THE SIXTEENTH ODE

OF THE

SECOND BOOK OF HORACE,

x forms when clouds the moon do hide, And no kind ftars the pilot guide, Shew me at fea the boldest there, Who does not wish for quiet here. For quiet, friend, the foldier fights, Bears weary marches, fleepless nights, For this feeds hard, and lodges cold; Which can't be bought with hills of gold. Since wealth and power too weak we find, To quell the tumults of the mind; Or from the monarch's roofs of state

Drive thence the cares that round him wait;
Happy the man with little bleft,
Of what his father left poffeft;
No bafe defires corrupt his head,
No fears difturb him in his bed.
What then in life, which foon must end,
Can all our vain designs intend?
From shore to fhore why should we rua,
When none his tirefome felf can fhun?
For baneful care will till prevail,
And overtake us under fail,

Twill dodge the great man's train behind,
Out-run the roe, out-fly the wind.
It then thy foul rejoice to-day,
Drive far to-morrow's cares away.
In laughter let them all be drown'd:
No perfect good is to be found.
One mortal feels Fate's fudden blow,
Another's lingering death comes flow;
And what of life they take from thee,
The gods may give to punish me.
Thy portion is a wealthy ftock,
A fertile glebe, a fruitful flock,
Hories and chariots for thy cafe,
Pich robes to deck and make thee please.
For me, a little cell I choose,
Fit for my mind, fit for my Muse,
Which foft content does best adorn,
Stunning the knaves and fools I fcorn.

But furely I a heaven adore,

Too precious to be fold;
Can Sylvia fuch a coxcomb prize,

For wealth, and not defert;
And my poor fighs and tears defpife?
Alas! 'twill break my heart!

When, like fome panting, hovering dove,
I for my blefs contend,

And plead the cause of eager love,
She coldly calls me friend.

Alas! Sylvia! thus vain you strive
To act a healer's part,

'Twill keep but lingering pain alive,
Alas! and break my heart.

When, on my lonely, penfive bed
I lay me down to rest,
In hope to calm my raging head,
And cool my burning breast,
Her cruelty all cafe denies :

With fome fad dream 1 ftart,
All drown'd in tears I find my eyes,

And breaking feel my heart.

Then rifing, through the path I rove,
That leads me where the dwells,
Where to the fenfelefs waves my love
Its mournful story tells:

With fighs I dew and kifs the door,
Till morning, bids depart;
Then vent ten thousand fighs and more;
Alas! 'twill break my heart!

But, Sylvia, when this conqueft's won,
And I am dead and cold,
Renounce the cruel deed you've done,
Nor glory when 'tis told;
For every lovely generous maid

Will take my injur'd part,
And curfe thee, Sylvia, I'm afraid,
For breaking my poor heart.

Nature their fpecies fure must needs difown,
Scarce knowing poets, lefs by poets known.
Yet this poor thing, so scorn'd and set at nought,
Ye all pretend to, and would fain be thought.
Difabled wafting whore-masters are not
Prouder to own the brats they never got,
Than fumbling, itching rhymers of the town
T'adopt fome base-born fong that's not their

own.

Spite of his ftate, my Lord fometimes defcends,
To please the importunity of friends.

The dulleft he, thought most for business fit,
Will venture his bought place to aim at wit;
And though he finks with his employs of state,
Till common sense forsake him, he'll translate.
The Poet and the Whore alike complains,
Of trading quality, that spoil their gains;
The lords will write, and ladies will have

fwains!

}

have

'Therefore all you who have male-iffue born
Under the ftarving sign of Capricorn,
Prevent the malice of their stars in time,
And warn them early from the fin of rhyme :
Tell them how Spenfer ftarv'd, how Cowley
mourn'd,

How Butler's faith and fervice was return'd;
And if fuch warning they refuse to take,
This last experiment, O parents make!
With hands behind them fee th' offender ty'd,
The parish whip and beadle by his fide;
Then lead him to fome fall that does expofe
The authors he loves moft; there rub his nofe,
Till, like a fpaniel lafh'd to know command,
He by the due correction understand,
To keep his brain clean, and not foul the land;
Till he against his nature learn to strive,
And get the knack of dulnefs how to thrive.

THE BEGINNING OF A PASTORAL

ΟΝ ΤΗΣ

DEATH OF HIS LATE M.JESTY.

WHAT horror's this that dwells upon the plair,
And thus difturbs the fhepherd's peaceful reg: '
A difmal found breaks through the yielding air,
Forewarning us fome dreadful storm is near.
The bleating flocks in wild confusion stray,
The early larks forfake their wandering way,
And ceafe to welcome in the new-born day.
Each nymph poffeft with a diftracted fear,
Disorder'd hangs her loose difhevel'd hair.
Diseases with her strong convulfions reign,
And deities, not known before to pain,
Are now with apoplectic seizures flain.
Hence flow our forrows, hence increase our fan
Each humble plant does drop her filver tears.
Ye tender lambs, ftray not fo faft away,
To weep and mourn let us together stay;
O'er all the univerfe let it be fpread,
That now the fhepherd of the flock is dead.
The royal Pan, that fhepherd of the sheep,
He, who to leave his flock did dying weep,
Is gone, ah gone! ne'er to return from death
eternal fleep!

Begin, Damela, let thy numbers fly
Aloft where the foft milky way does lie;
Mopfus, who Daphnis to the ftars did fing,
Shall join with you, and thither waft our king,
Play gently on your reeds a mournful ftrain,
And tell in notes, through all th' Arcadian plat
The royal Pan, the shepherd of the sheep,
He, who to leave his flock did dying weep,
gone, ab gone! ne'er to return from death
eternal fleep!

Is