorrows bear,  
Their Savage Fierceness softening to a Tear.  
Close by his Feet the Bulls, and Heifers lay;  
The Calves forgot their Feeding and their Play:  
Begin, Sweet Muse, begin the Rural Lay.  
Swift Hermes first came down to his Relief:  
Daphnis, he cried, from whence this foolish Grief?  
What Nymph, what Goddess steals thy heart away?  
Begin, Sweet Muse, begin the Rural Lay.  
Next him the Shepherds, and the Goat-herds came:  
All asked the Reason of so strange a Flame.  
Priapus came too—  
He came, and asked him with a pitying Eye,  
Why all this Grief? ah! wretched Daphnis, why?  
While the false Nymph, unmindful of thy Pains,  
Now climbs the Hills, now skims it o'er the Plains,  
Where e'er blind Chance or Fancy leads the way:  
Begin, Sweet Muse, begin the Rural Lay.  
Ah! foolish and impatient of the Smart,  
With which the wanton Boy hath pierced thy Heart!  
An 
* 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.  Herdsman thou wert thought; a Goatherd sure thou art.  
The Goatherd when from some old craggy Rock  
He views the sportful Pastimes of His Flock,  
And sees 'em how they frisk, and how they play,  
Grieves that he's not a Goat, as well as they:  
Begin, Sweet Muse, begin the Rural Lay.  
And you too, when you see the Nymphs advance  
Their nimble Feet in a well ordered Dance,  
And hear 'em how they talk; and see 'em how they smile;  
Are grieved that you must stand neglected all the while.  
All this, without an Answer, heard the Swain;  
Still he went on, and nourished still the Pain.  
He found his Love increase, and Life decay:  
Begin, Sweet Muse, begin the Rural Lay.  
Then Venus came, and raised his drooping Head:  
Forced an insulting Smile, and thus she said.  
You thought, fond Swain, that you could love subdue:  
But Love, it seems, at last has conquered you.  
Strong are his Charms, and mighty is his sway:  
Begin, Sweet Muse, begin the Rural Lay.  
She spoke— And thus the mournful Swain replied.  
Ah! Foe to me, and all Mankind beside!  
Ah! cruel Goddess! spare thy Taunts at last;  
Nor urge a Death, that's drawing on so fast.  
Too well I know, my fatal hour is come,  
My 
* 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.  Sun declining to its Western Home.  
Yet even in Death thy Scorns I will repay:  
Begin, Sweet Muse, begin the Rural Lay.  
Hence Cyprian Queen, to Ida's Tops repair.  
Anchises, loved Anchises waits you there.  
There spreading Oaks will cover you around:  
Here humble Shrubs scarce peep above the Ground;  
And busy Bees are humming all the Day.  
The noise is great, 'twill spoil your amorous Play:  
Begin, Sweet Muse, begin the Rural Lay.  
Adonis too!— The Boy is lovely fair!  
He feeds his Flocks, he hunts the nimble Hare;  
And boldly chases every Beast of Prey:  
Begin, Sweet Muse, begin the Rural Lay.  
The Panthers, Lions, and the Wolves adieu!  
Who now shall travers the thick Woods with you?  
No more shall you be chased, no more shall I pursue!  
Hail Arethusa, lovely Fountain hail!  
Farewell ye Streams that flow through Tyber's flowery Vale!  
Farewell!— The Gods forbidden my longer Stay:  
Leave off, Fond Muse, leave off the Rural Lay.  
Pan, Pan, wherever your wand'ring Footsteps move;  
Whether on Lyce's airy Tops you rove,  
Or sporting in the vast Maenalian Grove:  
Haste, quickly haste; leave the high Tomb, that nods  
O'er Helick's Cliff, the wonder of the Gods!  
And to fair Sicily thy Steps convey:  
Leave off, Fond Muse, leave off the Rural Lay.  
Here take my waxed Pipe, well joined, and fit;  
An useless Pipe to me! and I to it!  
For Love and Fate have summoned me away:  
Leave off, Fond Muse, leave off the Rural Lay.  
On Brambles now let Violets be born,  
And opening Roses blush on every Thorn:  
Let all things Nature's Contradiction wear,  
And barren Pine-trees yield the mellow Pear.  
Since Daphnis dies, what can be strange, or new?  
Hounds now shall fly, and trembling Fawns pursue;  
Schriech-Owls shall sing, and Thrushes yield the day:  
Leave off, Fond Muse, leave off the Rural Lay.  
Thus Daphnis spoke, and more he would have sung:  
But Death prevailed upon his trembling Tongue.  
Fair Venus strove to raise her drooping Son;  
In vain she strove: for his last Thread was spun.  
Black Stygian Waves surround the darling Boy  
Of every Nymph, and every Muse's Joy.  
Lifeless he lies, and still as hardened Clay,  
Who was so Young, so Lovely, and so gay:  
Leave off, Fond Muse, leave off the Rural Lay.  
The Cup and Goat you cannot now refuse:  
I'll milk her, and I'll offer to my Muse.  
All hail, ye Muses, that inspire my Tongue!  
A better day shall have a better Song.  Goatherd. 
May dropping Combs on those sweet Lips distil,  
And thy loved Mouth with Attic Honey fill.  
For much, much sweeter is thy Tuneful Voice,  
Than, when on Sunny days with cheerful noise,  
The Vocal Infects of the Spring rejoice.  
Here, take the promised Cup-How bright the look!  
How fine the Smell! sure from some fragrant Brook,  
The bath of smiling Hours, it the gay tincture took▪  
Here 
* 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, the Name of the Goat.  Cissy, hitherward,— Come, milk her now:  
My Kids, forbear to leap: for if you do,  
The Goat may chance to leap as we●l as you.   

The REAPERS. THE Tenth IDYLLIUM OF THEOCRITUS. Englished by Mr. william BOWLES, of King's College in Cambridge.  Milo. Battus. 
ARe you grown lazy, or does some Disease,  
Oh Battus, bind your hands, and sinews seize,  
That like a Sheep pricked by a pointed Thorn,  
Still you're behind, and lagg at every Turn?  
What in the Heat, and Evening will you do,  
Who early in the Morning loiter so?  Battus. 
Milo, thou piece of Flint, thou all of Stone,  
Didst never yet an absent Friend bemoan?  Milo. 
Who but such Fools as thou, the absent Mind?  
Sure what concerns you more, you here may find.  Battus. 
Did Love ne'er yet thy Senses waking keep,  
Trouble thy Dreams, or interrupt thy Sleep?  Milo. 
The Gods preserve me from that restless Care,  
Oh Reapers all, the gilded Bait beware!  Battus. 
But I nine days the Passion Love have felt,  
With inward fires consume, and slowly melt.  
See! all neglected lies before my Door,  
While I run mad for a confounded Whore.  Battus. 
She who piped lately at Hippo●ooris Feast,  
Charmed every Ear, and wounded every Guest.  Milo. 
The God's for some old Sins have sent this Evil,  
And shame long due has reached thee from the Devil,  Battus. 
Beware, insulting Cupid has a Dart,  
And it may one day reach thy stubborn Heart.  Milo. 
Come, you're a Poet, sing some amorous Song,  
'Twill ease your toil; and make the day less long.  Battus. 
Oh Muse! assist my Song, and make it flow,  
For you fresh Charms on all you sing bestow.  
Bombyce (Oh my dearest) do not frown,  
They call thee Tawny; but I call thee Brown▪  
Yet blush not, Dear: Black is the Violet,  
And Hyacinth with Letters all o'erwrit.  
Yet both are sweet, and both for Garlands fit.  
Kids the green Leaves, Wolves the young Kids pursue,  
And, Battus, sweet Bombyce follows you.  
Oh! had the envious Gods not made me poor,  
Had I rich Croesus' Wealth and mighty Store,  
In Venus' Temple should our Statues stand,  
Thou with thy Pipe and Taber in thy hand,  
I in a Dancer's Posture, gay, new shod,  
Formed of pure Gold, and glorious as a God  
Thy Voice, Bombyce, is most soft and sweet,  
But who can praise enough thy humour and thy silver feet?  Milo. 

Battus deceived us, a great Poet grown,  
What Verse is here! But are they, Friend, thy own?  
How just the Rhyme's how equally they meet,  
The numbers how harmonious, and how sweet!  
Yet mark, and this diviner Song attend,  
'Twas by immortal Lyrierses penned.  
Smile on the Corn, O Ceres! bless the Field,  
May the full Ears a plenteous Harvest yield.  
Gather your Sheaves (Oh Friends!) and better bind,  
See how they're blown, and scattered by the Wind,  
Haste! left some jeering Passenger should say,  
Oh lazy Rogues! their Hire is thrown away.  
Reapers observe, and to the South-west turn  
Your Sheaves; 'twill fill the Ears, and swell the Corn.  
Thresher's at Noon, and in the burning heat,  
(Than the light Chaff flies out) should toil and sweat;  
But Reapers should with the sweet Wood-Lark rise,  
And sleep when Phoebus mounts the Southern Skies.  
Happy the Frogs who in the Waters dwell!  
They suck in Drink for Air, and proudly swell.  
Oh niggard Bailiff! we could dine on Beans,  
And spare your windy Cabbage, and your Pains.   

Such Songs at once delight us, and improve;  
But thy sad Ditty, and thy tale of Love  
Keep for thy Mother, Battus, I advise,  
When stretched and yawning in her bed she lies.    

AITHΣ. OR THE Twelfth IDYLLIUM OF THEOCRITUS.  
SCarce three whole days, my lovely Youth, had past  
Since thou and I met here, and parted last.  
And yet, so sluggishly the Minutes slew,  
I thought it Ages till we met anew.  
Gay Youth and Vigour were already fled,  
Already envious Time began to shed  
A snowy White around my drooping Head.  
As to Spring's Bravery rugged Winter yields,  
The hoary Mountains to the smiling Fields;  
As by the faithful Shepherd new-yeaned Lambs  
Are much less valued than their fleecy dams;  
As to wild Plumbs the Damson is preferred;  
As nimble Does outstrip the duller Herd;  
As Maids seem fairer in their blooming Pride,  
Then those who Hymen's Joys have often tried;  
As Philomela, when warbling forth her Love,  
Excels the feathered Choir of every tuneful Grove:  
So much dost thou all other Youths excel,  
They Speak not, Look not, Love not half so well!  
Sweeter thy Face! more ravishing thy Charms!  
No Guest so welcome to my longing Arms!  
When first I viewed those much loved Eyes of thine▪  
At distance and from far encountering mine,  
I ran, I flew, to meet th'expected Boy  
With all the transports of unruly Joy.  
Not with such eager haste, such fond Desires,  
The Traveller, when scorched by Syrian Fires,  
To some well-spreading Beache's shade retires.  
O! that some God would equal Flames impart!  
And spread a mutual warmth through either Heart!  
Till men should quote our names for loving well;  
And age to age the pleasing Story tell.  
Two men there were (cries some well meaning tongue)  
Whose friendship equal on Love's Balance hung:  
(Espnilus one, Aïtes t'other name,  
Both surely fixed in the Records of Fame)  
Of honest ancient make and heavenly mould,  
Such as in good King Saturn's days of old  
Flourished, and stamped the Age's name with Gold.  
Grant, mighty jove, that after many a day,  
While we amidst th' Elysian Valleys stray,  
Some welcome Ghost may this glad Message say,  
Your Loves, the copious theme of every tongue,  
Even now with lasting Praise are daily sung;  
Admired by all, but chief by the Young.  
But Prayers are vain! the ruling Powers on high,  
Whate'er I ask, can grant or can deny.  
In the mean time thee my due Songs shall praise,  
Thee the glad matter of my tuneful lays:  
Nor shall the well meant Verse a tell-tale Blister raise.  
Nay should you chide, I'll catch the pleasing sound,  
Since the same Mouth that made, can heal the wound.  
Ye Megarensians, who from Nisa's Shoar  
Blow up the Sea with many a well-timed Oar,  
May all your Labours glad Success attend:  
You, who to Diocles, that generous Friend,  
Due Honours, and becoming Reverence pay,  
When rolling Years bring on the happy Day.  
Then round his Tomb the crowded Youth resort,  
With Lips well sitted for the wanton Sport:  
And he, whose pointed Kiss is sweetest found,  
Returns with Laurels, and fresh Garlands crowned.  
Happy the Boy that bears the Prize away!  
Happy, I grant: but O far happier they,  
Who, from the Seats of their much envied Bliss,  
Received the Tribute of each wanton Kiss!  
Surely to Ganymed their Prayers are made,  
That, while the amorous Strife is warmly played,  
He would their Lips with equal Virtues guide  
To those which in the faithful Stone reside:  
Whose touch applied, the Artist can explore  
The base Metal from the shining Ore.   

