The works of Mr. Thomas Brown Serious and Comical, In Prose and Verse; In four volumes. The Fourth Edition, Corrected, and much Enlarged from his Originals never before publish'd. With a key to all his Writings |
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The x. Ode in Horace l. 3. Paraphrased. |
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 | The works of Mr. Thomas Brown |  |
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The x. Ode in Horace l. 3. Paraphrased.
Extremum Tanaim si biberes Lyce.
I.
Tho' you, my Lyce, in some Northen FloodHad chill'd the Current of your Blood;
Or lost your sweet engaging Charms
In some Tartarian Husband's icy arms;
Were yet one Spark of Pity left behind
To form the least Impression on your Mind,
Sure you must grieve, sure you must sigh,
Sure drop some Pity from your Eye,
To see your Lover prostrate on the Ground,
With gloomy Night, and black Despair encompass'd all around.
II.
Hark! how the threatning Tempests rise,And with loud Clamours fill the Skies;
Hark! how the tott'ring Buildings shake,
Hark! how the Trees a doleful Consort make.
And see! oh see! how all below.
The Earth lyes cover'd deep in Snow,
The Romans clad in white, did thus the Fasces woo;
And thus your freezing Candidate, my Lyce, sues for you.
III.
Come, lay these foolish Niceties aside,And to soft Passion sacrifice your Pride:
Let not the precious Hours with fruitless Questions dye,
But let new Scenes of Pleasure crown them, as they fly.
Slight not the Flames which your own Charms infuse,
And no kind friendly Minute lose,
While Youth and Beauty give you leave to chuse.
As Men by Acts of Charity below
Or purchase the next World, or think they do:
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To make a sure Retreat for your declining Age.
IV.
Let meaner Souls by Virtue be cajol'd,As the good Grecian Spinstress was of old;
She, while her Sot his youthful Prime bestow'd
To fight a Cuckold's Wars abroad,
Held out a longer Siege, than Troy,
Against the warm Attacks of proffer'd Joy,
And foolishly preserv'd a worthless Chastity,
At the expence of ten Years Lyes and Perjury.
Like that old fashion'd Dame ne'er bilk your own Delight,
But what you've lost ith' Day, get, get it in the Night.
V.
Oh! then if Prayers can no Acceptance find,Nor Vows, nor Offerings bend your Mind;
If all these pow'rful Motives fail,
Yet your Husband's Injuries prevail
He, by some Play-house Jilt misled,
Elsewhere bestows the Tribute of your Bed;
Let me his forfeited Embraces share,
Let me your mighty Wrongs repair.
Thus Kings by their own Rebel-Powers betray'd,
To quell the home-bred Foe call in a foreign Aid.
VI.
Love, let Platonicks promise what they will,Must, like Devotion, be encourag'd still;
Must meet with equal Wishes and Desires,
Or else the dying Lamp in its own Urn expires.
And I, for all that boasted Flame
We Poets and fond Lovers idly claim,
Am of too frail a Make, I fear,
Shou'd you continue still severe,
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And bear the Coldness of the Nights, and Rigor of your Hate.
| The works of Mr. Thomas Brown | |