Lyric Poems Made in Imitation of the Italians. Of which, many are Translations From other Languages ... By Philip Ayres |
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Out of Latine from Jovianus Pontanus
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 | Lyric Poems |  |
129
Out of Latine from Jovianus Pontanus
Being sick of a Fever, complains of the Fountain CASIS.
Casis
to craving Fields, thou lib'ral Flood,
Why so remote when thou should'st cool my Blood?
From Mossie Rocks thy Silver Streams do glide,
By which the soultry Air is qualifi'd;
Tall Trees do kindly yield thy Head their Shade,
Where Choirs of Birds their sweet Retreats have made;
But me a Fever here in Bed detains,
And Heat dries up the Moisture of my Veins.
For this, did I with Flowers, thy Banks adorn?
And has, for this, thy Head my Garlands worn?
Ungrateful Spring, 'Tis I, thy Tale have told,
And sang in Verses, thy Renown of Old.
How on a Time, Jove made in Heav'n a Feast,
To which each God, and Goddess came a Guest;
Young Ganymede was there to fill the Bowl,
The Boy, by's Eagle Jove from Ida stole:
Who proud the Gods admir'd his Mien, and Face,
And active in the Duty of his Place:
Turning in haste, he made a careless Tread,
And from the Goblet all the Nectar shed,
Which pouring down from Heav'n upon the Ground
In a small Pit, it self had forc'd, was found.
At which Jove smil'd, and said, my Lovely Boy,
I'll make this keep thy Chance in Memory;
A Brook shall flow where first thy Liquor fell,
And Casis call'd, which of thy Fame shall tell;
Then with a Kiss he did his Minion grace,
Making a Crimson Blush o'erspread his Face.
Why so remote when thou should'st cool my Blood?
From Mossie Rocks thy Silver Streams do glide,
By which the soultry Air is qualifi'd;
Tall Trees do kindly yield thy Head their Shade,
Where Choirs of Birds their sweet Retreats have made;
But me a Fever here in Bed detains,
And Heat dries up the Moisture of my Veins.
For this, did I with Flowers, thy Banks adorn?
And has, for this, thy Head my Garlands worn?
Ungrateful Spring, 'Tis I, thy Tale have told,
And sang in Verses, thy Renown of Old.
How on a Time, Jove made in Heav'n a Feast,
To which each God, and Goddess came a Guest;
Young Ganymede was there to fill the Bowl,
The Boy, by's Eagle Jove from Ida stole:
Who proud the Gods admir'd his Mien, and Face,
And active in the Duty of his Place:
130
And from the Goblet all the Nectar shed,
Which pouring down from Heav'n upon the Ground
In a small Pit, it self had forc'd, was found.
At which Jove smil'd, and said, my Lovely Boy,
I'll make this keep thy Chance in Memory;
A Brook shall flow where first thy Liquor fell,
And Casis call'd, which of thy Fame shall tell;
Then with a Kiss he did his Minion grace,
Making a Crimson Blush o'erspread his Face.
This flatt'ring Tale I often us'd to sing,
To the soft Musick of thy bubling Spring;
But thou to distant Umbrians dost retire,
Forgetful grown of thy Aonian Lyre;
No Kindness now thou yield'st me as at first,
No cooling Water to allay my Thirst;
I have thy Image in my troubled Brain,
But to my Pallate no Relief obtain.
Whole Vessels in my Dreams I seem to drink,
And that I cool my raging Fever think;
My Sleep to me at least this Comfort yields,
Whil'st the fierce Dog-star chaps the parched Fields.
Some Help, ye Muses, to your Poet bring,
Let him not thirst that drinks your sacred Spring;
Persephon's Favour with your Songs implore,
Orpheus appeas'd her with his Harp before.
To the soft Musick of thy bubling Spring;
But thou to distant Umbrians dost retire,
Forgetful grown of thy Aonian Lyre;
No Kindness now thou yield'st me as at first,
No cooling Water to allay my Thirst;
I have thy Image in my troubled Brain,
But to my Pallate no Relief obtain.
Whole Vessels in my Dreams I seem to drink,
And that I cool my raging Fever think;
131
Whil'st the fierce Dog-star chaps the parched Fields.
Some Help, ye Muses, to your Poet bring,
Let him not thirst that drinks your sacred Spring;
Persephon's Favour with your Songs implore,
Orpheus appeas'd her with his Harp before.
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