To make a good fire of dry wood, when come

From his hard labour weary home; The wanton cattle in their booths to tie,

Stripping their stradling udders dry, Drawing the inust from forth the cleanly vats,

To wash down their unpurchas'd cates; Mullet or thornback cannot please me more,

Nor oysters from the Lucrine shore, When by an eastern tempest they are tost, Into the sea, that sweeps this coast. The turkey fair of Afric shall not come,

Within the confines of my womb :

As olives from the fruitfull'st branches got,
Ionian snites so sweet are not;
Or sorrel growing in the meadow ground,
Or mallows for the body sound;
The lamb kill'd for the Terminalia;

Or kid redeem'd from the wolf's prey.
Whilst thus we feed, what joy 'tis to behold

T'he pastur'd sheep haste to their fold! And th' wearied ox with drooping neck to come Haling th' inverted culture home; And swarms of servants from their labour quit About the shining fire sit!

Thus when the usurer Alphius had said,

Now purposing this life to lead,

I'th' Ides call'd in his money; but for gain
I'th' Kalends put it forth again.

HORAT. ODE IX. LIB. S.

AD LYDIAM.

HOR.

WHILST I was acceptable unto thee,

And that no other youthful arm might cling About thy snowy neck, than mine more free,

More blest I flourish'd than the Persian king.

LYD.

And, for no other woman's beauty, when [come Thou sigh'dst; and when thy Chloe did not Before thy Lydia, thy Lydia then

Flourish'd more fam'd than Ilia of Rome.

HOR.

Now Thracian Chloe is my only dear,
Skill'd on the harp, and skilful in an air!
For whom to die I not at all should fear,

If gentle fate my soul in her would spare.

LYD.

The son of Ornithus the Thurine, me

With equal violence of heat doth move: For whom, with all my heart, I twice would die, So fate would spare the gentle boy, my love.

HOR.

What if our friendship should renew,

And link our loves in a more lasting chain? Yellow-hair'd Chloe should I slight for you,

Should my access to thee be free again?

LYD.

Though than a glorious star he is more bright,
And thou than is the Adriatic sea
More raging, and than spongy cork more light,
Yet should I love to live and die with thee.

To be best pleas'd with thine own state, Neither to wish, nor fear thy fate.

DE FORTUNA; AN SIT CŒCA.

ID. LIB. VIII. EP. 3.

AD MUSAM.

Ir was enough five, six, seven books to fill,
Yea and too much; why, Muse, dost scribble still?
Cease, and be modest. Fame no farther grace
Can add; my book's worn out in every place.
When ras'd Messalla's monumentals must
Lie with Licinus's lofty tomb in dust,

I shall be read, and travellers that come
Transport my verses to their father's home.
Thus I had once resolv'd, (her clothes and head
Besmear'd with ointment) when Thalia said,
"Canst thou, ungrateful, thus renounce thy
rhyme?

Tell me, how would'st thou spend thy vacant time?
To tragic buskins would'st thy sock transfer,
And in heroic verse sing bloody war?
That tyrannous pedants with awful voice
May terrify old men, virgins, and boys:
Let rigid antiquaries such things write,
Who by a blinking lamp consume the night,
With Roman air touch up thy poem's dress,
That th' age may read its manners, and confess :
Thou'lt find thou may'st with trifling subjects play,
Until their trumpets to thy reed give way."

EPIG. EX JOHANN. SECUNDO.

WHY do they speak the goddess Fortune blind?
Because she's only to th' unjust inclin'd;
This reason, not her blindness, does declare,
They only Fortune need who wicked are.

OUT OF ASTREA.

MADRIGAL.

I THINK I could my passion sway,
Though great, as beauty's power can move
To such obedience, as to say,

I cannot; or I do not love.

But to pretend another flame,

Since I adore thy conqu'ring eye,
To thee and truth, were such a shame,
I cannot do it, though I die.

If I must one, or th' other do,
Then let me die, I beg of you.

STANZES UPON THE DEATH OF CLEON:

ID. LIB. VIII. EP. 35.
IN PESSIMOS CONJUGES.

SINCE y'are alike in manners, and in life,
A wicked husband, and a wicked wife,
1 wonder much you are so full of strife!

ID. LIB. VIII. EP. 59.

IN VACERRAM,

Bur antique poets thou admirest none,
And only praisest them are dead and gone.
I beg your pardon, good Vacerra, I
Can't on such terms find in my heart to die.

ID. LIB. VIII. EP. 41.
AD FAUSTINUM.

SAD Athenagoras nought presents me now,
As in December he was wont to do.
If Athenagoras be sad, or no,

Pll see: I'm sure that he has made me so.

ID. LIB. XII. EP. 7.

DE LIGIA.

Jr by her hairs Ligia's age be told, 'Tis soon cast up, that she is three years old.

