XXXVII.

ON CLEOPATRA.

'Tis time to drink, now; now with the lightsome foot To beat the greensward; now was the time, my

friends,

To deck the couches of the Gods all

With the most sumptuous Salian banquets.

Ere this 'twere wrong the Cæcuban to produce

From cell ancestral, whilst the mad Queen prepared

The Capitol's complete destruction,

And for the empire a total downfal,

With a most base herd, formed of abandoned men
By fell disease marked: being so weak, withal,

She'd hope for aught, with Fortune's favours
Carried away; but it cooled her ardour

When scarcely one ship was from the flames preserved; Her mind, excited with Mareotic wine,

Cæsar reduced to real terrors,

Whilst she from Italy fled, pursuing

With all his galleys (like as a hawk pursues
The tender pigeons, or as a huntsman swift
The hare in plains of snowy Emon),

That he might quickly consign to fetters

The fatal monster; who-of a nobler death
Desirous-neither, as is a woman's wont,

Beheld the sword with dread, nor sought for

Shores that lie hid, with her rapid vessels;

But dared, with calm looks, upon her home to gaze,

In deep affliction; and had the courage, too,

To touch the irritated aspics,

That she might draw through her frame black

poison;

Becoming more fierce, now she designs her death: For, lofty-minded, she to be borne disdains

In hostile galleys of Liburnia,

Stripped of her rank, at a haughty triumph.

G

XXXVIII.

TO HIS SLAVE.

Boy, I detest the Persian's entertainments;

Linden-bound garlands are to me unpleasing;

Cease, then, thy searching whereabouts the rose may Linger the latest!

Nought shalt thou bring beside the simple myrtle, Anxiously careful: neither thee, my servant,

Myrtle disgraceth, nor, beneath the vine-branch,

Me, while I'm quaffing!

END OF THE FIRST BOOK.

ERRATUM.

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