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

THE ODES OF HORACE.

The First Book.

ODE I. To MECAENAS. Several Men have several Delights, Lyrick Poetry is his.

MECAENAS born of Royal Blood, My joy, my guard, and sweetest good; Some love with rapid wheels to raise Olympian dust, and gather praise;

Where Races won, and Palms bestow'd, Do lift a King into a God: And some in high Commands are proud, That great preferment of the Crowd; Blown by their breath the Bubble flies Gaz'd at a while; then breaks and dies: Another ploughs his Fathers Fields, His Barn holds all that Lybia yields; And hopes of Wealth and Worlds of Gain, Shall never tempt him from the Plain; Or draw his fearful Soul to ride In feeble Ships, and stem the Tide: The Merchants tost in angry Seas, That praise their fields, and quiet ease, Yet rigg their tatter'd Ships once more, Untaught, unable to be poor: Some underneath a Myrtle shade, Or by smooth Springs supinely laid, With Mirth, and Wine, and wanton Play, Contract the business of the Day: Shrill Trumpet's sounds and noisy Wars, That Mothers hate, please other Ears: The Hunter doth his ease forgoe, He lies abroad in Frost, in Snow; He soon forgets his pleasing Wife, And all the soft delights of Life, Whilst faithful Hounds a Deer pursue, Or have a raging Bore in view: The purling streams and shady grove The Nymphs and Satyrs dance, and Love, Green Ivy Crowns that only spread Fresh Honors round a learned head,

Shall raise my Name above the Crowd, And lift me up into a God; If Muses kind shall string my Lyre, Or Tune my Pipe, and heats inspire: If You, my Lord, approve my vein, And count me 'mongst the Lyrick train, Secure from Death I'le proudly rise And hide my head in lofty Skies.

ODE II. To AUGUSTUS. Rome hath smarted for killing Caesar, and all their Hopes are in Augustus.

ENough of Thunder, mighty Jove, Enough thy flaming Arm has thrown, Enough hath torn the sacred Grove, Enough amaz'd the frighted Town:

Lest Purrha's age return'd they fear'd Strange Age, when from the former floods Old Proteus drove his scaly Herd To visit Hills, and glide in Woods:

The Fishes hung on lofty boughs, Those Seats well known to Doves before, The spreading Waves snatcht trembling Does, They swam, and look't in vain for shore.

We saw swoln Tiber backward flow, And from the Tuscan waves retire; The Monuments of Kings o'rethrow, And hiss in Vesta's sacred fire:

Whilst He too too Uxorious flood Swoln big with fury cuts along The left-hand banks, though Jove withstood, To right Complaining Ilia's wrong.

The Youth shall hear that impious steel Against our selves we madly drew, Which better haughty Medes should feel, The Youth our faults have left but few.

What God to prop the falling State Shall we invoke with earnest Prayers? How shall our Virgins soften fate, And weary Vesta's deafned Ears?

And whom to expiate Caesar's blood Will Jove appoint? Apollo come, O're thy bright shoulders cast a cloud, And kindly succour guilty Rome.

Or Venus fair, whom Joys attend, Whom Youth flies round, and smiling Grace; Or Father Mars at last descend, And pity thy decaying Race.

Oh long, too long thy fierce delight Hath glutted Thee, whom Wars do please With Darts and Spears, and stern in fight The frightful Moors unlearn'd in ease.

Or whether chang'd to Mortal Eys You seem a Youth, Kind winged God, Nor dost the friendly name despise Of the Avenger of our Caesar's blood.

Oh Late may You return to Jove, May quiet Days extend thy reign, Nor vext at Us in hast remove To visit happy seats again.

Our Empires Father, Prince, and Guide, In Triumphs live; Nor let the Medes Proud in our Spoyls, unpunisht ride Whilst Mighty Caesar bravely leads.

ODE III. To VIRGIL, Taking a Voyage to Athens.

SO may kind Venus guide thy Sails, So Helen's Brothers shining Stars, Secure thee from thy fears: So Eol loose the Southern gales, And all the other Winds controul; As Thou dost waft my Virgil o're, And land him on the Attick shore; Preserving half my Soul.

His Heart was Brass, who first did dare In feeble Ships to stem the Seas, Who weeping Hyades And Monsters saw, nor stoop't to bear.

Who saw the headlong Whirlwinds fight, And South-winds rage, that best can raise Or smooth the Adriatick Seas, Nor dy'd at such a sight.

What Face of Death can move his fears, That saw with an undaunted Eye Vast Rocks and Waves as high: And could restrain his flowing tears?

In vain the Gods designd, in vain, In vain they did the Lands divide By an unfriendly Tide, If impious Ships can cross the Main.

Man forc't by an imperious Will, Do's make all hast to be undone, And very eagerly rush on To court forbidden Ill.

Prometheus brought Celestial fire, Which first by wicked Arts He stole, To give his Clay a Soul, And kindle this absurd desire.

But Vengeance soon pursu'd deceit, For thence began an unknown disease, Thence cruel Feavers first did seize, And took their fatal Heat.

Then lazy Death did mend her pace, Our Life contracted to a span, Death came in hast on Man, And stopt his yet unfinisht race.

With Wings which Nature's Laws deny, First Doedalus did boldly dare To beat the Empty Air, And wander thro the liquid Sky.

Thro Hell the fierce Alcides ran, He scorn'd the stubborn chains of Fate, And rudely broke the Brazen Gate; Nought is too hard for Man.

Grown Giants in Impiety, Our Impious folly dares the Sky, We dare assault Jove's glorious Throne, Nor, still averse to his command, Will we permit his lifted Hand To lay his Thunder down.

ODE IV. He adviseth his Friend to live merrily.

SHarp Winter Melts, Favonius spreads his wing, A pleasing change, and bears the Spring: Dry Ships drawn down from stocks now plow the Main, And spread their greedy Sails again: Nor Stalls the Ox, nor Fires the Clowns delight, And Fields have lost their hoary white:

The Nymphs and Graces joyn'd through flowry Meads By Moon-light dance, and Venus leads: Whilst labouring Cyclops furious Vulcan tires, And heats their Forge with raging fires: Now crown'd with Myrtle, crown'd with rising Flowers From loosned Fields drive easie hours; A Lamb to Faunus, if he most approves A Kid, a Kid must stain the Groves: With equal foot, Rich friend, impartial Fate Knocks at the Cottage, and the Palace Gate: Life's span forbids Thee to extend thy Cares, And stretch thy Hopes beyond thy Years: Night soon will seize, and, You must quickly go To story'd Ghosts, and Pluto's house below, Where once arriv'd, adieu to Wine and Love, And all the soft Delights above: No Feasts, where Thee the happy Lot may place The Just Disposer of the Glass: No Lycidas, no fair surprizing Boy, Or to admire, or to enjoy: No Lycidas, who now our Youth do's charm, And soon shall all our Virgins warm.

ODE V. He rejoyces at his deliverance from his bewitching Mistriss.

WHat tender Youth upon a Rosy bed With Odours flowing round his head Shall ruffle Thee, and loose a heart? For what fond Youth wilt Thou prepare The lovely Mazes of thy Hair, And spread Charms neat without the help of Art?

How oft unhappy shall he grieve to find The fickle baseness of your Mind? When he that ne're felt storms before Shall see black Heaven spread o're with Clouds, And threatning Tempests toss the Floods, Whilst Helpless He in vain looks back for Shore.

Now fondly, now He rifles all thy Charms, He wantons in thy pleasing Arms And boasts his happiness Compleat: He thinks that You will alwaies prove As fair, and constant to his Love; And knows not how, how soon those smiles may cheat.

Ah wretched those who love, yet ne're did try The smiling treachery of thy Eye! But I'me secure, my danger's o're, My Table shows the Cloaths I vow'd When midst the storm to please the God I have hung up, and now am safe on shore.

ODE VI. To AGRIPPA. Varius may record his great Actions, but Love must be the subject of his Songs.

THee great in Arms shall Varius sing, In Conduct wise and bold in fight; What Conquests under your Command, The Legions wan by Sea and Land, The same shall boldly write With quils that dropt from lofty Homer's wing:

My tender Verse must Wars refuse; Spears, Trophys, and the armed field, The fierce Pelides haughty rage That still prest forward to engage, And knew not how to yield, Are things too weighty for my feeble Muse:

Strict Modesty confines my Tongue, And shame forbids me to disgrace A subject high, so near divine As mighty Caesar's praise and thine, And your great names debase By the officious meanness of a Song:

For who in worthy strains can write Mars dreadful in his Iron Coat? Or show the black Merione In Trojan dust severely gay?

Or how Tydides fought By Pallas aid, and matcht the Gods in fight?

I sing soft Boys and Virgin's Wars, How soon they smile, how angry soon With close par'd nails, and tender tooth They all invade the ruffling Youth; Thus urge my frolick on And bid farewell, a long farewel to Cares.

ODE VII. He commends Plancus his Seat, and adviseth him to enjoy his Life.

SOme Mytelen, or famous Rhodes will praise, Or two-sea'd Corinth's honor raise; Some Thebes for Bacchus fam'd in sounding strains, Or flowry Tempe's open Plains: Some fill their lasting Verse with high renown Of Virgin Pallas learned town; And whilst they studiously their praise bestow, To All prefer the Olive bough: To honor Juno, Argos some proclaim, Or raise Mycaene, high in fame; Not patient Sparta, Tempe's fruitful Fields, Nor all that fat Larissa yields, Can raise my fancy; no, I all contemn Compar'd to fair Albunea's stream;

My water'd Orchards, headlong Anio's flood, Or quiet Tibur's shady wood: As fair South-winds will brush the Clouds away, Nor alwaies brood a rainy day, So Plancus, You, what ever life you lead, Or play at home in Tybur's shade, Or fill the shining Camp, and lead the War, With Wine still wisely end thy Care: When Teucer fled distrest by angry fate, His Country, and his Father's hate, With poplar Crowns He grac't his drunken head, And thus to drooping Friends he said, What ever Chance, the kinder Parent sends, Wee'l bravely bear my noble Friends: Adieu fond Care, despairing fears be gone Whilst Teucer guides, and leads you on: Unerring Phoebus says our hands shall raise A City in another place, Another Salamis: Cheer, rouze your force, For We have often suffer'd worse: Drink briskly round, dispell all cloudy sorrow, Drink round, Wee'l plow the Deep to mor∣row.

ODE VIII. To LYDIA, Who had made Lybaris Effeminate.

TEll, Lydia, tell me this, By all the Gods I do conjure Thee tell Why Thou wilt ruine Lybaris By loving of the Youth too well:

Why doth He hate the Plain That can endure the fury of the Skies, The burning Sun, the Wind and Rain: By Nature fitted for the Prize?

Why now refuse to ride Amidst his Equals, and with graceful force The fury of his Coarser guide, And bravely sit the manag'd Horse?

Why Yellow Tyber's stream Doth He now hate? why fear to touch the flood, And why the shining Oyl contemn With greater care than Viper's blood?

Why do his Arms no more Look black with blows and honourable scars Which once with just applause He bore, When Fame attended on his Wars?

So justly prais'd for Art, So fam'd for strength, when thro the wondring throng Beyond the bounds he threw the Dart, Which swiftly bore his praise along.

Why doth he now lie hid, As once complying with his Mother's fears The Great, the Brave Achilles did, Lest Manly dress should force him on to Wars?

ODE IX. He adviseth his Friend to live merrily.

SEE how the Hills are white with Snow, The Seas are rough, the Woods are tost, The Trees beneath their burthen bow, And purling streams are bound in frost.

Dissolve the Cold with noble Wine, Dear Friend, and make a rouzing fire, 'Gainst Cold without, and Care within, Let both with equal force conspire.

With all things else, come, trust the Gods, Who when they shall a calm restore, And still the storms that toss the floods; Old Oaks, and Ashes shake no more.

All Cares, and Fears are fond and vain, Fly vexing thoughts of dark to-morrow; What Chance scores up, count perfect gain, And banish business, banish sorrow.

Whilst Thou art green, and gay, and Young, E're dull Age comes, and strength decays, Let mirth, and humor, dance, and song Be all the trouble of thy days.

The Court, the Mall, the Park, and Stage, With eager thoughts of Love pursue; Gay Evening whispers fit thy Age, And be to Assignation true.

Now Love to hear the hiding Maid, Whom Youth hath fir'd, and Beauty charms By her own tittering laugh betray'd, And forc'd into her Lover's Arms.

Go dally with thy wanton Miss, And from the Willing seeming Coy, Or force a Ring, or steal a Kiss; For Age will come, and then farewel to joy.

ODE X. In praise of Mercury.

SWeet smooth-tongu'd God, wise Atlas Son, Whose Voice did mould Mens flinty hearts, Just risen from their Parent stone, By softning Musick, and instructing Arts.

Thee, Thee my Muse shall gladly sing Thee Post of Heaven, and Guard of Hell; First Mover of the charming string; By waggish Thievery cunning to conceal.

Unless you would restore the Cows Whilst with his voice He dar'd the Child, And threatned with his angry brows, Now He had lost his Bow, Apollo smil'd.

Rich Priam with a Pious hast Whilst You did guide his trembling feet, Thessalian fires securely past; The Camp, and proud Atrides haughty Fleet.

You gently guide the Pious Souls To happy Seats; Your golden rod The flitting Troop controuls; O lov'd, Above, Below, by every God.

ODE XI. He adviseth his Friend to live merrily, and take no Care for to morrow.

AH do not strive too much to know My dear Luconoe, What the kind Gods design to do VVith Me and Thee. Ah do not You consult the Stars, Contented bear thy doom,

Rather than thus increase thy fears For what will come:

Whether they'l give one Winter more, Or else make this thy last; Which breaks the Waves on Tyrrhene shore With many a blast,

Be Wise, and Drink; cut off long Cares From thy contracted Span, Nor stretch extensive hopes and fears Beyond a Man:

E'en whil'st we speak the Envious time Doth make swift hast away, Then seize the present, use thy prime, Nor trust another Day.

ODE XII. To AUGUSTUS.

WHat Man, what Hero, stately Muse, Wilt thou deliver down to Fame? What God for thy great Subject choose? And make the wanton Echo sport his Name

O're Helicon's resounding Grove, O're Pindus, or cold Hoemus hill? Whence list'ning Woods did gladly move And throng'd to hear sweet Orpheus wondrous quill.

He by his Mothers art could bind The headlong fury of the floods; Allay rough storms, appease the wind, And loose from their fixt roots the dancing woods.

Whom first? shall I creating Jove With pious duty gladly sing, That guides below, and rules above, The great Disposer, and the mighty King?

Than He none greater, next him none That can be, is, or was: Supreme he singly fills the Throne; Yet Pallas is allow'd the nearest place.

Thy praises, Bacchus, bold in VVar, My willing Muse will gladly show, And, Virgin, Thee whom Tygers fear; And Phoebus dreadful for unerring Bow.

Alcides Acts my Muse must write, And Leda's Sons; one fam'd for Horse, And one in close and handy fight Of haughty bravery, and of noble force.

When both their Stars at once appear, The Winds are husht, they rage no more; (It is their Will) the Skies are clear, And Waves roul softly by the quiet shore.

Shall Romulus stand next to These? Or furious Tarquin's haughty reign? Or, Numa's Laws and pious Peace? Or Cato's noble fall, and fierce disdain?

The Scauri next, the Great, the Good? Or Regulus his constant Truth? Or Paulus prodigal of his blood VVhen Hannibal o'rethrew the Roman Youth?

Or shall I sing in lasting Verse Fabricius Mind too great for Gold? Or else rough Curius Praise reherse In conduct prudent, and in action bold?

Him and Camillus fam'd for War, In a poor house, and mean estate Want poorly bred on hardy fare, And made them strong to prop Rome's sinking Fate.

Marcellus like an Oak doth rise, And Julius Caesar's light appears As in fair Nights and smiling Skies The beauteous Moon amid'st the meaner Stars.

Great Saturn's Off-spring, mighty Jove, Whose greatest care is Caesar's fate; Serenely You may reign above, VVhilst here Augustus keeps the second state.

And whether He in triumph leads The Parthians that on Latium prest; Or beats the Indians and the Medes, And spoils the distant Nations of the East,

He less than Thou, rules all below, Whilst Thy hot Wheels may shake the Clouds, And dreadful Thunder fiercely throw On Groves prophan'd, and on unhallow'd Woods.

ODE XIII. His Jealousie occasions his disquiet.

VVHen Lydia praises Damon's Charms, His rosy Neck, and waxen Arms, His Air, and rowling Ey; My Mind scarce thinks on what it does, My sickly Colour comes and goes; I rage, I burn, I dy:

I lose my former vital Grace, And tears steal softly down my face; Cold feeble Sweats begin, Cold feeble Sweats that plainly show How fierce the Flame, and yet how slow That melts my Soul within:

I rage to see thy Shoulder stand, Or snowy Breast by drunken hand Too lovingly unkind; Or when the ruffling Amorous youth Hath prest thy Lips with eager Tooth, And left a Mark behind:

Coy Lydia, all thy hopes are vain Still to endure the pleasing pain Of a surprizing Kiss, Which Venus doth in Nectar steep, And hangs upon the balmy Lip, To draw us on to Bliss.

