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POEMS

ON

Several OCCASIONS.

HORACE. Book 1. Ode VIII.

S

To LYDIA.

AY, Lydia, by the Gods I beg you, Say,
Why you by Love's bewitching Arts betray
Young Sybaris? Why feek you to destroy
His Virtue by the foft Unmanly Joy?
Why does he now the dufty Circas thun,
No longer patient of the scorching Sun?

Why does he ceafe, among the Martial Train,
To curb the Gallic Steed with foamy Rein?
To fwim in Tyber's yellow Flood forbear,

And more than Vipers Blood, the Wreffler's Ointment fear
Why, from the Quoit or Dart's fuccessful Fling,

Wins he no Praises from the fhouting Ring?

B

Why,

Why, like Achilles, when the Grecian Hoaft
Prepar'd to fail for Troy's unhappy Coast,
Skulks he at home, neglectful of his Fame,
Diffolv'd in Sloth and Love's inglorious Flame?

HORACE

Book I. Ode XXVI. Imitated.

THE Poet's Brow, that facred Laurel wears,
Shou'd always be ferene, and free from Cares;

Jocund and chearful, each revolving Day;
Smooth as his Verfe, and as his Fancy gay!
Say, how can it affect my Mufe and Me,
Whether the Turk and Mufcovite agree;

In the last Fight, what num'rous Bands were slain;
And who the Vict'ry got, the Swede or Dane ;
Or why fhou'd I, with anxious Thoughts and Cares
Perplex my Mind, for other Mens Affairs?
Give Me of gen'rous Wine a copious Bowl,
To drown my Sorrows, and exalt my Soul:
Then, by th' Affiftance of th' infpiring Juice,
My Mufe may hope her Numbers to produce,
In fuch an eafy unaffected Strain,

As may from skilful Strephon Pardon gain.

HORACE

но 0 R

A CE.

Book I. Ode XXXI.

To APOLLO.

WHAT does the Poet of his God defire ?

What Boon at great Apollo's Shrine require,
Whilft with new Wine a brimming Bowl he fills,
And on the Floor the grateful Off'ring fpills?
Not the large Crops of fair Sardinia's Soil,

Whose bounteous Glebe scarce needs the Tiller's Toil;
Nor Herds, which warm Calabria's Meadows feed;
Nor Courfers, which her fertile Paftures breed:
Not that far India may his Pride fupply
With burnish'd Gold, and polish'd Ebony;
Nor Lands, where Liris' filent Waters stray,
And gliding steal infenfibly away.

Let thofe, whom Fortune's kinder Favours blefs,
From the ripe Grape the racy Liquor prefs;
Let the rich Merchant, (who has plow'd the Main,
And Danger in all Shapes furvey'd for Gain;,
Whom the propitious Gods indulgent Aid
Has fafely to Saturnia's Ports convey'd,)
Drink with his jovial Friends ambrofial Wine,
In Goblets that with golden Luftre shine;
Whilft Me, who these vain Luxuries despise,
Olives and Herbs, plain homely Fare, fuffice:
Grant Me, O Phoebus! but this one Request,
(For this obtaining, I'm of all poffeft).
That I may, found in Body and in Mind,
Whilft Age allows thefe Bleffings to Mankind,
In tuneful Songs my careless Hours employ,
And my low Fate contentedly enjoy,

B 2

HORACE

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