THE THREE EPISTLES OF Aulus Sabinus: In Answer to as many of OVID.  
Made ENGLISH BY Mr. SALUSBURY.  
LONDON: Printed for Jacob Tonson, at the Judges-Head in Chancery-Lane, near Fleetstreet. M DC LXXXVIII.   

THE PREFACE.  
AUlus Sabinus flourished in the Reign of Augustus, and was contemporary with Ovid. He wrote a Book of Elegies to his Mistress Trisena: Left some unfinished Poems of the Ancient Roman Religion and Ceremonies. He also wrote several Epistles like Ovid's; and these particularly in answer to so many of that excellent Poet's, viz. Hippolytus to Phaedra, Aeneas to Dido, Jason to Hypsipyla, Phaon to Sapph, Ulysses to Penelope, Demophoon to Phyllis, and Paris to OEnone, Of all which the injury of time has deprived us; the three last excepted.  
The Learned Heinsius speaking of these three Epistles, calls them a Treasure; And indeed they express so much of a true Poetic Genius, and maintain their Character so well, that it has been thought fit in this Edition to give an English Version of them: And that the rather, because in all the late and best Editions of Ovid's Works, these Epistles of Sabinus are found inserted.   

EPIST. I. ULYSSES TO PENELOPE.  
The ARGUMENT.  
Ulysses having received Penelope's Epistle, by this answer endeavours to clear her doubts, and calm her thoughts. He tells her with what Fortitude he had gone through the various hardships that had befallen him; and that having consulted Tiresias and Pallas, he was determined to return suddenly to Ithaca, but (to comply with the Oracles) alone, and in disguise. And as he is careful to magnify his Love, and Fears for her, and her extraordinary Constancy and Chastity: So he forgets not to tell her what he saw in Elysium, whither he went to consult Tiresias.  
CHance does at last let sad Ulysses see  
The welcome Lines of his Penelope  
So much thy known dear Characters did please,  
That my long troubles found an instant ease.  
If I am slow, 'tis only to relate  
To thee my many wounds from angry Fate.  
Well might the Greeks indeed have thought me slow,  
When by feigned Madness I delayed to go:  
Nor Will nor Power had I to leave thy Bed,  
But to possess thy Charms from Honour fled.  
You bid me come and never stay to write;  
But adverse Winds detain me from thy sight.  
Troy hinders not, a place once so revered,  
In Ashes now, no longer to be feared.  
Hector and all her mighty men of Fame  
Are now no more, are nothing but a Name.  
By night the Thracian Monarch Rhesus slain,  
I safely to our Camp returned again:  
Leading his warlike Horses my just Spoil,  
The Noble Triumph for the Victor's toil.  
The Shrine wherein the Phrygian safety lay,  
My fortunate contrivance brought away.  
Shut in that Horse that proved the bane of Troy,  
Unmoved I heard Cassandra cry, destroy  
The Engine quick; the Foe your ruin seeks:  
Burn, burn it quite, nor trust the crafty Greeks.  
To me obliged the great Achilles lies  
For his last Rites, his Funeral Obsequies:  
Which action so the Grecian army warms,  
For his recovered Corpse they give his Arms.  
But, what avails! the Sea has all engrossed!  
My Ships, my Arms, and my Companions lost!  
Tho all things else Fate's Cruelties remove,  
They have no power to shake my constant Love.  
That still endures, and triumphs over all;  
Nor can by Scylla, or Charibdis' fall.  
To alter that the charming Sirens fail;  
Nor can the fell Antiphates prevail.  
Not touched by Circe's Arts from her I fled;  
Nay shunned the proffer of a Goddess' Bed:  
Each promised, so she might become my Wife,  
To give me deathless Joys, and endless Life.  
Both I reject, and having thee in view,  
My dangerous Travels cheerfully renew.  
Let not these Female Names beget new fears,  
Alarm thy breast, nor drown thine eyes in tears:  
What Circe, what Calypso could effect:  
Secure of me, all chilling doubts neglect.  
That you my open Soul may naked view,  
I will confess, that I have feared for you.  
When I was told how numerous a resort  
Of eager Rivals crowded in your Court;  
All pale I grew, life left my outward part,  
Scarce the retiring blood preserved my heart.  
