Sylvæ, or, The second part of Poetical miscellanies

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 incroaching Age, Or Deaths resistless Rage, If you each day A Hecatomb of Bulls shou'd slay, The smoaking Host cou'd not subdue The Tyrant to be kind to you. From Geryons Head he snatch'd the Triple Crown. Into th' infernal Lake the Monarch tumbl'd down.

The Prince, and Pesant of this World must be Thus wa••ted to Eternity.

II

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're, Whose languid stream moves dully by the shore. And in their passage we shall see Of tortur'd 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-liv'd Lord of all, to thy cold Grave. But the imprison'd Burgundy Thy jolly Heir shall straight set free. Releas'd from Lock, and Key, the sparkling Wine Shall flow, and make the drunken Pavement shine.