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The Odes and Epodon of Horace, In Five Books

Translated into English by J. H. [i.e. John Harington]

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To MÆCENAS, being sick. Ode XVII.
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To MÆCENAS, being sick. Ode XVII.

Who should he dye, Horace saith that he would be loth to outlive him.

Why dost thou kill me thus, MÆCENAS lov'd,
With thy Complaints? 'tis nor by Gods nor me,
That thou should Dye the first, approv'd;
My States grand Pillar, dignity.
Ah! should some swifter Fate thee seize, controul,
(My Souls best Half) why stay I th' other part?
Nor pleasing then, nor perfect Soul,
Surviving thee; that day same Dart
Shall ruine Both: nor have I sworn in vain,
Perfidiously; we'l go, we'l go (howe're
Thou precede) Companions twain
For that last Voyage bent appear.

46

Nor shall Chimæra's bulk fire-breathing though,
Nor hundred-handed GYAS from thy side
Ravish me; great justice so
This pleased hath, stern Fates beside.
Me whether Libra, or dreadful Scorpius,
(That fiercer part of my first native hour)
Views, or Capricorn, which does
Like King th' Hesperian Waves o're-power.
Both of our Stars, well-matcht for Influence,
Strangely concur; thee JOVE'S assistant Beam
From SATURN'S spightful Ray did fence,
And dull'd as 'twere those Wings supream
Of hasty Fate: when popular Shouts did spread
Thy Praise thrice round through the ample Theatre,
Me Tree's falling Trunk upon my head
Had slain, but Wood-god's hand did bar
The mortal stroak. Art's Patron thou, chief wealth
To th' learned Train, when rais'd thine Offering
Perform'd i'th' Temple vow'd to Health:
We meaner Lamb to th' Ax shall bring.