A Poetical Translation of the works of Horace With the Original Text, and Critical Notes collected from his best Latin and French Commentators. By the Revd Mr. Philip Francis...The third edition |
 | I. |
 |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
Epode XI. To Pettius.
|
| XIII. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
|
| II. |
 | A Poetical Translation of the works of Horace |  |
459
Epode XI. To Pettius.
Since cruel Love, O Pettius, pierc'd my Heart,
How have I lost my once-lov'd Lyric Art?
Thrice have the Woods their leafy Honours mourn'd,
Since for Inachia's Beauties Horace burn'd.
How was I then (for I confess my Shame)
Of every idle Tale the laughing Theme?
Oh! that I ne'er had known the jovial Feast,
Where the deep Sigh, that rends the labouring Breast,
Where Languor, and a gentle Silence shows,
To every curious Eye, the Lover's Woes.
How have I lost my once-lov'd Lyric Art?
Thrice have the Woods their leafy Honours mourn'd,
Since for Inachia's Beauties Horace burn'd.
How was I then (for I confess my Shame)
Of every idle Tale the laughing Theme?
Oh! that I ne'er had known the jovial Feast,
Where the deep Sigh, that rends the labouring Breast,
Where Languor, and a gentle Silence shows,
To every curious Eye, the Lover's Woes.
Pettius, how often o'er the flowing Bowl,
When the gay Liquor warm'd my opening Soul,
When Bacchus, jovial God, no more restrain'd
The modest Secret, how have I complain'd,
That wealthy Blockheads, in a Female's Eyes,
From a poor Poet's Genius bear the Prize?
But if a generous Rage my Breast should warm,
I swore—no vain Amusements e'er shall charm
My aching Wounds. Ye vagrant Winds receive
The Sighs, that sooth the Pains they should relieve;
Here shall my Shame of being conquer'd end,
Nor with such Rivals will I more contend.
When the gay Liquor warm'd my opening Soul,
When Bacchus, jovial God, no more restrain'd
The modest Secret, how have I complain'd,
That wealthy Blockheads, in a Female's Eyes,
From a poor Poet's Genius bear the Prize?
But if a generous Rage my Breast should warm,
I swore—no vain Amusements e'er shall charm
My aching Wounds. Ye vagrant Winds receive
The Sighs, that sooth the Pains they should relieve;
461
Nor with such Rivals will I more contend.
When thus, with solemn Air, I vaunting said,
Inspir'd by thy Advice I homeward sped,
But ah! my Feet in wonted Wanderings stray,
And to no friendly Doors my Steps betray,
There I forgot my Vows, forget my Pride,
And at her Threshold lay my tortur'd Side.
Inspir'd by thy Advice I homeward sped,
But ah! my Feet in wonted Wanderings stray,
And to no friendly Doors my Steps betray,
There I forgot my Vows, forget my Pride,
And at her Threshold lay my tortur'd Side.
| A Poetical Translation of the works of Horace | |