Anacreon Bion. Moschvs. Kisses, by Secundus. Cvpid crvcified, by Ausonius. Venvs vigils, Incerto Authore [by Thomas Stanley] |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
Megara and Alcmena.
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| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
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 | Anacreon |  |
50
Megara and Alcmena.
IV.
Why these afflictions (Mother) dost thou seek?
Thy fresh complexion hath forsook thy cheek;
Why do thy sorrows past all limits run?
Is't, that a worthlesse Man thy worthy son
Oppresseth, as a Lion stoops t'a Hind?
Alass why was I by the Gods design'd,
by parents why begot to such hard fate?
I met in marriage with a noble Mate,
One whom as deer as my own eyes I deem'd,
And still is by my soul no less esteem'd;
But through like miseries none ever past,
Nor did as he so bitter sorrows tast:
Who with a fatal Bow by Phœbus sent,
And arrows by some cursed Fury lent,
The lives of his dear children did divide,
His hands in blood, his soul in fury di'de;
These by their Father slain I saw, a deed,
Had I not view'd it, would belief exceed:
Nor could I, though call'd often, lend them aid,
Whom death inevitable did invade:
As a Bird mourns that sees her young distrest,
And ready to be swallow'd in the nest
By some fell Snake, the pious old One over
Their heads (alass in vain) doth shrieking hover;
Help she is able to afford them none,
And to come neer, their danger were her own;
So hapless Mother, up and down I went
Enrag'd, and my dear children did lament;
Would I had kept them company in death,
And by a poison'd arrow lost my breath
From vext Diana, who our Sex commands!
With tears and funeral rites, then the dear hands
Of parents in one Pyre had help'd to burn,
And all our bones clos'd in one golden Urn;
Our birth and burial owing to one place;
They're now at Thebes, fam'd for a generous race
Of steeds; or fat grounds of Aonia plow;
Whilst I in Tyrins Juno's City bow
Beneath the weight of an unbounded grief,
Nor intermission gives my tears relief:
My husband I so little see at home;
So many labours must he overcome;
Great toyls by Sea and Land hath he outgrown;
The manly heart his breast contains of stone,
Or steel is fram'd: Thou melt'st in tears away,
And by thy sorrows count'st each night and day:
Yet other friend for comfort have I none,
To remote countries all the rest are gone,
Their seats beyond the wooddy Isthmus ly;
Nor yet of them knew I to whom to fly,
To ease the passion of my troubled breast,
Except my sister Pyrrha, who's opprest
With the same grief for Iphiclus thy son
Her husband through like toils thy children run,
Though one a God begot, t'other a Man.
Thy fresh complexion hath forsook thy cheek;
Why do thy sorrows past all limits run?
Is't, that a worthlesse Man thy worthy son
Oppresseth, as a Lion stoops t'a Hind?
Alass why was I by the Gods design'd,
by parents why begot to such hard fate?
I met in marriage with a noble Mate,
One whom as deer as my own eyes I deem'd,
And still is by my soul no less esteem'd;
But through like miseries none ever past,
Nor did as he so bitter sorrows tast:
Who with a fatal Bow by Phœbus sent,
And arrows by some cursed Fury lent,
The lives of his dear children did divide,
His hands in blood, his soul in fury di'de;
These by their Father slain I saw, a deed,
Had I not view'd it, would belief exceed:
Nor could I, though call'd often, lend them aid,
Whom death inevitable did invade:
As a Bird mourns that sees her young distrest,
And ready to be swallow'd in the nest
By some fell Snake, the pious old One over
Their heads (alass in vain) doth shrieking hover;
Help she is able to afford them none,
And to come neer, their danger were her own;
51
Enrag'd, and my dear children did lament;
Would I had kept them company in death,
And by a poison'd arrow lost my breath
From vext Diana, who our Sex commands!
With tears and funeral rites, then the dear hands
Of parents in one Pyre had help'd to burn,
And all our bones clos'd in one golden Urn;
Our birth and burial owing to one place;
They're now at Thebes, fam'd for a generous race
Of steeds; or fat grounds of Aonia plow;
Whilst I in Tyrins Juno's City bow
Beneath the weight of an unbounded grief,
Nor intermission gives my tears relief:
My husband I so little see at home;
So many labours must he overcome;
Great toyls by Sea and Land hath he outgrown;
The manly heart his breast contains of stone,
Or steel is fram'd: Thou melt'st in tears away,
And by thy sorrows count'st each night and day:
Yet other friend for comfort have I none,
To remote countries all the rest are gone,
Their seats beyond the wooddy Isthmus ly;
Nor yet of them knew I to whom to fly,
To ease the passion of my troubled breast,
Except my sister Pyrrha, who's opprest
With the same grief for Iphiclus thy son
Her husband through like toils thy children run,
Though one a God begot, t'other a Man.
This said, down her soft cheeks & white brest ran
A stream of tears, which her fair eyes let fall
When sons and parents she to mind did call:
Nor lesse Alcmena did bedew her cheek,
And with a deep-fetcht sigh she first did break
Way for her words; then to her daughter said,
A stream of tears, which her fair eyes let fall
When sons and parents she to mind did call:
52
And with a deep-fetcht sigh she first did break
Way for her words; then to her daughter said,
Crost in thy children, what sad thoughts invade
Thy soul! why griev'st us both with the review
Of troubles past? these sorrows are not new.
