Ovid's epistles translated by several hands.

HERMIONE TO ORESTES.

The ARGUMENT.

Hermione, the Daughter of Menelaus and Hele∣na, was by Tyndarus her Grandfather (to whom Menelaus had committed the govern∣ment of his House when he went to Troy) con∣tracted to Orestes. Her Father Menelaus, not knowing thereof, had betroth'd her to Pyr∣rhus▪ the Son of Achilles, who returning from the Trojan Wars, stole her away. Whereupon she writes to Orestes as follows.

THis, dear Orestes, this with health to you, From her that was your Wife & Cosin too; Your Cosin still, but oh! that dearer Name Of Wife another now does falsly claim.

What Woman can, I have already done, yet I'm confin'd by rough Achilles's Son. With much of Pain, and all the Art I knew, I strove to shun him, yet all wou'd not do. Stand off said I, foul Ravisher, take heed, My injur'd Husband will revenge this deed; Yet he more deaf then angry Tempests are, To his loath'd Chamber drag'd me by the hair. Had Troy still stood, had every Grecian Dame Become a Prey to th' haughty Victors flame, What cou'd I more have suffer'd then I do? Far more then poor Andromache e're knew. But oh my Dear! if, as I have for thee, Thou hast a tender care, or thought for me, Come bravely on, and as rob'd Tygers bold. Snatch me half murder'd from this Monsters hold Can you pursue each petty Rober's life, And yet thus tamely loose a Ravish't wife?

Think how my Father Menelaus rag'd For his lost Q••een, think what a War he wag'd, When pow'rful Greece was in his Cause engag'd. Had he sat quietly, and nothing try'd, As once she was, she'd still been Paris Bride. Prepare no Fleet, you will no Forces need, By you, and only you, I wou'd be free'd. Not but wrong'd Marriage is a Cause alone Sufficient for th' ingaging World to own. Sprung from the Royal Pelopean line, You are no less by Blood then Marriage mine. These double Ties a double Love perswade, And each sufficient to deserve your Aid. I to your Arms was by my Guardian given, The only Bliss I wou'd have beg'd from Heaven. But that unknown (O my unhappy Fate!) My Father gave me to the Man I hate.

Just were those Infant Vows to you I made, But this last Act had all those Vows betray'd. Too well he knows what 'tis to be in Love, How can he then my Passion disapprove? Since Love himself has felt, he will, nay must Allow this Passion in his Daughter just. My Fate resembles my wrong'd Father's Case, And Pyrrhus is that Thief that Paris was. Let my proud Goaler the brave deeds run o're, Count all the Laurels his great Parents wore, Whate're his cou'd, yours greater did, & more. Let him claim Kindred with some God above, You are descended from the Mighty Iove. Brave as you are, I wish 'twere understood By something else, then by Aegysthus Blood; Yet you are innocent, Fate drew the Sword, And a religious Duty gave the word.

With this the Tyrant does my Lord disgrace, And what's still worse, dares do it to my Face: Whilst burst with Envy, I am forc'd to be Rack't, and tormented with his Blasphemy. Shall my Orestes be abus'd, and I As one that's unconcer'nd sit careless by? No, though disabled, and of Arms bereft, Yet as a Woman, I have one way left, Tears I can shed, such as will yield relief To my sick Mind, choakt with excess of grief; For when the big-charg'd Storm hath lost its power, It sighs it self into a silent showre. This I can do, whilst by each other prest The dewy Pearls run ••rickling o're my breast. But how shou'd I this fatal woe escape? All our whole Race was subject to a Rape: I need not tell, how in soft Feathers drest, The wanton God his softer Nymph possest;

How through the deep in unknown ships convey'd Hippodame was from her Friends betray'd; How the fair Tyndaris by force detain'd, By th' Amyclaean brethren was regain'd. How afterwards by all the Grecian Power She was brought back from the Idaean shore. I scarce remember that sad day, and yet, Young as I was, I do remember it. Her Brothers wept, her Sister to remove Her Fears, call'd on the Gods, and her own Iove. Mother, said I, in a weak mournful Tone, Will you be gone, and leave me here alone? When you are gone, why shou'd I stay behind? All this I spoke, but spoke it to the wind. Now like the rest of my curst Pedigree, By this loath'd Wretch I am detain'd from Thee. The brave Achilles wou'd have blam'd his Son, Nor, had he liv'd, wou'd this have e're been done.

He ne're had thought it lawful to divide Those two, whom Marriage had so firmly ty'd. What is't, ye Gods, that thus provokes your hate, Or what curs'd Star rules my unhappy Fate? Why am I plagu'd by your injurious power, Rob'd of my Parents in a tender hour? He to the war, she with her Lover ••led, Though living both, yet both to me were dead. No babling words half fram'd upon thy tongue Lull'd me to soft repose when I was young. Your tender neck was ne're embrac't by me, Nor sat I ever smiling on your knee, You never tended me, nor was I led By thee (dear Mother) to my Marriage-bed▪ At your return, I saw, but knew you not, So sure my Mothers Face I had forgot. I gaz'd, and gaz'd, but knew no Feature there, Yet though•• 'twas you, 'cause so Divinely fair.

Such was our Ignorance, even you alas! Ask'd your own Daughter, where your Daughter was Thou, my Orestes, wert my sole delight, Yet thee too I must loose, unless you fight. Pyrrhus withholds me from thy Arms, that's all Hermione has gain'd by Iliums fall. Soon as the early Harbinger of day Guilds the glad Orb with his Resplendent Ray; My Grief's made gentler by th'approaching light, And some pain seems to vanish with the night; But when a Darkness o're the Earth is spread, And I return all pensive to my Bed, Tears from my Eyes, as streams from Fountains flow, I shun this Husband, as I'd shun a Foe. Oft grown unmindful through distractive Cares, I've str••tcht my Arms, and toucht him unawares;

Strait then I check the wandring Sense, and sly To the Bed's utmost limits, yet I lye Restless ev'n there, and think I'm still too nigh. Oft I for Pyrrhus have Orestes said, But blest the Error which my Tongue had made. Now by that Royal God whose Frown can make The Vassal Globe of his Creation shake, Th' Almighty Sire of our unhappy Race, And by the Scared Urn that does embrace Thy Father's dust, whose once loud blood may boast, Thou in repose hast laid his sleeping Ghost; I'le either live my dear Orestes's Wife, Or to untimely Fate resign my Life.