Thrice happy They, that free from strife Maintain a Love as long as life; Whose fixt and bending vows, No intervening Jealousie, No Fears and no Debates untye; And Death alone can loose.

ODE XIV. To the Common-wealth which was now ready to engage in another Civil War.

ANd shall the raging Waves again Bear Thee back into the Main! Oh what dost do! put close to shore, And never trust the Ocean more: Thy Oars are gon, and Southern blasts Have rent thy Sails, and torn thy Masts; Nor without tackling can'st thou brave The violent fury of the Wave: Thy Stern is gone, thy Gods are lost, And thou hast none to hear thy cry, When thou on dangerous Shelves art tost, When Billows rage, and Winds are high: Thô thou art built of noble Wood, And gay as ever cut the Flood; Alas! 'tis but an empty Name, Nor will the Seas regard thy Fame: What fearful Seaman dares rely On Gilded Sterns when Winds are high?

Vain show, not fit to sail but please, An easie prev to angry Seas: Tho often, Thou hast safely past, Thou ow'st a sport to Winds at last: Oh lately Thou my grief and fear, And now my fresh and present Care, Take heed, and fly the flattering Seas Between the shining Cyclades.

ODE XV. Nereus sings the Fall of Troy occasion'd by Paris's Rape of Helen.

VVHen faithless Paris stole away, And carry'd Helen thro the Sea; Then Nereus still'd the Wind: He quieted the angry Seas, And lull'd the Billows into ease, Ease to the Lovers hast unkind.

Whilst thus he sang, Thou carry'st home Thine own, false Youth and Country's doom; VVhom Greeks shall fetch again VVith all their force; and all combine To break that wicked Match of thine, And Ancient Priam's noble reign.

VVhat labor, ah! what dust and heat! And how the Men, and Horses sweat!

Ah Troy what Fates engage! E'en furious Pallas now prepares Her Helmet and her Shield for VVars; Her dreadful Chariot, and her Rage.

In vain shalt thou thy safety place In Venus aid, and paint thy face; In vain adorn thy hair; In vain thy feeble Harp shalt move, And sing soft tales of easie Love, To please the wanton and the fair.

In vain shalt Thou avoid thy Foe, The winged Dart, and Cretan Bow, Things grievous to thy joys: In vain with grief shalt fear to view Stout Ajax eager to pursue, And strive to fly the hated noise.

But ah too late, ah much too late Thou shalt endure the stroak of Fate, And find the Gods are just: Too late Thou shalt deserv'dly feel The force of the revenging steel, And soyl th' Adulterous locks in dust.

Dost Thou not see grave Nestor's age, And fierce Ulysses wilely rage, The ruine of thy State? Nor Teucer's brave undaunted force Nor Stheneleus that drives his Horse As furious and as fast as Fate?

Ah Thou shalt see Merione In Trojan dust severely gay; And fierce Tydides rave; Look how he frowns, and roves about To find the Feeble Paris out; Tydides, as his Father brave.

These feeble Paris thou shalt fly As trembling Does whose fears espy A Lion in a Grove; They leave their Herbs, with panting Breath, They strive to shun pursuing Death; Was this thy Promise to Thy Love!

Achilles angry for a Wrong Shall Troyes approaching Fate prolong; But after certain years Thessalian Flames and Grecian Fire Shall o're the proudest Piles aspire: And fill the Matrons Eyes with Tears:

ODE XVI. A Recantation for a Copy of Iambicks written on a young Lady.

OH Daughter fair, of greater Charms Than those with which thy Mother warms, My guilty Verses how you please Destroy, in Flames (thô scarce so hot As that fierce rage with which I wrote) Or in the angry Seas.

Not Cybele such heat inspires Ne're Phoebus with such raging fires His Prophet's Soul possess't, Not Bacchus self can raise a Man Half so much as Anger can When once it burns the Breast:

Not Tears nor Kindness can asswage, Nor Force nor Danger curb the rage, It ventures boldly on; It scorns to be confin'd by Jove, Or all the Thund'ring Powers above, But by its boundless self alone.

When Bold Prometheus first began, As Story goes, to make a Man From every thing He snatcht a part To furnish out his Clay And to compleat his rude essay, And plac't a Lions fury in the Heart.

'Twas Rage that made the Brothers hate, Rage wrought Thyestes wond'rous fate; 'Twas Rage that kill'd the Child; That fed the Father with the Son, And when it saw the mighty Mischief done, Stood by, and (what was strange) it smil'd.

'Tis that that raises all our Wars, And brings our Dangers and our Fears, When the insulting Foe Whil'st Anger burns, and Rage prevails O're Town and Cities ruin'd Walls Doth draw the heavy Plough.

Then curb thy Anger charming Maid, That once my heedless Youth betray'd, It rais'd a deadly flame; And hurry'd on my thought-less Muse In swift Iambicks to abuse And wanton with thy fame.

But now I do repent the wrong, And now compose a softer Song To make Thee just amends: Recant the Errors of my Youth, And swear those scandals were not Truth; So You and I be friends.

ODE XVII. He Commends his Country Seat, and invites his Mistriss thither.

SWift Faunus oft Lyceum leaves behind, And to my pleasing Farm retreats; And from the Summer heats Defends my Goats, and from the rainy wind.

O're Vales, o're craggy Rocks, and Hills they stray, Seek flowry Thyme, and safely brouze And wanton in the boughs; Nor fear an angry Serpent in the way.

No lurking Venom swells the harmless mould, The Kids are safe, the tender Lambs Lie bleating by their Dams, Nor hear the Evening Wolves grin round the fold.

Soft rural Lays thro every Vally sound; By low Ustica's purling Spring The Shepherds pipe and sing, Whilst from the even Rocks the tunes rebound.

Kind Heaven defends my soft aboads, I live the Gods peculiar Care, Secure and free from fear; My Songs and my Devotion please the Gods.

Here naked Truth, Love, Peace, good Nature reign, And here to Thee shall Plenty flow, And all her Riches show To raise the honor of the quiet Plain.

Here crooked Vales afford a cool retreat; Or underneath an Arbor's shade For Love and Pleasure made, Thou shalt avoid the Dog-Star's raging heat;

And sweetly sing the harmless Wars of Love, How, chast Penelope's desires, And wanton Circe's fires With various heats for one Ulysses strove:

At Noon with Wine the fiery beams asswage Beneath a shade on beds of Grass; And take a Chirping glass, But never drink till Mirth boils up to rage.

Ne're fear thy old Gallant, He's far away, He shall not see, nor seize, nor tear Thy Chaplet from thy Hair; We shall have leisure, and have room to play.

ODE XVIII. Wine moderately taken cheers the Mind, but too much makes men mad.

DEar Varus urge thy wise design, And chiefly plant the noble Vine In Tibur's fertile shade, Or round Catilles Wall, The sober Dotards Cares invade, And numerous mischiefs wait on all.

Pale Cares are rude, And must intrude Untill forgetful Cups go round; And who in drink doth prate of Wars, Of Want, or State affairs? Each head is free, and busie thoughts are drown'd; But Mirth, and Women, Sport, and Play Is all the trouble of the Day.

But lest thy growing Mirth surpass The moderate freedom of a merry glass; Think on the Centaurs blood, Think how those Beasts did fight, With Wine and G,ore their Tables flow'd; And then command thy Appetite.

What wild desires, What Madness fires The Thracian Bruits; how fierce a God, When Drunken They all Right and Just Do measure by their Lust, And eagerly rush on to brawls and blood?

Attending Death strikes every Guest, And none survive the fatal Feast.

Submitting to thy easie yoke I'le freely use, but ne'r provoke Thy rage, obliging God; Nor shall my Tongue reveal To the prophane and common Crowd The mysteries thy boughs conceal:

Preserve my Age From drunken Rage Which blind Self-love does still attend, With Vanity which loves to spread Her Plumes, and raise her Head Above the Common level of her Friend; With these with an uneven pace Walks broaken Faith which lets all Secrets pass, Much more transparent than a glass.

ODE XIX. To GLYCERA. He confesseth his Love.

THe cruel Mother of Desires And wanton Youth reproves, And bids me rais'd by Bacchus Fires Restore my self to my forsaken Loves:

Fair Glycera my wish provokes More white than polisht Marble Stone, Inviting coy, and slippery looks, Coy looks, too slippery to be gaz'd upon.

Now Venus leaves her Cyprian Seats, And fills my Soul with all her heats; Bids me not mind the Parthian force, When dreadful on his Flying Horse He makes his proud, and conquering retreats.

All that I think on must be Love; Bring Wine, my Boys, an Altar rear, A tender Lamb perhaps may move; And make the angry Goddess less severe.

ODE XX. He invites Mecaenas to take a Bottle of Wine at his house.

POor Sabine Wine in Cups as poor Is all my present store; 'Twas bottled then, when You, my Lord, In crowded Theaters ador'd Smooth Tyber's Banks around Return'd the joyful sound, And babling Eccho's the glad shouts restor'd.

Rich Casks from the Colenian Vine, Or smooth Caecubian Wine

Your Cellar store; but meaner juice Contented I must humbly use; My Cups the Formian Hill Nor the Falernian fill; 'Tis Wealth's great priviledge to be profuse.

ODE XXI. He exhorts the Boys and Maids to sing Apollo's and Diana's praise.

YE tender Maids Diana sing; Apollo Praise Ye rising Boys, And both to equal Honors bring; Latone too whom mighty Jove Did deeply love, And show the pious duty of your joys.

Diana sing, Diana loves The purling Springs that softly flow, The pleasing Woods and quiet Groves That shady Erymanthus bears, Or Cragis rears, Or in cold Algidum but slowly grow.

Ye Males with equal Songs reherse The flowry Tempe's open Air, Or sing with an immortal Verse Fair Delos Isle, the happy Earth That gave him birth: His charming Harp, his Bow, and graceful Hair.

He by your Pious Vows o'rcome Pale Famine, and rough Wars shall drive From Caesar, and his happy Rome, And make those raging Plagues infest The distant West: Whilst we in wanton Peace and Plenty live.

ODE XXII. Nothing will hurt a good innocent Man, and a faithful Lover.

A Man unstain'd, and pure from Sin, No Quiver fraught with poyson'd Heads, No Africk Javelin needs, He has a Guard and Arms within:

Whether o're Syrtes wandring sands, Or bruitish Caucasus He goes, Or where Hydaspes flows And swiftly cuts the savage Lands:

Of late, when Cares forsook my head, I stray'd and Sang ith' Sabine Grove My Lalage, my Love, A Woolf saw me unarm'd, and fled:

A Beast so large did never roar Ith' Daunian Woods, and fright the Swains, Nor in her burning Plains The Lyons Dry-Nurse Africk bore:

So place me where no Sun appears, Or wrapt in Clouds or drown'd in tears; Where Woods with whirling Tempests tost: Where no relieving Summers breeze Does murmur thro the Trees, But all lyes bound and fixt in Frost.

Or place me where the scorching Sun With beams too near, doth burn the Zone, Yet fearless there I'le gladly rove, Let frowning, or let smiling Fate Or Curse, or Bless my State Sweet smiling Lalage I'le always love.

ODE XXIII. He tells his young Mistriss that she is now of Age, and need not be affraid of him.

YOu fly me, Maid, as tender Fawns Seek absent Dams in deep despair; O're craggy Rocks, o're Woods and Lawns, And idly fear at every breath of Air.

If Winds do whistle thrô the Grove, Or ruffle Vin••s; they quickly start, If Lizzards in a Bramble move, An Icy trembling runs thrô every part.

Not Tyger I or angry Bore Pursue Thee, Chloe, to destroy, Attend thy Mother's heels no more Now grown mature for Man, and ripe for Joy.

ODE XXIV. He comforts Virgil Mourning for the Death of his Friend.

ANd who can grieve too much? what time shall end Our mourning for so dear a Friend? Melpomene whom Jove hath blest With melting Voice, and mournful Tongue, And with a Harp above the rest Hath grac't; begin the Melancholly Song.

And doth eternal Sleep close Varus Eyes? How soon our Pride and Glory dyes! And where will equal Justice find, Where steddy Faith and naked Truth So generous, and so great a Mind? And where an Equal to the falling Youth?

To be bewail'd by all the Good, the Just He fell; by you, dear Virgil, most; By you, who now dost mourn in vain, By Pious you, who idely pray To have thy Varus back again; He was not lent Thee for a longer stay.

Could you with foster touch than Orpheus move The Harp that drew the list'ning Grove, The Grove that danc't to Tunes he play'd; Yet Blood and Bones would scarce return, Nor Flesh to cloath the empty shade, The Shade that once lay naked in the Urn.

Which Mercury, a hard uneasie God To open Fate, with frightful Rod Hath driven thrô the gloomy Air, And shut amongst the Shades of Night: 'Tis hard: but when We needs must bear, Enduring Patience makes the Burthen light.

ODE XXV. He insults over his Mistriss Lydia, now grown Old.

HA, Ha! Thy Trade at last is done, And all thy wanton Lovers gone! No sighing Youths attend thy State, There's no such rattling at thy dore As Heretofore; And now thy Threshold loves thy quiet Gate.

Now you may rest secure from noise, And sadly dream of former joys; You seldom hear despairing Sighs, My Lydia rests in soft delight All the long night, Whil'st here her faithful Lover pines, and dyes.

Now, now 'tis thine, thy turn to moan The haughty wantons all alone: Now to a shady Grove retire, Whilst Winds as cold as thy dull Age Do fiercely rage And cool the poor remainders of thy fire.

When Lust as fierce as Mares desires Thy ulcerous Heart and Liver fires, Then Thou shalt mourn, but mourn in vain, That wanton Youth seeks blooming Charms, And greener arms; Whilst longing Age still meets with cold disdain.

Then thou shalt think on sweets before, And dye at the despairing thought, No more.

ODE XXVI. He desires his Muse to commend his Friend Lamia.

I, I, the Muses merry Friend Deliver all my busie Cares Unto the wanton VVind; What Tyrant of the North Leads dreadful Armies forth Secure alone, and laugh at others fears.

Sweet Muse that dost delight to sing In strains to Roman Ears unknown, And tast the Virgin spring; Trace o're the shady Bowers, And gather sweetest flowers; And wreath my Lamia, wreath a noble Crown.

What Honors I without thy Aid Bestow to grace my Friends, are vain; My Crowns will quickly fade:

You, Muse, and all the Nine should raise In new Alcaïcks Lamia's praise, And make him live in an unusual strain.

ODE XXVII. He adviseth his Friends not to quarrel in their drink.

AMidst our Cups for mirth design'd To fight and quarrel, suits Rough Thracian Brutes; But not the sober temper of a Friend.

This Savage Humor, Sirs, forbear, And free the modest God From brawls and blood; And let your Humor, as your Wine, be clear.

How Cups and Swords do disagree! Then give your fighting o're, And brawl no more; But sit, and keep your Elbows down like me.

If you will have the glass go round, Then tell from what fair Eys The Arrow flies; What Beauty makes Thee Happy in a wound.

Not tell! nay then the Glass remove, VVhat ever Charms ensnare Thy Heart, are fair; You never sin in a dishonest Love.

Tell boldly, tell thy generous flame, This is no leaky Ear; Nor what I hear Shall my loose Tongue pour out to common fame.

Unhappy Youth! doth She surprize? And have her Flames possess't Thy burning Breast? Thou didst deserve a dart from kinder Eyes.

Undone! for no Thessalian Charms Nor e'en the winged Horse Can break her force, And free Thee from this strange Chimera's Arms.

ODE XXVIII. Architas a Mathematician being Shipwrack't, is re∣presented begging a Seaman to Bury him, and denouncing Vengeance on him if he neglects his Request.

A Narrow Grave by the Matinian Shore Confines Thee now, and thou can'st have no more, Ah learn'd Architas, ah how small for Thee Whose wond'rous Mind could measure Earth and Sea! What Sands make up the Shore minutely teach, And count as far as Number's self could reach! What did it profit that thy nimble Soul Had travell'd Heaven, and oft ran round the Pole, Pursu'd the motions of the rowling Light When Death came on, and spread a gloomy Night!

Wise Tantalus the guest of Gods is dead, And on strange wings the chang'd Tithonus fled: Jove's Friend just Minos hath resign'd his Breath, And Wise Pythagoras felt a second Death; Althô his Trojan Shield, and former State Did prove his Soul above the force of Fate; Withdrew the Mind from Death's black conquering hand, And left but Skin and Bones at Fate's Command; In thy Opinion He did most excell, Discover'd Truth, and follow'd Nature well: But once o're all long Night her shades will spread, And all must walk the Valleys of the Dead: Some Rage spurs on, and Death attends in Wars; The Sea destroys the greedy Marriners: The Young and Old confus'd by Numbers fall, And Death with equal hand doth strike at all: A boysterous Storm my feeble tackling tore, And lest one naked on th' Illyrian shore: But, Seaman, pray be just, put near the Land, Bestow a Grave, and hide my Limbs in Sand: So may the threat'ning East winds spare the Floods, And idely spend their Rage on Hills and Woods; Whilst you ride safely; so from every Shore May Gain flow in, and feed thy growing Store: May Jove and Neptune soft Tarentum's Guard Conspire to Bless, and joyn in one Reward: Perhaps you scorn, and are design'dly base, Thy Crime shall Dam thy undeserving Race; Thy Pride, vain Man, shall on thy self return, Thou naked lie, and be the Publick scorn: My Prayers shall mount, and pull just Vengeance down, No Offerings shall release, now Vows attone:

Thô hasty now, driven by a prosperous gale, ('Tis quickly done) thrice strew the sand, and sail.

