A Poetical Translation of the works of Horace With the Original Text, and Critical Notes collected from his best Latin and French Commentators. By the Revd Mr. Philip Francis...The third edition |
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Ode IV. To Xanthias Phoceus.
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 | A Poetical Translation of the works of Horace |  |
143
Ode IV. To Xanthias Phoceus.
Blush not, my Phoceus, though a Dame
Of servile State thy Breast enflame;
A Slave could stern Achilles move,
And bend his haughty Soul to Love:
Ajax, invincible in Arms,
Was captiv'd by his Captive's Charms:
Atrides, midst his Triumphs mourn'd,
And for a ravish'd Virgin burn'd,
What Time, the fierce Barbarian Bands
Fell by Peleides' conquering Hands,
And Troy (her Hector swept away)
Became to Greece an easier Prey.
Of servile State thy Breast enflame;
A Slave could stern Achilles move,
And bend his haughty Soul to Love:
Ajax, invincible in Arms,
Was captiv'd by his Captive's Charms:
Atrides, midst his Triumphs mourn'd,
And for a ravish'd Virgin burn'd,
What Time, the fierce Barbarian Bands
Fell by Peleides' conquering Hands,
And Troy (her Hector swept away)
Became to Greece an easier Prey.
Who knows, when Phyllis is your Bride,
To what fine Folk you'll be allied?
Her Parents dear, of gentle Race,
Shall not their Son-in-law disgrace.
She sprung from Kings, or nothing less,
And weeps the Family's Distress.
To what fine Folk you'll be allied?
Her Parents dear, of gentle Race,
Shall not their Son-in-law disgrace.
She sprung from Kings, or nothing less,
And weeps the Family's Distress.
145
Think not that such a charming She
Can of the sordid Vulgar be;
To shameless, prostituted Earth,
Think not that Phyllis owes her Birth,
Who with such Firmness could disdain
The Force and Flattery of Gain.
Can of the sordid Vulgar be;
To shameless, prostituted Earth,
Think not that Phyllis owes her Birth,
Who with such Firmness could disdain
The Force and Flattery of Gain.
Yet, after all, believe me, Friend,
I can with Innocence commend
Her blooming Face, her snowy Arms,
Her taper Leg, and all her Charms,
For, trembling on to forty Years
My Age forbids all jealous Fears.
I can with Innocence commend
Her blooming Face, her snowy Arms,
Her taper Leg, and all her Charms,
For, trembling on to forty Years
My Age forbids all jealous Fears.
| A Poetical Translation of the works of Horace | |