 | A collection of original poems and translations |  |
55
To C. P. Esq.
From Horace, Book iv. Ode 12.
Observe how calmly warm my Friend,O'er the smooth Plains the Zephyrs Blow,
While Trees in gentlest Motion bend,
And Streams scarce murmur as they flow.
Sweet Philomela sends her Song
Of pleasing Sadness thro' the Groves,
Wailing a wretched Virgin's Wrong
And a base King's incestuous Loves.
The Shepherds to the Shades repair
And on the Grass their Verse indite,
And the great Patron of their Care,
Arcadia's list'ning God delight.
Thirst with the Season, Charles, comes on,
Woud'st thou not then in Thrist repine,
Bring the sleak Soal, or Turbot down
And well thou shalt be paid with Wine.
57
Pale Care and Sadness startled fly,
And each Reflection, Foe to Mirth,
Drown'd in the swelling Brimmer lie.
If then you'll throw your Coke aside,
To such enliv'ning Joys enclin'd,
Quick mount your Steed, and briskly ride,
But bid Tom bring the Fish behind.
For think not Gratis to come off
Or tipple Scot-free at my Board,
As when o'er sumptuous Meals you laugh,
With yon fair Villa's bounteous Lord.
Come then, nor rack thy Brains to know,
How many Fees would Wimple buy;
Come and considering as you go,
That Hardwick's self at last must die,
Severity for Folly leave,
Best Successor to puzzling Laws;
In Publick howsoever grave,
Be mad in Private with Applause.
| A collection of original poems and translations | |