ODE XXIX. To ICCIUS. A Philosopher who had left his study, and was resolv'd to go to War.

YOu envy, Iccius, the Arabian's store, Their pretious Gums, and Ivory beds, And art resolv'd for War; For fierce Sabean Kings ne're fought before, And dreadful Medes Your scourges knit, and Roman Chains prepare.

What lovely Virgin when her Lover's kill'd Shall wait on Thee, and call Thee Lord? What perfum'd Royal Boy To shoot in's Fathers Bow exactly skill'd, Attend thy board; And serve Thy pleasure in another joy?

Who now dares say that streams must flow From Mountains tops to Vales below, And not to th' Springs return? Or who deny but Tyber's wondrous stream May Hills contemn, And swiftly roul back to his lofty Urn?

When You can change for Shield, and Sword, and Dart, And the base Drudgery of Wars, VVhat e're contentment brings Panoetus VVorks, thy costly Books of Art And Plato's cares; Tho once I'me sure You promis'd better things.

ODE XXX. He begs Venus to come to the Temple which his Glycera had prepar'd.

KInd Venus leave the Paphian Isle, And live with Glycera a while; A noble Temple she prepares, VVith Incense sweet thine Altars smoak, Thy presence numerous Vows invoak; She calls Thee with a thousand Prayers.

The Graces with their Zones unloos'd, The Nymphs their beauties all expos'd From every Spring, and every Plain; Thy powerful, hot, and winged Boy, And Youth that's dull without thy joy, And Mercury compose thy Train.

ODE XXXI. The Poet's Wish.

VVHat will the Poet beg to day From Phoebus in his hallow'd Shrine, For what doth He design to Pray, Whil'st thus He pours his Holy Wine?

Not fat Sardinia's fruitful Crops, Nor Flocks that hot Calabria feeds, Nor Gold, nor Ivory raise his Hopes; Those toys He neither loves, nor needs.

Not those rich Fields where Lyris runs With quiet Streams, and wanton play, The smoothest of the Ocean's Sons, And gently eats his easie way.

Let him that Has one, Prune his Vine, The Merchant now come safe to Land In golden Gobblets quaff the Wine His Syrian Wares and Voyage gain'd.

He chiefest Darling of the Gods, For twice a year He plows the Main, He rides the Proud Atlantick Floods, And yet makes safe returns again!

Me Chicory and Olives feed, Me loos'ning Mallows nobly feast, They give what Nature's wants can need, And kindly fill the easie Guest.

A Mind to use my present Store With Health and Life, but not so long As brings Contempt, or cramps my Song; Grant this Apollo, and I ask no more.

ODE XXXII. To his Harp, whose assistance he desires.

IF underneath a Myrtle shade, When free from Business, I have play'd What may this year, and more command; Begin, sweet Harp, a Roman strain, Those Measures and those Tunes maintain First struck by great Alcerus noble Hand.

He fierce in Arms, yet mid'st his Cares, When Dangers press't, and noisy Wars, And stain'd his charming Harp with Blood; Or when He stem'd the angry Seas, Or when arriv'd He sate at ease, And laught at all the Fury of the Flood:

The Muses He in sounding Verse Would Sing, and Venus Praise reherse, With her attending wanton Boy: Or Lyco's Face surprizing fair, With lovely Eyes, and Auborn Hair, By Nature fitted to entice to Joy.

Great Phoebus Glory, Phoebus Love, And welcome to the Feasts of Jove; Thou great Reliever of my Care; When e're I beg thy Aid, attend; Assist the Verses of thy Friend, And tune my Songs for Mighty Caesar's Ear.

ODE XXXIII. He Comforts his Friend who had ill success in his Amours.

COme dry thine Eys, and cease to mourn, Think not too much on Glycera's scorn: Let no complaining Songs proclaim, That she, regardless of her Vows, Her wanton smiles bestows Upon a later, and a meaner flame.

Lycoris fair for Cyrus burns, She loves, but meets no kind returns; Ill-natur'd Pholöe Cyrus Charms, But sooner shall the Lambs agree With cruel VVolves, than she Shall take so base a Wanton in her Arms.

Thus Venus sports, the Rich, the Base, Unlike in Fortune, and in Face To disagreeing Love provokes; VVhen cruelly jocose She ties the fatal noose, And binds Unequals to the brazen Yokes.

This is the Fate that all must prove, The sure unhappiness of Love; VVhilst fairer Virgins did adore And courted Me, I Myrtal woo'd As rough as Adria's flood That bends the Creeks of the Calabrian shore.

ODE XXXIV. He resolves to be religious, and follow Epicurus's Philosophy no more.

I That but seldom did adore, I that no God but pleasure knew, VVhilst mad Philosophy did blind, And Epicurus fool'd my Mind; Must keep that impious Course no more; But turn my Sails, and steer anew.

For Angry Jove with mighty force, Whilst all the Skies were bright and clear, Shot thro the Heaven with pointed flame, And shook the Universal frame; He lately drove his thund'ring Horse And flaming Chariot thro the Air.

This shook the Earth and wandring streams, This noise disturb'd the quiet Dead; Thro muddy Styx, thro all beneath, And thro the shady VValks of Death Quick Lightning shot unusual beams; The Ghosts beheld the Light, and fled.

He brings the most obscure to light, And robs the Glorious of a Crown; Now tumbles down the mighty Proud And makes them know there is a God; Now kicks the lofty into night, And seats the Peasant in a Throne.

ODE XXXV. To Fortune, whom he Celebrates, and begs to preserve Caesar.

GReat Goddess, Antium's guardian Power, Whose force is strong and quick to raise The lowest to the highest place; Or with a wond'rous fall To bring the haughty lower; And turn proud Triumphs to a Funeral.

The labouring Swain thy Aid implores, His Prayers are mixt of Fear and Hope On Thee depending for his Crop; Thee Merchants Thee confess VVhen far remov'd from Shores, And bow to Thee the Mistress of the Seas.

To thee their Vows rough Germans pay, To Thee the wandring Scythians bend, Thee mighty Rome proclaims a friend: And for their Tyrant Sons The barbarous Mothers pray To thee, the greatest Guardian of their Thrones:

They bend, they vow, and still they fear Lest you should kick their Empire down And cloud the glory of their Crown; They fear that you would raise The lazy Crowd to War, And break their Empire, or confine their Praise.

Necessity still stalks before, And leads the way with poys'nous breath, And all the Instruments of Death; Sharp Swords, and VVheels and Racks That flow with putrid gore Her brazen hand to fright the Nations shakes.

Sure Hope, and Friendship cloath'd in white Attend on Thee, they still remain The chiefest Glories of thy Train; Thô you inrag'd retreat And with a hasty flight, Thy Garment chang'd, forsake the falling Great.

But the base Crowd, the Perjur'd Whore, And when the Casks of Wine are dry, The false Pretenders quickly fly; They all refuse to bend With the declining Poor And take the heavy yoke to ease their Friend.

Preserve Great Caesar, Caesar leads To distant Britan, guide his Fate, And keep the Glory of our State, The youth that must infest VVith Arms the haughty Medes; And scatter Fears and Slavery thrô the Fast.

I blush at the dishonest show, I die to see the VVounds and Scars Those Glorys of our Civil VVars; What Sins, a Cursed Age Were VVe afraid to do, And what hath scap't the fury of our rage?

VVhat dread of Heaven, or fears of Hell Could stop the Impious daring hand? And was not every shrine prophan'd! Oh wouldst Thou quickly whet Our impious blunted steel To fight the bold Arabian, and the Gete.

ODE XXXVI. A Welcome to his dear Friend Lamia.

'TIs pious Duty now to praise With Incense, Songs and sacred Lays, And with a promis'd Heifers blood My Numida's kind guardian God: Who safely now return'd again From the remotest Parts of Spain, To thronging Friends on every side A thousand Kisses does divide; But Dearest Lamia most receives, And takes as gladly as He gives: Their equal Love at School began, Both the same Race of Vertue ran; And both at once grew up to Man:

Be every Head with Garlands Crownd, And let the flowing Bowl go round: Let fading Lillys and the Rose Their Beauty, and their smells disclose, Let long-liv'd Parsly grace the Feast, And gently cool the heated Guest: Then all on Beauteous Damalis Shall lose their gloating wanton Eyes; But her no Charms no Nods shall move, And none divide her from her Love; She shall imbrace her young Gallant As twining Ivy clasps the growing Plant:

ODE XXXVII. On Caesar's Victory over Antony and Cleopatra.

NOw now tis time to dance and play, And drink, and frollick all the Day; Tis time, my Friends, to banish Care; And costly Feasts with thankful Hearts prepare, In hallow'd shrines, and make the Gods your Guests:

'Twas Treason once to Sport a Flash, And Sin to Pierce the Noble Cash, Whilst nought but boading Fears were seen For Ills to come, When Egypts haughty Queen With wither'd Eunuchs threat'ned mighty Rome:

A Woman vain, whose hopes could rise To such Impossibilities! A Woman Drunk with sweet success; Whom smiling Fate Had brought to dare no less Then Caesar's Fortune, and the Roman State.

But soon her Pride to Fears retir'd When all her Ships were sunk or fir'd; And real dread possest her mind, When Caesar's Oars Did press so close behind And bore his Navy to the frighted Shores.

(As Hawks pursue the trembling Doves, Thro open Fields or shady Groves. Or as swift Huntsmen chace the Deer Thro Thracian Plains That fly as wing'd with fear) To bring the fatal Monster into Chains.

But She design'd a Nobler Fate, And falling would appear as great As when She singly fill'd the Throne, No fears betray'd, Nor fled to Coasts unknown To live secure, or meanly beg for Aid:

Her falling Throne with smiling look She boldly saw; she dar'd provoke Fierce Serpents rough with Poys'nous trains. To dart their Tongue, And fill her dying Veins; Grown furious now on Death resolv'd so long:

The stout Liburnian Ships, the Fame And lasting glory of her Shame She envy'd; she a Soul too Proud, Too haughty to be seen Amongst the private Crowd, And grace a Triumph less than Egypt's Queen.

ODE XXXVIII. He tells his Boy that he should not take too much careabout his Entertainments.

I Hate, my Boy, I deeply hate The useless Persian Pomp and State; Crowns wrought with too much Art displease; Forbear to seek the blushing Rose, Or where the Beauteous, Lilly grows, Such toil disturbs our ease:

A negligent and simple dress Thoughts free from Cares will most express; Thy Front, my Boy, thy Front, and mine A Myrtle Crown will best become Whilst I sit, and quaff at Home Beneath my shady Vine.

The End of the first Book.

ODES

The Second Book.

ODE I. To POLLIO. He desires him to forbear writing Tragedies till He had settled the State.

SAD Prisoners Guard, and Glory of the Bar The Senate's Oracle, and great in War, Whose Faith and Vertue all proclaim; To whom the German Triumph won Eternal Fame, And never fading Glories of a Crown:

The Grounds and Vices of our Wars, Our Civil Dangers, and our Fears, The sport of Chance, and turns of Fate, And Impious Arms that flow'd With yet unexpiated blood;

The great Triumvirate, And their Leagues Fatal to the Roman State; A dangerous Work you write; and tread O're Flames by treacherous Ashes hid; Yet this you write, and give to Fame A lasting Monument of our Fathers Shame:

But hold thy Mourning Muse, forbear To tread the crowded Theater, Till Quiet spread o're State Affairs. Shall lend Thee time for meaner Cares; And then inspir'd with Tragick rage Return to the forsaken Stage And mourn the Faults, and Follies of the Age:

Methinks the Trumpet's threatning Sound Disturbs our rest with fierce Alarms And from the shining Arms A dreadful lightning spreads around; It darts pale fear through every Eye The Horses start, and trembling Riders flie:

Methinks the Warlike Captains shouts are heard, With sordid Dust how Gloriously besmear'd! In Blood I see the Souldiers roul, I see the World obey, All yield, and own great Caesar's sway beside the stubborn Cato's haughty Soul:

Juno, and Africk's Guardian Power, That left their ruin'd Seats before, Unable to revenge their fall;

Hath now on Rome return'd disgrace, And offer'd up the Victor's race To great Jugurtha's Ghost, and Hannibal:

What Land is free, what Plain Not Fatt'ned by the Roman Slain? What cannot witness by the Graves it shows Our Empire's fall, whose Noise is spread O're Persia and the distant Mede The Sport and Laughter of our smiling Foes?

What Lake unstain'd before Not knows our War, and swells with Latian Gore? What Sea's not dy'd? on what unhappy Flood On what remoter Coast Have not our Youth been lost Grown Impiously Prodigal of their Blood?

Enough, my Muse, Complaints forbear, With me to shady Grots retire, Thy Mourning cease, divert thy Care; And there with softer touches move thy Lyre:

ODE II. The free and generous only are the happy Men.

DEar Friend whose generous thoughts despise The creeping Fears of Avarice, How Silver looks, how mean and base, How much below the common Brass,

Unless a Moderate use refine, A value give and make it shine?

Kind Proculeius, just and good, In Fame as Noble as in Blood, Who with a Father's care did grant Supplies and eas'd his Brother's Want, Long long shall live; surviving Fame On lasting Wings shall bear his Name.

That Man a wider Empire gains That his own craving wish restrains, Than he whose Sword and wide Command, Joyn distant Spain and Libya's Sand, Than if they did his Arms obey, And either Carthage own his sway:

The Dropsies still by Drink increase, In Rain are all our hopes of ease; The Jaws are dry, the Thrist remains Until the fatal Humors cease; Until the cause of the Disease Shall leave the swoln and craving Veins:

Phraates fixt in Cyrus Throne, Ador'd like Persia's rising Sun, True sence that scorns the Peoples test Ne're ranks amongst the happy Blest; From cheats of Words the Crowd she brings To real Estimate of things:

To him she gives, to him alone The Laurel, and the lasting Throne

Whose Eyes can unconcern'd behold. The darling heaps of shining Gold; Whose mind doth never Wealth pursue, Nor turn to take a second view:

ODE III. He adviseth his Friend Delius to be content, and live merrily.

AN even mind in every State, Amidst the Frowns and Smiles of Fate, Dear mortal Delius always show; Let not too much of cloudy Fear, Nor too intemperate joys appear Or to contract, or to extend thy Brow:

Whether thy dull unhappy Years Run slowly clog'd with Hopes and Fears, And sit too heavy on thy Soul; Or whether crown'd on Beds of Flowers Mirth softly drives thy easy hours And cheers thy Spirits with the choicest Bowl:

Where Poplars white the lofty Pine And Myrtles friendly Branches joyn, And hospitable shades compose; Where near a purling Spring doth glide In winding Streams, and softly chide The interrupting Pebble as it flows.

There bring thy Wine; thy Odors spread, Let fading Roses crown thy Head, Whilst Wealth, and Age and Life will bear; For you must leave your Groves, your House, And Farm where yellow Tiber flows; And thy heap'd Wealth shall fill thy greedy Heir:

For whether sprung from Royal Blood, Or from themeanest of the Crowd; 'Tis all a Case, for nought can save; The Hand of Fate doth strike at all, And thou art surely doom'd to fall, A Sacrifice to the impartial Grave:

Our Lots are cast, Fate shakes the Urn, And each mans Lot must take his turn some soon leap out, and some more late: But still 'tis sure each Mortals Lot Will doom his Soul to Charon's Boat, To bear th' eternal Banishment of Fate.

ODE IV. To Xanthias Phoceus who fell in Love with his Captive.

DEar Xanthias tis a faulty shame, Blush not to own a Noble flame Rais'd by thy Captives Charms; The fair Brisëis once could move

Achilles stubborn Soul to Love, And force the haughty Heroe to her Arms:

Tecmessa's Charms subdu'd her Lord, And Conquering Ajax soon ador'd; By fair Cassandra's Eyes When Hector fell, and left his Troy To weary Greeks an easy Prey, E'en midst his Triumph great Atrides dies:

See what a Beauteous Majesty, And how commanding is her Eye, Her look proclaims her State; She Mourns, she Mourns, a Royal Race, And Parents equal to her Face, And grieves to see so strange a whirl of Fate:

Ne're think her, Friend, of Common Blood; Nor sprung from the dishonest Crow'd A mind so bravely bold, So chast as to resist the Arts That take the mean unguarded Hearts, The force of pressing Youth, and Charms of Gold:

Her Face, her Neck, her Breast and Arms I praise not taken with her Charms; Suspitious thoughts remove; Let almost forty feeble Years Secure thy mind from jealous fears, And tell that Horace is too old for Love:

ODE V. To his Friend in Love with a young Girl.

