The works of Mr. Thomas Brown :: :: University of Virginia Library

The works of Mr. Thomas Brown

Serious and Comical, In Prose and Verse; In four volumes. The Fourth Edition, Corrected, and much Enlarged from his Originals never before publish'd. With a key to all his Writings

Brown, Thomas (1663-1704)

Volume 1.

THE SECOND VOLUME OF THE WOKRS OF Mr. THO. BROWN. Containing LETTERS FROM THE Dead to the Living, And from the Living to the Dead. Both Serious and Comical.

THE Third Volume OF THE WORKS OF Mr. Thomas Brown, Serious and Comical, In Prose and Verse.

THE Fourth and Last Volume OF THE WORKS OF Mr. THO. BROWN. CONTAINING

[dedication]

The Odes of Horace.

Part of the 2d Ode in Horace l. 4. Translated. Beginning at, Dignum laude Virum.

A Translation of Ode iii. l. 1. in Horace.

An Imitation of the 6th Ode in Horace, l 1. Scriberis vario fortis, & hostium . . . .

A Translation of Teucer Salamina, Patremq; Cum fugeret, &c. Hor. Ode vii. lib. 1.

Hor. Ode 8. l. 1.

Ode ix. Lib. 1. in Horace imitated. Vides ut alta stet nive candidum, &c.

A Paraphrase on Horace of Vides ut Altæ.

The x. Ode in Horace l. 3. Paraphrased.

Hor. Ode 11. l. 2.

The 13th Ode in Horace l. 4. Paraphrased.

The xv Ode in Horace Lib. 3. Imitated

A Translation of Ode xxiii. lib. 1.

The xxvi. Ode in Hor. l. 3. Paraphras'd.

Hor. Ode 27. l. 1.

The same Ode imitated.

An Imitation of the 14th Epod in Hor.

A Translation from Horace of Mollis inertia, February 85.

[When Eve the Fruit had tasted]

[As moody Job, in shirtless Case]

A Supplement to Tho. Brown's Works.

Collapse All | Expand All expand section

The Odes of Horace.

Part of the 2d Ode in Horace l. 4. Translated. Beginning at, Dignum laude Virum.

I

From dark Oblivion, and the silent Grave,
Th'indulgent Muse does the brave Hero save;
'Tis she forbids his Name to die,
And brings it to the Stars, and sticks it in the Sky.

II

Thus mighty Hercules did move
To the Eternal Palaces above:
Nor all his twelve Exploits advanc'd him to the Sphere,
But 'twas the Poet's Pain and Labour brought him there.

III

Thus the fam'd Spartan Twins did rise,
From Ornaments of Earth to gild the Skies:
Tho' Heav'n by Turns they do obtain,
Yet in immortal Verse, the Brothers joyntly reign.

IV

And Bacchus too, for all his vain Pretence,
Borrow'd his Crown and Godhead hence:
He with his powerful Juice first taught the Muse to fly,
And she in kind requital gave him immortality.

A Translation of Ode iii. l. 1. in Horace.

Sic te Diva potens Cypri,
Sic Fratres Helenæ lucida Sydera, &c.

Address'd to his Honour'd Friend Mr. B--- going into Turkey.

I

So may the Beauteous Goddess of the Main
Appease the Horrors of the Deep,
And Æolus lock all his blustring Train,
But the auspicious Western Gales, asleep.

II

And thou, kind Vessel, which before this Day,
So great a Charge cou'd'st never boast,
With Care my dearer, better Part convey,
And land him safely on the Thracian Coast.

III

His fearless Heart immur'd with tripple Brass.
The daring Mortal surely wore,
Who first the faithless Main durst pass,
And in a treacherous Bark new Worlds explore.

IV

What Scenes of Death cou'd shake his Soul
That unconcern'd saw the wild Billows rise,
And scaly Monsters on the Surface rowl,
And Whizzing Meteors paint the gloomy Skies.

