Horace, a French tragedy of Monsieur Corneille Englished by Charles Cotton, esq.

SONG.

(1.)

BEauty that it self can kill, Through the finest temper'd steel, Can those wounds she makes endure, And insult it o're the brave, Since she knows a certain cure, When she is dispos'd to save: But when a Lover bleeding lies, Wounded by other Arms, And that she sees those harms, For which she knows no remedies; Then Beauty Sorrows livery wears, and whilst she melts away in tears, Drooping in sorrow shews Like Roses overcharg'd with morning dews.

(2.)

Nor do women, though they wear▪ The most tender character,

Suffer in this case alone: Hearts enclos'd with iron Walls, In humanity must groan When a noble Hero falls. Pitiless courage would not be An honour, but a shame; Nor bear the noble name Of valour, but barbarity; The generous even in success Lament their enemies distress: And scorn it should appear Who are the Conquer'd, with the Conqueror.

CHORVS.

These are th' effects of War, and these The Sacrifices are to peace; Peace, that once broken in her right Nothing but blood can reunite: Wars Hand-maid Fury prompts her on, To blood and devastation; Nor ceases till whole Countries lye, O'rewhelm'd in one calamity, Or though the Sacrifice for all, Should in one single person fall; Yet in whatever falls amiss, The publick still a loser is. And as a radiant Gem out-vies Masses of Metal in her prize: One Heroes loss, more loss includes, Then vile Plebeian multitudes. A bloody Combat here we see Fought for an empty sovereignty, When they lie weltring on the sand, Who were the fittest to command. Thus man himself still undermines, And blind destroys his own designs,

For the victorious here may boast An Empire when the Ruler's lost. Who now with better title may, Rome's Battels, or her Scepter sway, Then they who her brave Champions were? Princes then truly Princes are, When with a Parents love they stake Their persons for their peoples sake. Oh Rome! Oh Alba! what desire First set your noble breasts on fire! Or what offence engag'd your steel, The blood of your Allies to spill! 'Tis vitious Envy that has made You thus each others bounds invade; Envy the souls most foul disease, That pines at others happiness, Has made you thus each other hate, Because you both were fortunate. Thus humane glories do procure The dangers which they should secure; Bare reputation will suffice To make a thousand Enemies; And vertue the more bright she shines, Serves but to light mens dark designs, To give their malice aim, and guide The poyson'd dart into her side; 'Tis emulation animates The fury, and the spleen of States; And till that emulation cease The world will never be at peace. The Combat now is overblown, But the event not truly known. The Scene will soon unto your eye Open the Tragick History. Then they who may the Conquest boast, When they consider what it cost, Shall find the triumph they have got▪ So empty and so dearly bought,

That though success have serv'd their will, Their woes have made them equal still.