THy Heifer, Friend, is hardly broak, Her neck uneasy to the Yoke; She cannot draw the Plough, nor bear The weight of the obliging Steer: In flowry Meads is her delight, Those charm her Tast and please her sight: Or else she flies the burning Beams To quench her Thirst in cooler Streams; Or with the Calves thro Pastures plays, And wantons all her easy days: Forbear, design no hasty Rape On such a green, untimely Grape: Soon ruddy Autumn will produce Plump Clusters, ripe, and fit to use: She now that flies, shall then pursue, She now that's courted doat on you: For Age whirls on, and every year It takes from Thee it adds to Her: Soon Lalage, shall soon proclaim Her love, nor blush to own her Flame: Lov'd more, for she more kindly warms Than Phloe coy, or Cloris Charms, So pure her Breast, so fair a White As in a clear and smiling Night, In quiet Floods the Silver Moon Or Cretan Gyges never Shone; Who, plac't amongst the Maids, defies A skilful Stranger's praying Eys;

So smooth his doubtful looks appear, So loose to Womanish his Hair:

ODE VI. To SEPTIMIUS. He wishes for a quiet retreat in his Old Age.

SEptimius that wouldst stem the Main, And go with me to distant Spain; To fierce Cantabrians never broak, As yet unlearn'd to bear our Yoke: And Syrtes Sands, where th' Ocean roars, And rowling Waves wash swarthy Moors; May Tibur's Walls the Tuscan Seat Afford my Age a safe retreat, Oh! there, now tir'd with Wars and Seas, May I enjoy a happy Ease! If Fate denies this small Desire, My hasty steps shall soon retire Where smooth Galesus cuts his way; Around whose Banks, white Fleeces play And felt Phalantus easy sway: Oh how those little Plains do please, how fit for Happiness and Ease! Where Honey fills the Combs, and strives With fair Hymettu's sweetest Hives: Where Olives from the fruitful Soil, Nor yield to the Venafrian Oyl:

Where Springs are long, and Winters mild, Nor hoary Frost deforms the Field; Where Bacchus friendly Mountains spread, And Almon rears his fruitful Head; Where choicest Grapes in Clusters twine, Nor envy the Falernian Vine: These happy Seats must us receive, There you and I, dear Friend, must live, Till Death's approaching hands surprize, And close thy Poet Horace Eyes; Then you a little Tomb shall rear, And cool my Ashes with a Pious tear:

ODE VII. A Welcome to his Friend Pompy.

DEar Pompy that hast often try'd Whilst once we fought on Brutus side How near pale Death rough Wars attends; What Genius now hath sent Thee home, And who restor'd Thee back to Rome, Pompy, the best of all my Friends?

With whom in Mirth and Wine and Play, Whilst sweetest Roses Crown'd my Head, and did their Fragrant Odors spread; I often broak the lingring Day:

The bloody Wars, Philippy's Field Ignobly having lost my Shield,

With thee I saw, secure from Wound; I saw the flight, when haughty Proud To Caesar's stronger vertue bow'd, And basely bit the bloody ground:

Me Mercury secur'd from Fears, He kindly wrapt me up in Night, And sav'd me from the dangerous fight, But Thee the Tide bore back to Wars:

Now then restor'd to ease and rest, Pay Jove thy thanks and promis'd Feast, Now tir'd with Wars, from danger free Beneath my cool and pleasing shade On flowry Beds supinely laid Enjoy the Casks design'd for Thee:

See here they stand, these Bowls employ, Forgetful Wine profusely pour, From largest Shells rich Oyntments shour, There's no extream in real joy:

Who Parsly twines, or Myrtle Boughs To grace our Mirth, and shade our Brows? Who Crowns prepares for every Guest? Whom will the happy Dye design The just disposer of the Wine, And great Controuler of the Feast?

Let Mirth, and Joy, and Wine attend, I must be Mad, I must appear As wild as the mad Thracians are; 'Tis decent at the welcome of a Friend:

ODE VIII. To his forsworn Mistriss.

BArine did revenge or'take, And blast as oft as you deceive; Were but one Nail, one Tooth more black, Thy Vows I would at last believe:

But still more fair, more bright thy Face, More Crowds of Lovers flock to view, As each false Oath procur'd a grace And tempted Thee to prove untrue:

It profits Thee to be forsworn By all that other Mortals fear, Th' eternal Gods, thy Mothers Urn, By whirling Heaven, and every Star:

The merry Nymphs approve thy Arts, And Venus fair forgives thy Wiles, And Cupid, sharpning flaming Darts On bloody Whetstones, gently smiles:

Besides new Slaves still flock to Thee, And happy He that takes the Chain; And those that threaten to be free Forgive the jilt, and serve again:

Thee still the thrifty Father fears, And Mothers for their wanton Boys. New Brides lest you detain their Dears, And rob them of their promis'd joys:

ODE IX. He adviseth his Friend to grieve no more for dead Mystes.

NOt always Snow and Hail and Rain Descend, and beat the fruitful Plain; Not ruffling Storms still toss the Caspian Floods: Not every Month doth lazy Frost Bind up the Armenian Coast Nor furious Storms still vex the groaning Woods:

Call'd forth by Spring's enlivening Breez The Leaves return to naked Trees; But you, dear Friend, still mourn in Weeping strains Lost Mystis; when Noon burns the Skies When night comes on, or when it flies No change appears, Thy love and Grief remains:

Yet Aged Nestor dry'd his Tears, His Grief was shorter than his Years; Nor did he still his dying Son bewail: His Sisters, and the Trojan Train, And Priam wept, but smil'd again, Nor always mourn'd young Troylus hasty fall.

Thy soft Complaints at last forbear, Let Mirth succeed, and Smiles appear Let's sing, and Caesar be our lofty Theme; How rough Niphates Hills obey, And Tigris bound by Caesar's sway Less furious grows, and rouls a milder stream:

The Scythians now with broken Bows Confin'd to their own Frost and Snows Have cool'd the raging fury of their Pride; In narrow bounds with nimble force They ride their fierce impetuous Horse, And view with longing Eyes the Roman side.

ODE X. A middle Estate of Life is the best.

WIse they, that with a cautious fear Not always thro the Ocean Steer, Nor, whilst they think the Winds will roar, Do thrust too near the rocky Shore: To those that choose the golden Mean: The Waves are smooth, the Skies serene; They want the baseness of the Poors retreat, And envy'd Houses of the Great: Storms often vex the lofty Oak, High Mountains seel the Thunder's stroak; And lofty Towers, when Storms prevail, Are ruin'd with a greater fall: A Breast prepar'd in either State Or sears or hopes a change of Fate; 'Tis Jove the same that Winter brings And melts the Frost by pleasing Springs: Tho Fortune now contracts her Brow, And frowns; yet 'twill not still be so: Apollo sometimes Mirth pursues His Harp awakes his sleepy Muse, Nor always bends his threatning Bow:

When Fortune sends a Stormy Wind Then show a brave and present Mind, And when with too indulgent Gales She swells too much, then furl thy Sails.

ODE XI. He adviseth his Friend to live Merrily.

WHat fierce Cantabrians, what the Scythians dare, Make, Friend, no object of thy care; Whilst raging Floods, and Adria's Tide Confine their force, and arms divide, Secure we laugh at all the threats of War:

Let no concern, no cares for Life approach, It lasts not long, and asks not much; But see our years do swiftly move, Our Nimble Youth and Beauty fades, Dry Age with Cares will crowd our Heads: And leave no room for easy Rest and Love:

Spring Flowers not always equal Beauties wear, Nor Moons with equal Beams appear As when at full they brightly shin'd; Then why should you disturb your Mind So much too narrow for eternal Care?

Why underneath a pleasing Myrtle shade On flowry Banks supinely laid, Are we so slow to speed a Day; And whilst grey Hairs are crown'd with Rose,

Or odorous Oyl our Heads o'reflows Drink all our Troubles and our Cares away?

Brisk Bacchus soon will sordid Cares refine, And make dull Melancholly shine; What Boy waits there, what Boy to bring Some cooler Streams from yonder Spring To quench the fury of my flaming Wine?

What ready Servant waits to call my Miss, And who coy Lyde will entice? Bid Lyde come, we are in hast; Bid Lyde come, her harp prepare, Like Spartans loosely bind her hair; For Love may Ebb, and then her time is past.

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.

ODE XIII. Upon a Tree that was like to fall upon him as he was walking in his Field.

A Fatal Star did then command The Skies, and guide his impious hand Who planted Thee, to the disgrace Of's Farm, and ruin of his Race: 'Tis certain He his Father kill'd, He slew, and fed upon his Child, He Stab'd his Friend before his God And Stain'd the Image with his Blood: To him Medea's Arts were known, The whole World's Sins he made his own, Who first disgrac't my Field with Thee, Thou impious Stock, thou cursed Tree, Thou cursed Tree whose hasty fall Design'd thy Master's Funeral: What each should fly is seldom known, We unprovided are undone: The Waves that foam round Thracian Shores Are dreaded by the swarthy Moors, They think cold Death doth use to trace The Snow and Frozen Hills of Thrace, Nor fear it from a warmer place:

The Roman dreads the Darts, the Force, And Conquering flights of Parthian Horse: The Roman Chains the Parthian fears, Their steddy Troops, and weighty Spears: Yet Death when Arm'd with a Disease From other Parts will rudely seize, She comes unlookt for, sweeps away Unthinking Nations in a Day, And huddles up her easy Prey: How near had I, how nearly seen The Kingdom of the swarthy Queen? Judge Aeacus, the story'd Grove, The seat of Piety and Love: And Sappho who in humble strains Of her base Country-men complains, In sweetest tunes proclaims her Love, But mourns at her reproach above: Alcaeus too whose golden strings VVith manlier strokes sound greater things; He tells the dangers and the fears Of Flights, of Sailing, and of VVars: VVith silent rever'nce Ghosts admire The wondrous fury of his Lyre: The Vulgar Shades throng most to hear Of Kings depos'd, of feats of VVar, And Drink them with a greedy Ear: No wonder this, Hell's furious Guard With silent wonder stood and heard; His Ears lay down, and, whilst he play'd, A hollow Grin his joy betray'd: No Hiss was heard, the Furies Snakes Lay husht, and quiet on their necks:

Delight did torn Prometheus seize, The sound deceiv'd him into ease; And Tantalus felt soft repose, Unheeded now the bending Boughs Hang o're his Lips and Water flows: Nor did the fierce Orion care To hunt his Lyon, or his flying Bear.

ODE XIV. Life is short, and Death unavoidable.

THe whirling year, Ah Friend! the whirling year Rouls on apace; And soon shall wrinkles plough thy wither'd Face: In vain you wast your Pious breath, No prayers can stay, no vows defer The swift approach of Age, and conqu'ring Death:

No, tho ten thousand Oxen stain'd his Shrines With sacred Blood, Shouldst thou appease the inexorable God: He opens, and he shuts the Grave; Geryon's triple Soul confines, And stubborn Gyges with the Stygian Wave:

That fatal Wave that must be past by all, The Rich, the Poor Are doom'd alike to view the Stygian Shore; The Knaves and Fools, the Wise and Just, The Kings as well as Clowns must fall; And undistinguisht lie with meaner dust:

In vain we all retreat from dangerous War, And live in ease; In vain we shun the rage of angry Seas: The burning Fevers Autumn brings In vain we fly, and idly fear The Plagues that South-winds bear on sickly Wings:

For all the Stygian Waves are doom'd to pass, We all must go And view Cocytus wandring Streams below: We all must see the lasting Chains That hold curst Danaus his Race, And Sisyphus condemn'd to endless pains:

Thy Children must be left, thy Lands and House, Thy pleasing Wife, That happy Comfort and Delight of Life; Of all the Trees thy hands restor'd None but the Cypress hated Boughs Shall follow their short-liv'd decaying Lord:

The Wines you keep so close thy worthier Heir shall soon possess, And wast midst wanton Luxury and Ease; Much nobler Wine the squandring Youth Shall spill and costlier Feasts prepare, Than ever pleas'd a Pamper'd Abbots Tooth.

ODE XV. On the Luxury of the Age.

OUr Squares still rise, our fields decrease, And now the Ploughs must rust in ease;

New Motes are dug, large Ponds we make That Rival e'en the Lucrine Lake: Round lofty Firrs weak Ivy twines, Unmarry'd Plains profusely spread A useless melancholly Shade O're larger Fields than marry'd Elms and Vines:

Our Beds of Roses, Myrtle Bowers And all the Luxury of Flowers Their fruitless Shades and Smells afford: They now those fruitful grounds possess Where Olives rose with vast Increase, And with great Bounty fed the former Lord:

Thick Laurells plac't by purling Streams Shut out the Mid-days burning Beams And give us shade to drink and play; Was this by Romulus allow'd? Was this the way our Fathers show'd To rise to Empire, and extend our sway?

No, then each single Man's Estate Was small, the Publick Stock was great, The Publick-Weal imploy'd their Care; No private Man profusely Skill'd Did then his large Piazza's build To take cool Breezes of the Northern Air:

The little Hut their Father's House The Laws forbad them to refuse, But live content in mean Aboads; Enjoyning all their Shrines and Towns

To build with new and costly Stones, To grace their Country, and to please their Gods.

ODE XVI. The contented Man the most happy.

FOr ease the Seaman asks the Gods When tost in the Egaean Floods; When darkness spreads to heighten fears, And not one friendly Star appears:

For ease the Warlike Thracians plead, The Persian and the quiver'd Mede; For ease too precious to be sold For costly Gems, or bought with Gold:

For neither Power nor Wealth controul The sad disorders of the Soul, Nor yet remove the Cares that wait About the Palace of the Great:

Blest he with little, on whose thrifty Board That Salt still shines that call'd his Father Lord, No vexing fears his Breast can seize, No sordid Lust will break his ease:

Why these extended Cares, and Strife, And trouble for so short a Life? VVhy do we ply our Sails and Oars, And fondly visit forreign Shores?

Can he that flies his Country find That he can leave himself behind?

"For baneful Care will still prevail, "And overtake us under sail; It dogs the Horseman close behind, More swift than Roes, or Stormy Wind:

A man contented with his present doom Hates to look on for what's to come; With mirth he sweetens bitter Fate; There is no perfect happy State:

The stout Achilles dy'd in hast, Long Age did old Tithonus wast; Those years swift time denies to Thee Perhaps his hand shall reach to me:

Round Thee ten thousand Heifers low, Stout Oxen bend beneath thy Plow; In his gilt Coach neigh generous Mares, The Purple dies what e're he wears.

A Farm as large as my desire With some few heats of Lyrick fire On me hath stubborn Fate bestow'd, With Pride enough to Scorn the Crowd:

ODE XVII. To MECAENAS. He is resolv'd not to survive him, and congratulates his Recovery.

VVHy am I kill'd with thy Complaint? 'Tis more than any God will grant, 'Tis more, my Lord, than I can bear; That you on whom my hopes rely, That you my great support should dy, And leave thy Melancholly Horace here:

Did you my better half decay For what should I, the other, stay? What comfort could compose my Mind When neither whole, nor yet so dear I should be doom'd to linger here, And feel my worser part still left behind?

The same black Day shall seize on both, It is a fixt, and Solemn Oath, Wee'l go, I've Sworn, We both will go; Tho you may first begin the Race, I'le follow with a nimble pace, And joyn you e're you reach the Waves below:

Did fierce Chimera dart her fire, To make my frighted Soul retire, Yet still I would attend you State;

Tho hundred handed Gyas Rose, In vain should all his strength oppose, For Justice bids, and 'tis approv'd by Fate:

What ever Star did at my Birth prevail, Whether my Fate was weigh'd in Libra's Scale, Or Fatal Scorpio's Beams did shine; Or Capricorn's disturbing Rays Those Tyrants of the Western Seas, 'Tis Strange how much your Stars consent with mine:

From Saturn's fatal influence Jove's milder Rays were your defence, He clog'd the Wings of hasty Death; When thrice with an auspicious voice The States of Rome proclaim'd their joys, And with their own supply'd their fading Breath:

My Head had felt a falling Oak, But Faunus did divert the stroak; Faunus, the Witts kind guardian God, The Shrine you vow'd the Gods prepare, Let offer'd Bulls reward their Care: For me a Lamb shall shed his meaner Blood.

ODE XVIII. Against Covetousness.