V

In vain wise Heav'ns indulgent Care
Lands from the spacious Ocean did divide;
If with expanded Sails bold Ships prepare
To plow the Deep, and brave the swelling Tide;

VI

But Man, that busie reasoning Tool,
Cheap Happiness disdains to choose:
Sick of his Ease, the restless Fool,
At his own Cost forbidden Paths pursues,

VII

From the refulgent Orb of Day
A glitt'ring Spark the rash Prometheus stole,
And fondly stampt into a Soul,
T'inform his new-made Progeny of Clay.

VIII

Strait to reward his Sacrilegious Theft,
Fevers and Ills, unknown before,

Their old infernal Mansions left,
And thro' the sickning Air their baleful Poysons bore.

IX

Then Death, that lately travell'd slow,
Content with single Victims, where he came,
Made Haste, and eager of his Game,
Whole Nations lopp'd at one compendious Blow.

X

To what fantastic Heights does Man aspire,
Doom'd to dull Earth; the Sot wou'd clamber higher;
Heav'n he invades with impudent Pretence,
And makes Jove thunder in his own Defence.

An Imitation of the 6th Ode in Horace, l 1. Scriberis vario fortis, & hostium . . . .

In the Year 1685. after the defeat of the Rebels in the West.

I.

Waller , in never-dying Verse,
Your glorious Triumphs may rehearse;
His lofty Muse for Panegyric fam'd,
May sing the Rebel-herd your Valour tam'd.
And all the mighty Blessings show,
Great James, and We to your wise Conduct owe.

II.

My unambitious Lyre tunes all her Strings
To lower Numbers, lower Things;
And Gods, and God-like Heroes do refuse
The Labour of a more exalted Muse.
Had she endeavour'd to relate
Great Alexander's Deeds, or Troy's unhappy Fate,

Or all the Wonders that by Drake were done,
Who travell'd with the Stars, and journey'd with the Sun;
As long a Space had the vain Labour held,
As that fam'd Town the Grecian Force repell'd.
As long had she the tiresom Work renew'd,
As mighty Drake thro' unknown Seas his wondrous Course pursu'd.

III.

The humble Muse too well her Weakness knows,
Nor on her feeble self, dares the high Task impose.
Tho' had not Heav'n the Power deny'd,
No other Theme had all her Thoughts employ'd.
'Tis hence she modestly declines to sing,
The immortal Triumphs of our war-like King;
Lest her unequal slender Vein
Shou'd lessen the great Actions of his glorious Reign.

IV.

Who can with all his boasted Fancy raise
To its just Height, Heroic Arthur's Praise,
Or worthily recount the Trophies won
By our great Edward, and his greater Son?
But oh! what Muse of all the Tribe below
Can mighty Mars in equal Numbers show,
Horrid in Steel, and moving from afar,
With all the solemn Pageantry of War,
Tho' the rough God shou'd his own Bard inspire,
And join the Martial Heat to the Poetic Fire.

V.

Harmless Combats, harmless Wars,
Slender Scratches, petty Jars,
Which youthful Blood, and wanton Love,
Amongst our amorous Couples move,
Employ my time, employ my Muse,
All other Subjects I refuse.

A Translation of Teucer Salamina, Patremq; Cum fugeret, &c. Hor. Ode vii. lib. 1.

I

Brave Teucer, (as the Poets tell us)
When from his native Clime he fled,
With Poplar Wreaths crown'd his triumphant Head,
And thus he cheer'd his drooping Fellows.

II

Where e'er the Fates shall shew us Land,
(Remote and distant tho' it be)
We'll shape our Course at their Command,
And boldly fix, as they decree.

III

Let no wild Fears your Hopes betray,
Let not Dispair your Courage pall;
When Heav'n so loudly does to Honour call,
And fearless Teucer leads the way.

IV

Phœbus foretold (and he of all the Powers
Commands the mystic Books of Fate)
That fresh Success shou'd on our Actions wait,
And new Salamis be ours.

