 | Poems and Songs |  |
EPODE XVII.
To Canidia.
I yield
Canidia to thy Art,
Take pity on a penitent heart:
By Proserpine Queen of the Night,
And by Diana's glimmering light,
By the mysterious Volumes all,
That can the Stars from Heaven call;
By all that's sacred I implore
Thou to my wits would'st me restore.
The brave Achilles did forgive
King Telephus, and let him live,
Though in the field the King appear'd,
And War with Mysian bands prepar'd.
When on the ground dead Hector lay,
Expos'd, to Birds, and Beasts a prey;
The Trojan Dames in pity gave
Hector an honourable grave.
Ulysses Mariners were turn'd to Swine,
Transform'd by Circe's charms divine;
Yet Circe did their doom revoke,
And straight the grunting mortals spoke:
Each in his pristine shape appears,
Fearless of Dogs to lug their Ears.
Oh! do not my affliction scorn!
Enough in Conscience I have born!
My youth, and fresh complexion's gone,
Dwindled away to skin and bone.
My hair is powd'red by thy care,
And all my minutes busie are.
Day Night, and Night the Day does chase,
Yet have not I a breathing space!
Take pity on a penitent heart:
By Proserpine Queen of the Night,
And by Diana's glimmering light,
By the mysterious Volumes all,
That can the Stars from Heaven call;
By all that's sacred I implore
Thou to my wits would'st me restore.
The brave Achilles did forgive
King Telephus, and let him live,
277
And War with Mysian bands prepar'd.
When on the ground dead Hector lay,
Expos'd, to Birds, and Beasts a prey;
The Trojan Dames in pity gave
Hector an honourable grave.
Ulysses Mariners were turn'd to Swine,
Transform'd by Circe's charms divine;
Yet Circe did their doom revoke,
And straight the grunting mortals spoke:
Each in his pristine shape appears,
Fearless of Dogs to lug their Ears.
Oh! do not my affliction scorn!
Enough in Conscience I have born!
My youth, and fresh complexion's gone,
Dwindled away to skin and bone.
My hair is powd'red by thy care,
And all my minutes busie are.
Day Night, and Night the Day does chase,
Yet have not I a breathing space!
278
Wretch that I am! I now believe,
No pow'r can from thy charms reprieve:
Now I confess thy Magick can
Reach head, and heart, and un man Man.
What would'st thou have me say? what more?
O Seas! O Earth! I scorch all o're!
Hercules himself ne're burnt like me,
Nor th' flaming Mount in Sicily:
O cease thy spells, lest I be soon
Calcin'd into a Pumice-stone!
When wilt th' ha' done? What must I pay?
But name the sum, and I obey:
Say: Wilt thou for my ransom take
An Hecatomb? or shall I make
A baudy Song t'advance thy Trade,
Or court thee with a Serenade?
Would'st thou to Heav'n, and be a Star?
I'le hire thee Cassiopeia's Chair.
Castor to Helen a true friend
Struck her defaming Poet blind;
Yet he, good-natur'd Gentleman,
Gave the blind Bard his eyes again.
Since this, and much more thou canst do,
O rid me of my madness too!
From noble Ancestors thy race,
No vulgar blood purples thy face:
Thou searchest not the Graves of th' poor,
But Necromancy do'st abhor:
Gen'rous thy breast, and pure thy hands,
Whose fruitful womb shall people lands,
And e're thy Childbed-linnen's clean,
Thou shalt be up and to't again.
No pow'r can from thy charms reprieve:
Now I confess thy Magick can
Reach head, and heart, and un man Man.
What would'st thou have me say? what more?
O Seas! O Earth! I scorch all o're!
Hercules himself ne're burnt like me,
Nor th' flaming Mount in Sicily:
O cease thy spells, lest I be soon
Calcin'd into a Pumice-stone!
When wilt th' ha' done? What must I pay?
But name the sum, and I obey:
Say: Wilt thou for my ransom take
An Hecatomb? or shall I make
A baudy Song t'advance thy Trade,
Or court thee with a Serenade?
Would'st thou to Heav'n, and be a Star?
I'le hire thee Cassiopeia's Chair.
Castor to Helen a true friend
Struck her defaming Poet blind;
279
Gave the blind Bard his eyes again.
Since this, and much more thou canst do,
O rid me of my madness too!
From noble Ancestors thy race,
No vulgar blood purples thy face:
Thou searchest not the Graves of th' poor,
But Necromancy do'st abhor:
Gen'rous thy breast, and pure thy hands,
Whose fruitful womb shall people lands,
And e're thy Childbed-linnen's clean,
Thou shalt be up and to't again.
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