NOr Ivory, nor Indian Stuff, Nor Gold adorns my gawdy Roof; No Cedar Beams press costly Stone From Quarries of the torrid Zone, Where burning Rayes the Marble mould, And joyn the Mass with flowing Gold: Nor yet have I an Heir unknown E're seiz'd on Attalus his Throne; No honest Clients hang my Rooms With Purple stretcht on Tyrian Looms: But yet I make a fair pretence To Honesty and Innocence, And store of Wit, and these compleat, And make me sought to by the great: This is my Wealth, This all my Store, Content I ask the Gods no more; Nor my great Friends: O bounteous Fate, How happy in my mean Estate! Days push on Days with equal pace, New Moons still hast to the decrease, But you e'en whilst the Bell doth toll, And sadly warn thy flying Soul Rich Stones provide, large Piles you rear, Unmindful of your Sepulcher: Thy Moles, and thy incroaching Mounds Remove thy floods to streighter bounds,

For greedy you would seem but poor Confin'd by Nature's narrow Shore: Nay more you leap the Sacred bounds And seize your meaner Clients Grounds; No Fence too high, no Ditch too deep For Wealthy Injury to leap: Expell'd by greedy Avarice The Wife with her dear Husband flies, With all her Gods, (too weak defence For Poor and injur'd Innocence, They suffer in the common harms) And sordid Infants in her Arms: Yet after all this toyl and heat, This Fraud and Treachery to be great, The last retreat the Rich must have, The last and surest, is the Grave: What wouldst thou more? to Swains and Lords An equal Room just Earth affords, Nor does she take a Prince's Bones With greater Rev'rence than a Clowns: Ne're surly Charon brib'd with Gold Brings back the Cunning or the Bold; Nor will He waft Prometheus o're And land him on the living Shore: Proud Tantalus and all his Line, Tho Kings, His lasting Chains confine; And whether we his aid Implore Or not, He's ready still to ease the Poor, Free him from want, and place him on the happy Shore:

ODE XIX. In praise of Bacchus.

BOrn out by an unusual rage I saw (believe it future Age) Where Bacchus taught the Nymphs a Song, In distant Vales; from every Wood With prickt-up Ears the Satyrs stood, And smiling Fauns compos'd a list'ning throng:

Evae! new fear disturbs my Soul, With troubled joy my Passions roul Whilst full of the impetuous God: Evae! spare, mighty Liber, spare, Urge not the violent rage too far: Spare, Liber, dreadful with thy angry Rod:

Now boldly I can speak thy Praise, Rehearse the stubborn Thyades, Too fierce to bear the easy Yoke: Thy streams of Wine, thy milky Spring, And in repeated Numbers Sing Distilling Honey from the melting Oak:

Thy happy Bride's refulgent Hairs, That grace the Skies with brighter Stars; What Fate the Impious Theban strook, How Aunt and Mother strangely tore The trampling Wolf, and rooting Bore; And fierce Lycurgus falling by his hook:

Indus and Ganges own thy sway, And Thee the barbarous Seas obey, You flush't o're craggy Mountains lead, O're Hills and Dales, o're Springs and Lakes The Thracian Rout, whilst harmless Snakes In innocent folds twine round each drunken Head.

When impious Giants climb'd on high, And dar'd to storm thy Fathers Sky; Thy single hand secur'd his Crown: You with a Lyons dreadful Jaws And frightful Nails retriev'd the Cause, Bold Rhetus quell'd and sav'd the falling Throne:

Tho much more us'd to soft delight, Unfit, unable for a fight You once were thought, and doom'd to ease: Yet when your Heat and Vertue rose, What fury seiz'd your haughty Foes? How equally inclin'd to Wars and Peace?

When beauteous with your gawdy horn You did from Hells black Shades return, Thee Cerberus saw, and show'd the Way; He wagg'd his Tail, grew wondrous kind, He lickt thy Feet, he fawn'd and whin'd; Nor did one grin an impious rage betray:

ODE XX. He promiseth himself immortal Fame.

NO weak, no common Wing shall bear My rising Body thro the Air; Now chang'd I upward go; I'le grovel here on Earth no more, More high than Envy's self can soar, I leave Mortality and things below:

Not Me, not Me, the meanly Born, Whom the proud Fools and haughty scorn, Not Me shall Death controul: Not I, whom you I know not what, Mecaenas, call, will yield to Fate: Nor shall the Stygian Waves confine my Soul:

Rough Skin o're both my Legs is spread, And shining Feathers Crown my Head; Above I'me turn'd a Swan: O're both my Hands light Plumes do spring, My Arm is chang'd into a Wing, And now I move with greater speed than Man:

On stronger, and on swifter Wing, Than Icarus fled, I rise and Sing: A sounding Bird I soar, I'le see the distant Northern Pole I'le see the Southern Billows roul, And spread my Wings o're Bosphorus groaning Shore.

My Songs shall to the Colchian Ears, And German that conceals his fears Of Roman Troops be known: The Moors, and in my numerous Verse The Scythians Skill'd shall Songs rehearse: The Spaniard too, and He that drinks the Rhone.

Mourn not, no friendly drops must fall, No sighs attend my Funeral, Those Common Deaths may crave: Let no disgraceful Grief appear, Nor damp my Glory with a Tear: And spare the useless Honors of a Grave.

The End of the Second Book.

HORACE'S ODES.

Book the Third.

ODE I. Not Wealth or Honor, but Peace and Quietness makes a happy Life.

BEgon, begon, I hate ye all Both you great Vulgar, and you small; Nor Mysteries, Prophane, behold: To Boys and Maids unstain'd with Crimes The Muses Priest in Sacred Rhimes Doth unknown Songs, and wondrous Truths unfold:

The awful Kings o're Nations sway, Their Subjects tremble and obey; The Kings themselves are rul'd by Jove,

Who broak the Giants Pride, and won Eternal safety to his Throne And by his powerful Nod doth all things move:

One man doth larger Fields possess, One stands more fair for Offices, The drudging Darling of the Crowd Whilst One his Manners, or his Friends, Or his Obsequious Train commends, And One in Fame is greater, or in Blood:

Yet equal Death doth strike at all, The haughty Great, and humble Small, She strikes with an impartial Hand; She shakes the vast capacious Urn, And each Man's Lot must take his turn; Thro every glass she presses equal Sand:

Whilst Swords hung o're proud Damocles, Not all the Tyrant's sweets could please: Not Musicks Airs could calm his Breast: The black remembrance of his faults Still crowding back upon his thoughts, Disturb'd and rob'd his troubled Soul of rest.

But humble quiet ne're flies o're The lowly Cottage of the Poor: The pleasing Shade and purling Streams She loves to haunt, she loves the Plains, And cheers the Plough-man loos'd from Pains With still Security, and easy Dreams:

He that desires but what's enough Against the force of Fate is proof: Unstain'd He lives, and pure from Sin: Let violent Tempests break the Woods, And angry Whirlwinds toss the Floods; He still hath Quiet, and a Calm within.

Let Hail his ripening Olives beat, Or let them shrink with too much heat, His barren Field deceive his hopes; Or let his naked Trees complain Of too much Drought, or too much Rain; Or Frost untimely nip his rising Crops:

Now still our stately Squares encrease, The Fish will find their Ocean less; The Moles thrown in extend the Shoar; The Lord grown weary of the Land Now builds upon the Ocean's Sand; And scorns the Bounds that Nature fixt before.

But Fear, and Melancholly Cares attend, And where the Master climbs, ascend; They soon o'retake his flying Mind: Born on by the same nimble gales They press the Poop where e're He sails, And when he rides black Care sits close behind.

Well then, since neither Gold, nor Gain, Can quiet bring or fears restrain; Since Purple bright as shining Stars Can ne're dispel our Cloudy Cares; Since all the Spices of the East

Can never calm our troubled Breast, Why should I madly toyl to raise On envy'd Pillars Palaces? Why spend my time, and wast my health? Why should I strive to change my Field, And those delights my Farm can yield, For larger Lands, and more disturbing Wealth?

ODE II. Youth must be bred in Wars and Want, and taught to be Religious.

LEt vigorous Boys be train'd to bear The streights of Poverty in War; Be hardly bred, improve thy Force, And bravely gall the Parthian Horse; And let the Persians tremble at his Spear:

And let him live, and lie abroad Mid'st Dangers, Slaughters, Fears, and Blood; Be tost with all the Storms of Fate, And hard'ned up to prop the State; His Country save, and rise into a God:

Him from their Walls, when fierce in War, Let Tyrants Mothers view, and fear; And let their Brides despairing sigh Ah may not my unskilful Spouse That furious Lion madly rouse, How fierce He drives, and how our Armies fly!

He nobly Bleeds, he bravely Dies That falls his Countries Sacrifice; The flying Youth swift Fate o're takes It strikes them thro the trembling backs, And runs too fast for nimble Cowardice.

Vertue, unlearn'd to bear the base And shameful baffle of disgrace, Nor takes, nor quits the tottering Throne, As fickle Crowds shall smile or frown; Nor from their wavering Breath receives the place:

True Vertue that unbarrs the Skie To those that are too brave to Die, Thro wondrous ways doth upward go, Scorns the base Earth and Crowd below; And with a soaring Wing still mounts on high:

And just Rewards the Gods decree For fair, obedient Piety; Not He that scorns or scoffs His God, Or blabs his Mysteries abroad, Shall live in the same House, or sail with me:

Oft Jove doth heedless Thunder throw, And mix the Good and Bad below: But lame Revenge still stalks behind, Do's slowly dodg the guilty mind, And only stays to take the surer blow:

ODE IV. To the Muses acknowledging their Power and Kindness.

DEscend, my Muse, compose a long A pleasing and a grateful Song, Or to the Pipe or sounding Flute, Or gently move Apollo's Lute: D'ye hear? or airy frenzy cheat My mind, well pleas'd with the deceit? I seem to hear, I seem to move And wander thro the happy Grove Where smooth Springs flow, and murmuring Breez Do's wanton thro the waving Trees: In lofty Vultur's rising grounds Without my Nurse Apulia's bounds When young, and tir'd with sport and play, And bound with pleasing sleep I lay, Doves cover'd me with myrtle boughs And with soft murmurs sweetned my repose: A wonder this, and strange to all That liv'd in fat Ferenti's Vale; High Acherontia, Bantine groves Admir'd the kindness of the Doves: 'Twas strange that I midst Thorny Brakes, Secure from Bears and creeping Snakes Should lie so long; that Doves should spread The Sacred Laurel round my Head, And I a Child not fear the Woods

The Care and Darling of the Gods: Yours, Muses, yours, I live your Care On Sabine Hills, or cold Praeneste's Air: Or whether watry Baiae please, Or wanton Tibur lulls me into ease: Because your Springs, your Sport, and Grove Are all the objects of my Love; When Brutus lost Philippi's Field, I safely fled, and scorn'd my Shield, 'Twas Sin to guard or to defend By mortal Arms the Muses Friend: By you the proud Sicilian Rock I brav'd, and scap't the cursed Oak: Whilst you my feeble Ship shall guide, I'le singly stem the proudest Tide; I'le travel thro the farthest East, Where never Mortal foot hath prest; Britans Inhospitable Flood And Thracians pleas'd with Horses Blood, On Scythian Sands I'le boldly tread, And stoutly see the quiver'd Mede: When Caesar, great as all our Hopes, In Towns hath hid his weary Troops, You cheer his Soul, you soften Cares, And ease the harsh fatigue of Wars: You, Kind, instruct him how to live, Give good advice, and joy to give: We know, we know how mighty Jove (Whose guiding Nod rules all above, Who governs with an equal hand The raging Sea, and quiet Land; Whose easy and Almighty sway

The Gods, and Ghosts, and all obey;) With Thunder strook bold Titans down, And beat their fury from his Throne; We know how impious Giants fell From climbing Heaven to deepest Hell: That horrid Troop, those impious Bands, Relying on their numerous hands, Whilst they on Mountains climb'd on high Spread no small terror thro the Sky; And shady Pelion, rais'd above The high Olympus, frighted Jove: But how could Brawny Mimas rise, How large Porphyrion's frightful size Against the Thunder of the Skies? How bold Typhaeus aim a stroak, How impious Encel dart his Oak? Too weak their force, and soon repell'd By Virgin Pallas sounding Shield: Here Vulcan fought, a greedy God, On that side Matron Juno stood; And Phoebus there, a dreadful Foe Still arm'd with an unerring Bow: Who loves to haunt the Lycian Woods, And in the pure Castalian Floods Wash his loose locks; who Songs inspires, And fills his Priests with pleasing fires, On Patara and Delos Fame Bestows, and takes from both a Name.

Rash force by its own weight must fall, But Pious strength will still prevail; For such the Gods assist, and bless,

But hate a mighty Wickedness. Proud Gyges proves this fatal truth, And hot Orion's lawless youth, E'en Virgin Pallas scarce could scape The Lustful fury of a Rape; 'Till her Bow reach't him, whilst He strove, With fiercer Darts than those of Love: The Earth on her own Monster thrown Now mourns the ruin of her Son, She grieves that her proud Children fell By Thunder strook to deepest Hell: Nor do hot Aetna's flames decay, Yet cannot eat the load away: Hot Tytius Liver, Vulturs tear, They watch as soon as parts appear, And seize them streight; the Doom was just, He punisht in the seat of Lust; Wrath waits on Sin, three hundred Chains Perithous bind in endless pains.

ODE V. To AUGUSTUS. Praising him for enlarging their Empire, and discom∣mending Crassus's Souldiers which draws on the Story of Regulus.

HIs Thund'ring proves that mighty Jove With wondrous Force rules all above, And now as mighty Actions show That Caesar is a God below;

O're British Shores our Empires spread, Our Arms have reacht the haughty Mede: Could Crassus Souldiers lead their lives, So meanly yokt to barbarous Wives? Could they grow old (degenerate race, Inverted Souls, and Rome's disgrace?) In Hostile Arms, the Mede obey And fight for a Barbarians pay? Forget their Rites, their Name, and Blood, Whilst Jove was safe, and Rome yet stood! Wise Regulus did this prevent, He scorn'd base Terms that Carthage sent, Nor would he e're by his advice Tempt future Age to Cowardice: He knew that Vertues Crowns would fade Unless the Captive Youth were made Unpittied Preys to barbarous Foes, And bore the Slavery they chose. I saw, said He, our Eagles shine And basely fill a Punick shrine, With hanging Wings our fears upbraid By which they were so soon betray'd: I saw how Coward Armies stood, And yield without a drop of Blood; I saw when they their Arms resign'd, Their Slavish Hands drawn back behind, I saw our Free-men bound led home, Bound Conquer'd Citizens of Rome! Their Gates unbar'd, they plough'd the soyl Which Roman Troops did lately spoyl: Redeem'd perhaps more free from fear More fierce they shall return to War,

More bold, more careful of their Fame; You add new losses to your shame: Wool once infected with a stain Ne're takes it's Native white again: And when true Vertue falls, it lies, Prest down, and never cares to rise: If trembling Does when freed from Snares Will fight, then He'l forget his fears Then He'l be stout who basely chose To trust the Treachery of his Foes: He, He no doubt, will brave appear, And beat them in another War, Whose Arms could tamely bear the Cords And Whips of domineering Lords, Who sold his precious Liberty For meaner Life, and fear'd to Die: Resolv'd for Life He did not know To which he should his safety owe His Roman Courage or his Fear, And mixt dishonest Peace and War; Oh shame! Great Carthage! rais'd more high On the Disgrace of Italy! His Wives chast Kiss, his pratling Boys The former Partners of his joys, Now grown a Slave, thrown down by Fate, And less'ned from his former State He shun'd; with manly modesty On Earth he cast his stubborn Eye Whilst thus by strange advice He fought, And fixt the wavering Senate's Vote; Then thro his weeping Friends He ran In hast, a glorious banisht man:

What Cords and Wheels, what Racks, and Chains, What lingring Tortures for his Pains The Barbarous Hangmen made, He knew; And hightning Fame told more than true: Yet He his Wife and Boys remov'd, His hindring Friends, and all he lov'd, And thro the Crow'd he made his way That wept, and beg'd a longer stay; As free as if when Term was done, And Suits at end, He left the Town, From Business and from Cares retreat To the cool pleasures of a Country Seat.

ODE VII. To ASTERIA. He tells her that her absent Husband is Constant, and adviseth her to have a care of her solliciting Neighbour.

ANd why does fair Asteria mourn? And why despair of his return? The first Spring Winds shall thy Dear Love re∣store, Soft Gales shall waft the charming Youth Of constant and unshaken truth With Wealthy lading to the Roman Shore:

He's driven to a distant Coast, Whilst Winter binds the Floods with Frost; Sleep grows a Stranger to his Eyes:

He mourns in melancholly Creeks, Whilst falling Tears freez on his Cheeks, And lengthens out the lingring Night with sighs:

Whilst some from Chiloë strive to move And draw him to another Love; They tell the fury of her Flame; They tell how melted in thy Fires The miserable Maid expires, And use all Arts that Treacherous Wit can frame:

They tell how Phaedra's treacherous Tears Did urge believing Proetus Fears, And with what Lustful heat she strove; What Crimes she feign'd to hasten on The Death of chast Bellerophon, And take sharp vengeance for her slighted Love:

How neer chast Peleus reacht his Fate And felt the force of Woman's hate, Whilst from Hyppolite He fled; A Thousand tales, those Bawds to Vice They still force on him, to entice Or fright him to despairing Chloe's Bed:

In vain, in vain, He hears no more Than Rocks when Winds and Waters roar; Nor owns the Conquest of her Eyes: But, fair, take heed, and guard your Heart, And let not fond Eunipe's Art Steal in, and your unguarded Soul surprize.

