The Odes, Satyrs, and Epistles of Horace Done into English.

ODE XII. To MECAENAS. Wars and Battles are not a Subject fit for his Muse, but Love and Lycimnia he can Sing.

THe stout Numantines lingring fall, The Romans Scourge dire Hannibal, No more, my Learned Lord, require, No more the rough Sicilian Flood Dy'd deep with Carthaginian Blood, To fit to the soft Measures of the Lyre:

Nor Centaurs eager to engage, Nor fierce Hylaeus Drunken rage, Nor Giants tam'd by Hercules Who dar'd to reach old Saturn's Crown,

Who dar'd to storm his shining Throne And break the quiet of eternal Ease:

And you, my Lord, with equal flights Great Caesar's Wars, and conqu'ring Fights Shall better tell in lasting Prose; And how in Triumph Caesar led The Persian and the haughty Mede, And scatter'd Slavery midst his threatning Foes:

My Muse bids me imploy my Verse, And soft Lycymnia's Songs rehearse; She bids me all her Charms improve, Her taking Air, her shining Eyes, By Nature fitted to surprize; And mind still faithful to thy mutual Love:

Lycimnia fair, the Pride of Rome, How well her Charms and Arts become! How movingly her Beauty pleads, When toying she and richly drest At Great Diana's solemn Feast, Begins the Dance, and leads the Beauteous Maids?

For what Achemenes possest, And for the Wealth of all the East, Yould you, my Lord, exchange your Fair? Yould you, my Lord, for all the Gold The stuft Arabians houses hold Exchange one braid of sweet Lycimnia's hair?

When e're her head she gently moves, To take the earnest of her Loves

A blamy Kiss; or else denies With easy forwardness, which shows That She is more content to lose Than He that begs to win the Prize; Or when She runs to snatch an eager Kiss.