KHPIOKΛEΠTHΣ: OR THE Nineteenth IDYLLIUM OF THEOCRITUS.  
CVpid, the slyest Rogue alive,  
One day was plundering of a Hive:  
But as with too too eager Haste  
He strove the liquid Sweets to taste,  
A Bee surprised the heedless Boy;  
Pricked him, and dashed th' expected Joy.  
The Urchin, when he felt the Smart  
Of the envenomed angry Dart,  
He kicked, he fling, he spurned the Ground;  
He blowed, and then he chafed the Wound:  
He blowed and chafed the Wound in vain!  
The rubbing still increased the pain.  
Strait to his Mother's Lap he hies,  
With swelling Cheeks, and blubbered Eyes.  
cries she— What does my Cupid all?  
When thus he told his mournful Tale.  
A little Bird they call a Bee,  
With yellow Wings; see, Mother, see  
How it has gored, and wounded me!  
And are not you, replied his Mother,  
For all the World just such another?  
Just such another angry thing,  
Like in bulk and like in Sting.  
For when you aim a poisonous Dart,  
Against some poor unwary Heart,  
How little is the Archer found!  
And yet how wide, how deep the Wound!   

THE Complaint of ARIADNA. OUT OF CATULLUS.  
The ARGUMENT.  
The Poet in the Epithalamium of Peleus and Thetis, describes the Genial Bed, on which was wrought the Story of Theseus and Ariadna, and on that occasion makes a long Digression, part of which is the Subject of the following Poem.  
THere on th' extremest Beach, and farthest Sand  
Deserted Ariadna seemed to stand,  
New waked, and raving with her Love she f●ew  
To the dire Shoar, ftom whence she might pursue  
With longing Eyes, but all alas in vain!  
The winged Bark o'er the tempestuous Main;  
For buried in fallacious Sleep she lay  
While through the Waves false Theseus cut his way,  
Regardless of her Fate who saved his Youth;  
Winds bore away his Promise and his Truth.  
Like some wild Bachanal unmoved she stood,  
And with fixed Eyes surveyed the raging Flood.  
There with alternate Waves the Sea does roll,  
Nor less the tempests that distract her Soul;  
Abandoned to the Winds her flowing Hair,  
Rage in her Soul expressed, and wild Despair:  
Her rising Breasts with Indignation swell,  
And her lose Robes disdainfully repel.  
The shining Ornaments that dressed her Head,  
When with the glorious Ravisher she fled,  
Now at their Mistress Feet neglected lay,  
●port of the wanton Waves that with them play.  
〈◊〉 she nor them regards, nor Waves that beat  
〈◊〉 snowy Legs, and wound her tender Feet,  
On Theseus her lost Senses all attend,  
And all the Passions of her Soul depend.  
Long did her weaker Sense contend in vain,  
She sunk at last beneath the mighty pain:  
With various ills beset, and stupid grown,  
She lost the Power those ills even to bemoan:  
But when the first Assault, and fierce Surprise  
Were past, and Grief had found a passage at her Eyes▪  
With cruel hands her snowy Breast she wounds,  
Theseus, in vain, through all the Shoar resounds.  
Now urged by Love she plunges in the Main,  
And now draws back her tender Feet again:  
Thrice she repeats the vain Attempt to wade,  
Thrice Fear and Cold her shivering Limbs invade.  
Fainting at last she hung her beauteous Head▪  
And fixing on the Shoar her Eyes, she said,  
Ah cruel Man! and did I leave for thee  
My Parents, Friends, (for thou wast all to me)  
And is my Love, and is my ●aith thus paid;  
Oh Cruelty unheard! a wretched Maid  
Here on a naked Shoar abandoned, and betrayed!  
Betrayed to Mischiefs of which Death's the least,  
And plunged in ills too great to be expressed.  
Yet the Gods will, the Gods contemned by you,  
With Vengeance thy devoted Ship pursue,  
Overtake thy Sails, and rack thy guilty Breast,  
And with new Plagues th'ill-omened Flight infest.  
But tho' no Pity thy stern Breast could move,  
Nor angry Gods, nor ill requited Love,  
Yet sense of Honour sure should touch thy Heart,  
And shame from low, unmanly Flight divert.  
With other Hopes my easy Faith you fed,  
A glorious Triumph, and a Nuptial Bed,  
But all those Joys with thee alas! are fled.  
Let no vain Woman Vows and Oaths believe,  
They only with more Form and Pomp deceive:  
To compass their lewd ends the wretches swear,  
Of Oaths profuse, nor Gods nor Temples spare;  
But when enjoyed—  
Nor broken Vows, nor angry Heaven they fear.  
But, O ye Women, warned by me, be wise,  
Turn their false Oaths on them, their Arts, their Lies,  
Dissemble, fawn, weep, swear when you betray,  
Defeat the Gamesters at their own foul Play.  
Oh banished faith! but now from certain Death  
I snatched the Wretch, and saved his perjured breath,  
His Life with my own Brother's blood I bought,  
And Love by such a cruel Service sought.  
By Me preserved yet Me he does betray,  
And to wild Beasts expose an easy Prey!  
Nor thou of Royal race, nor Humane stock  
Wast born, but nursed by Bears, and issued from a Rock;  
Too plain thou dost thy dire Extraction prove,  
Who Death for Life returnest, and Hate for Love.  
Yet he securely sails! and I in vain  
Recall the fled, and to deaf Rocks complain.  
Unmoved they stand; yet could they see and hear,  
More Humane would than Cruel Man appear.  
But I—  
Must the sad Pleasure of Compassion want,  
And die unheard, and lose my last complaint.  
Happy, ye Gods! too happy had I lived,  
Hadst thou, O charming Stranger, ne'er arrived;  
Dissembled Sweetness in thy Look does shine,  
But ah! th'inhumane Monsters lurk within.  
What now remains? or whom shall I implore  
In a wild Isle, on a deserted Shoar?  
Shall I return, and beg my Father's aid?  
My Father's! whom ingrateful I betrayed,  
And with my Brother's cruel Murderer fled?  
But, Theseus, Ariadna's, Constant, Kind,  
Kind as the Seas, and Constant as the Wind.  
See! wretched Maid, vast Seas around thee roar,  
And angry Waves beat the resounding Shoar,  
Cut off thy Hopes, and intercept thy Flight,  
No Ship appears to bless thy Longing Sight.  
The dismal Isle no Humane Footstep bears,  
But a sad Silence doubles all my Fears,  
And Fate in all its dreadful Shapes appears.  
Even fainting Nature scarce maintains the strife  
Betwixt prevailing Death, and yielding Life.  
Yet, e'er I die, revenging Gods I'll call,  
And curse him first, and then contented fall.  
Ascend ye Furies then, ascend, and hear  
My last Complaints, and grant my dying Prayer,  
Which Grief and Rage for ill rewarded Love,  
And the deep sense of his Injustice move:  
Oh suffer not my latest Words to fly  
Like common Air, and unregarded dye!  
With Vengeance his dire Treachery pursue,  
For Vengeance, Goddesses, attends on you,  
Terror with you, Despair and Death appear,  
And all the frightful Forms the Guilty fear.  
May his proud Ship by furious Billows tossed  
On Ro●ks, or some wild Shoar like this be lost;  
There may he fall, or late returning see,  
(If so the God, and so the Fates decree)  
A mournful House, polluted by the Dead,  
And Furies ever wait on his 
* He carried away her Sister Phoedra.  Incestuous Bed.  
jove heard, and did the just Request approve,  
And nodding shaken Earth, Seas, and all the radiant Lights above.   

THE Twentieth IDYLLIUM OF THEOCRITUS.  
PRoud Eunica, when I advanced to Kiss,  
Laughed loud, and cried, How ignorant he is!  
Alas poor Man! dare you, a wretched Swain,  
Lips such as these, and such a Mouth profane?  
No: To prevent your rustic Freedom, know  
They're unacquainted yet with such as you:  
But your soft Lip, your Beard, your horny Fist,  
All charming, and all suing to be kissed,  
Your matted Hair, and your smooth Chin invite,  
Conspire to make you Lovely to the sight.  
Oh how you look, how prettily you play,  
How soft your Words, and what fine things you say!  
Yet, to prevent Infection, pray be gone,  
Your Neighbourhood, methinks, is dangerous grown;  
Vanish, nor dare to touch me, Oh the Shame!  
He smells of the rank Goats from which he came!  
This said, with Indignation thrice she spit,  
Surveyed me with Disdain from Head to Feet;  
Then was fierce Rage, and conscious Beauty seen  
In all her Motions, and her haughty Mien.  
She prayed, as if she some Contagion feared,  
Cast a disdainful Smile, and disappeared.  
My boiling Blood sprang with my Rage, and spread  
O'er all my burning Face a fiery Red;  
So Roses blush, when night her kindly dew has shed.  
I rage, I curse the haughty 〈◊〉, that jeered  
My graceful Person, and my comely Beard.  
Ye Shepherds, I conjure you, tell me true,  
Has any God cast my old Form anew?  
How am I changed? for once a matchless Grace  
Shone in the charming Features of my Face,  
Like creeping Ivy did my Beard o'er grow,  
And my long Hair in untaught Curls did flow,  
My Brows were black, and my large Forehead white,  
My sparkling Eyes shot forth a radiant Light;  
In sweetest Words did my soft Language flow,  
As Honey sweet, and soft as falling Snow;  
When with loud Notes I the shrill Pipe inspired,  
The listening Shepherds all my Skill admired;  
Me all the Virgins on our Mountain's love,  
They praise my Beauty, and my flames approve.  
Such tho' I am, yet me, because a Swain,  
(How nice these Town-bred Women are, how vain!)  
Gay Eunica rejected with Disdain.  
And she, it seems, has never heard, or read  
How Bacchus, now a God, a flock once fed.  
Venus herself did the Profession grace,  
By Love transformed into a Country Lass,  
The Phrygian fields and woods her flames can tell,  
And how her much bewailed Adonis fell.  
How oft on Latmos did the Moon descend  
From her bright Chariot to her Carian friend,  
And absent from the Sky whole Nights with him did spend?  
To shining in her Orb prefer her Love,  
Stoop and desert her glorious Seat above?  
And was not he a Shepherd? sure he was,  
Yet did not she disdain his low Embrace.  
The Gods great Mother too, and greater jove,  
Their Majesty laid by, could Shepherds love:  
The Phrygian Groves, and conscious Ida know  
What She for Atys, he for Ganymed could do.  
But prouder Eunica disdains alone  
What Gods, and greatest Goddesses have done:  
Fairer it seems by much, and greater she,  
Than Venus, Cynthia, or than Cybele.  
Oh my fair Venus, may you ne'er find one  
Worthy your Love, in Country, or in Town,  
But to a Virgin Bed condemned, for ever lie alone!   