Besieged by pressing youthful Lovers round,  
Their Bowls with Wine, their Heads with Roses crowned,  
My growing doubts to wild disorders haste;  
Ah! can I think she still is mine, and chaste!  
If me she wept, her Charms would not be such:  
Could she thus conquer, if she sorrowed much?  
Yet quickly love returns, when I perceive  
How well your chaste your pious Arts deceive  
Your hasty Suitors, and procure delay,  
By night undoing what you wove by day.  
Yet fear I, lest some busy Lover's eyes  
Thee at thy honest Artifice surprise.  
Better by Polyphemus had I died,  
Than know thee sacrificed to Lust and Pride.  
Better to Thracian Arms have fallen a prey,  
Whilst there as yet my wand'ring Navy lay.  
Or then have yielded finally to Fate,  
When I returned safe from the Stygian State.  
'Twas there I saw, among th'immortal Dead,  
My late dear Mother's venerable Shade.  
She told his House's troubles to her Son;  
I grieved she thrice did my embraces shun.  
There too the great Protesilaus I met,  
Who scorning Death, first of the Grecian Fleet  
With Hostile Arms the Phrygian Shores did greet.  
Now happy with his much praised Wife he roves  
Fearless of change, through the Elysian Groves:  
Lamenting not he did so young descend;  
Pleased with an Early since so Brave an end,  
I saw, alas! nor could from tears refrain,  
The noble Agamemnon newly slain.  
That mighty Chief, glorious and safe at Troy,  
Escaping too in the Eubean Sea,  
Where furious Nauplius' horrid Arts had done  
Such ills, for Vengeance for his guilty Son.  
But whilst, rejoicing for his safe return,  
Atrides does his grateful Incense burn,  
By impious hands his sacred Blood is spilled,  
And by a thousand Wounds the Prince is killed,  
This tragic end had the great Hero's Life,  
Contrived and managed by a wretched Wife;  
Pretending Vengeance for his Amorous Crime,  
To cover here's, strikes first and murders him,  
When Victory had blest the Grecian side,  
And we our Trojan Prisoners did divide,  
Great Hector's Wife and Sister I refuse,  
And the old Hecuba do rather choose;  
To her neglected Age I give my Voice,  
Lest Love might seem to mingle in the Choice.  
No longer her in humane form we meet,  
A fearful Omen to my parting Fleet,  
Her enraged heart with grief and rancour burns,  
And suddenly to a mad Bitch she turns;  
In barking, howls, and snarling now she ends  
The loud Complaints her wild Affliction sends.  
As if amazed, the late calm Winds and Sea  
Start into Tempests at the Prodigy.  
By dangerous Storms now am I rudely tossed;  
Now wandering long in unknown Regions lost.  
But if the wise Tiresias can as well  
Our future Joys as Miseries foretell;  
The prophesied Disasters having past,  
I enter on my kinder Fate at last.  
Pallas now joins me on an unknown Coast:  
Safe led by her I can no more be lost.  
Pallas, whom now the first time I salute  
Since Ilium's fall, pleased hears my humble suit.  
What mighty Ills upon the Greeks were brought  
By rash Oilides bold and single fault!  
Not even Tydides' did the Goddess spare,  
His Virtue too did our Affliction share.  
None could his Favour, or his Merit plead,  
But all were punished for the impious Deed.  
Yet happy Menelaus no Chance could harm;  
His beauteous Wife was still a Counter-charm;  
In vain the Winds, in vain the Billows rage,  
While she is there his Passion to assuage.  
Winds had no power his Kisses to restrain,  
Nor his Embraces the tumultuous Main.  
Thrice happy I, did I but travel so,  
For calmed by thee all Seas would gentle grow.  
But since Telemachus with thee I hear  
Is safe, extremely lessened is my care.  
Whose too rash Voyage yet I needs must blame,  
What ever Sparta could or Pylos claim.  
Too weak th'excuse even of his Piety,  
For venturing out in such a dangerous Sea.  
But now the Prophet bids me hope, ill Fate  
Is o'er, and now I thy Embraces wait.  
Alone I come; temper thy rising Joy,  
For all Excesses equally destroy.  
Not open Force, but Management and Art,  
The Gods foretell, will Victory impart.  
