1 HORACE, BOOK III. O DE XXIX. BY THE SAME. I. MECENAS, off-fpring of Tyrrhenian kings, And worthy of the greatest empire's sway, II. A piece untouch'd of old and noble wine The rofes hang their heads and pine, Be not inveigled by the gloomy fhades The fpring, like virtue, dwells between extremes. Leave fulfome plenty for a while, and come From ftately palaces that tower fo high, The smoke and noise of mighty Rome, V. It is viciffitude that pleasure yields To men, Clears up a cloudy brow, and thoughtful breast. VI. Now the cold winds have blown themselves away, The chirping birds each morning tell the news The tender lambs follow the bleating ewes. VII. The vernal bloom adorns the fruitful trees And wanton nymphs with their enamour'd swains. Thou art contriving in thy mind, what state And form becomes that mighty city best: Thy bufy head can take no gentle rest, Of factious rage, which has her long oppreft. IX. Thy cares extend to the remotest shores Of her vaft empire; how the Perfian arms; Whether the Bactrians join their troops; what harms From the Cantabrians and the Moors May come, or the tumultuous German fwarms. X. But the wife Powers above, that all things know, Laugh, when poor mortals here below Fear without cause, and break their sleeps in vain, Think how the present thou may'st best * compose Like to the ocean, ebbs and flows, Or rather like our neighbouring Tiber fares. XII. Now fimooth and gentle + through her channel creeps, With foft and eafy murmurs purling down: Now fwells and rages, threatening all to drown, Away both corn and cattle fweeps, And fills with noife and horror fields and town. After a while, grown calm, retreats again With cracks of thunder, ftorms of rain, XIV. He only lives content, and his own man, Or rather master, who each night can fay, 'Tis well, thanks to the gods, I've liv'd to-day ; This is my own, this never can, Like other goods, be forc'd or ftol'n away. well, in Lady G's copy. + filent, ibid. XV. And for to-morrow let me weep or laugh, Let the fun fhine, or ftorms or tempefts ring, Yet 'tis not in the power of fates, a thing Should ne'er have been, or not be fafe, Which flying Time has cover'd with his wing. XVI. Capricious Fortune plays a feornful game With human things; uncertain as the wind : Sometimes to thee, fometimes to me is kind : Throws about honours, wealth, and fame, At random, heedlefs, humourous, and blind. XVII. He's wife, who, when the fmiles, the good enjoys, And unallay'd with fears of future ill; But, if the frowns, e'en let her have her will. I can with ease resign the toys, And lie wrapp'd-up in my own virtue flill. XVIII. I'll make my court to honeft poverty, An eafy wife, although without a dower: What nature afks will yet be in my power; For without pride or luxury How little ferves to pafs the fleeting hour! XIX. 'Tis not for me, when winds and billows rife, And crack the maft, and mock the feamen's cares, For fear the Tyrian merchandise Should all be loft, and not enrich my heirs. XX. I'll rather leap into the little boat, Which, without fluttering fails, fhall waft me o'er HORACE, BOOK I. PART OF EP. IL No OR house nor lands, nor heaps of plate, or gold, Can cure a fever's heat, or ague's cold, Much less a mind with grief or care oppreft: No man's poffeffions e'er can make him bless'd, That is not well himself, and found at heart; Nature will ever be too strong for art. Whoever feeds vain hopes, or fond defires, Distracting fears, wild love, or jealous fires, Is pleas'd with all his fortunes, like fore eyes With curious pictures; gouty legs and thighs. With dancing; or half-dead and aching ears With mufic, while the noise he hardly hears. For, if the cafk remains unfound or four, Be the wine ne'er fo rich, or fweet, you pour, "Twill take the veffel's tafte, and lofe its own, And all you fill were better let alone. |