TO LESBIA. OUT OF CATULLUS.  
LEt's live, my dearest Lesbian, and love,  
The little time that Nature lends improve;  
In Mirth and Pleasure let us waste the day,  
Nor care a farthing what old Dotards say;  
The Suns may rise again that once are set,  
Their usual Labour, and old Course repeat,  
But when our Day's once turned have lost their Light,  
We must sleep on one long Eternal Night:  
A thousand Kisses, Dear, a hundred more,  
Another hundred, Lesbian, I am poor:  
Another thousand, Lesbian, and as warm,  
Let every Touch surprise, and pressing Charm:  
And when repeated thousands numerous grow  
We'll kiss out all again, that none may know  
How many you have lent, and what I own:  
While I'll in gross with eager haste repay,  
And kiss a long Eternity away.   

To LESBIA.  
MY Lesbian swears she would Catullus wed,  
Tho' jove himself should come and ask her Bed;  
True, this she swears by all the Powers above,  
But she's a Woman speaking to her Love:  
That single Thought my growing faith Defeats,  
'Tis necessary for them to be Cheats:  
They must be false, they must their Oaths forget,  
So pleasing is the Lech'ry of Deceit;  
What Women tell their Servants, fade like Dreams,  
And should be writ in Air, or running Streams.   

To LESBIA. A Petition to be freed from LOVE.  
IF Pleasure follows when we think upon  
The good and pious Deeds that we have done:  
That we ne'er broke our Oaths, ne'er strove to cheat,  
Nor Heaven abused to credit a Deceit;  
Catullus, thou art safe, and sure to prove  
Long happy years from this uneasy Love:  
What could be done, or what devoutly said▪  
You said and did, the utmost Duty paid,  
But all was lost on the ungrateful Maid.  
Then why wilt thou continued Pains endure?  
And when thou may'st enjoy, defer the Cure?  
Assert thy Freedom, and thyself restore,  
Though Heaven denys, yet be a Wretch no more:  
'tis hard a rooted Love to dispossess;  
'Tis hard, but you may do it if you please.  
In this thy Safety doth consist alone,  
Or possible, or not, it must be done.  
Great Gods, if Pity doth belong to you,  
If you can save the man whom Fates pursue;  
Look down, if he a Pious Life hath lived  
From Love let good Catullus be reprieved:  
Which like cold numbness hath my thoughts confined,  
And banished Mirth and Humour from my Mind:  
I do not beg She should be Kind at last,  
Or, what Her Nature will not bear, be Chast.  
But grant me Freedom, and my Health restore,  
Gods, thus reward my Goodness, and I ask no more.   

OVID's ELEGIES. Lib. 2. Eleg. 12  
TRiumphant Laurels round my Temples twine,  
I'm Victor now, my dear Corinna's mine.  
As she was hard to get, a careful Spy,  
A Door well barred, and jealous Husband's Eye  
Long time preserved her trouble●om Chastity.  
Now I deserve a Crown, I briskly wooed,  
And won my Prey without a drop of Blood.  
'Twas not a petty Town with Gates and Barrs,  
Those little Trophies of our meaner Wars;  
No 'twas a Whore, a lovely Whore I took,  
I won her by a Song, and by a Look.  
When ten years ruined Troy, how mean a Name  
Atrides got? how small a share of Fame?  
But none pretends a Part in that I won,  
The Vict'ry's mine, the Glory all my own.  
I in this Conquest was the General,  
The Soldier, Ensign, Horse, and Foot, and all;  
Fortune and lucky Chance can claim no share,  
Come Triumph gotten by my single Care.  
I fought, as most have done, for Miss, and Love,  
For Helen Europe, and all Asia, strove:  
The Centauris rudely threw their Tables over,  
And spilt their Wine, and boxed to get a Whore:  
The Trojans tho' they once had lost their Troy,  
Yet fought to get their Lord another Joy:  
The Romans too did venture all their Lives,  
And stoutly fought their Fathers for their Wives.  
For one fair Cow I've seen two Bulls engage,  
Whilst she stands by, and looks, and heats their Rage▪  
Even I (for Cupid says he'll have it so.)  
As most Men are, must be his Soldier too.  
Yet I no bloody Conqueror shall prove,  
My Quarrels will be Kindness, Wars be Love.   

LIB. II. ELEGY XVI. He invites his Mistress into the Country.  
I'm now at— where my Eyes can view  
Their old Delights, but what I want in you:  
Here purling Streams cut through my pleasing Bowers,  
Adorn my Banks, and raise my drooping Flowers:  
Here Trees with bending Fruit in order stand,  
Invite my Eye, and tempt my greedy Hand;  
But half the Pleasure of Enjoyment's gone,  
Since I must pluck them single and alone:  
Why could not Nature's Kindness first contrive  
That faithful Lovers should like Spirits live,  
Mixed in one point, and yet dividedly  
Enjoying an united Liberty?  
But since we must through distant Regions go,  
Why was not the same way designed for two?  
One single Care determined still for both,  
And the kind Virgin joined the loving Youth?  
Then should I think it pleasant way to go  
O'er Alpine Frost, and trace the Hills of Snow;  
Then should I dare to view the horrid Moors,  
And walk the Deserts of the Lybian Shores;  
Hear Scylla bark, and see Charybdis rave,  
Suck in, and vomit out the threatening Wave:  
Fearless through all I'd steer my feeble Barge,  
Secure and safe with the Celestial Charge:  
But now though here my grateful Fields afford  
Choice Fruits to cheer their melancholy Lord;  
Though here obedient Streams the Gardener leads,  
In narrow Channels through my flowery Beds.  
Tho' Poplars rise, and spread a shady Grove,  
Where I might lie, my little Life improve,  
And spend my Minutes 'twixt a Muse and Love.  
Yet these contribute little to my Ease,  
For without you they lose the Power to please:  
I seem to walk o'er Fields of naked Sand,  
Or tread an antic Maze in Fairy-Land.  
Where frightful Spectres and pale Shades appear,  
And hollow Groans invade my troubled Ear:  
Where every Breeze, that through my Arbour flies,  
First sadly murmurs, and then turns to Sighs:  
The Vines love Elms, what Elms from Vines remove?  
Then why should I be parted from my Love?  
And yet by me you once devoutly swore,  
By your own Eyes, those Stars that I adore;  
That all my Business you would make your own,  
And never suffer me to be alone;  
But faithless Woman naturally deceives,  
Their frequent Oaths are like the falling Leaves,  
Which when a Storm has from the Branches tore,  
Are tossed by every Blast, and seen no more:  
Yet if you will be true, your Vows retrieve,  
Be kind, and I can easily forgive;  
Prepare your Coach, to me direct your Course,  
Drive fiercely on, and lash the lazy Horse;  
And while you ride I will prolong the Day,  
And try the power of Verse to smooth your Way:  
Sink down ye Mountains, sink ye lofty Hills,  
Ye Valleys be obedient to her Wheels,  
Ye Streams be dry, ye hindering Woods remove,  
'Tis Love that drives, and all must yield to Love.   

LIB. III. ELEGY IX.  
NOw Ceres Feast is come, the Trees are blown  
And my Corinna now must lie alone.  
And why, Good Ceres, must thy Feast destroy,  
Man's chief Delight, and why disturb his Joy?  
The World esteems you Bountiful and Good  
You led us from the Field, and from the Wood,  
And gave us fruitful Corn, and wholesome food.  
Till than poor wretched Man on Acorns fed;  
Oaks gave Him Meat, and flowery fields a Bed.  
First Ceres made our Wheat and Barley grow,  
And taught us how to Blow and how to Mow:  
Who then can think that she designs to prove  
Our Piety, by Coldness in our Love?  
Or make poor Lovers sigh, Lament, and groan,  
Or charge her Votaries to lie alone?  
For Ceres, tho' she loves the fruitful fields,  
Yet sometimes feels the force of Love, and yields:  
This Crete can witness, (Crete not always lies,)  
Crete that nursed jove, and heard his infant Cries,  
There He was suckled that now rules the Skies.  
That jove his Education there received,  
Will raise her fawe, and make her be believed:  
Nay she herself will never strive to hid  
Her Love, 'tis too well known to be denied:  
She saw young jasius in the Cretan Grove  
Pursue the Deer, she saw, and fell in Love.  
She then perceived, when first she felt the fire,  
On this side Modesty, on that Desire;  
Desire prevailed, and then the field grew dry,  
The Farmer lost his Crop, and knew not why;  
When he had toiled, manured his Grounds, & ploughed,  
Harrowed his Fields, and broke his Clods, and sowed,  
No Corn appeared, none to reward his Pain,  
His Labour and his Wishes were in vain.  
For Ceres wandered in the Woods and Groves,  
And often heard, and often told her Loves:  
Then Crete alone a fruitful Summer knew,  
Where e'er the Goddess came, a Harvest grew.  
Ida was grey with Corn, the furious Boar  
Grew fat with Wheat, and wondered at the Store:  
The Cretans wished that such all years would prove,  
They wished that Ceres would be long in Love.  
Well then, since than 'twas hard for you to lie  
All night alone, why at your Feast must I?  
Why must I mourn when you rejoice to know  
Your Daughter safe, and Queen of all below?  
'Tis Holy day, and calls for Wine and Love,  
Come let's the height of Mirth and Humour prove,  
These Gifts will please our Master Powers above.   

