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48

BOOK II. ODE 16.

Otium Divos rogat in patenti
Prensus Ægeo, &c.

I.

When the poor Mariner can nought espie
But Sea and Skie,
Caught in the large Ægean Waves,
The dismal Clouds chasing away the Day;
The waining Moon no Light does give,
The guiding Lamps of Heaven are gone away;
Then the poor Merchant prays the Gods to live.
Peace, cry the Thracians, lame with War,
The Medes as quiet as their Quivers are,
Would be. But Peace, alas! is sold
Not for rich gems, nor Purple, nor for Gold.

II.

'Tis not, Oh Grosphus! treasures great
Can make perplexing care retreat;
49

'Tis not the Spears, with Horses joyn'd,
Remove the tumults of the Mind;
Or drive the busie thoughts from off ones Bed.
His Mite a Million is, who lives so well,
As no base Fear molests his sleep:
No great Ambition does disturb his Head,
Whose Board with homely Dainties doth excell,
Above a King's desire;
Set off with one old Salt, that once did grace his Sire.

III.

Why for Eternal Pleasures do we strive,
In a decaying mortal life?
Why must our station be remov'd
From that dear Country once we lov'd?
Why do we seek another Air,
And leave our Native Land?
The change of Climates does not change our care:
Who aws a Nation can't himself command.
Care, from the sturdy Ships won't keep aloof,
Though they were all of Canon proof:
The Card, the Compass, Helm and all the Art
That Neptunes briny Subjects know,
Perplexes the poor Seamans Heart:
50

Sometimes he dreads the Rock, and then the Seas,
And knows not where to go.
Fear trips it faster than frightn'd Hind,
Flies with more hast than the rough Easter Wind,
To rob a Mind of Ease.

IV.

He that at present has a joyful Mind,
Ne're thinks on what's to come:
He scorns to think on things that are not made,
Without a Being are in Chaos laid.
What pleasure can he find
To dream of future care, or think of future ease?
He keeps his pleasant home,
And mixes his sad thoughts with those that please.
None that the Gods have blest we happy call;
For whom they happy made, was never blest in all.
How soon the great Achilles did to Death
Yield his departing Breath?
How soon Death took him hence,
Who had Millions slew?
Soon did old Tython bid his House adieu:
His snowie Hairs cou'd not their wearer save,
51

From the inexorable Grave:
What is deni'd to thee, to me may fall by chance.

V.

Thou tell'st thy hundred Flocks of bleating Sheep,
Art pleas'd when thy Sicilian Heifers low:
No Musick is so good,
As Neighing Mares, that rattle through the Wood.
Thou in bright Tissues, in deep red dost go;
When the good natur'd Gods have given me,
A Soul of Verse, a Poets name,
That's writ on the chief Pinnacle of Fame;
A Heart from all perplexing Passions free:
Free from the Cowards cold, and Madman's Heat
But scorns the Vulgar, and contems the great.
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