To the Unknown AUTHOR of the BATTLE of the SEXES.

HE theme in other works, for every part,

THE

Supplies materials to the builder's art:

To build from matter, is fublimely great,
But Gods and Poets only can create;
And fuch are you; their privilege you claim,
To fhow your wonders, but conceal your name.
Like some establish'd king, without control,
You take a general progress through the foul;
Survey each part, examine every fide,
Where she's fecure, and where unfortify'd.
In faithful lines her hiftory declare,
And trace the causes of her civil war ;
Your pen no partial prejudices sway,

But truth decides, and virtue wins the day.

Through what gay fields and flowery scenes we pass,
Where fancy sports, and fiction leads the chace?
Where life, as through her various acts the tends,
Like other comedies, in marriage ends.

What Mufe but yours fo juftly could display
Th' embattled paffions marfhal'd in array?
Eid the rang'd appetites in order move,
Give luft a figure, and a shape to love?
To airy notions folid forms difpenfe,

And make our thoughts the images of sense?
Discover all the rational machine,

And show the movements, springs, and wheels within?
But Hymen waves his torch, all difcords cease;
All parley, drop their arms, and fue for peace.

Soon as the fignal flames, they quit the fight,
For all at first but differ'd to unite.

From every part the lines in order move,
And sweetly center in the point of love.

Let blockheads to the mufty schools repair,
And poach for morals and the paffions there,
Where virtue, like a dwarf in giant's arms,
Cumber'd with words, and manacled in terms,
Serves to amuse the philosophic fool,
By method dry, and regularly dull.
Who fees thy lines fo vifibly express
The foul herself in such a pleafing dress;

May from thy labours be convinc'd and taught,
How Spenfer would have fung, and Plato thought.

The TWELFTH ODE of the FIRST BOOK of HORACE, TRANSLATED.

WHAT man, what hero will you raise,

By the fhrill pipe, or deeper lyre?

What God, O Clio, will you praise,
And teach the echoes to admire?

Amidst the fhades of Helicon,

Cold Hamus' tops, or Pindus' head,
Whence the glad forests haften'd down,
And danc'd as tuneful Orpheus play'd.

Taught by the Mufe, he ftop'd the fall
Of rapid floods, and charm'd the wind;
The liftening oaks obey'd the call,

And left their wondering hills behind,

Whom

Whom should I first record, but Jove,
Whose sway extends o'er fea and land,
The king of men and gods above,
Who holds the seasons in command?

To rival Jove, shall none aspire,
None fhall to equal glory rife;
But Pallas claims beneath her fire,
The fecond honours of the fkies.
To thee, O Bacchus, great in war,
To Dian will I ftrike the string,
Of Phoebus wounding from afar,

In numbers like his own I'll fing,
The Mufe Alcides fhall refound;
The twins of Leda fhall fucceed;
This for the ftanding fight renown'd,
And that for managing the steed.
Whose star shines innocently still;
The clouds difperfe, the tempefts cease,
The waves obedient to their will,

Sink down, and hush their rage to peace.

Next shall I Numa's pious reign,
Or thine, O Romulus, relate:
Or Rome by Brutus free'd again,
Or haughty Cato's glorious fate?
Or dwell on noble Paulus' fame?
Too lavish of the patriot's blood?
Or Regulus' immortal name,

Too obftinately just and good?

Thefe

Thefe with Camillus brave and bold,
And other chiefs of matchless might,
Rome's virtuous poverty of old,
Severely season'd to the fight.

Like trees, Marcellus' glory grows,
With an infenfible advance;

The Julian ftar, like Cynthia, glows,
Who leads the planetary dance.

The fates, O fire of human race,
Entruft great
Cæfar to thy care,
Give him to hold thy fecond place,
And reign thy fole vicegerent here.
And whether India he fhall tame,

Or to his chains the Seres doom;
Or mighty Parthia dreads his name,
And bows her haughty neck to Rome.
While on our groves thy bolts are hurl'd,
And thy loud car shakes heaven above,

He shall with justice awe the world,
To none inferior but to Jove.

The TWENTY-SECOND ODE of the FIRST BOOK of

TH

HORACE.

'HE man unfully'd with a crime,
Difdains the pangs of fear,

He fcorns to dip the poifon'd fhaft,
Or poise the glittering fpear.

Nor

Nor with the loaded quiver goes

To take the dreadful field:

His folid virtue is his helm,
And innocence his shield.

In vain the fam'd Hydafpes' tides,
Obftruct and bar the road,
He fmiles on danger, and enjoys
The roarings of the flood.

All climes are native, and forgets
Th' extremes of heats and frosts,
The Scythian Caucafus grows warm,
And cool the Libyan coasts.

For while I wander'd through the woods,
And rang'd the lonely grove,
Loft and bewilder'd in the fongs
And pleafing cares of love

A wolf beheld me from afar,

Of monftrous bulk and might;

But, naked as I was, he fled
And trembled at the fight.

A beast fo huge, nor Daunia's grove,
Nor Africk ever view'd;

Though nurst by her, the lion reigns
The monarch of the wood.

Expofe me in thofe horrid climes,

Where not a gentle breeze

Revives the vegetable race,

Or chears the drooping trees.

Where