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Are nightly now compell'd to trudge
With Links, because they would not drudge
To fave their Ladies longing.

V.

But Val the Eunuch cannot be
A colder Cavalier than he,

In all fuch Love-adventures :
Then pray do you, dear Molly, take
Some chriftian Care, and do not break
Your conjugal Indentures.

VI.

Bellair! (who does not Bellair know?
The Wit, the Beauty, and the Beau,)
Gives out, he loves you dearly:

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And many a Nymph attack'd with Sighs,
And foft Impertinence and Noife,
Full oft has beat a Parley.

VII.

But, pretty Turtle, when the Blade
Shall come with am'rous Serenade,
Soon from the Window rate him:
But if Reproof will not prevail,
And he perchance attempt to fcale,
Discharge the Jordan at him.

HORACE. BOOK IV.

ODE IX.

I.

Erfes immortal as my Bays I fing,

VE

When fuited to my trembling String:

When by ftrange Art both Voice and Lyre agree
To make one pleafing Harmony.

All

All Poets are by their blind Captain led ;

(For none e'er had the facrilegious Pride
To tear the well-plac'd Laurel from his aged Head.)
Yet Pindar's rolling dithyrambic Tide
Hath ftill this Praife, that none presume to fly
Like him, but flag too low, or foar too high.
Still does Stefichorus's Tongue

1

Sing fweeter than the Bird which on it hung.
Anacreon ne'er too old can grow,
Love from every Verse does flow;
Still Sappho's Strings do feem to move,
Inftructing all her Sex to love.

II.

Golden Rings of flowing Hair
More than Hellen did enfnare
Others a Prince's Grandeur did admire,
And wond'ring, melted to Defire.
Not only skilful Teucer knew

To direct Arrows from the bended Yew.
Troy more than once did fall,

Tho' hireling Gods rebuilt its nodding Wall.

Was Sthenelus the only valiant he,

A Subject fit for lafting Poetry?

Was Hector that prodigious Man alone,

Who, to fave others Lives, expos'd his own?
Was only he fo brave to dare his Fate,
And be the Pillar of a tot'ring State?
No; others bury'd in Oblivion lie,
As filent as their Grave,
Because no charitable Poet gave

Their well-deferved Immortality.

III.

Virtue with Sloth, and Cowards with the Brave,

Are levell'd in th' impartial Grave,

If they no Poet have.

VOL. II.

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But

But I will lay my Mufick by,

And bid the mournful Strings in Silence lie;
Unless my Songs begin and end with you,

To whom my Strings, to whom my Songs are due.
No Pride does with your rifing Honours grow,
You meekly look on fuppliant Crowds below.

Should Fortune change your happy State,
You could admire, yet envy not, the Great.
Your equal Hand holds an unbiass'd Scale,
Where no rich Vices, gilded Baits, prevail.
You with a gen'rous Honesty despise
What all the meaner World fo dearly prize:
Nor does your Virtue disappear,

With the fmall Circle of one fhort-liv'd Year :

Others, like Comets, vifit and away;

Your Luftre, (great as theirs) finds no Decay,
But with the constant Sun makes an eternal Day.
IV.

We barbaroufly call thofe bleft,

Who are of largest Tenements poffeft,

Whilft fwelling Coffers break their Owner's Reft.
More truly happy those! who can

Govern that little Empire, Man;

Bridle their Paffions and direct their Will
'Thro' all the glitt'ring Paths of charming Ill;
Who spend their Treasure freely, as 'twas giv'n
By the large Bounty of indulgent Heav'n;
Who in a fixt unalterable State,

Smile at the doubtful Tide of Fate,

And scorn alike her Friendship and her Hate;
Who Poifon lefs than Falfhood fear,

Loth to purchase Life so dear;

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But kindly for their Friend embrace cold Death,
And feal their Country's Love with their departing

Breath.

ELEGY

ELEGY upon the Death of TIBULLUS. From Ov I D.

IF Memnon's Fate, bewail'd with conftant Dew,

Does, with the Day, his Mother's Grief renew;
If her Son's Death mov'd tender Thetis' Mind
To fwell with Tears the Waves, with Sighs the Wind;
If Mighty Gods can Mortals Sorrow know,
And be the humble Partners of our Woe;
Now loofe your Treffes, penfive Elegy,
(Too well your Office and your Name agree.)
Tibullus, once the Joy and Pride of Fame,
Lies now rich Fuel on the trembling Flame.
Sad Cupid now defpairs of conqu❜ring Hearts,
Throws by his empty Quiver, breaks his Darts:
Eafes his useless Bows from idle Strings;

Nor flies, but humbly creeps with flagging Wings.
He wants, of which he robb'd fond Lovers, Reft;
And wounds with furious Hands his penfive Breast.
Thofe graceful Curls which wantonly did flow,
The whiter Rivals of the falling Snow,

Forget their Beauty, and in Discord lie,
Drunk with the Fountain from his melting Eye.
Not more Æneas' Lofs the Boy did move;
Like Paffions for them both, prove equal Love.
Tibullus' Death grieves the fair Goddess more,
More fwells her Eyes, than when the favage Boar
Her beautiful, her lov'd Adonis tore.

Poets large Souls Heav'n's nobleft Stamps do bear; (Poets, the watchful Angels darling Care)

Yet Death (blind Archer) that no Diff'rence knows,
Without Respect his roving Arrows throws.
Nor Phabus, nor the Mufes Queen, could give
Their Son, their own Prerogative, to live.

C 2

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Orpheus,

Orpheus, the Heir of both his Parents Skill,

Tam'd wond'ring Beasts, not Death's more cruel Will,
Linus' fad Strings on the dumb Lute do lie,
In Silence forc'd to let their Mafter die.
Homer (the Spring, to whom we Poets owe
Our little All, does in fweet Numbers flow)
Remains immortal only in his Fame,

His Works alone furvive the envious Flame.
In vain to Gods (if Gods there are) we pray,
And needlefs Victims prodigally pay,
Worship their fleeping Deities: Yet Death
Scorns Votaries, and stops the praying Breath.
To hallow'd Shrines intruding Fate will come,
And drag you from the Altar to the Tomb.

Go, frantick Poet, with Delufions fed,
Think Laurels guard your confecrated Head,
Now the sweet Master of your Art is dead.
What can we hope ? fince that a narrow Span
Can measure the Remains of thee, Great Man.
The bold, rafh Flame that durft approach fo nigh,
And fee Tibullus, and not trembling die,
Durft feize on Temples, and their Gods defy.
Fair Venus (fair ev'n in fuch Sorrows) ftands,
Clofing her heavy Eyes with trembling Hands.
Anon, in vain, officioufly fhe tries

To quench the Flame with Rivers from her Eyes.
His Mother weeping does his Eye-lids close,
And on his Urn Tears, her laft Gift, bestows.
His Sifler too, with Hair difhevell'd, bears
Part of her Mother's Nature, and her Tears.

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With thofe, two Fair, two mournful Rivals come, And add a greater Triumph to his Tomb : Both hug his Urn, both his lov'd Ashes kiss, And both contend which reap'd the greater Blifs. Thus Delia fpoke (when Sighs no more could laft) Renewing by Remembrance Pleasures paft; "When Youth with Vigour did for Joy combine, "I was Tibullus' Life, Tibullus mine:

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