V

Then drink away this puling Sorrow,
Let Wine each dastard Thought subdue,
Let Wine your fainting Hopes renew,
We'll leave the drowsie Land, and plough the Main morrow.

Hor. Ode 8. l. 1.

Per omnes
Te Deos oro, Sybarin cur properes amando
Perdere? &c.

I

Tell me, O Lydia, for by Heavens I swear,
You shan't deny so just a Prayer.
Tell me, why thus young Damon you destroy,
And nip the blooming Virtues of the lovely Boy.

II

Why does he never throw the manly Bar;
And practice the first Feats of War;
Or gaily shining in his Martial Pride,
With a strong artful Hand the foaming Courser guide.

III

Why does he never grasp the pond'rous Shield,
And meet his Equals in the Field:
Or when the Streams swell with the flowing Tide,
With his soft pliant Arms the Silver Thames divide.

IV

Why does he lurk, for I bewail his Doom,
Like an Alsatian Bully still at Home,
That fears to walk abroad all day,
Lest eager hungry Cits shou'd hurry him away.

Ode ix. Lib. 1. in Horace imitated. Vides ut alta stet nive candidum, &c.

Written in the year, 1685.

To Sir John Bowyer.

I

Since the Hills all around us do Pennance in Snow,
And Winters cold Blasts have benumm'd us below;
Since the Rivers chain'd up, flow with the same Speed,
As Prisoners advance towards the Psalm they can't read,
Throw whole Oaks at a Time, nay, Groves, on the Fire,
They shall be our Sobriety's Funeral-Pyre.

II

Never wast the dull Time in impertinent thinking,
But urge and pursue the great business of drinking;
Come pierce your old Hogsheads, ne'er stint us in Sherry,
This, this is the Season to drink and be merry:
Then reviv'd by our Liquour and Billets together,
We'll out-roar the loud Storms, and defy the cold Weather.

III

Damn your Gadbury, Partridge and Salmon together,
What a puling Discourse have we here of the Weather;
Nay, no more of that Business, but, Friend as you love us,
Leave it all to the Care of the good Folks above us.
Your Orchards and Groves will be shatter'd no more,
If to hush the rough Winds, they forbid them to roar.

IV

Send a Bumper about, and cease this Debate
Of the Tricks of the Court, and Designs of the State.
Whether Brandon, or Offly, or Booth go to pot,
Ne'er trouble your Brains; let 'em take their own Lot.

Thank the Gods, you can safely sit under your Vine,
And enjoy your old Friends, and drink off your own Wine.

V

While your Appetite's strong, and good Humour remains,
And active fresh Blood does enliven your Veins;
Improve the fleet Minutes in Scenes of Delight,
Let your Friend have the Day, and your Mistress the Night.
In the Dark you may try, whether Phyllis is kind,
The Night for Intrieguing was ever design'd.

VI

Tho' she runs from your Arms, and retires in the Shade,
Some friendly kind Sign will betray the coy Maid;
All trembling you'll find the modest poor Sinner,
'Tis a venial Trespass in a Beginner:
But remember this Counsel, when once you do meet her,
Get a Ring from the Nymph, or something that's better:

A Paraphrase on Horace of Vides ut Altæ.

I

The Hills (you see) are cover'd o'er
With a grave Coat of rev'rend Snow,
And Thames that did so lately roar,
Fetter'd in Icy Chains can hardly flow;
A sullen Frost the Ground o'er spreads,
The over-burthen'd Trees hang down their mournful Heads.

II

Come then oblige us with a Fire,
That may substantial Warmth inspire;

Tho' now no drinking in the Plants goes round,
But dull Sobriety's in Nature found;
Think not this shall excuse your Beer
With Men 'tis th'true drinking Season of the Year.

III

For God's-sake let the Powers above
Their Business mind, and govern all below,
If they think fit these Tempests to remove,
No more shall rugged Boreas blow,
No more the frozen Plants decay,
But smile as they enjoy'd a long continu'd May.

