 | Familiar letters and poems on several occasions |  |
Casim. Lib. i. Ode 2.
My Friend forbear th'unmanly Cry,
Nor let thy Bosom heave the Sigh,
Nor cloud thy Looks with Woe,
If Phœbus' Rays should be restrain'd,
And Fortune from her fickle Hand,
Some luckless Die should throw.
Nor let thy Bosom heave the Sigh,
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If Phœbus' Rays should be restrain'd,
And Fortune from her fickle Hand,
Some luckless Die should throw.
To Day th'un-prison'd Whirlwinds sweep,
And rouse to Wrath the boiling Deep,
And warring Billows roar:
But ere th'approaching Morning comes,
Zephyr shall play his silken Plumes,
And general Peace restore.
And rouse to Wrath the boiling Deep,
And warring Billows roar:
But ere th'approaching Morning comes,
Zephyr shall play his silken Plumes,
And general Peace restore.
The Sun that sunk with Clouds opprest,
To-morrow rising in the East;
In his full Flame shall glow,
Grief and gay Smiles alternate rise:
Joy wipes the Dew-drop from our Eyes,
And Transport treads on Woe.
To-morrow rising in the East;
In his full Flame shall glow,
Grief and gay Smiles alternate rise:
Joy wipes the Dew-drop from our Eyes,
And Transport treads on Woe.
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The fullest Tides of Affluence,
And ev'ry Joy that springs from Sense;
O'er Rocks of Danger roll:
Thus Heav'n decrees till that great Day,
That sweeps these changing Scenes away,
And rests the tossing Soul.
And ev'ry Joy that springs from Sense;
O'er Rocks of Danger roll:
Thus Heav'n decrees till that great Day,
That sweeps these changing Scenes away,
And rests the tossing Soul.
He who last Night his Oxen drove,
To Day to Rome makes his remove;
An Orb supreme to fill,
The Yoke his Oxen wore he throws,
Resistless on his Country's Foes:
The Vassels of his Will.
To Day to Rome makes his remove;
An Orb supreme to fill,
The Yoke his Oxen wore he throws,
Resistless on his Country's Foes:
The Vassels of his Will.
The evening Star the Man beheld,
An humble Tiller of the Field;
But when the Morning came,
He by the Senate's suff'rage rais'd,
In highest Rank of Glory blaz'd;
And Realms rever'd his Name.
An humble Tiller of the Field;
But when the Morning came,
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In highest Rank of Glory blaz'd;
And Realms rever'd his Name.
Should Fortune, who delights to twine,
A Sable with a silver Line;
But take a diff'rent Thread;
He a poor Swain hiss'd by the Throng,
That with his Triumph swell'd his Song,
Must seek his humble Shed.
A Sable with a silver Line;
But take a diff'rent Thread;
He a poor Swain hiss'd by the Throng,
That with his Triumph swell'd his Song,
Must seek his humble Shed.
His Axes that with Laurels crown'd,
Once struck a trembling Terror round;
His stubborn Billets rend,
His Rods which once the World controll'd,
To mend his Fire and chace the Cold,
Their last Assistance lend.
Once struck a trembling Terror round;
His stubborn Billets rend,
His Rods which once the World controll'd,
To mend his Fire and chace the Cold,
Their last Assistance lend.
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| Familiar letters and poems on several occasions | |