OF NATURES CHANGES. FROM LUCRETIUS. LIB. V By a Person of Quality.  
SInce Earth, and Water, more dilated Air,  
And active Fire, mixed Natures Parts appear;  
These all new formed, and to Destruction brought;  
Why of the World may not the like be thought?  
Reason presents this Maxim to our view,  
What in each Part, that in the Whole is true:  
And therefore when you see, spring up and fall,  
Nature's great Parts, conclude the like of all:  
Know Heaven and Earth on the same Laws depend,  
In time they both began, in time shall end.  
But Memmius, not t' assume what some deny;  
The Proof, on plain Experience shall rely:  
I'll show, these Elements to Change are prone;  
Rise in new Shapes, continue long in none.  
Then first of Earth; conclude that all must fail,  
Which differing Parts fermenting, can exhale:  
Much the reflected Rays extract from thence;  
And from their burning Heat no less th' expense.  
The Dust and Smoke in flying Clouds appear,  
Which boisterous Winds disperse through liquid Air.  
Some parts dissolve, and flow away in Rain,  
And from their Banks, the rapid Rivers gain.  
A Diminution, nothing e'er escapes;  
Which new Existence gives, to other Shapes:  
Plants, Minerals, and Concretes, own their Birth,  
And Animals their growth, in part, to Earth:  
Then since from this, all Being's first did spring,  
Time, all to this, their common Grave does bring.  
In these Examples, not to mention more,  
Nature does Earth consume, and Earth restore.  
The Springs, the Rivers, and the Seas are found,  
For Earth's Supply, with Waters to abound;  
Renewed, and flowing in continual round.  
Lest these, increasing, should at last prevail;  
The mighty Ocean, fiercer Winds assail:  
Vast Shoals of Atoms, thence away they bear,  
And raising them aloft, transform to Air.  
Much is extracted by the powerful Sun,  
More does in subterranean Channels run:  
In Earth it first, excessive Saltness spends;  
Then to our Springs, and River heads ascends:  
These in the fruitful Valleys turn and Wind,  
And still to new Productions are inclined.  
And next of Air; which in its vast extent,  
In Changes infinite, each hour, is spent:  
For Air's wide Ocean still requiring more,  
Filled with Effluviums, should it not restore  
The perished Shapes, Time's Ruins to repair,  
Long since, had all things, been dissolved to Air.  
From others Loss, its Being it receives;  
To these again its changing Substance leaves:  
So true it is, that Nature ebbs and flows;  
And one Part perishing, another grows.  
The Sun the fountain of the glorious Rays,  
Instead of vanished Light, new Light displays.  
The Brightness of the flying Minute past,  
Is now obscured, and to new forms does haste.  
From hence it comes, that when black Clouds draw near,  
And banished Sunshine, straight does disappear,  
The Earth's over shadowed, as the Storms are driven,  
And Rays new darted, are required from Heaven.  
Vision would cease, (so soon would Light expire)  
Without Recruits of bright Etherial Fire.  
In our inferior and sulphureous Light,  
Of Lamps and Tapers chase shades of Night,  
Continued fuel feeds the trembling flame  
Which gives the Light, nor is that Light the same  
Of Sun, of Moon, of Stars, ne'er think it strange  
That they are not secure from final Change.  
When what so late did smile, this instant dies,  
And new born Light still shines to mortal Eyes.  
Thus we observe hard Rocks in time decayed;  
The marble Monuments, for Heroes made,  
And stately towers in humble Ruins laid.  
Do Gods their Images from Age secure?  
Or force their Temples always to endure?  
Thus when you see old Rocks from Mountains fall,  
By this conclude their sure Original;  
For were they from Eternity so placed,  
No Chance could ruin them, no Time could waste.  
Next raise your eyes to Earth-surrounding Spheres,  
From which (say some) springs all that now appears,  
To which at last their vanished Parts ascend;  
These as they're formed to Dissolution tend:  
For all things must in such proportion cease,  
As they to othet Being's give Increase.  
But then if no Beginning does appear,  
Of Heaven and Earth, but both Eternal were;  
Before the Theban War was e'er proclaimed,  
Or fatal Siege of Tray by Homer famed,  
Why did not far more ancient Poets sing  
What Revolutions elder times did bring?  
Such Men, such Acts, how in Oblivion drowned,  
As with immortal Fame might well be crowned?  
No great Antiquity the World has proved;  
Eternity from this seems far removed:  
All Arts and Science else, would long ago  
Have reached Perfection, not now daily grow.  
No ancient Sailors, e'er like ours did steer:  
No such harmonious Music charmed the Ear.  
This nature of the World, not Ages past  
Was brought to Light, retarded for the last.  
And these Discoveries ordained by Fate  
To foreign Climes, I with the first translate.  
But still if no Beginning you believe,  
And say, 'tis easier for us to conceive,  
Such Conflagrations from Sulphureous power,  
As totally did Humane Race devour:  
Or gen'ral Earthquakes did the World confound,  
Or all in mighty Deluges was drowned;  
This force of Argument you then increase,  
That Heaven and Earth in future time must cease.  
For when such dreadful Danger threatened All,  
Though Nature then escaped a total Fall,  
Grant but the Cause increased, and it will not fail,  
As did the less, o'er all things to prevail.  
What shows we cannot endless Life enjoy,  
But sense of Ills which others did destroy?  
If you the World's Duration, would extend  
To all Eternity, you must defend,  
It's solid Substance is so firmly bound,  
No Penetration can it ever wound:  
(Minutest Atoms, 'tis confessed are so,  
But not the Compound which from these did grow)  
Or that 'tis Immaterial you must prove,  
And what no forcing Agent can remove:  
Or else you must all ambient Space deny  
To which it may dissolved, and ruin'd fly:  
Thus, Universal claims Eternal's place  
Because it ne'er can pass t' External space)  
But neither is this various Globe so fixed,  
(For much Vacuity is intermixed)  
Nor is it void of Matter, nor can be  
From threatening Power of Penetration free;  
And Powers unknown, from boundless ambient space,  
This present state of Nature may deface:  
With dreadful Huricanes they may invade,  
And turn to Chaos all that e'er was made;  
Or by some other means, beyond the reach  
Of Man's Conception, make the fatal Breach.  
Nor wants there space beyond the Spheres of Heaven  
To which the ruin'd parts may then be driven:  
When e'er these Elements their Mansions leave,  
That vast Abyss lies open to receive.  
From hence to their Beginning you're directed,  
What Magic Charms have always so protected.  
That when the finite Parts expiring lie,  
The whole Eternal Ages should defy?  
Then since the World's great Parts at once engage,  
And Civil Wars in its Dominions rage,  
We may foresee their Strife so long depending,  
At last in general Subversion ending.  
Rivers and Seas consumed, fierce Fires may burn  
Till all their Ashes meet in Earth's great Urn.  
Even now they strive the Victory to gain;  
But still the Ocean does the Fight maintain,  
And swelled with Rivers, hopes by Forces tried,  
To drown the rest, and sole in Triumph ride.  
This to prevent, the swift exhausting Wind,  
And radiant Sun against liquid Force are joined.  
Thus equal in appearance, long they moved,  
Each others Strength in mighty Wars they proved.  
At last the Fire, 'tis said, did win the Field:  
And Earth did once, overwhelmed with Waters, yield.  
Long since when Phaeton, led by vain Desire,  
To drive the Sun's great Chariot did aspire,  
'Twas then the World was hazarded by fire.  
With headstrong force the winged Horses flew;  
O'er Earth and Heaven, the burning Planet drew.  
What then had been the fate of all things here,  
If angry jove, the daring Charioteer  
Had not dismounted, by swift Lightning's stroke,  
And so at once the flaming Progress broke?  
Thus Phaeton slain was falling to the ground,  
And furious Horses dragged the Chariot round,  
When great Apollo reassumed the Chair;  
Restored the Sun that roved throughout the Air;  
With dexterous force reclaimed his raging Steeds,  
And to this hour in annual course proceeds.  
Greek Poets thus, the Truth with Lies confound;  
To waking men, like wand'ring dreams they sound:  
But though to grace their Morals, they romance,  
True fires did then from East to West advance.  
Such Magazines of Sulphur Earth contains,  
That if some stronger Agent not restrains,  
The fuel all inflamed, and raging high,  
Will ne'er be quenched till all in Ruins lie.  
The Water too did, as our Authors tell,  
In Ages past, to such proportion swell,  
That spacious Empires wholly were destroyed:  
The Ocean then had Sov'raign right enjoyed;  
But that some greater Being, soon arose,  
From infine Space, t'o'ercome th'invading Foes.  
Bright heavens then triumphed o'er the vanquished showers,  
And falling Floods, proclaimed prevailing Powers.   

HORACE, ODE 7th, BOOK 4th. By an unknown HAND.  
Winters dissolved, behold a World's new face!  
How grass the ground, how leaves their branches grace.  
That Earth which would not to the ploughshare yield,  
Is softer now and easy to be tilled.  
And frozen streams thawed by th' approaching Sun,  
With whispering murmurs in their channels run:  
The naked Nymphs and Graces dance a round,  
And o'er the flowery meadows nimbly bound.  
The Months that run on times immortal wheels,  
The seasons treading on each others heels.  
The winged hours that swiftly pass away,  
And spitefully consume the smiling Day,  
Tell us, that all things must with them decay.  
The year rowls round us in a constant ring,  
And sultry Summer wastes the milder Spring:  
Whose hot Meridian quickly overpast,  
Declines to Autumn, which with bounteous haste  
Comes crowned with Grapes, but suddenly is crossed,  
Cold Winter nips his Vintage, with a frost.  
The Moon renews its Orb to shine more bright;  
But when Death's hand puts out our mortal light,  
With us alas 'tis ever ever Night!  
With Tullus and with Ancus we shall be,  
And the brave Souls of vanished Heroes see.  
Who knows if Gods above, who all things sway,  
Will suffer thee to live another day?  
Then please thy Genius, and betimes take care,  
To leave but little to thy greedy Heir.  
When among crowds of Ghosts thou shalt appear,  
And from the Judge thy fatal sentence hear,  
Not Birth, nor Eloquence, nor Wealth, nor all.  
That thou canst plead can the past doom recall.  
Diana, though a Goddess, cannot take  
Her chaste Hippolytus from Lethe's Lake.  
Pirithous bound in fetters must remain,  
Theseus no more can break his adamantine chain.   

HORACE, The 2d BOOK, ODE the 10th. Rectius vives Licini, &c  
WE must all live, and we would all live well,  
But how to do it very few can tell;  
He sure doth best who a true mean can keep,  
Nor boldly sails too far into the deep,  
Nor yet too fearfully creeps near the Land,  
And runs the danger of the Rocks and Sand.  
Who to that happy medium can attain,  
" Who neither seeks for nor dispises gain,  
" Who neither sinks too low, nor aims too high,  
He shuns th' unwholesome Ills of Poverty;  
And is secure from envy which attends  
A sumptuous Table, and a crowd of Friends.  
Their Treacherous height doth the tall Pines expose,  
To the rude blasts of every Wind that blows.  
And lofty Towers unfortunately high,  
Are near their ruin as they're near the Sky;  
And when they fall, what was their pride before,  
Serves only then t'increase their fall the more.  
Who wisely governs and directs his mind,  
Never despairs, though fortune be unkind;  
He hopes, and though he finds he hoped in vain,  
He bears it patiently and hopes again.  
And if at last a kinder fate conspires,  
To heap upon him more than he desires;  
He than suspects the kindness he enjoys,  
Takes it with thanks, but with such care employ's,  
As if that Fate, weary of giving more,  
Would once resume what it bestowed before.  
He finds Man's life, by an Eternal skill,  
Is tempered equally with good and ill.  
Fate shapes our Lives, as it divides the Years,  
Hopes are our Summer, and our Winter's fears;  
And 'tis by an unerring rule decreed,  
That this shall that alternately succeed.  
Therefore when Fate's unkind, dear Friend, be wise,  
And bear its ills without the least surprise.  
The more you are oppressed bear up the more,  
Wether the Tempest till its rage be o'er.  
But if too prosperous and too strong a gale,  
Should rather ruffle than just fill your Sail▪  
Lessen it, and let it take but so much Wind,  
As is proportioned to the course designed;  
" For 'tis the greatest part of humane skill,  
" To use good fortune and to bear our ill.   

