Poetical recreations consisting of original poems, songs, odes, &c. with several new translations : in two parts / part I, occasionally written by Mrs. Jane Barker, part II, by several gentlemen of the universities, and others.

The Fourth ELEGY OF CORNELIUS GALLUS, OF THE Miseries of Old Age. Made English.

The Poet gives an account of his loving a Young Maid very privately in his Youth, but at last how in his sleep he discover'd what so carefully he hid waking; and concludes the Elegy with the consideration of the inconveniences he lyes under by being Old.

YET let me one more Youthfull Tale reherse, And please my self with my own empty Verse; For idle Stories very well agree With antick Dotage, and stupiditie. And as in changing years, Mankind is found With various Chances always turning round: Ev'n so those times which most inverted be, Seem most obliging to the Memorie.

A Virgin once there was, whom Heav'n design'd, Both by the Graces of her Face and Mind, To be adapted, so, that she became By Nature Candid, as she was by Name. Her pure white Hair around her shoulders spread, Fell decently in Ringlets ••rom her Head: But ev'ry Part of her was bright, and fair, And full as charming as her Flaxen Hair. The tune••ull Lyre s••e touch't with such a grace, That it confirm'd the Conquests of her Face; While from the trembling strings soft Tunes did flow, With Love and Ioy my Heart did tremble too. But when she joyn'd thereto some witty Song, How many Cupids sate upon her Tongue! Each moving word, each accent sent a Dart, And ev'ry Note did wound my melting Heart. But then she Danc'd with such a charming Air, As made each Part appear more killing fair. No stratagems of Love by her e'er mist, Nor had I pow'r my Ruin to resist: But did with secret Pleasure entertain The silent and the smooth delightfull pain.

Thus one bright Maid, but yet assisted well With such Auxiliaries, as nought could quell, In various ways storm'd my defenceless Mind; Nor did one Charm the least resistance find. And when by down-right ••orce she was possest, She ne'er forsook my entertaining Breast. Once seen, her beauteous form still stay'd with me, And day and night dwelt in my Memorie. How o••t has my Imagination brought Her absent Image present to my Thought. Fix't, and intent, how oft (though far remov'd) Have I suppos'd I talk'd with her I lov'd. How oft with Pleasure would my Fancy bring Those Songs to mind which she was wont to sing; And how I strove my Voice, like hers, to frame, And bin delighted as it were the same. Thus I my self, against my self took part, And, like a cheat, play'd booty with my Heart. How oft, alas, have my own Friends believ'd, That I of Sense and Reason was depriv'd, Nor can I think that they were much deceiv'd.

For neither was I perfectly compos'd, Nor altogether with my Frenzy doz'd.

But 'tis a mighty trying hardship sure, A stifled secret Passion to endure; The furious Rage no mortal Breast can bear, But in the Countenance it will appear, Though never so reserv'd, though never so severe. By the alternate change of White and Red, A true Discovery is quickly made. Th' affected Face do's the hid thoughts declare, Blushing bespeaks a shame, and Paleness fear: But ev'n my Dreams betray'd my Privacie, My Treach'rous Dreams did faithless prove to me: They did my sad Anxieties reveal, Nor cou'd ev'n Death like sleep, my Cares conceal: For when my Senses all inclin'd to Rest, And by oblivious slumbers were possest, Ev'n then my conscious Tongue my Guilt con••est.

As on the Grass, sleeping I once was lay'd, Close by the Father of my lovely Maid;

And while He thoughtless slumber'd by my side, Thus, in my Dreams disturb'd, aloud I cry'd, Hast, hast, my Candida, make no delay, Our secret Love is ruin'd if you stay: For see, already peeps the prying Sun, If w'are discovered we are both undone; The envious Light will our stol'n Loves betray, Hast, hast, my Candida, make hast away.

Awak'd at this, and in a strange surprize, He started up, and scarce believ'd his Eyes: And for his Daughter, search't the place around, But only I was sleeping on the ground; Gasping and panting there he saw me lye, Transported from my self with Ecstasie. With what vain Dreams, said he, art thou possest? Or has a real Love usurp'd thy Breast? And so thy sleep discovers a true jest. Some waking Objects, I indeed conclude, Upon thy gentler slumbers may intrude, And fleeting Forms thy Wishes do delude. Astonish't! he my broken Murmurs watch't, And each imperfect dropping Sentence catch't:

Gently his right hand on my Heart he lay'd, And, in soft Whispers, more inquiries made: For so apply'd, the sly Inquirers Hand From sleeping Breasts can any thing command; And the loos'd Tongue do's by that Charm impart The very choicest secrets of the Heart.

Thus I, who did so long my self behave So well, and seem'd to all so good, so grave; And had a sober Reputation kept, My self, at last, discover'd, as I slept.

And now has my whole wretched Life been free From imipous actions, and impuritie. Nor can I say I did these Crimes prevent, So much by Vertue, as by Accident. But now I'm Old, and want the strength to sin, It pleases me my Youth hath guiltless been. Yet what just Praise deserv'dly due can be To Aged Men, that they from Vice are free, Since 'tis not choice, but meer necessitie? Strength only sleeps, but Inclinations wake, And not they Vice, but Vice do's them forsake:

Pleasure deserts their unperforming Years, And leaves them fill'd with painfull toils, and cares: They are but glad they do no evil fact, Only because they want the Pow'r to act.

'Tis worth our while, if we consider too, What penalties in Age we undergo; How that, with it, a slow repentance brings•• For all our youthfull faults, and riotings; How many sighs, and groans it pays, and tears, For dear-bought Luxury of younger years. But though Mankind will sometimes strive in vain, Youth's boyling Heats to curb, and to restrain; Yet oft-times knowingly, and with much skill, We cunningly persist in doing Ill. W'are oft industrious, studious, wise, and nice, In the performance of some witty Vice: But Vice sometimes bears us by force away, Yet oft its call more eas'ly we obey. Oft, though we cannot compass what we will, We are Well-wishers to some pleasing Ill.