Amidst a Feast, and in the heights of Wine,  
Perhaps my just Revenge I may design,  
And make the scorned Ulysses nobler shine.  
Swift fly the hours, and speed that happy day;  
And when arrived, for Ages let it stay:  
That day! that shall restore Joys so long fled,  
And all th'entrancing Pleasures of thy Bed.   

EPIST. II. DEMOPHOON to PHILLIS. By the same Hand.  
The ARGUMENT.  
Phillis, the young Queen of Thrace, impatient of the too long absence of her lately married Husband Demophoon, the Son of Theseus King of Athens, had written him a very passionate Letter, intermixed with Hope, Fear, Love, and Despair. Which Letter Demophoon receiving, he returns this Answer. Wherein owning all her kindness, he shows he loves her with an extreme passion; and that he has no thoughts of any other love: tells her, that the disorders of his Family, requiring more time to re-settle than he expected, are the true and only causes of his stay. He gently blames her doubts, and her impatience; handsomely excuses himself; promises an inviolable Constancy, and that his Affairs settled, he will certainly return.  
WHilst this is from recovered Athens sent,  
Can I forget the Aid my Phillis lent?  
No other Torch has Hymen held for me,  
Ah! were I happy now as when with thee!  
Theseus (whose Noble Blood your mind did move  
Much less than your own free unbiass'd love)  
Hard Fate for us! driven from his Regal Throne,  
But Death has put the bold Usurper down.  
Theseus, who did an equal glory share  
With great Alcides in the toils of War,  
When the brave Heroes, with united strength,  
Broke the fierce Amazonian Troops at length.  
Theseus, who, when the Minotaur he'd slain,  
Did of an Enemy a Father gain.  
Could such a Prince, could such a Parent be,  
Without a Crime, abandoned left by me?  
This, my dear Phillis, is Demophoon's charge;  
On this my Brother loudly does enlarge.  
You press, he cries, for the fair Thracian's Charms,  
And all your courage soften in her Arms.  
Swiftly the while Occasion flies away,  
And our disasters grow by your delay.  
Our Father's Fate, had you made haste on board,  
You had prevented, or with ease restored.  
Should Athens less to you than Thrace appear,  
Or why a Woman more than both be dear?  
Thus rages Acamas. Old Ethra now  
With equal anger bends her wrinkled brow;  
That her Son's hands close not her aged eyes,  
On my delay with feeble wrath she flies.  
I silent stand, while me they both accuse;  
Nor on their anger, but thy absence muse.  
Methinks this moment still I hear 'em say,  
While on thy Coast my shattered Navy lay,  
To Sea, to Sea, the Wether now is kind,  
On board, and spread thy Canvas to the Wind.  
By what, hard Demophoon, art thou so took!  
To thy lost Country, and thy Father look.  
Phillis you love, her your example make,  
Her Country she for Love will not forsake.  
Begs your return, but with you will not stir;  
And does a barbarous Crown to yours prefer.  
Yet in the midst of all, how oft I prayed,  
By adverse winds to be still longer stayed!  
Oft when I parting did embrace thy neck,  
I blessed the Storms that did our parting check.  
Nor to my Father will I fear to own  
What e'er for my sweet Phillis I have done;  
That I avow, or he the story hear,  
Is owing to the merits of my Fair.  
I'll tell him freely that I could not leave  
Thy dear embraces, but my Soul must grieve.  
What rocky breast from such a Wife could part,  
But weeping eyes would speak his sinking heart!  
The Ships she might deny, she does bestow,  
And only bids they be a little slow.  
Nor can he choose but pardon such a Crime.  
Bright Ariadne's not so lost in him:  
Up to the Stars when  he casts his Eyes,  
He sees his shining Mistress in the Skies.  
My Father's blamed, as he his Wife forsook,  
Tho' by a God she forcibly was took.  
Shall my ill Fate too, Phillis, be the same?  
Inquire the cause, nor me unjustly blame.  
Take this sure Pledge for Demophoon's return,  
His heart for you, for you alone does burn.  
Is't possible you ignorant can be  
Of the disasters of my Family?  
I mourn a Parent's Fate, involved in snares:  
And oh that nothing else employed my cares!  