IV

To learn your Lot and future State,
Ne'er pry into the Adamantine Books of Fate,
But gratefully those Powers adore,
That added this kind Hour to the old Score;
And be content with what is given,
'Tis all the free and voluntary Gift of Heaven.

V

Ne'er think in your declining Years,
To pay neglected Love's Arrears;
But while fresh Vigour does inflame,
Pursue with haste, the lovely Game,
Your Talent carefully improve,
Indulge the Day in Wine; and spend the Night in Love.

VI

If now some Laughter, or betraying Noise, she flies,
Will shew you where she panting lies;
Then all your store of Rhetorick imply,
The blushing Damsel to enjoy.
If she hold out, then steal at least a Kiss,
And take a Pawn for a substantial Bliss.

The x. Ode in Horace l. 3. Paraphrased.

Extremum Tanaim si biberes Lyce.

I.

Tho' you, my Lyce, in some Northen Flood
Had chill'd the Current of your Blood;
Or lost your sweet engaging Charms
In some Tartarian Husband's icy arms;
Were yet one Spark of Pity left behind
To form the least Impression on your Mind,
Sure you must grieve, sure you must sigh,
Sure drop some Pity from your Eye,
To see your Lover prostrate on the Ground,
With gloomy Night, and black Despair encompass'd all around.

II.

Hark! how the threatning Tempests rise,
And with loud Clamours fill the Skies;
Hark! how the tott'ring Buildings shake,
Hark! how the Trees a doleful Consort make.
And see! oh see! how all below.
The Earth lyes cover'd deep in Snow,
The Romans clad in white, did thus the Fasces woo;
And thus your freezing Candidate, my Lyce, sues for you.

III.

Come, lay these foolish Niceties aside,
And to soft Passion sacrifice your Pride:
Let not the precious Hours with fruitless Questions dye,
But let new Scenes of Pleasure crown them, as they fly.
Slight not the Flames which your own Charms infuse,
And no kind friendly Minute lose,
While Youth and Beauty give you leave to chuse.
As Men by Acts of Charity below
Or purchase the next World, or think they do:

So you in Youth a Lover shou'd engage,
To make a sure Retreat for your declining Age.

IV.

Let meaner Souls by Virtue be cajol'd,
As the good Grecian Spinstress was of old;
She, while her Sot his youthful Prime bestow'd
To fight a Cuckold's Wars abroad,
Held out a longer Siege, than Troy,
Against the warm Attacks of proffer'd Joy,
And foolishly preserv'd a worthless Chastity,
At the expence of ten Years Lyes and Perjury.
Like that old fashion'd Dame ne'er bilk your own Delight,
But what you've lost ith' Day, get, get it in the Night.

V.

Oh! then if Prayers can no Acceptance find,
Nor Vows, nor Offerings bend your Mind;
If all these pow'rful Motives fail,
Yet your Husband's Injuries prevail
He, by some Play-house Jilt misled,
Elsewhere bestows the Tribute of your Bed;
Let me his forfeited Embraces share,
Let me your mighty Wrongs repair.
Thus Kings by their own Rebel-Powers betray'd,
To quell the home-bred Foe call in a foreign Aid.

VI.

Love, let Platonicks promise what they will,
Must, like Devotion, be encourag'd still;
Must meet with equal Wishes and Desires,
Or else the dying Lamp in its own Urn expires.
And I, for all that boasted Flame
We Poets and fond Lovers idly claim,
Am of too frail a Make, I fear,
Shou'd you continue still severe,

To brave the double Hardships of your Fate,
And bear the Coldness of the Nights, and Rigor of your Hate.

Hor. Ode 11. l. 2.

Quid Bellicosus Cantaber, & Scythes,
Hirpine Quincti, cogitet, Adria,
Divisus objecto, remittas
Quærere, &c.

I

What the Bully of France, and our Friends on the Rhine,
With their stout Grenadiers this Summer design,
Cease over your Coffee, and Wine to debate:
Why the Devil shou'd you, that live this side the Water,
Pore over Gazettes, and be vext at the Matter?
Come, come, let alone these Arcana's of State.

