The thirtyfeventh ODE of the first Book of Horace.

On the Death of CLEOPATRA.

C

OME Companions, come away,

Let us feaft the Gods to Day;

With glad Steps and flowing Bowls
Let us now rejoyce our Souls:

Pierce the choice Campanian Pipe,
Ne'er till now the Wine was ripe:
Twas Impiety before

To have broach'd our Fathers Store,

Whilft, with base unmanly Men,

The enraged Ægyptian Queen,

Drunk with too indulging Fate,
Fondly arrogant and great,
Dared our all-triumphing State.
She, with Wine enrag'd before,

Now appeas'd will rage no more.

}

Now

Now her Pride to Fear is turn'd,

With her Fleet her Hopes are burn'd;

Scarce a Ship does now remain

That can waft her back again

Rome the flies, but flies in vain.

For, as Hawks who from above,
Fly to feize the tender Dove;

Or as Hunt(men fwift prepare
(In the cold Theffalian Air)

To pursue the swifter Hare:
So AUGUSTUS ftill pursued,
Till the Monfter he subdued.

Who with greater Fame to fall,

And be envy'd more by all,

Brav'd the Sword's deftructive Blade,
Suppliant fought no Shores for Aid;

But, with Mind ferene, grown bold,

Cou'd her Royal Seat behold,

Now deftroy'd: She daring ftill,

Serpents took, who biting kill,

}

That

That the pois'nous fqualid Gore
Might be spread thro' ev'ry Pore.

Fixt her Death; this matchless She
Grows more fierce; her Bravery
Scorn'd to be in Triumphs feen
But in thofe of Egypt's Queen.

So unconcern'd thy felf, and I fo much!

What Art is this, that with fo little Pains

[Touch,

Transports me thus, and o'er my Spirits reigns?

I figh, I joy, and tremble at the Blow ;

Small Force there needs to make me tremble fo

Touch'd by that Hoop, who would not tremble too?

?

Written on a Lady's Scrutoire, whom the Author went to vifit when gone Abroad.

H

ERE all Things do with Paradife agree,

Save that its Miftrefs will not tempted be;

Fair Charmer, let not Virtue give us Pain,
And, Faith, we're all in Paradife again.

Horace, ODE 9. Book 1. imitated.

B

I.

Ehold; the Snow in pompous Pride

Reigns o'er the Hills a Tyrant King,

As if it envious were to hide

The Maiden Blushes of the Spring.

11.

O'erburthen'd with its Weight, the Trees

Seem to be fenfible of Pains,

Whilft Rivers and the rapid Seas

Confefs the Force of Icy Chains,

III.

Cold from without you may repel
By fov'reign Help of rouzing Fire,
And Cold within will never fail

At Sight of Claret to retire,

IV.

To know To morrow's doubtful End,

Wreck not thy anxious Thoughts in vain ;

Learn to enjoy To day, my Friend,

And place each Moment to thy Gain.

V.

On Sweets of Love your Senfes feast,

And dance and revel while you may,

E'er churlish Age becomes your Guest,

And drives with Life your Joys away.