HORACE, 18th Epistle, the 1st BOOK Si bene te novi, etc.  
DEar Friend, for surely I may call him so,  
Who doth so well the Law's of Friendship know;  
I'm sure you mean the kindness you profess,  
And to be loved by you's a happiness;  
Not like him who with Eloquence and pains,  
The specious title of a Friend obtains;  
And the next day to please some Man of sense,  
Break's jests at his deluded Friends expense;  
As Jilts who by a quick compendious way,  
To gain new Lovers, do the old betray.  
There is an other failing of the mind,  
Equal to this, of a quite different kind,  
I mean that rude uncultivated skill,  
Which some have got of using all Men ill;  
Out of a zealous and unhewn pretence  
Of freedom and a virtuous innocence;  
Who 'cause they cannot fawn, betray nor cheat,  
Think they may push and justle all they meet,  
And blame what e'er they see, complain, and brawl▪  
And think their virtues make amends for all.  
They neither comb their Head, nor wash their Face,  
But think their virtuous nastiness a grace;  
When as true virtue in a medium lies,  
And that to turn to either Hand's a vice.  
Others there are who too obsequious grown,  
Live more for others pleasure than their own;  
Applauding whatsoever they hear or see,  
By a too nauseous civility;  
And if a Man of Title or Estate,  
Doth some strange story, true or false, relate;  
Obsequiously they cringe and vouch it all,  
Repeat his Words, and catch them as they fall;  
As School Boys follow what the Masters say,  
Or like an Actor prompted in a Play.  
Some Men there are so full of their own Sense,  
They take the least dispute for an offence.  
And if some wiser Friend their heat restrains,  
And says the subject is not worth the pains;  
Strait they reply, what I have said is true,  
And I'll defend it against him and you;  
And if he still dares say 'tis not, I'll die,  
Rather than not maintain he says a lie.  
Now, would you see from whence these heats arise,  
And where th' important contradiction lies;  
'Tis but to know if, when a Client's pressed,  
S— or W— pleads his Cause the best:  
Or if to Windsor he most minutes gains,  
Who goes by Colebrook, or who goes by Stains;  
Who spends his Wealth in Pleasure, and at Play,  
And yet affects to be well clothed and gay,  
And comes to want; and yet dreads nothing more,  
Than to be thought necessitous and poor:  
Him his rich Kinsman is afraid to see,  
Shuns like a Burden to the Family;  
And rails at vices, which have made him poor,  
Though he himself perhaps hath many more:  
Or tells him wisely, Cousin have a care  
And your Expenses with your Rents compare;  
Since you inherit but a small Estate,  
Your pleasures, Cousin, must be moderate.  
I know, you think to huff, and live like me,  
Cousin, my wealth supports my vanity.  
But they, who have Wit and not Estate enough,  
Must cut their Coat according to their Stuff;  
Therefore forbear t'affect equality,  
Forget you have such a foolish Friend as me.  
There was a Courtier, who to punish those,  
Who, though below him, he believed his foes;  
And more effectually to vent his rage,  
Sent them fine clothes and a new Equipage;  
For then the foolish Sparks courageous grown,  
Set up for roaring Bully's of the Town;  
Must go to Plays, and in the Boxes sit,  
Then to a Whore, and live like Men of Wit;  
Till at the last their Coach and Horses spent,  
Their clothes grown dirty, and their Ribbons rend;  
Their fortune changed their appetite the same,  
And 'tis too late their Folly's to reclaim.  
They must turn Porters, or in Taverns wait,  
And buy their pleasures at a cheaper rate;  
And 'midst their dirty Mistresses and Wives,  
Led out the rest of their mistaken lives.  
Never be too inquisitive to find  
The hidden secrets of another's mind,  
For when you've torn one secret from his Breast,  
You run great risk of losing all the rest;  
And if he should unimportuned impart  
His secret thoughts, and trust you with his Heart,  
Let not your drinking, anger, pride or lust,  
Ever invite you to betray the trust.  
First never praise your own designs, and then  
ne'er lessen the designs of other Men;  
Nor when a Friend invites you any where,  
To set a Partridge, or to chase a Hare,  
Beg he'd excuse you for this once, and say,  
You must go home, and study all the day,  
So 'twas that once Amphion jealous grown,  
That Zethus loved no pleasure but his own;  
Was forced to give his Brother's friendship o'er,  
Or to resolve to touch his Lyre no more;  
He chose the safest and the wisest way,  
And to oblige his Brother, left his Play.  
Do you the same, and for the self same end,  
Obey your civil importuning Friend;  
And when he leads his Dogs into the plain,  
Quit your untimely labours of the Brain,  
And leave your serious Studies, that you may  
Sup with an equal pleasure on the prey.  
Hunting's an old and honourable sport,  
Loved in the Country, and esteemed at Court;  
Healthful to th' Body, pleasing to the Eye,  
And practised by our old Nobility:  
Who see you love the pleasures they admire,  
Will equally approve what you desire;  
Such condescension will more Friendship gain,  
Than the best rules, which your wise Books contain.  
Talk not of others lives, or have a care  
Of whom you talk, to whom, and what, and where;  
For you done't only wound the Man you blame,  
But all mankind, who will expect the same.  
Eat all inquisitive and curious Men,  
For what they hear they will relate again;  
And he who hath impatient craving Ears,  
Hath a lose Tongue to utter all he hears;  
And Words like th' moving Air of which they're framed,  
When once let lose, can never be reclaimed.  
Where you've access to a rich powerful Man,  
Govern your mind with all the care you can;  
And be not by your foolish lust betrayed,  
To court his Cousin, or debauch his Maid:  
Lest with a little Portion, and the pride  
Of being to the Family allied;  
He gives you either, with which bounty blest,  
You must quit all pretensions to the rest;  
Or lest incensed at your attempt, and grieved,  
You should abuse the kindness you received;  
He coldly thwarts your impotent desire,  
Till you at last choose rather to retire,  
Than tempt his anger any more, and so  
Lose a great Patron, and a Mistress too.  
Next have a care, what Men you recommend,  
To th' service or esteem of your rich Friend;  
Lest for his service or esteem unfit,  
They load you with the faults, which they commit.  
But as the wisest Men with all their skill  
May be deceived, and place their Friendship ill:  
●o when you see you have erred, you must refuse  
●o defend those whom their own crimes accuse.  
●ut if through envy of malicious Men,  
●hey be accused, you must protect them then,  
And plead their Cause yourself, for when you see  
Him you commend, attacked with infamy,  
Know that 'tis you they hate, when him they blame;  
Him they have wounded, but at you they aim;  
And when your Neighbour's House is set on fire,  
You must his safety as your own conspire.  
Such hidden fires though in the Suburbs cast,  
Neglected, may consume the Town at last.  
They who do ned know the dangers, which attend  
The glittering Court of a rich powerful Friend;  
Love no Estate so much, and think they're blest,  
When they but make a Leg amongst the rest;  
But they who've tried it, and with prudent care  
Do all its honours, and its ills compare,  
Fear to engage, lest with their time and pain,  
They lose more pleasure, than they hoped to gain●  
See you, that while your Vessel's under Sail,  
You make your best advantage of the Gale;  
Lest the Wind changes, and some stormy rain  
Should throw you back to your first Port again.  
You must endeavour to dispose your mind  
To please all humours of a different kind;  
Whose temper's serious, and their humour sad,  
They think all blithe and merry Men are mad;  
They who are merry, and whose humour's free,  
Abhor a sad and serious gravity;  
They who are slow and heavy can't admit,  
The Friendship of a quick and ready Wit;  
The Slothful hate the busy active Men,  
And are detested by the same again.  
They who's free humour prompts them to be gay,  
To Drink all Night, and Revel all the Day;  
Abhor the Man, that can his Cups refuse,  
Though his untimely virtue to excuse;  
He swears that one such merry drinking Feast,  
Would make him sick for a whole Week at least.  
Suffer no Cloud to dwell upon your Brow,  
The modest Men are thought obscure and low;  
And they, who an affected silence keep,  
Are thought to be too rigid, sour and deep.  
Amongst all other things do not omit  
To search the Writings of great Men of Wit,  
And in the conversation of the Wise,  
In what true happiness and pleasure lies;  
Which are the safest rules to live at ease,  
And the best way to make all fortunes please,  
Lest through the craving hopes of gaining more,  
And fear of losing what you gained before:  
Your poor unsatisfied misguided mind,  
To needy wishes, and false joys confined;  
Puts its free boundless searching thoughts in chains,  
And where it sought its pleasure finds it pains;  
If virtuous thoughts, and if a prudent Heart  
Be given by nature, or obtained by Art.  
What lessens cares, the minds uneasy pain,  
And reconciles us to ourselves again;  
Which doth the truest happiness create,  
Unblemished Honour, or a great Estate;  
Or a safe private quiet, which betrays  
Itself to ease, and cheats away the days.  
When I am at— where my kind fate  
Hath placed my little moderate Estate,  
Where nature's care hath equally employed,  
It's inward Treasures, and its outward Pride;  
What thoughts d'ye think those easy Joys inspire?  
What do you think I covet and desire?  
'tis, that I may but undisturbed possess,  
The littl' I have, and if Heaven pleases, less;  
That I to Nature and myself may give,  
The little time that I have left to live;  
Some Book's in which I some new thoughts may find,  
To entertain, and to refresh my mind;  
Some Horses, which may help me to partake  
The lawful pleasures which the seasons make;  
An easy plenty, which at least may spare  
The frugal pains of a Domestic care;  
A Friend, if that a faithful Friend there be,  
Who can love such an idle life, and me;  
Then Heaven, give me but life and health, I'll find  
A grateful Soul, and a contented Mind.   

HORACE, Saty. 2. Lib. 1. By Mr. STAFFORD.  
I Was at first, a piece of Figtree wood,  
And long an honest joiner, pondering stood,  
Whether he should employ his shaping Tool,  
To make a God of me, or a Jointstool;  
Each knob he weighed, on every inch did plod,  
And rather chose to turn me to a God:  
As a Priapus hence I grew adored,  
The fear of every Thief, and every bird.  
The Rascals from their pilfering tricks desist,  
And dread each wooden Finger of my fist.  
The Reeds stuck in my cap the Peckers fright,  
From our new Orchards far they take their flight,  
And dare not touch a Pippin in my sight.  
When any of the rabble did decease,  
They brought 'em to this place to stink in peace.  
Unnoisom here the snuffs of Rogues went out,  
'twas once a common grave for all the rout.  
Lose Nomentanus left his riots here,  
And lewd Pantalabus forgot to jeer.  
Nor in these pit-holes might they put a bone,  
Could lie beneath a dunghill of its own.  
But now the ground for Slaves no more they tear,  
Sweet are the Walks, and vital is the Air:  
Myrtle and Orange groves the Eye delight,  
Where Sculls and Shanks did mix a ghastly fight.  
While here I stand, the Guardian of the Trees,  
Not all the Jays are half the grievances,  
As are those Hags, who diligent in ill,  
Are either poisoning or bewitching still.  
These I can neither hurt nor terrify,  
But every Night, when once the Moon is high,  
They haunt these Allies with their shrieks & groans,  
And pick up baneful Herbs, and humane Bones.  
I saw Canidia here, her feet were bare,  
Black were her Robes, and lose her flaky Hair;  
With her fierce Sagana went stalking round,  
Their hideous howl shook the trembling ground.  
A paleness, casting horror round the place,  
Sat dead, and terrible on either's Face.  
Their impious trunks upon the Earth they cast,  
And dug it with their Nails in frantic haste.  
A coal-black Lamb then with their Teeth they tore,  
And in the pit they poured the reeking gore:  
By this they force the tortured Ghosts from Hell,  
And answers to their wild demands compel.  
Two Images they brought of Wax, and Wool,  
The Waxed was a little puling fool:  
A chidden Image ready still to skip,  
When'ere the woollen one but snapped his whip.  
On Hecate alloued this beldame calls,  
Tisiphone as loved the other bawls.  
A thousand Serpents hissed upon the ground,  
And Hellhounds compassed all the Gardens round.  
Behind the Tombs to shun the horrid sight,  
The Moon skulked down, or out of shame or fright.  
May every Crow, and Cuckoo, if I lie,  
Aim at my Crown as often as they fly:  
And never miss a dabbe though ne'er so high,  
May villain julius, and his rascal crew,  
Use me with jnst such Ceremony too.  
But how much time and patience would it cost,  
To tell the Gabbling of each Hag and Ghost?  
Or how the Earth the ugly Beldame scrapes,  
And hides the Beards of Wolves, & Teeth of Snakes.  
While on the Fire the waxed Image fries.  
Vexed to the Heart to see their Sorceries,  
My Ears torn with their bellowing Sprights, my Guts,  
My Figtree Bowels, wambled at the Sluts.  
Mad for revenge I gathered all my Wind,  
And bounced like fifty bladders, from behind.  
Scared with the noise they seudd away to Town,  
While Sagana's false hair comes dropping down:  
Canidia tumbles o'er, for want of breath,  
And scatters from her Jaws her set of Teeth;  
I almost burst to see their labours crossed,  
Their Bones, their Herbs, and all their Devils lost.   

