Ovid's epistles translated by several hands.

HYPSIPYLE to JASON.

BY Mr. SETTLE.

The ARGUMENT.

The Desire of gaining the Golden Fleece, put Ja∣son upon a Voyage to Cholchos. In his passage, he stop'd at the Island of Lemnos, of which place Hypsipyle was then Queen, famed for her pi∣ous saving of her Father Thoas, in a general Massacre of the Men there by the Women of that Country. Her Entertainment of Jason so kind, as induced him to stay there two years, at the end of which he left the Island, and the Queen, (then big with Child;) and after a thou∣sand Vows of Constancy, and a speedy return, persues his first intended Voyage, and arrives at Cholchos, where Aeta was King. Medea his Daughter falls deeply in Love with Jason, and by her Charms be gain'd the Golden Fleece; with which and Medea, he secretly saild home to Thessaly. Hypsipyle hearing of his Land∣ing with her more happy Rival Medea, writes him this Epistle.

LAden, they say with Iasons Golden Prize, Proud Argo in Thessalia's Harbour lies.

I would congratulate your safe return; But from your pen I should that safety learn. When from my slighted Coast you bore away, Spight of the winds; you show'd less Faith, than They. If't was too much t'enjoy my dearest Lord, Sure I deserv'd one Line, one tender word. Why did Fame first, and not their Conqueror, show, How Wars Fierce God saw his tam'd Bulls at Plough. How th'Earthborn Warriours rose, and how they fell By their own Swords, without your Conquering steel. How in your Charms the fetter'd Dragon lay, Whilst your bold hand bore the curld Gold away. When doubtful Tongues shall Iasons wonders tell, Would I could say, see here's my Oracle.

But tho' unkind Loves silence I deplore, Your heart still mine, I would desire no more. But ah, that hope is vain;—a Witch de∣stroys My fancied pleasures, and my promis'd Joys. Would I could say (but, oh, Loves fear's too strong!) Would I could say I guiltless Iason wrong. Lately a Guest came from th' Hemonian Land: My door scarce reacht, with transport I demand How fares my Iason? His sad look he bore, Fixt with an ominous silence on the floor. My Robes I tore, and thus, with Horrour, cry'd, Lives he! or with one wound both hearts must bleed? He lives, said he, to which I made him swear: He swore by Heav'n, yet I retain'd my Fear.

My sense return'd to ask your Deeds, he said, That the yok'd Bulls of Mars in Chains you led. The Snakes own Teeth a crop of Heroes bore, Whil'st a rough native case their Limbs huskt o're. And by their own Intestine Fury slain; One Days short Age compleats their active Raign. Again I ask, does my dear Iason live? Such Ebbs and Flows Loves fears & hopes do give. He fatally proceeds, and with much Art, Would hide, yet shews the falseness of your heart. Ah, where's your Nuptial Faith, that flattering stile, Loves Torch more fit to light my Funeral pile! I have no lawless plea to Iasons Love; Iuno, and Hymen our just Chaplets wove: Ah no! not these mild Gods: Erynnis hand, At our curst Rites held her infernal Brand.

Why to my Lemnos did your Vessel steer? Or why fond fool, did I admit you here? Here no bright Ram with golden glory shone, Nor was my Lemnos the Aetean Throne. At first— (but Fates all faint Resolves withstand) I thought t' expel you with a Female hand. The Lemnian Ladies are in Arms well skill'd: Their Guard had been my Lifes securest shield. But in my City, Roof, my soul received, For two blest years my darling Iason lived. Forc'd the third Summer to a sad Farewel, Mixt with his Tears these parting Accents fell. Do not at our divided Fates repine, Thine I depart, to return ever Thine. May our yet unborn pledge live long, to prove The object of its Rival Parents Love,

'Twixt sighs and Tears, thro' those false gales did pour These falser shours, till grief could speak no more. You were the last the fatal Argo reacht, Whose swelling Sails th' or••hasty winds had stretcht. The furrowing Keel the Seas green surface plough'd: You to the Shore, toth' Seas I gazing bow'd, In hast I ran to an adjacent Towr: My Tears ore all my face and bosom showr. There my wet Eyes my wafted soul pursue, And ev'n beyond their natural opticks flew. A thousand Vows for your return I made, You are return'd, and they should now be pay'd. My Vows for curs'd Medeas Triumphs pay! My Heart to Grief, my Love to Rage gives way.

