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'Tis one thing madly to disperse my store,
28 What is't to me (a passenger God wot) Whether
vessel be first-rate or not? The Ship it self may make a better figure, But I that fail, am neither less nor bigger. I neither strut with ev'ry fav’ring breath, 300 Nor strive with all the tempeft in my teeth. In pow'r, wit, figure, virtue, fortune, plac'd Behind the foremost, and before the last.
• 29" But why all this of Av'rice? I have none." I wish you joy, Sir, of a Tyrant gone : 305 But does no other lord it at this hour, As wild and mad ? the Avarice of pow'r ? Does neither Rage inflame, nor Fear appall ? Not the black fear of death, that saddens all ? .
An potiùs, puer ut feftis Quinquatribus olim,
Viribus, ingenio, Specie, virtute, loco, re,
29 Nor es avarus: abi. quid? cætera jam simul ifto Cum vitio fugere ? caret tibi peetus inani Ambisione ? caret mortis formidine & ira?
With terrors round, can Reason hold her throne, 310
but melted the rough parts away,
30 Learn to live well, or fairly make your You've play'd, and lov'd, and eat, and drank your fill : Walk sober off; before a sprightlier age Comes titt'ring on, and shoves you from the stage: 325 Leave such to trifle with more grace and ease, Whom Folly pleases, and whole Follies please.
Somnia, terrores magicos, miracula, sagas,
30 Vivere si rectè nescis, decede peritis.
Of the FOURTH BOOK of
H OR A CE.
Ah spare me, Venus ! let me, let me rest!
Ah found no more thy soft alarms,
Mother too fierce of dear Defires !
To Number five direct your Doves,
Noble and young, who strikes the heart
Equal, the injur'd to defend,
NTERMISSA Venus diu
Non fum qualis eram, bone
Mater sava Cupidinum,
Jam durum imperiis : abi
Tempestiviùs in domo
ODE I. BOOK IV, &c.
He, with a hundred Arts refind,
To him each Rival shall submit,
Then shall thy Form the Marble grace, (Thy Græcian Form, and Chloe lend the Face ;
His House, embosom'd in the Grove, Sacred to social life and social love,
Shall glitter o'er the pendent green,
Thither, the filver-founding Lyres
There, every Grace and Muse shall throng,
There Youths and Nymphs, in consort gay,
With me, alas ! those joys are o'er ;
Namque & nobilis & decens,
Et centum puer artium, Latè figna feret militiæ tuæ.
Et quandoque potentior
Albanos prope te lacus
Illic plurima naribus
Adieu ! fond hope of mutual fire, The still believing, still-renew'd defire ;
Adica ! the heart-expanding bowl, And all the kind Deceivers of the foul !
But why ? ah tell me, ah too dear! Steals down my cheek th' involuntary Tear ?
Why words to flowing, thoughts so free, Stop, or turn nonsense, at one glance of thee ?
Thee, drest in Fancy's airy beam, Absent I follow throʻ th' extended Dream ;
Now, now I seize, I clasp thy charms, And
you burst, (ah cruel !) from my arms, And swiftly shoot along the Mall, Or softly glide by the Canal,
Now shown by Cynthia's filver ray, And on rolling waters snatch'd
Laudantes, fede candido
Me nec femina, nec puer.
Nec certare juvat mero :
Sed cur, heu ! Ligurine, cur
Cur facunda parum decoro
Noturnis te ego fomniis
Te, per gramina Martii