Tho none with equal manly force In Mars his Field can guide his Horse,

Tho none appears so brave in Arms; Tho none with equal Art divides The headlong force of Tiber's Tides, Yet scorn the winning beauty of his Charms:

Shut all your doors at Evening's shade, Nor when you hear a Serenade Look down with a regarding Eye: Although he vows, and mourns his pains, And calls Thee cruel, and complains; Be cruel Still, and more and more deny.

ODE VIII. To MECAENAS. Whom He invites to an Entertainment which He made for joy of his deliverance from the falling Tree.

VVHat I, a Batchelor, intend My learned Lord, and noble Friend, In Mars his Calends you admire; What mean those Flowers that Crown my Head, The Coals on green-turf Altars laid Where in small Censures thankful sweets expire:

To Bacchus pleasing Feasts I vow'd, And a White Goat's attoning Blood, When I had scap't the falling Oak: This day, as years run round, a Feast,

Shall pierce my Casks; and claim the best, That long stor'd up hath drank digesting Smoak:

Drink, drink, let numerous Cups extend The Life of thy deliver'd Friend, Cups large as thy extensive joys: Let watching Tapers chase the Night, Till rising Morn restore the light; Let mirth attend, and banish Strife and Noise.

Forget, forget thy publick Cares, And take no thought for state Affairs, We hear the German Troops o're thrown; The Medes now hate their Former Lords, They fight, nor yet expect our Swords; But sadly conquer for us with their own:

Our ancient Foe the Pride of Spain The fierce Cantabrian takes the Chain, Tho late, at last He's forc't to yield: The Parthians fly, the Scythians now Their Arrows break, unstring their Bow, And are resolv'd to quit the fatal Field:

Neglect the various turns of State, The sports of Chance, or nods of Fate, Grown private watch not o're Affairs; But smile, and eagerly receive The Goods the present time can give; And leave behind the Grave Fatigue of Cares.

ODE IX. A Dialogue between Horace and Lydia.

WHilst I was welcome to your Heart, In which no happier Youth had part, And full of more prevailing Charms Threw round your neck his dearer Arms; I flourisht richer, and more blest Than the great Monarch of the East.

Lydia.

Whilst all thy Soul with me was fill'd, Nor Lydia did to Chloe yield, Lydia the celebrated Name, The only Theme of Verse and Fame, I flourisht more than she renown'd Whose Godlike Son our Rome did found:

Horace.

Me Chloe now, whom every Muse And every Grace adorn, subdues; For whom I'de gladly die to save Her dearer Beautys from the Grave:

Lydia.

Me lovely Calais doth fire With mutual flames of fierce desire, For whom I twice would die to save His Youth more precious from the Grave:

Horace.

What if our former Loves return And our first fires again should burn,

If Chloe's banisht to make way For the forsaken Lydia?

Lydia.

Tho He is shining as a Star, Constant, and Kind as he is Fair; Though light as Cork, rough as the Sea, Yet I would Live, would Die with Thee

Duke.

ODE X. He tells Lyde that perhaps He shall not always be able to endure her Scorn.

DId Lyde Drink cold Tanais Flood, A Scythians Bride that fed on Blood; Yet would you grieve to see the Kind, The constant Horace grasp the Floor, Extended by thy cruel Door, Expos'd toth' fury of the Native Wind.

Dost hear what Tempests beat thy Gate? How all rush on as arm'd with Fate? And how thy pleasing Groves are tost? With what severe and piercing light The Moon and Stars now guild the Night, And glaze the scatter'd Snow with hoary Frost?

Thy haughty Pride and Scorn remove, Ingrate and Enemy to Love;

My passions Tide may ebb again; No Scythian Mother brought Thee forth, And hardned by the freezing North, That ardent Lovers thus should court in vain.

If all my Prayers and Gifts are weak, Nor violent paleness of my Cheek The Lover's Livery, can move; If that thy Husband scorns thy Charms, And takes a Songstress to his Arms, Can n're provoke Thee to my firmer Love.

O stiff as Oaks to warm desire Too hard to burn in my soft Fire, As fierce as Snakes on Lybian Shore; Tho now my patient side can bear Thy Door, the Rain, and piercing Air, Yet time will come when 'twill endure no more.

ODE XI. To Mercury, and his Shell, whom He desires to move Lyde, and tells the Story of Danaus's Daughters:

SWeet Mercury (for taught by you The listning Stones Amphion drew) And pleasing Shell, well skill'd to raise From seven stretcht strings the sweetest Lays; Once mute, but now a Friend to Feasts, To cheer the Gods, and Rich-mens guests, Play Tunes, as may provoke to hear E'en Lydes coy denying Ear.

She like a Colt frisks o're the Plain, A Rider hates, nor takes the Rein; Unable yet to bear the force And strength of the obliging Horse: You Tigers, you the listning Woods Can draw and stop the rapid Floods, E'en Cerberus thy force confest, Well-pleas'd He lay, and lull'd in rest, Tho thousand hissing Serpents spread And guard around his horrid Head, And Gore foam'd round his tripple Tongue He gently list'ned to thy Song: Ixion, Tytius heard below, And smil'd but with a gloomy Brow: The leaky Tub a while was dry, And Danaus Race stood idle by, Whilst thy harmonious Tunes did please They smil'd at their unusual ease; Begin sweet Lays, let Lyde hear What Crimes they did, what Pains they bear, Tell how their Tub can nought retain, But still gives space for idle pain; How Vengeance comes, tho moving slow, And strikes the guilty Souls below: They could, (could Hell contrive a blacker deed) Their Husbands stab, and smile to see them bleed: But one more Worthy of the Name of Wife The hopes and end of every Virgin's Life, Her perjur'd Father bravely disobey'd, And lives thro future Age a glorious Maid: With Love and Pity in her look She wakt her Spouse, and thus she spoke,

Fly, fly, lest Fate should seize thy breath, And sleep be lengthned into Death: Fly, fly, thy unexpected Fate, My Sisters Rage, and Fathers Hate, Like Lionesses on a Steer They grin, and tear, ah me! they tear: More tender I'le not strike the blow, Nor keep Thee from a fiercer Foe: Me let me Father load with Chains, Joyn Wit and Cruelty in Pains; Me let him send to Lybian Shores, Mid'st Poysnous Snakes, and swarthy Moors, For saving you, I'le gladly bear, Nor show I'me Woman by a Tear: Fly, fly, dear Partner of my Bed, Whilst Night can hide, and Venus lead, Fly, fly, let happy Omens wait, And guide Thee thro gloomy Fate; Remember me, and o're my Grave Write this in a complaining Epitaph:

ODE XII. He congratulates Neobule's Happiness who lov'd a deserving Man.

'TIs hard to be deny'd to prove The soft Delights of pleasing Love, 'Tis hard to be deny'd to play, And with sweet Wine wash Cares away,

Still to be tost with doubting fear Lest angry Friends should prove severe, And with sharp chidings wound our Ear. Young wanton Cupid's Darts and Bow Have forc't thy Spindle from Thee now, Thy Wool, and all Minerva's toyls Are charming Hebre's Beauties spoyls; He lives thy minds continual Theme, And you can think on nought but him; Hebre, a Youth of Manly force, None sits so well the manag'd Horse; Bellerophon would strive in vain To guide with so gentile a Rein: In all He shows a Manly grace, In Cuffing stout and swift in Race, When His oyl'd Arms have cut the Flood In swimming strong; He takes the Wood, Thro Plains pursues the flying Doe, And shoots with an unerring Bow; Or else for Bores His Toyls He sets, And takes them foaming in his Nets.

ODE XII. To His pleasant Spring.

BLundusia's Spring more clear than Glass, That bubbles thro the rising Grass: Thee Wine should sweeten, Crowns adorn,

But now a wanton Ridgling dies A Pious humble Sacrifice, His flowing blood shall Paint the rising Morn:

With budding Horns He dares to fight; His fury hastens to delight; Courage with Love together grows: In vain, in vain; His wanton Blood Shall surely stain thy cooler Flood, And pay the mighty Debt his Master owes:

The furious Dog-Stars burning Beams In vain attempt thy living Streams, In vain they strike thy Sacred Deep; You yield delightful liquid Snow To Oxen wearied with the Plow, And cool the thirsty Heat of wandring Sleep:

You rankt shall be midst noble Springs, And high in Fame, whilst Horace Sings, The shady Beech that rising grows Where, by great Neptune's Trident strook A Passage opens thro the Rock And whence thy prattling Stream of Water flows.

ODE XIV. He resolves to be merry at Caesars return.

CAesar, who like Alcides, Rome, Did march to bring the Laurel home, Bought with his Death; from distant Spain Is now return'd in Peace again:

Let Caesar's Queen, with one content With Pious thanks just Gods present; His Sister too, as bright in Charms And great as Caesar in his Arms:

And you whose Sons kind Fates restore With humble modesty adore;

Ye smiling Maids, ye Girls and Boys And you that tast the Marriage joys, With Mirth salute our Conquering Lord, Nor drop one inauspicious Word.

This Day, to me a real Feast, Black Cares shall banish from my Breast: I'le fear no Tumults, fear no Pains, Nor violent Death, whilst Caesar Reigns:

Boy bring me Oyl, and Crowns prepare, And Wine that knew the Marsian War, If any Cask could hidden lie From wondring Spartacus his Eye:

Bid sweet Neoer a spread her Charms, And hast to fly into my Arms, But if the Cursed Porter stay, And ask Thee questions; Come away:

Now Snowy time hath coold my rage, I am not eager to engage, But yet I know when I was wont To storm at such a rude affront; Whilst Youth was warm, but Love is cold, And I can bear now I am old.

ODE XV. He adviseth an Old Woman to be Modest.

THou Wife of Ibycus the Poor, Forbear, and toy in Love no more, Confine thy Lust and end thy shame, Nor strive to blaze with dying flame: Now near to Death that comes but slow, Now Thou art stepping down below: Sport not amongst the Blooming Maids But think on Ghosts, and empty Shades: What suits with Pholoe in her bloom, Gray Chloris will not Thee become, A Bed is different from a Tomb: Thy Daughter with a better Grace Tho wrinkles plough her wither'd Face,

Might burn, and rage, break Young Men's doors, And wast the Relicks of her hours; Let Nothus Love force her to play Like wanton Kids ith' heat of May; Lucerian Wool with Purple stain'd Not Harps become thy wither'd hand, The Purple Rosy Crowns disgrace The Earthy paleness of thy Face; And Drink until the Hogshead's dry, Then suck the dreggs, no blood will fly To thy pale Cheek, nor softness to thy Eye.

ODE XVI. All things obey Gold.

ATower of Brass, Gates strong and barr'd, And watchful Dogs suspicious Guard From creeping Night Adulterers, That fought imprison'd Danae's Bed, Might have secur'd one Maiden-Head; And freed the old Acrisius from his fears:

But Jove and Venus soon betray'd The jealous Guardian of the Maid, They knew the way to take the hold; They knew the Pass must open lie To every hand and every Eye, When Jove himself was Bribe, and turn'd to Gold:

Gold loves to break through Gates and Barrs, It is the Thunderbolt of Warrs; It flies thro Walls, and breaks a way, By Gold the Argive Augur fell, It taught the Children to rebel, And made the Wife her fatal Lord betray:

When Engines, and when Arts do fail, The golden Wedg can cleave the Wall; Gold Philip's Rival Kings o'rethrew; Rough Sea-men, stubborn as the Flood And angry Seas that they have Plow'd, Bribes quickly snare, and easily subdue:

Care still attends encreasing store, And craving Appetite for more; Mecaenas, Honor of our Knights, How justly was thy Friend afraid To raise his too conspicuous Head And soar too lofty, and to envy'd heights?

Those that do much themselves deny, Receive more blessings from the Sky: I love a mean, and safe retreat; And naked now with hast retire To Humble Those who nought desire; And joy to leave the Party of the Great:

In my scorn'd Farm a greater Lord Than if my crowded Barns were stor'd With all the stout Appulian reaps; Than if to Me Pactolus ran

And roul'd in flowing Tides of gain, Whilst I was Poor amidst my mighty heaps,

A purling Spring, a shady Grove To raise my Song, and ease my Love, My Farm that ne're deceives my hopes Make me seem happier to the Wise, Tho not to base and vulgar Eyes, Than He that boasts his Fruitful Lyha's Crops:

Tho no Calabrian Bees do give Their grateful Tribute to my Hive, No Wines by Rich Compania sent In my Ignoble Casks ferment; No Flocks in Gallick Plains grow Fat, Yet I am free from pinching want, And beg'd I more, my Lord would grant; And to my Wishes equal my Estate:

But now more safe, and more securely blest Than if my Hand grasp't East and West: He, that asks much, must still want more; Happy, to whom Indulgent Heaven Enough, and sparingly hath given, And made his Mind as narrow as his Store.

ODE XVII. He adviseth his noble Friend Aelius Lamias to live merrily.

GReat Sir from ancient Lamus Sprung, As noble a descent, as long; (From Him, the Spring, thy generous Blood In undisturbed Streams has flow'd; From him the Lamias took their name, And swell the Annals of our Fame, Thy generous Blood rould nobly down From him that fill'd the Formian Throne Where swoln with Rain, swift Liris roars, And washes fair Marica's Shores, A Potent Scepter grac't his Hand, And measur'd out a wide Command) To morrow furious Winds shall spread The troubled Shore with useless Weed, And fill the Woods with scatter'd Leaves, Unless the cawing Crow deceives, The Crow that still foretells a Rain And Storm, and never caws in vain: Now Pile thy Wood whilst sound and dry, To morrow morn a Pig shall die, And Wine shall cheer thy Slaves and Thee, From Country Toyl, and Business free, And all enjoy a short liv'd Liberty.

ODE XVIII. To FAUNUS. Whose Favour and Protection He desires.

FAunus that flying Nymphs pursues, And Courts as oft as they refuse, If Yearly Ridglings stain thy Grove, If the large Bowl the Friend of Love, Still flows with Wine; if Prayers invoke, And thy old Shrines with Odors smoak, Defend my Fields, and sunny Farm, And keep my tender Flocks from harm: Or'e grassy Plains the wanton Flocks, The Village with their idle Ox, Sport o're the Fields, all finely drest When cold December doth restore thy Feast: The Lambs midst ravenous Wolves repose, The Wood to thee spreads rustick Boughs, The Ditcher with his Country Jugg, Then smiles to Dance where once he dugg.

ODE XIX. A merry Ode to his Friend who was a Student.

HOw many years divide Old Inachus and Codrus Reign Who for his Country bravely dy'd, You seek with mighty pain, These are the idle Labors of thy Brain.

Old Aeacus you can derive from Jove, And tell what mighty Kin he had above, You all the Trojan Wars can write, But never mind what Wine will cost, Who make a Feast, and who invite, And who a Fire prepares at Night Now Winter spreads the Fields with hoary Frost.

A Glass! come fill me to the rising Moon, To Midnight, and to Morning one; Wee'l never part whilst Stars do shine; Forget thy Books, those idle Dreams, Fill round, Three Bowls or Nine Are sober Jollity's extreams.

He that th' uneven Muses loves, With Three times Three his heat improves, A staring Poet, rais'd by every Bowl; The sober Grace with th' naked two, Afraid of Brawls, but Three allow, And only cheer, but never heat the Soul:

I must be Mad, what means the Flute? Why hangs the Pipe and silent Lute? I hate a niggard, quickly spread The sweetest Roses round my Head; Let Lycus hear the roaring noise, And she the Neighbouring Miss That doth his feeble Love despise, And let them pine, and envy at our joys:

Thee Beauteous with thy bushy Hair, And like the brightest Evening Star Ripe Chloë seeks with warm desires; Whilst I a dull expecting Fop Still linger on with lazy hope, And slowly melt in Glycera's tormenting Fires.

ODE XX. He adviseth his Friend not to strive to part a Lo∣ver and his Mistriss.

DOst see what Dangers must attend, Thy Pious Duty to thy Friend; 'Tis hard to rob a Tygress of her Young: Ah bafled, Thou shalt soon retreat, And midst the shame of a defeat Unequal Foe confess her force too strong. When she with Fury rais'd shall move Thro throngs of Youth that offer Love,

And strive to win her Heart; to seize the Fair; Then shall we see who wins the Day, And who shall seize the Beauteous Prey, And in Nearchus have the greatest share:

Whilst you your winged Arrows draw, She whets her Teeth, and spreads her paw; Whilst he that must bestow the Prize Sits unconcern'd with gloting Eyes; On all around his Amorous glances spread, His perfum'd loose and wanton Hair, Permitting to the waving Air, As sweet as Nireus or as Ganymed.

ODE XXII. He Dedicates his Pine to Diana.

KInd Guardian of my Hills and Grove Who thrice implor'd dost hear, and save The teeming Women from the Grave, Great here on Earth, in Hell, and great Above.

This Tree be thine that long hath stood To shade my House; as Years roul round A Bore that Aims a side-ways wound Shall Yearly stain the Trunk with offer'd Blood.

ODE XXIII. Innocence pleases Heaven more than Sacrifice.

A Fat and costly Sacrifice Is not the welcom'st Tribute to the Skys, They'r more delighted with the small expence Of Honesty and Innocence.