OVID. Amorum. Lib. 2. El. 4. That he loves Women of all sorts and sizes.  
ALL blots I cannot from my manners wipe,  
Nor say I walk uprightly when I slip.  
Pressed with my faults I to confession fall,  
In pain, and mad till I lay open all.  
I sin, and I repent; rub off the score,  
And then, like wild, I dip again for more.  
I cannot rule myself, like Pinnace tossed  
In Storms, the Rudder gone, and Compass lost.  
No certain shape or features stint my mind,  
I still for love a thousand reasons find.  
Here one commends my verse, in equity  
If I please her, she surely pleases me:  
But if malicious witty things she said,  
I think how she would repartee in bed.  
If artless she, my Heart on Nature dotes;  
If learned, I long to be conferring notes.  
If no great sense or parts the Damsel show,  
Still I conclude she wants it not below.  
Do looks demure the inward spark conceal?  
She deals by Great that can dissemble well.  
Or is she Free and forward to engage,  
I hate fatigue, I am not for a siege.  
The meek and mild my sure affections keep,  
Yet love a shrew, because she is no Sheep.  
Does she look pale? I fancy whence it came;  
Is she a Rose? Assure am I a flame,  
That living Snow my passion strangely warms,  
And strait I wish her melting in mine Arms.  
The tall appears Heroic to the Eye,  
Yet ne'er so small she were enough for me.  
If little, than I think how quick she moves,  
If large, who would not roll in what he loves?  
Lean Skeleton my fancy never snubs;  
But is she plump? 'Tis then my pretty subs.  
And doubtless one may find convenient sport,  
With either fat or lean, or long or short.  
I like the mincing gate; and yet if wide  
She steps, O then I love her for her stride.  
That waddle was a grace in Montespan,  
These drowsy Eyes are perfect C—  
With yellow curls Aurora pleased her fop,  
And Leda (jove well saw) was black a— top:  
The black or yellow to my mind agree,  
My love will suit with every History.  
Widow, or Wife, I'm for a pad that's weighed;  
If Virgin, Oh! who would not love a Maid?  
If she be young, I take her in the nick;  
If she has age, she helps it with a trick.  
If nothing charms me in her wit or face,  
She has her fiddle in some other place.  
Come every sort and size, the great or small,  
My love will find a tally for 'em all.   

ELEGY (II.) Lib. 5. De Trist. Ovid complains of his three years' Banishment.  
Condemned to Pontus, tired with endless toil,  
Since Banished Ovid left his native soil,  
Thrice has the frozen Ister stood, and thrice  
The Euxine Sea been covered o'er with ice.  
Ten tedious years of Siege the Trojans bore,  
But count my sorrow I have suffered more:  
For me alone old Chronus stops his glass,  
For years like ages slowly seem to pass:  
Long days diminish not my nightly care,  
Both Night and Day their equal portion share.  
The course of nature sure is changed with me,  
And all is endless, as my misery.  
Do time and Heaven their common motion keep,  
Or are the Fates, that spin my thread, a sleep?  
In Euxine Pontus here I hid my Face,  
How good the Name! but oh how bad the place!  
The people round about us threaten War,  
Who live by spoils, and Thiefs or Pirates are:  
No living thing can here protection have,  
Nay scarce the dead are quiet in their grave,  
For here are Birds as well as Men of prey,  
That swiftly snatch unseen the Limbs away.  
Darts are fling at us by the neighbouring foe,  
Which oftentimes we gather as we go.  
He who dares Plough (but few there are who dare)  
Must arm himself as if he went to War.  
The Shepherd puts his Helmet on to keep,  
Not from the Wolves but Enemies, his Sheep:  
While mournfully he tunes his rural Muse,  
One Foe the Shepherd and his Sheep pursues.  
The Castle which the safest place should be  
Within, from cruel tumults is not free.  
Of't dire contentions put me in a fright,  
The rude Inhabitants with Grecians fight.  
In one abode amongst a barbarous rout  
I live, but when they please they thrust me out:  
My hatred to these Brutes takes from my fear,  
For they are like the Beasts whose skins they wear.  
Even those who as we think were born in Greece,  
Wrap themselves up in Rugs and Persian Freeze;  
They easily each other understand,  
But I alas am forced to speak by hand!  
Even to these Men (if I may call 'em so)  
Who neither what is right or reason know  
I a Barbarian am; hard f●te to see  
When I speak Latin how they laugh at me!  
Perhaps they falsely add to my disgrace,  
Or call me wretched Exile to my Face.  
Besides the cruel Sword against Nature's Laws,  
Cuts off the Innocent without a cause.  
The Marketplace by lawless Arms possessed,  
Has slaughter-houses both for Man and Beast.  
Now, O ye fates, 'tis time to stop my breath,  
And shorten my misfortunes by my death.  
How hard my sentence is to live among  
A cutthroat, barbarous, and unruly throng;  
But to leave you, my Friends, a harder doom,  
Though banished here, I left my Heart at Rome,  
Alas I left it where I cannot come!  
To be forbid the City, I confess,  
That were but just, my crime deserves no less.  
A place so distant from my native Air,  
Is more than I deserve, or long can bear.  
Why do I mourn? The fate I here attend  
Is a less grief than Caesar to offend!   

AN ODE. Sung before the KING on New-Years-Day.  

ARise Great Monarch, see the joyful day,  
Dressed in the glories of the East,  
Presumes to interrupt your Sacred rest.  
Never did Night more willingly give way,  
Or Morn more cheerfully appear,  
Big with the mighty tidings of a New born Year.   

II.  
Blessed be that Sun who in times fruitful Womb,  
Was to this noble Embassy designed,  
To Head the Golden Troops of days to come,  
Nor laged ingloriously behind,  
Ignobly in the last years Throng to rise and set.  
In this 'tis happier far than May,  
Since to add Years is greater than to give a day.   

Chorus.  
Oh may the happy days increase,  
With spoils of War, and Wealth of Peace.  
Till time and age shall swallowed be,  
Lost in vast Eternity.  
May Charles ne'er quit his sacred Throne,  
Himself succeed himself alone.  
And to lengthen out his time,  
Take, God, from us and give to him.  
That so each World a Charles may know,  
Father above and Son below.   

III.  
Hark the Jocund Spheres renew  
Their cheerful and melodious Song,  
While the glad Gods are pleased to view  
The rich and painted throng  
Of happy days in their fair order march along.  
Move on, ye prosperous hours, move on,  
Finish your Course so well begun;  
Let no ill omen da●e profane  
Your beauteous and harmonious train,  
Or Jealousies or foolish fears disturb you as you run.   

iv  
See mighty Charles, how all the minutes press,  
Each longing which shall first appear,  
Since in this renowned year,  
Not one but feels a secret happiness,  
As big with new events and some unheard success:  
See how our troubles vanish, see  
How the tumultuous Tribes agree.  
Propitious Winds bear all our griefs away,  
And Peace clears up the Troubled day.  
Not a wrinkle, not a Scar  
Of faction or dishonest War,  
But Pomps and Triumphs deck the Noble Calendar    

Upon the late Ingenious Translation of PERE SIMON'S Cri●tical History, By H. D. Lsq  
OF all Heaven's Judgements that was sure th● wor●  
When our bold Fathers were at Babel curs●  
Man, to whose race this glorious Orb was given,  
Nature's loved Darling, and the Joy of Heaven,  
Whose powerful voice the subject World obeyed,  
And God's were pleased with the discourse he made,  
He who before did every form excel,  
Beneath the most ignoble Creature fell:  
Every vile beast through the wide Earth can rove,  
And, where the sense invites, declare his love:  
Sounds Inarticulate move through all the race;  
And one short Language serves for every place:  
But, such a price did that presumption cost,  
That half our lives in trifling words are lost.  
Nor can their utmost force and power, express  
The Soul's Ideas in their Native dress.  
Knowledge, that godlike Orn'ment of the mind,  
To the small spot, where it is born's confined.  
But He, brave Youth, the toilsome Fate repeals,  
While his learned pen mysterious Truth reveals.  
So did, of old, the cloven Tongues descend;  
And heavens Commands to every Ear extend.  
And 'twas but just that all th'astonished throng  
Should understand the Galileans Tongue.  
God's sacred Law was for all Israel made;  
And, in plain terms, to every Tribe displayed.  
On Marble Pillars, his Almighty Hands  
In Letters large, writ the divine commands:  
But scarce they were so much in pieces broke  
When Moses wrath the people did provoke,  
As has the sacred cowl been torn and rend,  
T'explain what the Alwise Dictator meant.  
But now, t'our Egypt the great Prophet's come;  
And Eloquent Aaron tells the Joyful doom.  
From the worst slavery at last we're freed,  
And shall no more, with stripes from error, bleed;  
The learned Simon has th' hard task subdued;  
And holy Tables the third time renewed.  
Sinai be blessed where was received the Law,  
That aught to keep the Rebel World in awe;  
And blessed be He that taught us to invoke  
God's awful Name, as God to Moses spoke.  
Nor does he merit less, who could so well  
From foreign Language his great dictates tell:  
In our cold clime the pregnant Soul lay hid;  
No virtual power moved the proly●ick seed,  
Till his kind genial heat preserved it warm;  
And to perfection wrought the noble form.  
Never did yet arrive so vast a store  
Of solid Learning on the British shore:  
T'export it thence has been the greatest Trade;  
But He, at last, a full return has made.  
Raise up, ye tuneful Bards, your voices raise,  
And crown his Head with never dying praise:  
And all ye Nimrods' mighty Sons rejoice,  
While every Workman knows the bvilder's voice.  
●n Shinars plain, the lofty Tower may rise,  
Till its vast Head sustain the bending skies:  
In its own Nature Truth is so Divine,  
No sacred Powers oppose this great design;  
So dark a veil obscured her reverend Head,  
The wisest travelers knew not where to tread,  
Blind zeal and mad Enthusiasts showed the way,  
While wandering Meteors led their Eyes astray;  
Through the dark Maze, without a Clue, they ran;  
And, at Best, ended where they first began:  
But now at last we're brought so near her Throne,  
At the next step the glorious Crown's our own.   