II

Alas! while such idle Discourse you maintain,
And with politick Nonsense thus trouble your Brain,
Your Youth flies away on the Back of swift Hours,
Which no praying, no painting, no sighing restores.
Then you'll find, when old Age has discolour'd your Head,
Tho' a Mistress be wanting, no rest in your Bed.

III

Prithee do but observe, how the Queen of the Night
Still varies her Station, and changes her Light:
Now with a full Orb she the Darkness does chace,
Now like Whores in the Pit, shews but half of her Face.
These Chaplets of Flowers that our Temples adorn,
Now tarnish and fade, that were fresh in the Morn.

IV

But to leave off Similes for Curates in Camblet
To lard a dry Sermon, for grave Folks in Hamlet,
While our Vigour remains, we'll our Talents improve,
Dash the Pleasures of Wine with the Blessings of Love.
Here, carelesly here, we'll lie down in the Shade
Which the friendly kind Poplars and Lime-Trees have made.

V

Your Claret's too hot . . . Sirrah, Drawer go bring
A Cup of cold Adam from the next purling Spring.
And now your Hand's in, prithee step o'er the Way,
And fetch Madam Tricksy, the brisk and the gay.
Bid her come in her Alamode Manto of Sattin,
Two Coolers, I'm sure, with our Wine can be no false Latin.

The 13th Ode in Horace l. 4. Paraphrased.

Audivere Lyce Dii mea Vota: Dii
Audivere Lyce; fis Anus & tamen
Vis formosa videri, &c.

I

Long have my Prayers slow Heaven assail'd;
But Thanks to all the Powers above,
That still revenge the Cause of injur'd Love,
Lyce at last they have prevail'd.
My Vows are all with Usury repaid,
For who can Providence upbraid,
That sees thy former Crimes with hasten'd Age repaid.

II

Thou'rt old, and yet by awkard Ways dost strive
Th'unwilling Passion to revive;

Dost drink, and dance, and touch thy Lyre,
And all to set some puny Heart on Fire.
Alas! in Chloe's Cheeks love basking lies;
Chloe great Beauty's fairest prize,
Chloe, that charms our Ears, and ravishes our Eyes.

III

The vigorous Boy flies o'er the barren Plains,
Where sapless Oaks their wither'd Trunks extend;
For Love, like other Gods, disdains
To grace the Shrine that Age has once profan'd.
He too laughs at thee now,
Scorns thy grey Hairs, and wrinkled Brow,
How should his youthful Fires agree with hoary Ages snow?

IV

In vain, with wondrous Art, and mighty Care,
You strive your ruin'd Beauty to repair;
No far-fetcht Silks one Minute can restore,
That Time has added to the endless Score.
And precious Stones, tho' ne'er so bright,
That shine with their own native Light,
Will but disgrace thee now, and but inhance thy Night.

V

Ah me! where's now that Mien! that Face!
That Shape! that Air! that every Grace!
That Colour! whose inchanting Red
Me to Love's Tents a Captive led.
Strange turn of Fate! that she
Who from my self so oft has stol'n poor me,
Now by the just revenge of time, stol'n from herself should be.

VI

Time was when Lyce's powerful Face
To Phyllis only gave the place;

Perfect in all the little Tricks of Love.
That charm the Sense, and the quick Fancy move.
But Fate to Phyllis a long Reign deny'd,
She fell in all her blooming Beauty's Pride,
She conquer'd whilst she liv'd, and triumph'd as she dy'd.

VII

Thou, like some old Commander in Disgrace,
Surviving the past Conquests of thy Face,
Now the greater Business of thy Life is done,
Review'st with Grief the Trophies thou hast won.
Damn'd to be parch'd with Lust, tho' chill'd with Age,
And tho' past Action, damn'd to tread the Stage,
That all might laugh to see that glaring Light,
Which lately shone so fierce and bright,
End with a Stink at last, and vanish into Night.