Let rustick Phydile prepare At each new Moon an humble Prayer, And at her old Penates Shrine Pour one small bowl of Country Wine, And stain their Altars with a greedy Swine; No scorching Winds shall blast her fruit, Her Corn be free from barren smut; Nor let her darling Children fear The shivering Agues of the dying Year.

The Sacrifice Albanian Pastures feed, Or Snowy Algidum's cold Mountains breed 'Midst fruitful Oaks a pamper'd Beast, Shall stain the Axes of the Priest: But why should You profusely try With slaughter'd Flocks to bribe the Sky, Since Myrtle Crowns, and from the neighbouring Flood Few sprinkled drops shall please the God More than whole Rivers of their offer'd blood?

If with an unpolluted hand, Which neither Blood nor wicked Arts have stain'd, A little Meal and Salt you bring 'Twill prove a more prevailing Offering Than all the Spices of the Eastern King.

ODE XXIV. Nothing can secure a Man from Death, And Covetousness is the Root of all Evil.

THough You had all the Spice and Gold Arabia sweats, and the rich Indies hold; Tho You extend Your Palaces O're the Tyrrhene, and Pontick Seas; When strong Necessity Shall fix her Adamantine hooks on Thee, When she shall drag away The trembling melancholy Prey, Not all thy Wealth shall save Thy Mind from fear, or body from the grave.

Happier the wandring Scythians live, Who all their house in one small Waggon drive, Where no unequal bounds Do parcel out the Land in private grounds, The Corn grows freely for the Common good; And when one Year their Fields they plow'd, They sit at Ease, whilst others toyl, And equal pains manure the Publick Soil.

There all the Cups the Step-dames hands present To unsuspecting Heirs are innocent: No Wife confiding on her Dower, Or rich Gallant usurps her Husband's Power; None there a lawless sway pretends, Her Portion is the vertue of her Friends, And cautious Modesty That closer draws the marriage tye, They fear to sin, or sinning doom'd to dye.

He that would prize his Country's good, And stop the Issue of our Civil blood; He that would stand in Brass as fixt as Fate, Be nam'd the Father of the State; Let him restrain this Brutal rage: A glorious Man in future age! Since Envious We despise Vertue when present, when it flyes Stand and gaze after it with longing Eyes!

But sad Complaints are vain, Vice only yields to pain, Her Sword strict Justice needs must draw, And cut it off by necessary Law; And what are Laws! State Pageantry! Unless obey'd With the same reverence they were made, Unless our Manners and the Rules agree!

The Merchants dare to cut the Line, Where beams still boyl the Metal in the Mine, Nor can the frigid Coast That lyes bound up with lazy Frost,

Nor all the Snow and Northern Ice, E're cool the Sailer's flaming Avarice; In feeble Ships they dare to ride And boldly stem the highest Tide, When scarce three inches them and Death divide, For Poverty that great disgrace Still drives them on the vicious race; Whilst Vertue's Paths that lead on high Untrod and unfrequented lie, Few think it worth their while to climb the Sky.

To Jove's great Shrine let Romans bring Their Wealth, a grateful Offering; For those that thus their Treasures spend, Just blessings Crown, and joyful shouts attend: Or in the Neighbouring flood Let's cast our Jewels and our Gold, For which we have our Vertue sold, Our Gold the dear-bought cause of all our blood: Wealth, form'd near Hell, when here on Earth Brings up the cursed Region of its birth.

If we repent, and hate the Crimes And Follies of our own and Father's times, We must root out the very seeds of Sin, And plant new Vertue in; The Soil is soft, and if manur'd with care, And manly Arts, may bear A fruitful Crop, Vertue may sprout again, And with a Vast encrease reward the Tiller's pain.

Our Nobles Sons with an unequal force Now scarce can sit the Manag'd Horse, They Hate the Ring, nor dare to ride the Course: But Cards, unlawful Dice, And all the mysteries of Vice That Greece e're taught, or Rome improv'd they know, For these they nobler Deeds forgoe; These are their Arts, their chief delights, The Pleasures of their days, and study of their nights.

Mean while their perjur'd Fathers cheat, Grow grey in base Oppression, and Deceit; To their best Friends their Oaths are Snares, Whilst at the vast Expence Of Honesty and Innocence, They Heap up Wealth for their unworthy Heirs. Their Stores encrease, and yet, I know not what, Still they do something want, Which neither pains can get, nor Heav'n can grant, To swell their Narrow to a full Estate.

ODE XXVI. Now being grown Old, he bids farewel to Love.

ONce I was gay, and great in Charms, Success still waited on my Arms, In Venus Battles bravely stout, I fought, and conquer'd when I fought:

But now my Arms and wanton Lyre Whose tunes could spread Harmonious fire, Whose moving stroaks could soon impart Soft wishes to the tender heart, My Torches, Leavers, Darts and Bows That broak the Doors that did oppose, That did all Obstacles remove, Which hindred my pursuit of Love, In Venus Shrine unheeded lie With all my Love's Artillery: Great Goddess who o're Cyprus reigns, And scorching Memphis burning Plains, Let coy and scornful Chlöe know The fury of thy Cupid's Bow; And let her smart for her disdain, Enflame her Breast, and I shall love again.

ODE XXVIII. To Lyde, On Neptune's Festival.

VVHat should I do at Neptune's Feast, What better should my thoughts em∣ploy, What should I do but treat my guest, And show the greatness of my Joy? Wine, Lyde, Wine; storm sober Sense, My Bowl is strong, and that will make a weak defence.

Do'st see how half the day is past? And yet as if wing'd Time would stay, You still the precious minutes wast; And lead me on with slow delay. Wine, Lyde, Wine; to raise my flame, Old lusty Wine, and seal'd with Bibulus's name.

I'le sing great Neptune bound by Rocks, I'le sing the Nereids Sea-green hair; And how they sit, and spread their locks To tempt the greedy Mariner: You to your Harp Latona sing, And Cynthia's Arrows shot from an unerring string.

Both her who drawn by murmuring Doves To Paphos guides with silken strings, Whilst Cupids wait, and wanton Loves Fan their warm Mother with their wings: Just songs and thanks shall praise the Night, For lingring Long, and giving space for gay delight.

ODE XXIX. He invites Mecaenas to an Entertainment.

MY noble Lord of Royal Blood, That from the Tuscan Monarchs flow'd, I have a Cask ne're pierc'd before; My Garlands wreath'd, my Crowns are made, My Roses pluckt to grace thy head; As fair and sweet as e're Praeneste bore.

Make hast, my Lord, and break away From all the Shackles of delay, From watry Tibur's Fields retreat: Let not low Aesula delight, Nor let her Vales detain thy sight, Or Parricide Telegonus his Seat.

From thy disgusting Plenty fly, Thy Palace leave that mounts on high And hides her head in bending Clouds; Admire no more (but quickly come) The Wealth, the noise, and smoak of Rome, That happy Mansion of our future Gods.

Changes have often pleas'd the Great, And in a Cell a homely treat; But sweet and good, and cleanly drest, Tho no rich Hangings grace the Rooms, Or Purple wrought in Tyrian Looms, Have smooth'd a careful brow, and calm'd a trou∣bled breast.

The Dog's and Lion's fury rise, With doubled beams they scorch the Skys; The Swains retire to mid-day dreams: The bleating Flocks avoid the heat, And to the Springs and Shades retreat; And not one breath of Air curles o're the Streams.

Whilst You still watch the turns of Fate, The careful guardian of our State;

Intent on what the Mede prepares: What leads the quiver'd Persian forth, What moves the Bactrian, and the North, Are the distracting Objects of thy Cares.

Future Events Wise Providence Hath hid in Night from humane Sence, To narrow bounds our search confin'd: And laughs to see proud Mortals try To fathom deep Eternity With the short Line and Plummet of their Mind.

Those Joys the present Hours produce Take thankfully, my Lord, and use; All other things like Rivers flow, In their own Channels thro the Plain They fall into the Tuscan Main, And bless the Country as they go: When Rain hath rais'd the quiet Floods, Whilst Neighbouring Mountains all around Are fill'd, and Eccho with the sound, They whirl the eaten Rocks and Woods, And drown the growing Labors of the Plow.

He's Master of himself alone, He lives, that makes each day his own: He lives that can distinctly say It is enough, for I have liv'd to day: Let Jove to morrow smiling rise, Or let dark Clouds spread o're the Skys: He cannot make the pleasures void Nor sower the sweets I have enjoy'd, Nor call that back which winged hours have born away.

Still Fortune plays at fast and loose, And still maliciously jocose, Her cruel sport she urges on; Now smiles on me, on Me bestows, And then upon another throwes Vast heaps of Wealth, and takes them back as soon.

When e're she stays with what she brings I'me pleas'd, but when she shakes her Wings, I streight resign my just pretence; I give her back her fading Gold: My self in my Vertue fold, And live content with Want and Innocence.

When spreading Sails rough Tempests tear, I make no lamentable Prayer; I do not bargain with the Gods, Nor offer costly Sacrifice To save my precious Tyrian dys From Adding Riches to the Greedy Floods.

E'en 'midst these Storms I'le safely ride, My Bark shall stem the highest Tide; Tho Tempests toss, and th'Ocean raves, Castor shall gather gentle Gales, And Pollux fill my spreading Sails, And bear me safe thro the Aegean Waves.

ODE XXX. He promiseth himself Eternity.

'TIs finish't; I have rais'd a Monument More strong than Brass, and of a vast extent: Higher than Egypt's statelyest Pyramid, That costly Monument of Kingly Pride; As High as Heaven the top, as Earth the Basis wide: Which eating showers, nor North wind's seeble blast, Nor whirling Time, nor flight of Years can wast: Whole Horace shall not dye, his Songs shall save The greatest portion from the greedy Grave: Still fresh I'le grow, still green in future praise, Till Time is lost, and Rome it self decays; Till the chief Priest and silent Maid no more Ascend the Capitol, and Jove adore: Where violent Aufid rouls thro humble Plains, And where scorch'd Daunus rul'd the labouring Swains, There shall my fame resound, there all shall cry 'Twas I, the great from mean descent, 'twas I That first did dare to bind the Grecian Song, And unknown numbers in the Roman tongue: Muse take thy Merits due, and proudly raise Thy Head, and gladly Crown my Brows with Bays.

The End of the Third Book.

ODES.

Book the Fourth.

ODE I. To VENUS. 1. He is now grown Old and unfit for Love. 2. De∣sires her to go and visit Young Paulus. 3. Yet He still thinks on his lovely Boy Ligurine.

1. LOng interrupted War Thou Venus dost again renew, And former hate pursue; Oh spare, for Pitty, Venus, spare.

I am not what I was In lovely Cynera's easy Reign When heat warm'd every Vein, And manly Beauty filld my Face.

Cease Queen of soft Desires To bend my Mind grown stiff with Age, And fifty years engage To crackle in thy wanton Fires.

But Youth and Beauty hear, Go where their tender wishes call, And let their sighs prevail; Go free young Virgins of their fear.

2. There is a Noble game, In Paulus House, go drive thy Doves, And revel with thy Loves, His Heart deserves thy choicest Flame:

For He is great in Charms, The chiefest Honor of the Bar, He'l make successful War, And spread the Glory of thy Arms:

When He the lovely smiles, When he the happy Man shall prove, And win by naked Love His giving Rivals costly spoyls;

Of Cedar grac't with Gold, A stately Pile shall proudly rise As glorious as the Skies, And thy blest Image gladly hold;

Before Thee thrice a day With Incense sweet thy Shrine shall smoke,

And Boys and Maids invoke, And dance, and praise Thee as they pray;

In wanton order move, Whilst Pipe, and Flute, and charming Lyre Compose the joyful Quire, And naked all, and fit for Love.

No Maids, no wanton Boys, No Empty hopes of mutual Love My feeble passions move, Or quicken my dead Soul to joys:

E'en Crowns and VVine displease, I cannot roar and drink all Night, Old Age doth cramp Delight, And lead me down to lazy Ease:

3. But Ah! what's this my Dear! Dear Ligurine, ah tell me why These drops forsake my Eye, And tender sighs fan every tear.

Why doth my flowing Tongue In unbecoming silence fall? And why do sighs prevail, And in the midst surprise my Song?

Thee, Thee, my lovely Boy, Now now I clasp, and now in Dreams Pursue o're Fields, and Streams; Thee, Thee, my Dear, my flying Joy.

ODE II. To ANTONIUS JULUS. 1. None can imitate Pindar. 2. Commends Antony, and proposes Caesar's Actions as a fit subject for his Muse.

1. HE that to equal Pindar trys, With Waxen wings he vainly flys Too near exalted Fame; And must expect a Fate like his Who fell, and gave the Sea a name.

As violent Rivers swoln with Rain, Break o're the neighbouring fruitful Plain With an impetuous stream; So Pindar doth all Banks disdain, And overflows the highest Theme.

In all He doth deserve the Crown Whether He rushes boldly on, And rouls new words along; Through lawless Dytherambicks thrown; Or Thunders in a looser Song:

Or Gods, or Gods next Kindred Kings, In mighty numbers mighty things, Or valiant Heroes names That kill'd the Centaurs, nobly sings, And quench'd the fierce Chimaera's flames.

Or praised him that swiftly rode, And Crown'd return'd almost a God From the Olympian race; Or Verses on the Brave bestow'd, More sounding and more strong than Brass.

Or softly sings with pious grief A Youth snatcht from his weeping Wife, And bears their names on high, Their vertuous manners pleasant life, And doth forbid their Loves to dye.

The Theban Swan vast whirls of Air Thro highest Regions swiftly bear When he designs to rise, When He his lofty head doth rear And shoots it thro the Cloudy Skies.

I like a Bee with toil and pain Fly humbly o're the flowry Plain, And with a busy tongue The little Sweets my Labors gain, I work at last into a Song.

2. But You shall sing in higher strains What Conquests mighty Caesar gains, How great his Pomp appears, When justly Crown'd he leads in Chains The German Trophies of his Wars.

Greater than him no Age can know, Nor, if they would, the Gods bestow; No, they can bless no more

If they their bounty strove to show, And would the Golden Age restore:

Then thou shalt sing our feasting days, Our City's Joy, and publick Plays At Caesar's wisht return: Then thou shalt sing how strife decays, And Courts their peaceful Clients mourn.

And there if any patient Ear My Muses feeble Song will hear My voice shall sound thro Rome: Thee, Sun, I'le sing, Thee, lovely fair; Thee, Thee I'le praise when Caesar's come:

As you great Poet march along From every Heart and every Tongue A joyful sound shall move, Io Triumph be the Song, VVhilst Incense smoaks to Gods above:

Ten fair large Bulls, ten lusty Cows Must dy to pay thy richer Vows; Of my small stock of Kine A Calf just wean'd now Youthful grows In Pastures fat to fall for mine:

Unus'd to push doth wildly run, And as the third-days rising Moon So bend his tender horns; All over Red, but where alone A milky spot his front adorns.

ODE III. To his Muse. By her favor he gets immortal Reputation.

AT whose blest birth propitious rays The Muses shed, on whom they smile No dusty Isthmian game Shall stoutest of the Ring proclaim, Or to reward his toyl Wreath Ivy Crowns, or grace his head with Bays.

Nor Victor, Laurel round his Brows, In an Achean Chariot ride: No glorious feats of War His happy Skill, and Arms declare When He hath broke the pride, And baffled dreadful threats of haughty Foes.

But fruitful Tibur's shady Groves, Its pleasant Springs and purling Streams, Shall raise a lasting name, And set him high in sounding same, For Lyric Verse the noblest Themes, Great as his Mind, and various as his Loves.

Rome Empress of the Nation's Writes, Writes me amongst the Lyrick Train; And hence I Honor raise, Immortal Love and lasting praise Secure from fears, and pain, For sharp-tooth'd Envy now but faintly bites.

Sweet Muse that tun'st the charming Lyre, And draw'st soft sounds from stubborn string, That can'st the Envious please And soften fury into ease, Teach silent Fish to sing, And tunes as sweet as dying Swans inspire.

'Tis thine, sweet Muse, thy gift alone, That as I walk all cry 'tis He; That warms with Lyrick fire, 'Tis He that tunes the Roman Lyre; And that I please, I own, Suppose I please, I have it all from Thee.

ODE V.

GReat Hero's Son, Rome's gratious Lord, How long shall we thy absence mourn! Thy promis'd self at last afford, Rome's sacred Senate begs: Return.

Great Sir restore your Country light; When your auspitious beams arise, Just as in Spring, the Sun's more bright, And fairer days smile o're the Skys.

As tender Mothers wait their Sons Whom Storms have tost above a Year, And every nimble day that runs They load with vows, and pious fear,

They ne're their Eys from th' Shores remove, Longing to see their Sons restor'd; Thus Rome, inspir'd with Loyal Love, Expects her great, her gracious Lord.

The Ox doth safely Pastur•• trace, And fruitful Ceres fills our Plains, The Merchant sails o're quiet Seas, And unstain'd Faith, and Vertue reigns.

No base Adultry stains our Race, Strickt Law hath tam'd that spotted Vice; The Child can show his Father's face; Pain waits on Sin, and checks its rise.

