Medulla Poetarum Romanorum Or, the Most Beautiful and Instructive Passages of the Roman Poets. Being a Collection, (Disposed under proper Heads,) Of such Descriptions, Allusions, Comparisons, Characters, and Sentiments, as may best serve to shew the Religion, Learning, Politicks, Arts, Customs, Opinions, Manners, and Circumstances of the Antients. With Translations of the same in English Verse. By Mr. Henry Baker |
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Disswasion.
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 | Medulla Poetarum Romanorum |  |
Disswasion.
See Intreaty.
My Son, says he, some other Proof require,
Rash was my Promise, rash is thy Desire.
I'd fain deny this Wish, which Thou hast made,
Or what I can't deny, wou'd fain disswade.
Too vast and hazardous the Task appears,
Not suited to thy Strength, nor to thy Years.
Thy Lot is mortal, but thy Wishes fly
Beyond the Province of Mortality.
Oh! don't, my Son, this fatal Gift require,
But, while Thou canst, recall thy rash Desire.
Chuse what Thou wilt from Seas, or Earth, or Skies,
For open to thy Wish all Nature lies:
Only decline this one unequal Task,
A Mischief not an Honour 'tis you ask.
You ask a real Mischief, Phaëton:
Nay, hang not thus about my Neck, my Son:
I grant your Wish, and Styx has heard my Voice:
Chuse what you will:—but make a wiser Choice.—
Rash was my Promise, rash is thy Desire.
I'd fain deny this Wish, which Thou hast made,
Or what I can't deny, wou'd fain disswade.
Too vast and hazardous the Task appears,
Not suited to thy Strength, nor to thy Years.
Thy Lot is mortal, but thy Wishes fly
Beyond the Province of Mortality.
Oh! don't, my Son, this fatal Gift require,
But, while Thou canst, recall thy rash Desire.
Chuse what Thou wilt from Seas, or Earth, or Skies,
For open to thy Wish all Nature lies:
255
A Mischief not an Honour 'tis you ask.
You ask a real Mischief, Phaëton:
Nay, hang not thus about my Neck, my Son:
I grant your Wish, and Styx has heard my Voice:
Chuse what you will:—but make a wiser Choice.—
Me dost Thou fly?—By these distilling Tears,
By thy Right Hand, (since Nought else I've reserv'd
To wretched me,) by our connubial Rites,
And Hymenéal Loves but yet begun:
If ever I have ought of Thee deserv'd,
Or any Thing of mine was e'er to Thee
Delightful: pity my declining State:
And, Oh! if yet there's any room for Pray'r,
Be yet intreated,—yet thy Purpose change.—
By thy Right Hand, (since Nought else I've reserv'd
To wretched me,) by our connubial Rites,
And Hymenéal Loves but yet begun:
If ever I have ought of Thee deserv'd,
Or any Thing of mine was e'er to Thee
Delightful: pity my declining State:
And, Oh! if yet there's any room for Pray'r,
Be yet intreated,—yet thy Purpose change.—
O Gallant Youth! the more thy Valour boils
Exuberant, the more it me concerns
With Prudence to advise, and fearing weigh
All Hazards. Thee thy Father Daunus' Realms,
And many Cities vanquish'd by thy Arms,
Attend, to own thy Sway.—
Think on the various Chance of doubtful War:
Pity thy aged Father: whom from Thee
His distant City Ardea now divides,
Sad and disconsolate.—
Exuberant, the more it me concerns
With Prudence to advise, and fearing weigh
All Hazards. Thee thy Father Daunus' Realms,
And many Cities vanquish'd by thy Arms,
Attend, to own thy Sway.—
Think on the various Chance of doubtful War:
Pity thy aged Father: whom from Thee
His distant City Ardea now divides,
Sad and disconsolate.—
The weeping Queen, ev'n dying with her Fears,
Hung on the ardent Hero. By these Tears,
I beg Thee, Turnus, grant this one Request:
If ought of Rev'rence ever touch'd thy Soul,
For poor Amata. Thou the only Hope
Art left, the Solace of my wretched Age:
On Thee Latinus' Fame, and Realm, on Thee
The Royal House with all it's Stress reclines.
Forbear: nor urge the Trojans to the Field:
Whatever Fortune waits Thee in the War,
Me too, my Turnus, waits.—
The fair Lavinia seconds with her Tears
Her Mother's Suit; and bathes her glowing Cheeks.—
Hung on the ardent Hero. By these Tears,
I beg Thee, Turnus, grant this one Request:
If ought of Rev'rence ever touch'd thy Soul,
For poor Amata. Thou the only Hope
Art left, the Solace of my wretched Age:
On Thee Latinus' Fame, and Realm, on Thee
The Royal House with all it's Stress reclines.
Forbear: nor urge the Trojans to the Field:
Whatever Fortune waits Thee in the War,
Me too, my Turnus, waits.—
The fair Lavinia seconds with her Tears
Her Mother's Suit; and bathes her glowing Cheeks.—
| Medulla Poetarum Romanorum | |