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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
Brown, Thomas (1663-1704)

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Volume 1.
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THE SECOND VOLUME OF THE WOKRS OF Mr. THO. BROWN. Containing LETTERS FROM THE Dead to the Living, And from the Living to the Dead. Both Serious and Comical.
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THE Third Volume OF THE WORKS OF Mr. Thomas Brown, Serious and Comical, In Prose and Verse.
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THE Fourth and Last Volume OF THE WORKS OF Mr. THO. BROWN. CONTAINING
  
[dedication]
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The Odes of Horace.
  
Part of the 2d Ode in Horace l. 4. Translated. Beginning at, Dignum laude Virum.
  
A Translation of Ode iii. l. 1. in Horace.
  
An Imitation of the 6th Ode in Horace, l 1. Scriberis vario fortis, & hostium . . . .
  
A Translation of Teucer Salamina, Patremq; Cum fugeret, &c. Hor. Ode vii. lib. 1.
  
Hor. Ode 8. l. 1.
  
Ode ix. Lib. 1. in Horace imitated. Vides ut alta stet nive candidum, &c.
  
A Paraphrase on Horace of Vides ut Altæ.
  
The x. Ode in Horace l. 3. Paraphrased.
  
Hor. Ode 11. l. 2.
  
The 13th Ode in Horace l. 4. Paraphrased.
  
The xv Ode in Horace Lib. 3. Imitated
  
A Translation of Ode xxiii. lib. 1.
  
The xxvi. Ode in Hor. l. 3. Paraphras'd.
  
Hor. Ode 27. l. 1.
  
The same Ode imitated.
  
An Imitation of the 14th Epod in Hor.
  
A Translation from Horace of Mollis inertia, February 85.
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MARTIAL'S EPIGRAMS.
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EPIGRAMS.
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FABLES.
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MISCELLANIES.
  
[When Eve the Fruit had tasted]
  
[As moody Job, in shirtless Case]
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A Supplement to Tho. Brown's Works.

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A Translation of Ode xxiii. lib. 1.

Vitas Hinnuleo me similis, Chloe,
Quærenti pavidam Montibus aviis
Matrem, &c.

I

Why flies Belinda from my Arms?
Or shuns my kind Embrace?
Why does she hide her blooming Charms?
And where I come forsake the Place.

II

Like some poor Fawn, whom every Breath
Of Air does so surprize;
18

In the least Wind he fancies Death,
And pants at each approaching Noise.

III

Alas! I never meant thee ill,
Nor seek I to devour thee,
Why should'st thou then with Coldness kill
The dying Slave that does adore thee.

IV

Leave, leave thy Mothers Arms for shame,
Nor fondly hang about her,
Thou'rt now of age to play the Game,
And ease a Lover's Pain without her.
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