My Soul laments a Noble Brother dead;  
Torn by his frighted Horses as he fled.  
Not to excuse returning have I told  
Some of the many causes that withhold  
Me from thy Ports. Believe it Fortune's crime,  
That I still beg of thee a little time.  
Declining Theseus I must first inter:  
Honour will that to every thing prefer.  
That done, for which my prayers I do repeat  
For leave, to Thrace I instantly retreat.  
I am not false, but still adore thy Charms;  
Nor do I think I'm safe but in thy Arms.  
Not War, nor Tempests, since the fall of Troy,  
Could me in my return so much annoy  
To cause delay: No, that was only seen  
Effected by the kind fair Thracian Queen.  
Cast on thy Shores, thou freely didst supply,  
To all my pressing Wants a Remedy.  
Be still the same: Then nothing shall remove  
The happy Demophoon from Phillis Love.  
What if a ten years' War should now renew,  
That Honour should engage me to pursue?  
Penelope thy great Example be,  
So famed for her Unspotted Chastity.  
Her curious artful Web, ill understood,  
Did her hot Lovers cunningly elude.  
The Woof advanced by day, the nights restrain,  
And ravel to its Primitive Wool again.  
But you with fear, it seems, are almost dead,  
Lest the scorned Thracians should despise your Bed.  
Ah, cruel! could you with another wed?  
Is then your Love, is then your Faith so light?  
Nor can the fear of broken Vows affright?  
Think what your shame, think what your grief will be  
When my returning Sails from far you see.  
Then all in vain repenting tears will flow,  
And own the Constancy you question now.  
Demophoon comes! then in amaze, you'll cry;  
And to my Arms through Winter Storms does fly.  
Ah, why so great a Gild did I contract!  
And what I blamed in him why did I act!  
But Heaven avert: Nor let it  be said,  
That thy fair Virtue could be so misled.  
If such a Fate should on my Phillis light,  
The mighty Load would overwhelm me quite.  
But ah! what direful threatening words are those,  
With which your Letter you unkindly close!  
Abstain, at least till greater Cause you see,  
To charge my House with double perfidy.  
It to desert the Cretan were a fault;  
Yet I've done nothing to be guilty thought.  
Farewell my Hope's best Object, Soul of Love:  
All that obstructs our meeting Heaven remove.  
May every Joy Love can, or Fortune give,  
For ever with my Charming Phillis live.  
The Winds now bear my words; my Person they  
I hope shall safely to thy Arms convey:  
There to repeat another Nuptial day.  
My Wishes are with thee: and that I pause,  
My Duty, and my Honour are the Cause.   

EPIST III. PARIS TO OENONE, By the same Hand.  
The ARGUMENT.  
The forsaken Nymph OEnone having written to Paris, to persuade him to return again to her Embraces, and to send back the Fair Grecian to her Husband: Paris in this Epistle, endeavours to extenuate his fault; laying the blame sometimes on Fate and Fortune, and sometimes on the force of Love. With gentle words he tries to mitigate her Affliction; and concludes advising her to exert her utmost Skill in Magic (for which she was famous) to procure quiet to herself, by reviving his Passion for her, or by extinguishing her own.  
WHilst you of me so justly, Nymph, complain,  
I seek for plausible replies in vain.  
I own my fault, confess my broken Vows,  
Yet my new Love no Penitence allows.  
May this acknowledgement procure thee rest,  
And calm the Tempests of OEnone's Breast.  
I Cupid's Slave his Orders but obey,  
Deserting thee for charming Helena.  
Your Wit and Beauty, Nymph, you know did move  
My first young Wishes, and my bloom of Love.  
My Glorious Birth then troubled not our Joy;  
Love and our Flocks did all our thoughts employ.  
If talk of Greatness mingled with our sport,  
I swore OEnone might adorn a Court.  
Thus, tho' now changed, did then upon thee smile  
Love; whom to Reason what can reconcile?  
When you from Pan, and from the Satyrs fled,  
To take a Private Shepherd to your Bed,  
Was it your Reason then you did pursue?  
Or kept you aught beside your Love in view?  
My present Passion is from Fate; for e'er  
I did of Leda's Beauteous Daughter hear,  
Inspired Cassandra did foretell the thing,  
Paris shall Helena to Ilium bring.  