Who doth the dreadful Germans fear The Scythian Rage, or Parthian Bow, Or Who the threatning Spaniards War, Whilst Caesar lives, and rules below?

In his own Hills each sets his Sun; To Widow Elms he leads his Vine, And chearful, when his toyls are done, Invokes Thee o're a Glass of Wine:

To Thee our Prayers, and Wines do flow To Thee the Author of our Peace, As much as grateful Greece can show, To Castor, or great Hercules:

Long may You live, your days be fair, Bestow long Feasts, and long Delight; This is our sober morning Prayer, And these our drunken Vows at Night.

ODE VI. To Apollo and Diana.

GReat God, whom Niobe's Race did know A sharp revenger of a haughty Tongue, Whom Lustful Titus wrong Provokt to draw his fatal Bow; And stout Achilles found too great a Foe.

Tho fierce in Arms, tho Thetis Son, Tho Death did wait upon his Sword, and Fear, Attended on his Spear; Tho wretched Troy almost or'e thrown Confest his force, He bow'd to Thee alone.

Like Oaks which biting Axes wound, Or Cypress tall which furious Storms divide He spread his ruin wide: He felt the fatal Dart, He groan'd And hid his noble Head in Trojan ground:

Not He in great Minerva's Horse Had cheated Troy, and Priam's heedless Court Dissolv'd in Wine and Sport; But hot, and deaf to all remorse Had fiercely storm'd our Walls with open force:

And when strong Fates had Troy or'come Too savage He, ah! ah! with Grecian Flames Had burnt the breeding Dames,

And in their Mothers burning Womb, Poor harmless Infants found a hated Tomb:

But your kind Prayers, and Venus Face Prevail'd on Fate, made angry Juno kind, And bent Jove's mighty mind To grant a more auspicious place To raise a Town for great Aeneas Race:

Fain'd Artist on the Muses Lyre, That bath'st thy yellow Locks in Zanthus Flood, Sweet, smooth-fac't charming God, Improve the rage thou didst inspire, Encrease my heat and still preserve my Fire:

From Phoebus all my fancy came, 'Twas Phoebus first that taught me how to sing, And strike the speaking string; He Art inspir'd, He rais'd my Fame, And gave the glory of a Poet's name:

You noble Maids, and noble Boys, The chast Diana's chiefest care below, Whose dreadful Darts and Bow, Fierce Tygers fear; observe my voice, Observe the measures of the publick joys:

Just praises give Latona's Son; And sing the Moon with her encreasing light The beauteous Queen of Night, Kind to our Fruits, and swift alone To turn the headlong Months, and whirl 'em down.

When Marriage bands confine thy Love Then boast, as years brought round the Feast, I plaid The Tunes that Horace made; I sang his Verse; and This did prove A pleasing Tribute to the Gods above.

ODE VII. To MANLIUS TORQUATUS. The Spring coming on, from the consideration of our frail State, He invites him to be merry.

THe Snows are gone, and Grass returns again, New Leaves adorn the Widow Trees The unswoln Streams their narrow banks contain, And softly role to quiet Seas:

The decent Nymphs with smiling Graces joyn'd, Now naked dance i'th' open Air They frolick, dance, nor do they fear the Wind That gently wantons thro their Hair.

The nimble hour that turns the Circling Year And swiftly whirls the pleasing Day, Forewarns Thee to be Mortal in thy Care Nor cramp thy Life with long delay: The Spring the Winter, Summer wasts the Spring, And Summers beauty's quickly lost, When drunken Autumn spreads her drooping Wing And next cold Winter creeps in Frost.

The Moon tis true her Monthly loss repairs, She streight renews her borrow'd light; But when black Death hath turn'd our shining years, There follows one Eternal Night.

When we shall view the gloomy Stygian Shore, And walk amongst the mighty Dead Where Tullus, where Aeneas went before: We shall be Dust, and empty shade:

Who knows if stubborn Fate will prove so kind, And joyn to this another day? What e're is for thy greedy Heir design'd, Will slip his Hands, and fly away:

When thou art gone, and Minos Sentence read, Torquatus there is no return, Thy Fame, nor all thy learned Tongue can plead, Nor goodness shall unseal the Urn:

For Chast Hyppolytus Diana strives, She strives, but ah! she strives in vain; Nor Theseus Care, and Pious force reprieves, Nor breaks his Dear Perithous Chain.

ODE VIII. To Marcus Censorinus. Verse is the best and most lasting Present that a Man can send his Friend.

I Would be kind, I would bestow Dear Censorine, on all I know, Plate, Statues, Brass prepar'd; Or Bowls the stoutest Greeks reward: On You my Friend, and half my heart, Some curious Piece of noble Art; Could I the famous Works command Of Scopa's or Parrhasius hand, One skill'd in Stone, and one in Paint To frame a Man, or make a Saint: The Art declar'd the frame divine, And God appear'd in every Line. But I am poor, and your Estate Too large for these, your Soul too great To want such Toys: but You delight In noble Verse, and I can write; I'me rich in these, can please a Friend, And show the worth of what I send: Not stately Pillars rais'd in Brass, Nor Stones inscrib'd with publick Praise, Tho such new Heat and Vigor give, And make the buried Heroes live; The hasty flight, the wondrous fall, And threats thrown back on Hannibal,

Not Impious Carthage bright in flames, His praise, who came increas't in Names From conquer'd Africk, Vertues show With half the Glory Verse can do: If Books were dumb, what small Regard Would Vertue meet, what mean Reward? And who had Rome's great Founder known Tho sprung from Mars, tho Ilia's Son, If envious silence had with-held, His great Deserts, and Fame conceal'd? From Shades below, and gloomy Night By Poet's power, and force of Wit Good Eack freed, serenely reigns A Mighty King in happy Plains: The Muse forbids great worth to dye; On whom she will bestows the Sky: Thus Great Alcides carves the Feast With Jove himself, a noble Guest: Thus shining Castor kindly saves A feeble Ship in roughest Waves; And Bacchus, crown'd with Ivy, hears Our modest Vows, and speeds our Prayers.

ODE IX. To LOLLIUS. His Songs shall never dye; and he is resolv'd to make his Friend Lollius his Name live for ever.

VAin fear to think those Words will dye Which born by Aufid's whirling stream, With unknown Art I first did try In Lyric numbers joyn'd With charming strings to bind, And gently raise my noble Theme.

Tho King in Verse great Homer reigns, And doth Equality refuse; Yet Pindar lives in lofty strains, Alcoeus nobly charms, The Coean Lyrick warms With grave Stesichorus stately Muse:

We read Anacreon's wanton toys; Whilst they our passions gently move, No Envy blasts, no Age destroys; And Sappho's charming Lyre Preserves her soft desire, And tunes our ravisht Souls to Love.

Not only Helen's Heart was fir'd, When basely careless of her fame

She Paris Princely Train admir'd, His Curls surprizing grace, His Dress, his Art, his Face, And lewdly fed her lawless Flame.

Not Teucer first drew fatal Bows; Not Troy but once felt Grecian rage; Not only Stheneleus brav'd his Foes, The great first-born of Fame, That fought, and overcame And lives in Verse to future Age.

Not Hector first the glory won Of bravely spending Royal Blood To guard his hopes, his darling Son; Nor first profuse of Life To save a Vertuous Wife And do his dying Country good.

Before that Age a thousand liv'd, And sent surprising Glories forth, But none the silent Grave surviv'd; In Night their Splendor's gone, They fell, unmourn'd, unknown; Because no Verse embalms their Worth.

What worth doth lazy floth excel, If 'tis withheld from sounding Fame? Thy Glories I will loudly tell, And in immortal Verse Thy living praise reherse, Nor suffer Age to wast thy Name:

A Generous Mind in Action bold, Wise in debate, in Council grave, Too strong for all-attracting Gold: Let Fortune frown or smile Thy soul is constant still, In either State 'tis great and brave:

Not Consul only for one Year, But still the Chair as oft obtain'd As equal justice rul'd the Bar, As oft as Crimes accus'd, And guilty Bribes refus'd With haughty look she nobly Reign'd:

Believe not those that Lands possess And shining heaps of useless Ore The only Lords of Happiness, But rather those that know For what kind Fates bestow, And have the Art to use the Store:

That have the generous skill to bear The hated weight of Poverty Who more than Death will baseness fear, Who nobly to desend Their Country or their Friend Embrace their Fate, and gladly dye.

ODE X. To scornful LIGURINE. Age will come, Beauty wast, and then he will be sorry for his present Pride.

AH lovely yet, and great in Charms, Ah coy, and flying from my Arms! When an unlook't for Beard shall hide And scatter'd hairs spread o're thy Pride; When all those wanton Curls shall fall, Thy Rosy Color yield to Pale, Thy Cheeks grow wan, thy Body pine, And leave a different Ligurine, Ah thou shalt say, when e're the glass Shall show Thee quite another Face, Ah whilst I was a vigorous Boy, Why did I not this Mind enjoy! Or since I now so freely burn Why won't my former Face return!

ODE XI. To PHYLLIS. On Mecaenas his Birth Day, He invites her to a Feast.

I Keep some Casks of racy Wines Full nine years old; to Crown thy hair My Parsly grows; my Ivy twines, To grace thy head, and make Thee fair:

My Rooms well furnish'd joy proclaim, My Altar Crown'd with Sacred Wood And Vervine chast, expects her Lamb, And thirsts to drink the promis'd Blood.

All hands at work, my Boys and Maids With busy hast the Feast prepare, My Torches raise their trembling Heads And roll dark Volumes thro the Air:

But now to tell what joys to Night I call Thee to; I keep the Ide That April's Month the choice delight Of Sea-born Venus doth divide:

A Day of Joy and Mirth appears, And almost dearer than my own; It shuts Mecaenas former years, And brings another gently on:

That Telephus whom you desire A richer Maid, and Beauty gains Young, Wanton, Gay, and full of fire, And holds him fast in pleasing Chains:

Burnt Phaëton checks hopes too high, From Heaven by dreadful Thunder thrown; And Pegasus refus'd to fly And threw his mortal Rider down:

The Phillis stop thy rising Flame, And all ambitious thoughts remove, 'Tis Sin to hunt too great a Game, And fly at an unequal Love:

Come, come, my last, my dearest Miss, The last I can I must adore; No Face shall e're provoke a Kiss; And other Beauty warm no more:

Come learn, my Dear, some pleasing Song, Which you with a surprising Air Might warble o're your charming Tongue; For Songs are good to lessen Care:

ODE XII. To VIRGIL. He describes the Spring, and invites him to Supper.

THe soft Companions of the Spring The gentle Thracian Gales Spread o're the Earth their flowry Wing, And swell the greedy Merchants Sails:

The Streams not swoln with melted Snow In fair Meanders play, To quiet Seas they smoothly flow, And gently eat their easy way.

The Swallow with the Spring returns, And as she builds her Nest, Her murder'd Itys sadly mourns And sighs, and beats her troubled Breast.

The swallow Athens lasting shame, For tho her Cause was just, Her Breast conceiv'd a lawless flame, And ill reveng'd the Tyrant's Lust.

The Swain whilst Flocks securely feed Sits down, and sweetly plays, He softly blows his Oaten Reed, And pleaseth Pan with rural Lays:

The Season, Virgil, brings us thirst; And if you Mirth design VVith Noble youths, bring Oyntment first, And I'le provide Thee racy VVine:

For one small Box of Oyntment brought I will a Cask prepare, 'Tis strong to tame a lofty thought, Check hopes, and wash down bitter Care.

Now if you'l make a joyful Guest I'le not, as Nobles do, Bear all the Charges of the Feast But must expect a share from you.

Think Life is short, forget thy fears, And eager thoughts of Gain, Short Folly mix with graver Cares, 'Tis decent sometimes to be vain.

ODE XIII. To LYCE. He insults over her now she is grown old.

THe Gods have heard, Lyce, the Gods have heard The Gods have heard my Prayer, As I have wish'd, and you have feard, Your'e old, yet would be counted fair:

You toy, you impudently drink to raise Your lazy dull desire, You strive to highten to a blaze VVith your cold breath the dying fire.

In vain, 'tis all in vain, coy Cupid flys, A better Seat He seeks, In young soft Chloe's Face he lyes, And gently wantons in her Cheeks:

Coy he flies o're dry Oaks, he scorns thy Face, Because a furrow'd Brow And hollow Eyes thy form disgrace, And o're thy head Age scatters Snow.

Nor can thy costly dress the Eastern Shore VVith all the Gems it bears Thy former lovely Youth restore, Nor bring thee back thy scatter'd Years,

Those Years which the Eternal wheel hath spun, And drawn beyond thy Prime, Thro which swift Day hath nimbly run And shut in known Records of Time.

VVhere is that Beauty, where that charming Air, That shape, that Amorous Play, Oh what hast thou of her! of Her! VVhose every look did Love inspire, VVhose every breathing fan'd my fire, And stole me from my self away!

To lovely Cynera's Face set next in Fame For all that can surprize, For all those Arts that raise a Flame, And kindly feed it at our Eyes;

But hasty Fate cut charming Cynera short, That Fate that now prepares Old Lyce, old as Daws for sport, And scorn as grievous as her Years.

When our hot Youths shall come, and laugh to see The Torch that burnt before; And kindled aged Lechery, To Ashes fall'n, and warm no more.

ODE XIV. To AUGUSTUS. That His Deserts are much greater than any Rewards Rome can bestow.

HOw can the Senate's, how the People's care, Tho All with gifts that swell with honors strive, A lasting Monument prepare To make thy glory live, And thy great Name thro future Ages bear!

O greatest Prince the circling Sun can view! Whom stout Vindilici unlearn'd in fear, From glorious Conquests lately knew How great He is in VVar, And felt that all that Fame had told was true.

Brave Drusus led thy conquering Legions on, And fierce Genauns a stubborn Nation broak; The furious Brenni's force o'rethrown

Now gladly take the Yoke, The Glory of their Slavery proudly own.

Strong Castles fixt on Mountains vastly high, Almost as high as his aspiring thought, VVith a repeated Victory Thrown down; He climb'd and fought Where Fear or winged Hope scarce dar'd to fly.

Next Elder Nero great in Arms appear'd, And Rhoeti fought; A sight for Gods to see VVhat slaughters broak their Souls prepar'd For Death with Liberty, And led the Conqueror to high Reward.

As raging VVinds with an impetuous Course When stormy Stars assist, do toss the flood, So fierce He breaks thro armed force, Thro Darts and streams of blood And threatning flames He spurs his eager Horse:

As branched Aufidus doth Moles disdain, And thro Apulian Fields doth whirl his VVaves, VVhen rais'd by Snow or swoln with Rain, Against his Banks He raves, And threatens Floods to all the fruitful Plain.

Thus Claudius violent did in Arms appear, No Bands, no barbarous Troops his force could stay, The Front, the Body, and the Rear Secure he swept away, And o're the Field He scatter'd dreadful War:

Whilst You your Forces, You your Counsel lent, What mortal Courage could his Arms oppose? VVhen to his Aid your Gods you sent, He thunder'd on his Foes, And threw among them Slavery as He went.

Since suppliant Egypt in her empty Throne Receiv'd Thee Lord, the Fates that strive to bless, Thy Title to the Empire own By fifteen Years Success; And still increase the Glory of thy Crown.

The fierce Cantabrian not to be o'recome Before thy Arms, the Indian and the Mede, The wandring Scythians lurk at home, And Thee they wisely dread; O present guard of Italy and Rome!

The Waves that beat the British monstrous shore, Cold Ister, Nile, and Tanais rapid stream, Fierce Spaniards now rebel no more, And Gauls that death contem Lay down their Arms, and quietly adore.

ODE XV. He praiseth Augustus.

WHen I would sing of noble Fights, Of Lofty things in lofty flights; Kind Phoebus Harp my Temples strook, The trembling strings in Consort shook, And answer'd to the tunes he spoak: Thy Ship is weak, he said, forbear, And tempt not raging Seas too far. Thy Age, great Caesar, gracious Lord, Hath Plenty to our Fields restor'd: Proud Parthians captive Arms resign To Mighty Jove's and Caesar's Shrine. Now noisy VVars and Tumults cease, And Janus Temple's barr'd by Peace: Wild Lust is bound in modest chains, And Licence feels just order's reins: Strict Vertue rules, good Laws command; And banisht Sin forsakes the Land: You all those generous Arts renew, By which our Infant Empire grew; By which her Fame spread vastly wide, And carry'd in Majestick pride From East to West serenely shone, As far and glorious as the Sun. Whilst Caesar lives and rules in Peace, No Civil VVars shall break our Ease, No Rage that fatal Swords prepares, And hurries wretched Towns to VVars:

Not cruel Getes tho bath'd in blood, Not those by Tanais faithless stood, Not those that drink Danubius Stream Shall glorious Caesar's Laws contem: We on our Feast, and working days 'Midst jovial Cups will gladly praise; Our Pious Wives, and pratling Boys Shall first the Gods with humble voice, And then with Pipes and sounding Verse The Heroes noble Acts reherse; Anchises, Troy our Songs shall grace, And brave Aeneas Venus happy race.

The End of the Fourth Book.