The xv Ode in Horace Lib. 3. Imitated

Uxor pauperis Ibici,
Tandem Nequitiæ fige Modum tuæ,
Famosisq; Laboribus, &c.

I

At length, thou antiquated Whore,
Leave trading off, and sin no more;
For Shame in your old Age turn Nun,
As Whores of everlasting Memory have done.

II

Why shouldst thou still frequent the Sport,
The Balls, and Revels of the Court?
Or why at glittering Masks appear,
Only to fill the Triumphs of the Fair?

III

To Ghent or Brussels strait adjourn,
The Lewdness of your former Life to mourn,
There brawny Priests in Plenty you may hire,
If Whip, and wholesom Sackcloth cannot quench the fire.

IV

Your Daughter's for the Business made,
To her in Conscience quit your Trade.
Thus, when his conquering Days were done,
Victorious Charles resign'd his Kingdom to his Son.

V

Alas! ne'er thrum your long disus'd Guittar,
Nor with Pulvilio's scent your Hair,
But in some lonely Cell abide,
With Rosary and Psalter dangling at your Side.

A Translation of Ode xxiii. lib. 1.

Vitas Hinnuleo me similis, Chloe,
Quærenti pavidam Montibus aviis
Matrem, &c.

I

Why flies Belinda from my Arms?
Or shuns my kind Embrace?
Why does she hide her blooming Charms?
And where I come forsake the Place.

II

Like some poor Fawn, whom every Breath
Of Air does so surprize;

In the least Wind he fancies Death,
And pants at each approaching Noise.

III

Alas! I never meant thee ill,
Nor seek I to devour thee,
Why should'st thou then with Coldness kill
The dying Slave that does adore thee.

IV

Leave, leave thy Mothers Arms for shame,
Nor fondly hang about her,
Thou'rt now of age to play the Game,
And ease a Lover's Pain without her.

The xxvi. Ode in Hor. l. 3. Paraphras'd.

Vixi puellis nuper idoneus,
Et militavi non sine Gloria: &c.

I

Tis true, while active Blood my Veins did fire,
And vigorous Youth gay Thoughts inspire,
(By your leave, Courteous Reader, be it said)
I cou'd have don't as well as most Men did;
But now I am (the more's the Pity)
The veriest Fumbler in the City.

II

There, honest Harp, that hast of late
So often bore thy sinful Master's Fate,
Thou a crack'd Side, and he a broken Pate;
Hang up, and peaceful Rest enjoy;

Hang up, while poor dejected I,
Unmusical, unstrung like thee, sit mourning by.

III

And likewise all ye trusty Bars,
With whose Assistance heretofore,
When Love engag'd me in his Wars,
I've batter'd, heaven forgive me, many a Door;
Lie there, till some more able Hand
Shall you to your old pious Use command.

IV

But, oh kind Phœbus, lend a pitying Ear
To thy old Servant's humble Prayer,
Let scornful Chloe thy Resentments feel,
Lash her all o'er with Rods of Steel;
And when the Jilt shall of her Smart complain;
This 'tis, then tell her, to disdain
Thy sacred Power, and scorn a Lover's pain.

Hor. Ode 27. l. 1.

Natus in Usum lætitiæ Scyphis
Pugnare, Thracum est.

I.

To fight in your Cups, and abuse the good Creature,
Believe it, my Friends, is a Sin of that Nature,
That were you all damn'd for a tedious long Year
To nasty Mundungus, and heath'nish small Beer,
Such as after Debauches your Sparks of the Town,
For a pennance next Morning devoutly pour down,
It would not attone for so vile a Transgression,
You're a Scandal to all of the drinking Profession.

II.

What a pox do ye bellow, and make such a Pother,
And throw Candlesticks, Bottles, and Pipes at each other?
Come keep the King's Peace, leave your damning and sinking,
And gravely return to good Christian drinking.
He that flinches his Glass, and to drink is not able,
Let him quarrel no more, but knock under the Table.