Horti ARLINGTONIANIS. AD Clarissimum Dominum, Henricum, Comitem Arlingtoniae, etc.  
MAgnificos propter saltus, & avita Jacobi  
Moenia, quae faciunt commercia duplicis aulae,  
Ac Ducis ac Divi nomen commune tuetur,  
Surgunt coctilibus succincta palatia muris:  
Quae posita ad Zephyrum, radiis sol igneus aureis,  
Illustrat moriente die, nascente salutat.  
Eximiam interea mol●m mirantur eunte●  
Vulgusque, Proceresque: caducos plorat honores  
Aulicus, & rerum fastigia lubrica damnat;  
Foelicemque vocat Dominum, cui tempora vitae  
Labuntur variis anlae inconcussa procellis.  
Et quamvis procul haud absint, tum plebis iniquae  
Improba garrulitas, tum clamor & ambitus aulae,  
Circumfusa quies, & pax incognita Magnis●  
Hic placidè regnant; & verum simplice cultu,  
Propositique tenax virtus, & pectus honestum.  
Namque ubi pri●● diem surgens Aurora reducit,  
Et matutinae sudant sub roribus herbae,  
Nulla volans fumante viam rota turbine versat,  
Crebra putres sonitu nec verberat ungula glebas:  
Hinc procul imbelles persultant pabula Damae,  
Atque piâ placidos curant dulcedine foetus;  
Ind, loquax ripas & aquosa cubilia linquens  
Fertur Anas, madidis irrorans aethera pennis.  
Vos O Pierides molli testudine Musae,  
Dicite pulchricomis depictum floribus hortum:  
Nullus abest cui duleis honos, quem mille pererrant  
Formosae Veneres, pharetrâque Cupido tuetur,  
Non illum Alcinoi floreta, aut Thessala Tempe  
Exuperant, quanquam haec qui fingunt omnia, Vates  
Mendaci sublime ferant ad sydera cantu.  
Areaque in medio est multum spectabilis horto,  
Ordinibus raris palorum obducta, tuentum  
Laetificans oculos ac dona latentia prodens:  
Nempe haec per spatia flores transmittit iniqua  
Distinctos variis maculis, & suave rubentes.  
Non illic violae, neque candida lilia desunt:  
Parva loquor: quicquid nostro Deus invidet orbi,  
Hic viget, & quicquid tepidi vicinia solis  
Laetior Hesperiis educit germen in arvis.  
Qualia saepe inter moriens floreta Cupido  
Conjugis aeterno jacuit devinctus amore;  
Te solam cupiens, in Te pulcherrima Psyche  
Arsit, & heu propriis fixit praecordia telis!  
Nec sine nomine erunt myrtela, nec aurea Poma;  
Quae quoniam calido nascuntur plurima coelo  
Et brumas indocta pati nimbosque ruentes,  
Nec fas hic teneros ramorum effundere foetus:  
Protinus hybernis clauduntur ab aethere tectis  
Spirantesque premunt animas, ne poma caduca  
Vel glacies loedat, teneras vel srigora myrtos:  
Inque novos soles audent se credere, molles  
Vt captent Zephyros impune, ac lumen amicum.  
Nec Te praeteream, tenebris quae dives opacis  
Sylva vires, vento motis peramabilis umbris:  
Hic magnus laborille & inextricabilis error,  
Per quem mille viis errantem Thesea duxit,  
Ah nimis infoelix per fila sequentia virgo!  
Securi hic tenero ludunt in gramine amantes;  
Nec reperire viam curant, ubi lumina vesper  
Deficiente die accendit; sed longius ipsam  
Hic secum placidè cupiunt consumere noctem:  
Dum super arboreos modulans Luscinia ramos,  
Dulce melos iterat, tenerosque invitat amores.  
Quinetiam extremo surgit conterminus horto  
Mons foelix, albis quem circum Gessamis ornat  
Floribus, ac laetas dat praetereuntibus umbras.  
Hunc super ascendit turbâ comitante virum Rex  
Augustus, Proceresque caput supereminet omnes;  
Atque pedem properans graditur, vestigia volvens  
Grandia, nec serae meminit decedere nocti.  
Omnibus ante oculos divini ruris imago,  
Et sincera quies operum, rerumque nitescit  
Incorruptus honos, & nescia fallere vita.  
Nec non hic solus placidi super ardua montis,  
Clare Comes, tecum meditaris, ment serenâ  
Munera Daedaleae naturae; animusque recedit  
In loca sacra, fugitque procul contagia mundi.  
Despicere unde queas miseros, passimque videre  
Mortales, vitae subeuntes mille pericla;  
Continuò inter se niti praestante labore,  
Divitiis inhiare & habenas sumere rerum;  
Deturbare throno Regem, magnasque aliorum  
Fortunas ambire, ac nigris fervere curis.  
Dum Tu, Magne Comes, minimâ sine parte doloris,  
Prospicis ex alto viridantes gramine saltus:  
Vndique confluxam hinc turbam, lautisque crepantes  
Sub pedibus cochleas, teneras queis fibula dives  
Connectit soleas, gemmis imitantibus ignes:  
Ind lacus lustras, puroque canalia rivo  
Lucida, magnificam neque lumen nictat ad aulam.  
Inter Purpureos, Regi gratissime Patres,  
O Dium, fidumque Caput, venerabile gentis  
Praesidium! O magnos jamdudum exute labores!  
Saepius hic tecum placido spatieris in horto,  
Traducens faciles, sed non inglorius annos;  
Et vitam studiis florentem nobilis Oti!  
Dum timor omnis abest, curaeque incendia luctus,  
Nec Tibi vel telis audet fortuna nocere,  
Vel struere insidias Canis. Tibi libera transis  
Tempora, & accedis tantum non hospes ad aulam.  
O felix animi, Quem non ratione relictâ,  
Spes elata trahit laudumque arrecta cupido;  
Nec miserè insomnes cogunt disperdere noctes!  
At secura quies, animae divina voluptas,  
Mitiaque emeritam solantur fata senectam.  
Vnica Regali connubit filia stirpi,  
Anglia quas habuit pulchris praelata puellis.  
Quae poscis meliora Deos? quae pondere vasto  
Corruit usta domus, flammae secura minacis  
Ecce stat, è tantis major meliorque ruinis!  
Scilicet banc rerum alma Parens, ut vidit ab alta  
Nube Venus; circum divini colla Mariti  
Fusa super, roseoque arridens suaviter ore,  
Sic Divum alloquitur: Nostros delectat ocellos  
Pulchra domus, saevis olim consumptá favillis:  
En hujus (si fata sinant) celebrabitur Haeres  
Herois divina, & me dignissima cura!  
Pallas & hoc poscit; (proprio favet illa Ministro,)  
Qui Divam colit, ac similes assurgit ad artes.  
Vincitur illecebris Deus; & jubet omine laeto  
Stare diu, longosque domum superesse per annos.   

A New SONG.  

SYlvia the fair, in the bloom of Fifteen,  
Felt an innocent warmth, as she lay on the green;  
She had heard of a pleasure, and something she guest  
By the towzing & tumbling & touching her Breast;  
She saw the men eager, but was at a loss,  
What they meant by their sighing, & kissing so close;  
By their praying and whining  
And clasping and twining,  
And panting and wishing,  
And sighing and kissing  
And sighing and kissing so close.   

II.  
Ah she cried, ah for a languishing Maid  
In a Country of Christians to die without aid!  
Not a Whig, or a Tory, or Trimmer at least,  
Or a Protestant Parson, or Catholic Priest,  
To instruct a young Virgin, that is at a loss  
What they meant by their sighing, & kissing so close!  
By their praying and whining  
And clasping and twining,  
And panting and wishing,  
And sighing and kissing  
And sighing and kissing so close.   

III.  
Cupid in Shape of a Swain did appear,  
He saw the sad wound, and in pity drew near,  
Then showed her his Arrow, and bid her not fear,  
For the pain was no more than a Maiden may bear;  
When the balm was infused she was not at a loss,  
What they meant by their sighing & kissing so close;  
By their praying and whining,  
And clasping and twining,  
And panting and wishing,  
And sighing and kissing,  
And sighing and kissing so close.    

SONG.  

GO tell Amynta gentle Swain,  
I would not die nor dare complain,  
Thy tuneful Voice with numbers join,  
Thy words will more prevail than mine;  
To Souls oppressed and dumb with grief,  
The Gods ordain this kind relief;  
That Music should in sounds convey▪  
What dying Lovers dare not say.   

II.  
A Sigh or Tear perhaps she'll give,  
But love on pity cannot live.  
Tell her that Hearts for Hearts were made,  
And love with love is only paid.  
Tell her my pains so fast increase,  
That soon they will be past redress;  
But ah! the Wretch that speechless lies,  
Attends but Death to close his Eyes.    

On the Death of Mr. Oldham.  
ON the Remains of an old blasted Oak,  
Unmindful of himself, Menalcas leaned;  
He sought not now in heat the shade of Trees,  
But shunned the flowing Rivers pleasing Bank.  
His Pipe, and Hook lay scattered on the Grass,  
Nor fed his Sheep together on the Plain,  
Left to themselves they wandered out at large.  
In this lamenting state young Corydon  
(His friend and dear Companion of his hour)  
Finding Men●lcas, asks him thus the Cause.  Corydon. 
Thee have I sought in every shady Grove,  
By purling Streams, and in each private place  
Where we have used to sit and talk of Love.  
Why do I find thee leaning on an Oak,  
By Lightning blasted, and by Thunder rend?  
What cursed chance has turned thy cheerful mind,  
And why wilt thou have woes unknown to me?  
But I would comfort, and not chide my Friend,  
Tell me thy grief, and let me bear a part.  Menalcas. 
Young Astrophil is dead, Dear Astrophil,  
He that could tune so well his charming Pipe,  
To hear whose Lays, Nymphs left their crystal spring,  
The Fawns, and Dryads forsook the Woods,  
And hearing, all were ravished— swiftest streams  
Withheld their course to hear the Heavenly sound,  
And murmured, when by following Waves pressed on,  
The following Waves forcing their way to hear.  
O●t the fierce Wolf pursuing of the Lamb,  
Hungry and wildly certain of his Prey,  
Left the pursuit rather than lose the sound  
Of his alluring Pipe. The harmless Lamb  
Forgot his Nature, and forsook his Fear,  
Stood by the Wolf, and listened to the sound.  
He could command a general peace, & nature would obey,  
This Youth, this Youth is dead, The same disease  
That carried sweet Orinda from the World,  
Seized upon Astrophil— Oh let these Tears  
Be offered to the Memory of my Friend,  
And let my Speech give way a while to Sighs.  Corydon. 
Weep on Menalcas, for his Fate requires  
The Tears of all Mankind, General the loss  
And General be the Grief. Except by Fame  
I knew him not, but surely this is he.  Spencer and johnson. 
Who Sung Learned Colin's, and great Aegon's Praise,  
Dead ere he lived, yet have new Life from him.  Rochester. 
Did he not mourn lamented Byon's Death,  
In Verses equal to what Byon wrote?  Menalcas. 
Yes this was he (oh that I say he was)  
He that could sing the Shepherd's deeds so well,  
Whether to praise the good he turned his Pen,  
Or lashd th'egregious follies of the bad,  
In both he did excel—  
His happy Genius bid him take the Pen,  
And dictated more fast than he could write:  
Sometimes becoming negligence adorned  
His Verse, and nature showed they were her own,  
Yet Art he used, where Art could useful be,  
But sweated not to be correctly dull.  Corydon. 
Had Fate allowed his Life a longer thread,  
Adding experience to that wondrous fraught  
Of Youthful vigour, how would he have wrote!  Mr. Dryden. 
Equal to mighty Pan's Immortal Verse,  
He that now rules with undisputed sway,  
Guide of our Pens, Crowned with eternal Bays.  Menalcas. 
We wish for Life, not thinking of its Cares;  
I mourn His Death, the loss of such a Friend,  
But for himself he died in the best hour,  
And carried with him every Man's applause.  
Youth meets not with detractions blotting hand,  
Nor suffers aught from Envies cankered mind.  
Had he known Age, he would have seen the World  
Put on its ugliest, but its truest Face,  
Malice had watched the droppings of his Pen,  
And Ignorant Youths who would for Critics pass,  
Had thrown their scornful Jests upon his Verse,  
And censured what they did not understand.  
Such was not my Dear Astropbell: He's dead,  
And I shall quickly follow him, what's Death,  
But an eternal sleep without a Dream?  
Wrapped in a lasting darkness, and exempt  
From hope and fear, and every idle passion.  Corydon. 
See thy complaints have moved the pitying Skies,  
They mourn the death of Astrophil in Tears.  
Thy Sheep returned from straying, round they gaze,  
And wonder at thy mourning. Drive 'em home▪  
And tempt thy troubled mind with easing sleep,  
To morrows cheerful Light may give thee comfort.   