OUT OF ASTREA.

THE beauty which so soon to cinders turn'd,
By death of her humanity depriv'd,
Like light'ning vanish'd, like the bolt it burn'd:

So great this beauty was, and so short-liv'd, Those eyes, so practis'd once in all the arts,

That loyal love attempted, or e'er knew: Those fair eyes now are shut, that once the hearts Of all that saw their lustre, did subdue.

If this be true, beauty is ravish'd hence,
Love vanquish'd droops, that ever conquered,
And she who gave life by her influence,

Is, if she live not in my bosom, dead.
Henceforth what happiness can fortune send,

Since death, this abstract of all joy has won ; Since shadows do the substance still attend,

And that our good does but our ill fore-run ? It seems, my Cleon, in thy rising morn,

That destiny thy whole day's course had bound, And that thy beauty, dead, as soon as born, Its fatal hearse has in its cradle found. No, no, thou shalt not die; I death will prove, Who life by thy sweet inspiration drew; If lovers live in that which doth them love,

Thou liv'st in me, who ever lov'd most true. If I do live, love then will have it known, That even death itself he can controul, Or, as a god, to have his power shown,

Will that I live without or heart, or soul.

But, Cleon, if Heav'n's unresisted will 'Point thee, of death th' inhuman fate to try, Love to that fate equals my fortune still,

Thou by my mourning, by thy death I die,

Thus did I my immortal sorrows breathe, [woe; Mine eyes to fountains turn'd of springing But could not stay the wounding hand of death; Lament; but not lessen misfortune so.

When Love with me having bewail'd the loss

Of this sweet beanty, thus much did express, "Cease, cease to weep, this mourning is too gross, Our tears are still than our misfortune less."

SONG OF THE INCONSTANT HYLAS.

Since time, that first saw their original, Must triumph in their end, and victor be, Let's have a brave design, and to be free, Cut off at once the briar, rose, and all.

Let us put out the fire love has begot,
Break the tough cord tied with so fast a knot,
And voluntary take a brave adien.
So shall we nobly conquer love and fate,
And at the liberty of choice do that,
Which time itself, at last, would make us do.

OUT OF ASTREA.

If one disdain me, then I fly
Her cruelty, and her disdain;
And e'er the morning gild the sky,
Another mistress do obtain.

They err who hope by force to move
A woman's heart to like; or love.
It oft falls out that they, who in
Discretion seem us to despise,
Nourish a greater fire within,
Although perhaps conceal'd it lies.

Which we, when once we quit our rooms,
Do kindle for the next that comes.

The faithful fool that obstinate
Pursues a cruel beauty's love,
To him, and to his truth ingrate
Idolater does he not prove?

That from his pow'rless idol, never
Receives a med'cine for his fever.
They say the unweary'd lover's pains
By instance meet with good success;
For he by force his end obtains :
'Tis an odd method of address,

To what design so e'er 't relate,
Still, still to be importunate.
Do but observe the hourly fears
Of your pretended faithful lover,
Nothing but sorrow, sighs, and tears,
You in his cheerfull'st looks discover;

As though the lover's sophistry
Were nothing but to whine and cry.
Ought he by a man's name be stil'd,
That (losing the honour of a man)
Whines for his pippin, like a child
Whipp'd and sent back to school again,

Or rather fool that thinks amiss,
He loves, but knows not what love is!
For my part I'll decline this folly,
By others' harms (thank fate) grown wise,
Such dotage begets melancholy,
I must profess love's liberties;

And never angry am at all

At them who me inconstant call.

SONNET.

OUT OF ASTREA

SINCE I must now eradicate the flame,
Which, seeing you, love in my bosom plac'd,
And the desires which thus long could last,
Kindled so well, and nourish'd in the same.

STANZES DE MONSIEUR DE SCUDERY. FAIR nymph, by whose perfections mov'd, My wounded heart is turn'd to flame; By all admired, by all approv'd, Indure at least to be belov'd,

Although you will not love again.
Aminta, as unkind as fair,

What is there that you ought to fear?
For cruel if I you declare,
And that indeed you cruel are,

Why the reproach may you not hear?
Even reproaches should delight,

If friendship for me you have none;
And if no anger, I have yet
Enough perhaps that
may invite
Your hatred, or compassion.
When your disdain is most severe, ́

When you most rigorous do prove,
When frowns of anger most you wear;
You still more charming do appear,

And I am more and more in love. Ah! let me, sweet, your sight enjoy,

Though with the forfeit of my life;
For fall what will, I'd rather die,
Beholding you, of present joy,

Than absent, of a ling'ring grief,
Let your eyes lighten ti!! expiring
In flame my heart a cinder lie;
Falling is nobler than retiring,
And in the glory of aspiring,

"Tis brave to tumble from the sky.

