Some pleafing meadow pregnant beauty prest,
She laid her infant on its flow'ry breast,
From Nature's sweets he fipp'd the fragrant dew,
He fmil'd, he kiss'd them, and by kiffing grew.

Let thofe love now, who never lov'd before, Let those who always lov'd, now love the more.

Now bulls o'er ftalks of broom extend their fides,
Secure of favours from their lowing brides.
Now ftately rams their fleecy conforts lead,
Who bleating follow thro' the wand'ring fhade.
And now the Goddess bids the birds appear,
Raise all their music, and falute the year:
Then deep the Swan begins, and deep the fong
Runs o'er the water where he fails along;
While Philomela tunes a treble strain,

And from the poplar charms the lift'ning plain.
We fancy love expreft at ev'ry note,

It melts, it warbles, in her liquid throat.

Of barb'rous Tereus fhe complains no more,
But fings for pleasure as for grief before.
And still her graces rife, her airs extend,

And all is filence till the Syren end.

E

How

Illa cantat : nos tacemus:

quando ver venit

meum ?

Quando faciam ut celidon, ut tacere definam?

Perdidi Mufam tacendo, nec me Phoebus refpicit. Sic Amyclas, cum tacerent, perdidit filentium.

Cras amet, qui numquam amavit; quique amavit,

cras amet.

How long in coming is my lovely spring?

And when fhall I, and when the swallow fing?
Sweet Philomela cease,
Or here I fit,

And filent lofe my rapt'rous hour of wit:
'Tis gone, the fit retires, the flames decay,
My tuneful Phoebus flies averfe away.
His own Amycle thus, as ftories run,
But once was silent, and that once undone.

Let thofe love now, who never lov'd before;
Let thofe who always lov'd, now love the more.

E

HOME R's

BATRACHOMUOMACHIA:

OR, THE

BATTLE

OF THE

FROGS and MICE.

E 3