Shall I deck Temples, and make Altars shine, For that false man that lives, but lives not mine! I never was secure. 'Twas my long dread, You by your Fathers choice a Greek might wed. To no Greek Bride, t'an unexpected Foe, My wounds, I t' a Barbarian Harlot owe: One who by Spells, & Herbs does hearts surprize; Nor are her slaves the Trophies of her Eyes. She from her course the strugling Moon would hold, The Sun himself, in Magick shades infold. She curbs the Waves, and stops the rapid Floods, And from their seats removes whole Rocks and Woods. With her dishevell'd Hair the wandring Hag Does half-burnt Bones from their warm Ashes drag. In moulten wax, tho' absent, kills by Art, Arm'd with her Needle, goars a tortur'd Heart.

Nay, what Desert and Form should only move, By Philters she secures her Iasons Love. How can you doat on such Infernal Charms, And sleep securely in a Syrens Arms? You, as the Bulls, she does to' her Yoke subdue, And as she tam'd the Dragons, Conquers you. Though your great Deeds, and no less Race you boast, Linkt to that Fiend your sullied Fame is lost. Nay by the censuring World 'tis justly thought, Your Conquests by her Sorceries were wrought; And the Phryxean Ram's Triumphant Oar, They say, not Iason, but Medea bore. This Northren Bride your Parents disapprove: Consult your Duty in your Nobler Love. Let some wild Scythian her loath'd bed possess, A Mistress only fit for Savages.

Iason more false, more changeable than wind, Have Vows no weight, and Oaths no pow'r to bind? Mine you departed; ah, return mine too, Let my kind Arms their long lost Scenes renew. If high Birth, and great Names your Heart can turn, Know, I 'm the Royal Thoas Daughter born. Bacchus my Grandsire is, whose Bride divine, All lesser Constellations does out shine. My Dow'r These and my Fertil Lemnos make, All these, and me thy Equal Title take. Nay I'me a Mother: a kind Father be, And soften all the pains I've born for thee. Yes Heaven with Twins has blest our Genial Bed; And would you in their Looks their Father read, His treacherous smiles they are too young to wear, In all things else you'l find your picture there;

I'had sent those Envoys in these Letters stead, Both for their own and Mothers wrongs to plead. Had not their Stepdames Murders bid e'm stay, Too dear a Treasure for that Monsters prey. Would her deaf Rage that rent her Brother's Bones, Spare my young blood, or hear their tenderer Groans? Yet in your Arms this dearer Traitress lies; Above my truth, you this false Poysoner prize. This mean Adultrate wretch was basely kind; Loves Sacred Lamp our chast embraces ioyn'd. Her Father she betray'd, mine lives by me, I Lemnos Pride, she Colchos Infamy. And thus her guilt my Piety outvies, Whilst with her Crimes her Dow'r your Heart she buyes.

False man, I blame, not wonder at the Rage O'th' Lemnian Dames: Wrongs do all Arms engage. Suppose in vengeance to your Guilt, just Heav'n Had on my Shore the perjur'd Iason driven; Whilst I with my young Twins to meet you came, And made you call on Rocks to hide your shame. How could you look upon my Sons and Me? Traytor, what Pains, what Death too bad for Thee? Perhaps indeed I Iason had not hurt, But 'tis my mercy more than his Desert: The Harlots blood had sprinkled all the Place, Dash't in your faithless, and once charming Face. I to Medea, should Medea prove, And if Iove hears the pray'rs of injur'd Love, May that loath'd Hag that has my Bed enjoy'd; Be by my Fate, and her own Arts destroy'd. Like Me a Mother, and a Wife forlorn, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 from her Ravish't Lord, and Children torn.

May her ill gotten Trophies never last, But round the World be th' hunted Monster chac'd. Those Dooms her Sire, and murder'd Brother met, May she t' her Husband and her Sons repeat. Driv'n from the World, let her attempt the skies, Till in Despair by her own hand she dies. Thus wrong'd Thoantias prays, your Lives curst Remnant lead, An Execrable Pair in a Detested Bed.