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Horat. Ode 29. Book 3. Paraphras'd
in Pindarique Verfe; and infcrib'd to the Right Honourable Lawrence Earl of Rochester.
By Mr. DR YDEN.
Defhending the Tucan Scepter fway'd,
Make hafte to meet the generous Wine,
Whose piercing is for thee delay'd : The rosie Wreath is ready made ;
And artful hands prepare The fragrant Syrian Oil, that shall perfume thy Hair.
When the Wine sparkles from afar,
And the well-natur'd Friend cries, come away; Make hafte, and leave thy Business and thy Care, No mortal int'reft can be worth thy stay.
And, to be great indeed, forget
Make haste and come :
Thy Turret that surveys, from high,
And all the busie pageantry That wise Men (corn, and Fools adore : Come, give thy Soul a loose, and taste the Pleasures of
[the Poor. Sometimes ’tis grateful to the Rich, to try A short vicissitude, and fit of Poverty:
A favoury Dish, a homely Treat,
Without the stately spacious Room,
The Syrian Star
Barks from afar ; And with his sultry Breath infects the Sky ; [fry. The Ground below is parch'd, the Heav'ns above us The Shepherd drives his fainting Flock, Beneath the covert of a Rock ; And seeks refreshing Rivulets nigh :
The Sylvans to their Shades retire, Those very Shades and Streams, new Shades and
Art anxiously inquisitive to know :
The dark Decrees of future Fate ;
And sown their Seeds in depth of Night ;
Is sometimes high, and sometimes low,
And always in extream.
Anon it lifts aloft the Head,
And Trunks of Trees come rowling down,
Sheep and their Folds together drown:
And Rocks are from their old Foundations torn, And Woods made thin with Winds, their featter'd
VIII. [Honours mourn. Happy the Man, and happy he alone,
He, who can call to Day his own :
He who, fecure within, can fay
Be fair, or foul, or rain, or fine,
Not Heav'n it felf upon the paft has Pow'r; But what has been, has been, and I have had my Hour.
Does Man her Slave oppress,
Is seldom pleasd to blefs.
Promotes, degrades, delights in Serife,
And makes a Lottery of Life.
I puff the Proftiture away:
Content with Poverty, my Soul I arm ;
What is't to me,
If Storms arise, and Clouds grow black;
If the Maft fplit and threaten Wreck,
For his ill gotten Gain ;
While the debating Winds and Billows bear
His Wealth into the Main.
And running with a merry Gale,
And see the Storm a-shore,
From HORACE, Epod. 2.
By Mr. DRYDEN.
ow happy in his low Degree,
Who leads a quiet Country Life!
Nor Drums difturb his Morning Sleep,
Nor fears the Dangers of the Deep.
And Court and State he wisely funs,
To servile Salutacions runs :
Does the supporting Poplar wed,
Unbearing Branches from their Head,
Or climbing to a hilly Steep
He views his Herds in Vales afar, Or sheers his overburden'd Sheep,
Or Mead for cooling drink prepares,
Of Virgin Honey in the Jars. Or in the now declining Year,
When bounteous Autumn rears his Head, He joys to pull the ripen'd Pear,
And clustring Grapes with Purple Spread. The fairest of his Fruit he serves,
Priapus thy rewards : Sylvanus too his part deserves,
Whose care the fences guards. Sometimes beneath an ancient Oak,
Or on the matted Grass he lyes; No God of Sleep he need invoke,
The stream that o'er the pebbles flies
With gentle Slumber crowns his Eyes. The Wind that whistles through the Sprays
Maintains the consort of the Song ;
The golden Aeep prolong.
And hoary frost inverts the Year,
And seeks the tusky Boar to rear,
With well-mouth'd Hounds and pointed Spear. Or spreads his subtile Nets from light
With twinkling Glasses, to betray The Larks that in the Meshes light,
Or makes the fearful Hare his prey. Amidst his harmless easie joys
No anxious Care invades his Health,
Nor wicked avarice of Wealth.