421

OVID. TRIST. LIB. V. EL. XII. But can a wretch like Ovid pant for fame? No, rather let the world forget my name. Is it because that world approved my strain, You prompt me to the fame pursuit again? No, let the Nine the ungrateful truth excuse, I charge my hopeless ruin on the Muse, And, like Perillus, meet my just desert, The victim of my own pernicious art; Fool that I was to be fo warn'd in vain, And shipwreck'd once, to tempt the deep again. Ill fares the bard in this unletter'd land, None to confult, and none to understand. The pureft verse has no admirers here, Their own rude language only fuits their ear. Rude as it is, at length familiar grown, I learn it, and almost unlearn my own;Yet to fay truth, e'en here the Mufe difdains Confinement, and attempts her former strains, But finds the strong defire is not the power, And what her taste condemns, the flames devour. A part, perhaps, like this, escapes the doom, And though unworthy, finds a friend at Rome; But oh the cruel art, that could undo

Its votary thus! would that could perish too!

HORACE. LIB. I. ODE IX.

Vides, ut altâ ftet nive candidum
Soracte;

EEST thou yon mountain laden with
deep fnow,

The groves beneath their fleecy burthen
bow,

The streams, congeal'd, forget to flow, Come, thaw the cold, and lay a cheerful pile Of fuel on the hearth;

Broach the best cask, and make old Winter smile With feasonable mirth.

This be our part-let Heaven dispose the rest;
If Jove command, the winds shall sleep
That now wage war upon the foamy deep,
And gentle gales spring from the balmy west.

E'en let us fhift to-morrow as we may,
When to-morrow's paff'd away,
We at least shall have to say,

We have lived another day;

Your auburn locks will foon be filver'd o'er,
Old

age is at our heels, and youth returns no more.

HORACE. LIB. I. ODE XXXVIII.

Perficos odi, puer, apparatus.

OY, I hate their empty fhows;
Perfian garlands I deteft;
Bring not me the late-blown rofe,
Lingering after all the reft.

Plainer myrtle pleases me,

Thus outstretch'd beneath my vine;
Myrtle more becoming thee,
Waiting with thy master's wine.

ANOTHER VERSION OF THE SAME

ODE.

OY! I deteft all Perfian fopperies,

Fillet-bound garlands are to me disgusting;

Task not thyself with any fearch, I charge thee, Where latest roses linger,

Bring me alone (for thou wilt find that readily) Plain myrtle. Myrtle neither will disparage Thee occupied to ferve me, or me drinking Beneath my vine's cool fhelter.

HORACE. LIB. II. ODE XVI.

Otium Divos rogat in patenti.

ASE is the weary merchant's prayer,
Who ploughs by night the Ægean
flood,

When neither moon nor ftars appear,
Or faintly glimmer through the cloud.

For eafe the Mede with quiver graced,
For ease the Thracian hero fighs,
Delightful ease all pant to tafte,

A bleffing which no treasure buys.

For neither gold can lull to rest,
Nor all a Conful's guard beat off
The tumults of a troubled breaft,

The cares that haunt a gilded roof.

Happy the man whose table shows
A few clean ounces of old plate,
No fear intrudes on his repose,

No fordid wishes to be great.

Poor short-lived things, what plans we lay!
Ah, why forfake our native home!
To distant climates speed away;

For felf sticks close where'er we roam.

Care follows hard, and foon o'ertakes
The well rigg'd ship, the warlike steed;
Her destined quarry ne'er forfakes,

Not the wind flies with half her speed.

From anxious fears of future ill

Guard well the cheerful, happy now;
Gild e'en your forrows with a smile,
No bleffing is unmix'd below.

Thy neighing steeds and lowing herds,

Thy numerous flocks around thee graze,

And the best purple Tyre affords
Thy robe magnificent displays.

On me indulgent Heaven bestow'd
A rural mansion, neat and small;
This lyre; and as for yonder crowd,
The happiness to hate them all.

ON THE BENEFIT RECEIVED BY HIS

MAJESTY FROM SEA-BATHING,

In the Year 1789.

SOVEREIGN of an ifle renown'd
For undisputed fway,
Wherever o'er yon gulf profound
Her navies wing their way;