III.

Well, Faith, since you've rais'd my ill Nature so high,
I'll drink on no other Condition, not I,
Unless my old Friend in the Corner declares
What Mistress he Courts, and whose Colours he wears:
You may safely acquaint me, for I'm none of those
That use to divulge what's spoke under the Rose.
Come, part with't . . . What she! forbid it ye Powers,
What unfortunate Planet rul'd o'er thy Amours?
Why Man she has lain (Oh thy Fate how I pity!)
With half the blue Breeches and Whigs in the City.
Go thank Mr. Parson, give him thanks with a Curse,
Oh those damnable Words, For better for worse.
To regain your old Freedom you vainly endeavour,
Your Doxy and You no Priest can dissever,
You must dance in the Circle, you must dance in't for ever.

The same Ode imitated.

Natis in usum lætitiæ Scyphis, &c.

What Boys, are ye mad? is the Dutch Devil in ye?
Must your Quarrels as long as your Glasses continue?
Give it o'er, ye dull Sots! let the dull-pated Boors,
Snic or snee, at their Punch-Bowls, or slash for their Whores,

We'll be merry and wise, but for Bloodshed we bar it,
No Red shall be seen here but your Port and good Claret,
What a P--- should we fight for? No Bayonets here
But the Sconces all round and the Bottles appear.
Look, the Wine blushes for us! while it gently disgraces
Our unnatural Freaks and our mortifi'd Faces.
Come let's do what we came for! let the Brimmers be crown'd,
And a Health to all quiet Good-fellows go round!
Must I take off my Glass too? then Jack prithee tell us
Thy new-Mistresses Name: What a Mischeif! art Jealous?
Must her Name be a Secret? Alons, then I've done,
Hang the greedy Curmudgeon that eats all alone,
Come discover, you Block-head! I'm sure I mistook ye,
Else in these Amours Jack was us'd to be lucky
Well, but whisper it then! I'll keep Counsel, ne'er fear it,
Is it she? the damn'd Jilt! Gad let no Body hear it;
Why, Faith Jack thou'rt undone then, 'twas some Witchcraft I'm sure
Could betray thee to th'Arms of a Pockified Whore,
Well, 'tis vain to repine Boy; let us drink away Sorrow,
Use thy freedom to Night Man, let the Punk reign to Morrow,

An Imitation of the 14th Epod in Hor.

Mollis Inertia cur tantam diffuderit imis
Oblivionem sensibus,
Pocula Lethæos ut si ducentia Somnos
Arente Fauce traxerim,
Candide Mæcenas, occidis sæpe rogando, &c.

I

Ask me no longer, dear Sir John,
Why your Lampoon lies still undone,
'Fore George my Brain's grown addle;

Nor bid me Pegasus bestride,
Why should you ask a Sot to ride
That cannot keep his Saddle?

II

This was the poor Anacreon's Case,
When doting on a smooth-chinn'd Face,
He pin'd away his Carcass.
To tune his Strings the Bard essay'd,
The Devil a String the Bard obey'd,
And was not this a hard Case?

III

If you a constant Miss have got,
Thank heaven devoutly for your Lot,
Such Blessings are not common.
While I, condemn'd to endless Pain,
Must tamely drag Belinda's Chain,
Yet know she's worse than—Woman.

A Translation from Horace of Mollis inertia, February 85.

I

How such a fit of Lethargy,
My Senses has possest,
As if a Dose of Opium
Had buried me in rest!

II

With often asking what's the Cause
You weary me your Friend,
The Satyrs which I promis'd you,
I cannot bring to end.

III

So poor Anacreon, as they say,
Bewitch'd by powerful Love,
Complain'd him often of his Wound,
In Melancholy Grove.

IV

The Mistress that you court, my Friend,
Tis fit you should adore,
I like a Fool am Phygia's Slave,
Yet know she is a Whore.