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 |
I. |
1. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
X. |
XI. |
XII. |
XIII. |
XIV. |
XV. |
XVI. |
XVII. |
XVIII. |
XIX. |
XX. |
XXII. |
XXIII. |
XXIV. |
XXV. |
XXVI. |
XXVII. |
XXVIII. |
XXIX. |
XXX. |
XXXI. |
XXXII. |
XXXIII. |
XXXIV. |
XXXV. |
XXXVI. |
XXXVII. |
XXXVIII. |
2. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
X. |
XI. |
XII. |
XIII. |
XIV. |
XV. |
XVI. |
XVII. |
XVIII. |
XIX. |
XX. |
3. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
X. |
XI. |
XII. |
XIII. |
XIV. |
XV. |
XVI. |
XVII. |
XVIII. |
XIX. |
XX. |
XXI. |
XXII. |
XXIII. |
XXIV. |
XXV. |
XXVI. |
XXVII. |
XXVIII. |
XXIX. |
XXX. |
4. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
X. |
XI. |
XII. |
XIII. |
Ode XIII. To Lyce.
|
XIV. |
XV. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
IX. |
X. |
XI. |
XIII. |
XV. |
XVI. |
XVII. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
II. |
1. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
X. |
2. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
VI. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
1. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
X. |
XI. |
XII. |
XIII. |
XIV. |
XV. |
XVI. |
XVII. |
XVIII. |
XIX. |
XX. |
2. |
I. |
II. |
A Poetical Translation of the works of Horace | ||
399
Ode XIII. To Lyce.
The Gods, the Gods have heard my Prayer,
See, Lyce, see that hoary Hair,
Yet you a Toast would shine:
You impudently drink and joke,
And with a broken Voice provoke
Desires no longer thine.
See, Lyce, see that hoary Hair,
Yet you a Toast would shine:
You impudently drink and joke,
And with a broken Voice provoke
Desires no longer thine.
Cupid, who joys in Dimple sleek,
Now lies in blooming Chia's Cheek,
Who tunes the melting Lay;
From blasted Oaks the Wanton flies,
Scar'd at thy Wrinkles, haggard Eyes,
And Head snow'd o'er with Grey.
Now lies in blooming Chia's Cheek,
Who tunes the melting Lay;
From blasted Oaks the Wanton flies,
Scar'd at thy Wrinkles, haggard Eyes,
And Head snow'd o'er with Grey.
Nor glowing Purple, nor the Blaze
Of Jewels, can restore the Days;
To Thee those Days of Glory,
Which, wafted on the Wings of Time,
Even from thy Birth to Beauty's Prime,
Recorded stand in Story.
Of Jewels, can restore the Days;
To Thee those Days of Glory,
Which, wafted on the Wings of Time,
Even from thy Birth to Beauty's Prime,
Recorded stand in Story.
401
Ah! whither is thy Venus fled?
That Bloom, by Nature's Cunning spread?
That every graceful Art?
Of Her, of Her, what now remains,
Who breath'd the Loves, who charm'd the Swains,
And snatch'd me from my Heart?
That Bloom, by Nature's Cunning spread?
That every graceful Art?
Of Her, of Her, what now remains,
Who breath'd the Loves, who charm'd the Swains,
And snatch'd me from my Heart?
Once happy Maid, in pleasing Wiles
You vied with Cynara in Smiles,
Ah! tragical Survival!
She glorious died in Beauty's Bloom,
While cruel Fate defers thy Doom
To be the Raven's Rival,
You vied with Cynara in Smiles,
Ah! tragical Survival!
She glorious died in Beauty's Bloom,
While cruel Fate defers thy Doom
To be the Raven's Rival,
That Youths, in fervent Wishes bold,
Not without Laughter may behold
A Torch, whose early Fire
Could every Breast with Love enflame,
Now faintly spread a sickly Gleam,
And in a Smoke expire.
Not without Laughter may behold
A Torch, whose early Fire
Could every Breast with Love enflame,
Now faintly spread a sickly Gleam,
And in a Smoke expire.
A Poetical Translation of the works of Horace | ||