Yet I would any thing embrace,

Might serve your anger to appease ;
And, if I may obtain my grace,
Your steps shall leave no print, nor trace
I will not with devotion kiss.

If (cruel) you will have it so,

No word my passion shall betray; My wounded heart shall hide its woe: But if it sigh, those sighs will blow,

And tell you what my tongue would say,

say

See where a liquid mountain rides,
Made up of innumerable tides,
And tumbles headlong to the strand,
As if the sea would come to land.
A sail, a sail, I plainly spy,
Betwixt the ocean and the sky,
An Argosy, a tall built ship,
With all her pregnant sails a-trip.
Nearer, and nearer, she makes way,
With canvas wings into the bay ;
And now upon the deck appears
A crowd of busy mariners.
Metbinks I hear the cordage crack,
With furrowing Neptune's foaming back,
Who wounded, and revengeful roars
His fury to the neighb'ring shores.
With massy trident high, he heaves
Her sliding keel above the waves,
Opening his liquid armis to take
The bold invader in his wrack.
See how she dives into his chest,
Whilst raising up his floating breast
To clasp her in, he makes her rise
Out of the reach of his surprise.
Nearer she comes, and still doth sweep
The azure surface of the deep,
And now at last the waves have thrown
Their rider on our ALBION.
Under the black cliff, spumy base,
The sea-sick hulk her freight displays,
And as she walloweth ou the sand,
Vomits her burthen to the land.
With heads erect, and plying oar,
The ship-wreck'd mates make to the shore;
And dreadless of their danger, climb
The floating mountains of the brine.
Hark, bark, the noise their echo make
The island's silver waves to shake;
Sure with these throes, the lab'ring main
'S deliver'd of a hurricane.
And see the seas becalm'd behind,
Not crisp'd with any breeze of wind;
The tempest has forsook the waves,
And on the land begins his braves.
Hark, hark, their voices higher rise,
They tear the welkin with their cries;
The very rocks their fury feel,
And like sick drunkards nod and réel.
Louder, and louder, still they come,
Nile's cataracts to these are dumb;
The Cyclope to these blades are still,
Whose anvils shake the burning hill.
Were all the stars enlight'ned skies,
As full of ears as sparkling eyes ;
This rattle in the christal hall,
Would be enough to deaf them all.
What monstrous race is hither tost,
Thus to alarm our British coast
With outcries, such as never yet
War, or confusion could beget.
Oh! now I know them, let us home,
Our mortal enemy is come,
Winter and all his blust'ring train,
Have made a voyage o'er the main.

VOL. VI.

Vanish'd the countries of the Sun,
The fugitive is hither run
To ravish from our fruitfal fields
All that the teeming season yields.
Like an invader, not a guest,
He comes to riot, not to feast;
And in wild fury overthrows
Whatever does his march oppose,
With bleak and with congealing winds,
The Earth in sbining chains he binds ;
And still as he doth farther pass,
Quarries his way with liquid glass.
Hark, how the blusterers of the Bear,
Their gibbous cheeks in triumph tear,
And with continued shouts do ring
The entry of their palsy'u king.
The squadron nearest to your eye,
Is his forlorn of infantry,
Bow-men of unrelenting minds,
Whose shafts are feather'd with the winds.
Now you may see his vanguard rise
Above the earthy precipice,
Bold horse on bleakest mountains bred,
With hail instead of provend fed.
Their lances are the pointed locks,
Torn from the brows of frozen rocks,
Their shields are crystals as their swords,
The steel the rusted rock affords.
See the main body now appears,
And hark the Æolian trumpeters,
By their lioarse levets do declare,
That the bold general rides there.
And look where mantled up in white,
He sleds it like the Muscovite;
I know him by the port he bears,
And his life-guard of inountaineers.
Their caps are furr'd with hoary frost,
The bravery their cold kingdom boasts;
Their spongy plads are milk-white frieze,
Spun from the snowy mountain's fleece.
Their partizans are fine carved glass,
Fringed with the morning's spangled grass;
And pendant by their brawny thighs,
Hang cimeters of burnish'd ice.
See, see, the rear-ward now has won
The promontory's trembling crown,
Whilst at their numerous spurs, the ground
Groans out a hollow murmuring sound.
The forlorn now halts for the van;
The rear-guard draws up to the main;
And now they altogether crowd
Their troops into a threat'ning cloud.
Fly, fly; the foe advances fast
Into our fortress, let us haste
Where all the roarers of the north
Can neither storm, nor starve us forth.
There under ground a magazine
Of sovereign juice is collar'd in,
Liquor that will the siege maintain.
Should Phobus ne'er return again.
'Tis that, that gives the poet rage,
And thaws the jelly'd blood of age;
Matures the young, restores the old,
And makes the fainting coward bold.

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