On the Kings-House Now Building at WINCHESTER.  
AS soon as mild Augustus could assuage  
A bloody civil Wars licentious Rage,  
He made the Blessing that He gave increase,  
By teaching Rome the softer Arts of Peace.  
The Sacred Temples wanting due repair,  
Had first their Wounds healed with a Pious care,  
Nor ceased his Labour, till proud Rome out-vy'd  
In glory all the subject World beside.  
Thus Charles in Peace returning to our Isle,  
With Building did his regal cares beguile.  
London almost consumed, but to a Name,  
He rescues from the Fierce devouring Flame;  
It's Hostile Rage the burning Town enjoyed,  
For he restored as fast as that destroyed:  
'Twas quickly burnt, and quickly built again,  
The double Wonder of his Halcyon Reign.  
Of Windsor Castle (his belov'd Retreat  
From this vast City troublesomely great,)  
'Twas Denham 
* In his Cooper's Hill.  only with success could write,  
The Nation's Glory and the King's Delight.  
On Winchester my Muse her Song bestows,  
She that small Tribute to her Country owes.  
To Winchester let Charles be ever kind,  
The youngest Labour of his fertile mind.  
Here ancient Kings the British Sceptre swayed,  
And all Kings since have always been obeyed.  
Rebellion here could ne'er erect a Throne,  
For Charles that Blessing was reserved alone.  
Let not the stately Fabric you decree,  
An Immature, abortive Palace be,  
But may it grow the Mistress of your Heart,  
And the full Heir of Wren's stupendous Art.  
The happy spot on which its Sovereign dwells,  
With a just pride above the City swells,  
That like a Loyal Subject chose to lie  
Beneath his Feet with humble modesty.  
Fast by a Reverend Church extends its Wings,  
And pays due homage to the best of Kings.  
Nature, like Law, a Monarch will create  
He's situated Head of Church, and State.  
The graceful Temple that delights his Eye,  
(Luxurious toil of former Piety)  
Has vanquished envious times devouring rage,  
And, like Religion, stronger grows by Age.  
It stems the Torrent of the flowing years,  
Yet gay as Youth the Sacred Pile appears.  
Of its great Rise we no Records have known,  
It has outlived all memory but its own.  
The Monumental Marbles us assure,  
It gave the Danish Monarch's Sepulture.  
Here Death himself inthrones the Crowned Head,  
For every Tombs a Palace to the Dead.  
But now my Muse, nay rather all the Nine,  
In a full Chorus of applauses join,  
Of your great Wiccam,  
Wiccam whose Name can mighty thoughts infuse,  
But naught can ease the travail of my Muse,  
Pressed with her Load, her feeble strength decays,  
And she's delivered of abortive praise.  
Here he for Youth erects a Nursery 
* The Coll. near Winchester and new Coll. in Oxon.   
The great Coheiress of his Piety;  
Where they through various Tongues coy knowledge trace,  
This is the Barrier of their learned Race,  
From which they start, and all along the way  
They to their God, and for their Sovereign pray,  
And from their Infancies are taught t'obey.  
Oh! may they never vex the quiet Nation,  
And turn Apostates to their Education.  
When with these objects Charles has filled his sight,  
Still fresh provoke his seeing Appetite.  
A healthy Country opening to his view,  
The cheerful Pleasures of his Eyes renew.  
On neighbouring Plains the Courser's winged with speed,  
Contend for Plate the glorious Victors Meed.  
Over the Course they rather fly than run,  
In a wide Circle like the radiant Sun.  
Then fresh delights they for thei● Prince prepare,  
And Hawks (the swift-winged Coursers of the Air,)  
The trembling Bird with fatal haste pursue,  
And seize the Quarry in their Master's view.  
Till like my Muse, tired with the Game they'v● found,  
They stoop for ease, and pitch upon the Ground.  
FINIS.   

THE EPISODE Of the Death of CAMILLA Translated out of the Eleventh Book of Virgil's Aeneids; By Mr. STAFFORD.  

ON Death and wounds Camilla looks with joy,  
Freed from a Breast, the fiercer to destroy.  
Now, thick as hail, her fatal darts she flings;  
The two edged Axe now on their Helmets rings,  
Her shoulders bore Diana's arms and bow:  
And if, too strongly pressed, she fled before a foe,  
Her shafts, reversed, did death and horror bear,  
And found the rash; who durst pursue the fair.  
Near her fierce Tulla, and Tarpeia ride,  
And bold Larina conquering by her side.  
These above all Camilla's breast did share;  
For Faith in peace, and gallantry in War.  
Such were the Thracian, Amazonian bands,  
When first they died with blood Thermodoons sands,  
Such Troops Hippolita herself did head,  
And such the bold Penthe●ilea led,  
When Female shouts alarmed the trembling fields,  
And glaring beams shot bright, from Maiden shields.   

Who gallant Virgin, who by thee were slain?  
What gasping numbers strewed upon the Plain?  
Thy Spear first through Eumenius passage found;  
Whole torrents gushed out of his mouth and wound;  
With gnashing Teeth, in pangs, the Earth he tore,  
And rolled himself, half deluged, in his gore.   

Then hapless Pagasus, and Lyris bleed:  
The latter reining up his fainting Steed;  
The first as to his aid he stretched his hand,  
Both at an instant, headlong, struck the sand.  
Her Arm Amastrus next, and Tereas feel.  
Then follows Chromis with her lifted Steel.  
Of all her Quiver not a shaft was lost,  
But each attended by a Trojan Ghost.  
Strong Orphi●us, (in Arms unknown before,)  
In Battle, an Apulian courser bore.  
His br●wny back wrapped in a Bullocks skin,  
Upon his head a Wolf did fiercely grin,  
Above the rest his mighty Shoulders show,  
And he looks down upon the Troops below:  
Him (and 'twas easy, while his fellows fled)  
She struck along, and thus she triumphed while he bled.  
Some Coward Game thou didst believe to chase,  
But, Hunter, see a Woman stops thy race.  
Yet to requireing Ghosts this Glory bear,  
Thy Soul was yielded to Camilla's Spear.   

The mighty Butes next receives her lance,  
(While Breast to breast the Combatants advance,)  
Clanging between his armours joints it rung  
While on his Arm his useless Target hung.   

Then from Or●●lochus, in Circle runs,  
And follows the pursuer, while she shun●.  
For still with craft a narrow ring she wheels,  
And brings herself up to the Chase●s heels.  
Her Axe regardless of his Prayers and groans,  
She crashes through his Armour, and his bones.  
Redoubled strokes the vanquished Foe sustains,  
His ●eeking face bespattered with his brains.   

Chance brought unhappy Aunus to the place:  
Who stopping short, stared wildly in her face.  
Of all to whom Liguria fraud imparts,  
While fate allowed that fraud, he was of subtlest Arts;  
Who, when he saw he cou●d not shun the Fight,  
Strives to avoid the Virgin, by his slight.  
And cries aloud, what courage can you show,  
By cunning horsemanship, to cheat a foe?  
Forego your horse and strive not to betray.  
But dare to combat a more equal way.  
'Tis thus we see who merits glory best.  
So braved, fierce indignation fires her breast,  
Dismounted from her horse, in open field,  
Now, first she draws her sword, and lifts her Shield.  
He, thinking that his cunning did succeed,  
Reins round his Horse, and urges all his speed,  
His golden rowels hidden in his sides:  
When thus his useless fraud the Maid derides:  
Poor Wretch, that swellest with a deluding pride,  
In vain thy Country's little Arts are tried.  
No more the Coward shall behold his Sire,  
Then plies her feet, quick as the nimble sire,  
And up before his horse's head she strains;  
When, seizing, with a furious hand, his reins,  
She wreaks her fury on his spouting veins.  
So, from a Rock, a Hawk soars high above,  
And in a Cloud with ease o'ertakes a Dove.  
His pounces so the grappled foe assail;  
And Blood and feathers mingle in a hall.   

Now jove, to whom mankind is still in sight,  
With more than usual care beholds the fight.  
And urging Tarcho● on, to rage inspires  
The furious deeds to which his blood he fires.  
He spurs through slaughter, and his failing Troops,  
And with his voice lifts every arm that droops.  
He shouts his name in every Soldier's ears:  
Reviling thus the spirits, which he cheers.   

Ye shamed, and ever branded Tyrrhene Race,  
From whence this terror, and your Soul's so ●ase▪  
When tender Virgins triupmh in the field,  
Let every brawny arm, let fall his shield,  
And break the Coward sword he dare not wield.  
Not thus you fly the daring she by night;  
Nor Goblets, that your drunken throats invite.  
This is your choice, when with lewd Bacchanals,  
you're called by the fat Sacrifice, it waits not when it calls.  
Thus having said,—  
He Spurs, with headlong rage, among his Foes,  
As if he only had his life to lose.  
And meeting Venulus his arms he clasps;  
The armour dints beneath the furious grasps.  
High from his Horse the sprawling Foe he rears,  
And thwart his Courser's neck the prize he bears.  
The Trojans shout, the Latins turn their eyes;  
While swift as lightning airy Tarchon flies.  
Who breaks his lance, and veiws his armour round,  
To find where he might fix the deadly wound;  
The Foe writhes doubling backward on the horse,  
And to defend his throat opposes force to force.  
As when an Eagle high his course does take,  
And in his gripeing talons, bears a Snake,  
A thousand folds the Serpent casts and high  
Setting his speckled Scales, goes whistling through the sky,  
The fearless Bird, but deeper goars his prey,  
And through the Clouds he cuts his airy way,  
So from the midst of all his enemies,  
Triumphant Tarchon snatched and bore his prize.  
The Troops, that shrunk, with emulation, press  
To reach his danger now, to reach at his success.   

Then Aruns doomed, in spite of all his art,  
Surrounds the nimble Virgin with his dart.  
And, slily watching for his time, would try  
To join his safety with his treachery.  
Where e'er her rage the bold Camilla sends,  
There creeping Aruns silently attends.  
When tired with conquering, she retires from fight,  
He steals about his horse, and keeps her in his sight.  
In all her rounds from him she cannot part,  
Who shakes his treacherous, but inevitable Dart   

Chloreus, the Priest of Cybele, did glare  
In Phrygian Arms remarkable afar.  
A foaming Steed he road, whose haunches case,  
Like Feathers, Scales of mingled Gold and brass.  
He clad in foreign Purple, gauled the Foe  
With Cretan arrows from a Lycian bow.  
Gold was that bow, and Gold his Helmet too:  
Gay were his upper Robes, which loosely flew.  
Each Limb was covered o'er with something rare,  
And as he fought he glisterens every where.   

Or that the Temple might the Trophies hold,  
Or else to shine herself in Trojan Gold:  
Him the fierce Maid pursues through all her Foes;  
Regardless of the life she did expose:  
Him eyes alone, to other dangers blind,  
And Manly force employs, to please a Virgin's mind.   

His Dart now Aruns, from his ambush, throws;  
And thus to Heaven he sends his coward Vows.   

Apollo, oh thou greatest Deity!  
Patron of blessed Soract●●, and of 〈◊〉;  
(For we are all thy own, whole Woods of pine  
We heap in Piles, which to thy glory shine.  
And when we trample on the ●i●e, our soles,  
By thee preserved, contemn the glowing coals;)  
My mighty Patron make me wipe away  
The shame of this dishonourable day.  
Nor spoils nor triumph from the deed I claim  
But trust my future actions with my fame.  
This raging Female Plague but overcome,  
Let me return unthanked, inglorious home,   

Apollo heard, to half his prayer inclined:  
The rest he mingles with the fleeting wind.  
He gives Camilla's ruin to his prayer:  
To see his Country, that was lost in Air.  
As singing o'er the field, the Javelin flies,  
Upon the Queen the army turn their eyes.  
But she, intent upon her golden prey,  
Nor minds, nor hears it cut the hissing way,  
Till in her side it takes its deadly rest:  
And drinks the Virgin purple of her breast.  
The trembling Amazons run to her aid,  
And in their arms they catch the falling Maid.  
More quick than they the frighted Aruns flies,  
And feels a Terror mingled with his joys.  
He trusts no more his safety to his Spear;  
Even her expiring courage gives him fear.   

So runs a Wolf smeared with some Shepherd's blood,  
And strives to gain the shelter of a Wood,  
Before the Darts his panting sides assail,  
And claps between his Legs his shivering Tail,  
Conscious of the Audations bloody deed,  
As Aruns seeks his Troops stretched on his speed,  
Where in their Centre, quaking, he attends,  
And skulks behind the Targets of his friends.   

She strives to draw the Dart but wedged among  
Her Ribs, deep to the wound the Weapon clung;  
Then fainting rolls in death her closing eyes,  
While from her Cheeks the cheerful beauty flies.  
To Acca thus she breathes her las● of breath:  
Acca that shared with her in all, but death:  
Ah Friend! you once have seen me draw the bow,  
But fate and darkness hover round me now.  
Make haste to Turnus, bid him bring with speed  
His fresh Reserves, and to my charge succeed,  
Cover the City, and repel the foe.  
Thus having said, her hands the reins forego;  
Down from her Horse she sinks, then gasping lies,  
In a cold sweat, and by degrees she dies:  
Her drooping neck declines upon her breast,  
Her swimming head with slumber is oppressed;  
The lingering soul th' unwelcome doom receives,  
And murmuring with disdain, the beauteous Body leaves.   
FINIS,