In every circumstance too well you see  
Th' event has justified her prophecy:  
Except those wounds of mine, which yet remain,  
To bring me to my pitying Nymph again.  
Still I remember sweet O Enone's fear,  
When first we did the strange prediction hear.  
Melting in Tears— Ah then, will Fate remove  
Her Paris from the lost O Enone's Love!  
Must he such Wars, Slaughters, and Ruin bring!  
Be found a Prince thus to involve the King:  
Love taught me threatened dangers to despise:  
And Love equipt me for my Enterprise.  
To him impute the Crime, and me forgive;  
The God, not Paris, does the Nymph deceive.  
Against his Pleasure what can Mortals say,  
Whose Power th'immortal Gods themselves obey?  
When Mighty Jove the fire of Cupid burns,  
Into a thousand various shapes he turns.  
Europa's Bull, and Danae's Golden shower,  
Put each a Lovely Virgin in his Power.  
Not Charming Helen (cause of all thy care)  
Had been so wondrous, so divinely Fair,  
Had not Great Jove the Silver Plumes put on,  
And cheated Leda with a seeming Swan.  
O'er Piny Ida, Jove, an Eagle flies,  
With his loved Ganymede to distant Skies.  
The Valiant Hercules, so fierce and bold,  
For Omphale, did a weak Distaff hold:  
Clad like a Maid he sat him down to spin,  
And Conquering she put on the Lion's Skin.  
Yourself Apollo's proffered Love decline,  
And shun a God's Embraces to be mine.  
Not that a Shepherd with a God can vie,  
But it so pleases Cupid's Deity.  
If my new Passion still thy mind displease,  
Yet this at least methinks might give thee ease;  
That nothing in my Breast could quench thy Love,  
But the Bright Daughter of the awful Jove:  
Tho' yet her boasted Birth and Mighty Race  
Inflame me less than her Enchanting Face.  
I wish I had unskilled in Beauty been;  
Then Rival Goddesses I had not seen:  
Not been obnoxious to great Juno's hate;  
Nor Wise Minerva then should irritate.  
The fatal Apple I to Venus gave,  
Binds me for ever Citherea's Slave.  
She her Son's Darts will distribute around,  
And give him Orders when and where to wound;  
Yet is herself oft wounded by his Dart,  
The Wanton Boy spares not his Mother's Heart.  
Mars to her Bed so often did resort,  
All Heaven at last was witness to their sport.  
Then to attract Anchises to her Arms,  
Appears a Mortal with Celestial Charms.  
What wonder Love should have transported me,  
When his own Mother Venus is not free?  
Wronged Menelaus, tho' hated, Loves; can I,  
On whom she dotes from the Fair Princess fly?  
I see the gathering Clouds from Sparta rise,  
And threatening Tempests thicken in the Skies.  
The Angry Greeks with Armies menace us,  
And Hostile Fleets rig out for Pergamus.  
Let 'em come on, and fight us if they dare;  
To keep this Beauty we accept their War.  
Her Face, OEnone, 's so Divine a thing,  
'Tis worth the Cares and Dangers of a King.  
The Grecian Princes hasting all to Arms,  
Enough evince (if you still doubt her Charms.)  
But her for whom they Fleets and Armies send,  
With greater force the Trojan's will defend.  
If any hope OEnone you retain,  
Of ever freeing me from Helen's Chain,  
Quick to those powerful Herbs and Arts repair,  
By which thou rul'st in Heaven, Earth, Sea, and Air.  
Not Phoebus self is learneder than thee,  
Scarce are the Gods from thy strong Magic free.  
Thou by the mighty workings of thine Art,  
From their pale Orbs the trembling Stars canst part:  
Call down the Moon, the Sun's swift motion stay,  
Protract the darkness, and arrest the day.  
As Bulls I fed, among the Herd there came  
Fierce Lions, made by thy Enchantments tame.  
Swift Simois and Xanthus' Crystal wave  
Forbore to flow, when your Commands you gave.  
Your Father Cebres Waters too submit;  
Nor slight thy Charm, since all acknowledge it.  
Now, wisest Nymph, exert thine utmost Art,  
Quench thy own Fires, or re-inflame my Heart.  
FINIS.