Each day with such fresh cause our grief supplies,
That he must be well verst in miseries
Whose skill should undertake to sum up ours:
But droop not daughter, these the heavenly powers
Sent not; thy lively spirit grief destroyes,
Nor can I blame; even joy excessive cloyes:
Yet thy misfortunes I commiserate,
Make a sad partner in the hapless fate
Which on my wretched head threatens to fall;
I Proserpine and neat-vail'd Ceres call
To witness, who on perjur'd souls severe
Vengeance inflict, thou art to me as dear
As if thou hadst thy being from my wombe,
And I had bred thee of a childe at home:
I know lov'd daughter thou believ'st no less;
Think me not unconcern'd in thy distress:
No, should I fair-hair'd Niobe out-weep,
A Mother justly for a Son may keep
Her griefs awake; him ten long moneths before
I ever saw near to my heart I bore:
To Pluto's gates he almost brought me, pain
So great I in my labour did sustain.
But now he's gone away, more proofs to show
Of valour, whilst unhappy I not know
If him these arms shall evermore inclose.
Besides a strange dream broke my sweet repose;
Me thought that Hercules my Son did stand
Before me with a Pickax in his hand;
(As being hir'd to compass with a ditch
A fruitful field by various flowers made rich)
Naked, his Lions skin aside was laid;
At last of all his task an end he made,
And had enclos'd the Meadow with a mound,
Then stuck his iron Pickax in the ground,
When as he went to put his mantle on,
Out of the earth a sudden lightning shone,
And round about him flasht a dreadful fire,
But with a leap he nimbly did retire,
The active flame endeav'ring to evade,
And shield-like 'gainst its rage oppos'd his Spade,
Whilst round about he rowls his sparkling eyes
To shun on every side the fires surprise;
Straight (as I thought) did to his aid appear
Stout Iphiclus, but ere he could come near
Down falls he, and unable to arise,
As a decrepid old man helpless lyes,
Whom his declining years to fall compell,
And keep him with their weight down where he fell,
Till help'd up by some passenger that bears
Respect to his weak age and silver hairs,
So tumbled warlike Iphiclus, whilst I
Wept to behold my children helpless ly;
Till from my eyelids sleep were chac'd away,
Aurora then arose to bring in day.
With such illusions was my sleep all night
Disturb'd, but on Euristheus may they light,
Diverted from our house; to my desire
With these prophetick dreams just fate conspire.
Thy soul! why griev'st us both with the review
Of troubles past? these sorrows are not new.
Each day with such fresh cause our grief supplies,
That he must be well verst in miseries
Whose skill should undertake to sum up ours:
But droop not daughter, these the heavenly powers
Sent not; thy lively spirit grief destroyes,
Nor can I blame; even joy excessive cloyes:
Yet thy misfortunes I commiserate,
Make a sad partner in the hapless fate
Which on my wretched head threatens to fall;
I Proserpine and neat-vail'd Ceres call
To witness, who on perjur'd souls severe
Vengeance inflict, thou art to me as dear
As if thou hadst thy being from my wombe,
And I had bred thee of a childe at home:
I know lov'd daughter thou believ'st no less;
Think me not unconcern'd in thy distress:
No, should I fair-hair'd Niobe out-weep,
A Mother justly for a Son may keep
Her griefs awake; him ten long moneths before
I ever saw near to my heart I bore:
To Pluto's gates he almost brought me, pain
So great I in my labour did sustain.
But now he's gone away, more proofs to show
Of valour, whilst unhappy I not know
If him these arms shall evermore inclose.
Besides a strange dream broke my sweet repose;
53
Before me with a Pickax in his hand;
(As being hir'd to compass with a ditch
A fruitful field by various flowers made rich)
Naked, his Lions skin aside was laid;
At last of all his task an end he made,
And had enclos'd the Meadow with a mound,
Then stuck his iron Pickax in the ground,
When as he went to put his mantle on,
Out of the earth a sudden lightning shone,
And round about him flasht a dreadful fire,
But with a leap he nimbly did retire,
The active flame endeav'ring to evade,
And shield-like 'gainst its rage oppos'd his Spade,
Whilst round about he rowls his sparkling eyes
To shun on every side the fires surprise;
Straight (as I thought) did to his aid appear
Stout Iphiclus, but ere he could come near
Down falls he, and unable to arise,
As a decrepid old man helpless lyes,
Whom his declining years to fall compell,
And keep him with their weight down where he fell,
Till help'd up by some passenger that bears
Respect to his weak age and silver hairs,
So tumbled warlike Iphiclus, whilst I
Wept to behold my children helpless ly;
Till from my eyelids sleep were chac'd away,
Aurora then arose to bring in day.
With such illusions was my sleep all night
Disturb'd, but on Euristheus may they light,
Diverted from our house; to my desire
With these prophetick dreams just fate conspire.
| Anacreon | |