Horatii Ode. Ille & nefasto te posuit die &c. Ἑλληνισί. Ὥρα σε κεῖνος θῆκεν ἀποφράδι Κεῖνος τοκῆος θρύψε καὶ ἀυχένα, Τὰ δῆτα κόλχων φάρμακα, καὶ κακοῦ Πάσης μὲν ὥρης πᾶν ἐπικίνδυνον. Πάρθων μάχημον Ρωμαϊκος φυγήν, Σχέδον σχέδον πῶς Περσεφόνης ἴδον Σαπφὼ πατρίδος μεμφομένην κόραις, Ευφημέουσαι δ ̓ ἀμφοτέρων σκιαὶ Τί θαῦμ ̓; ἐκείναιρ θὴς ὅτε τρίκρανος Βότρυχες, ἡσυχίων ἐχιδνών. Καὶ δὴ Προμηθεύς, καὶ Πέλοπος πατὴρ *Αγειν λεόντας Ωρίων δὲ Οὐ φιλέει, φοβεράς τε λύγκας. P In Revd. Dre. Brooke Epitaphium. Osuit sub istâ (non gravi) caput terrâ Ita longus, ut nec fessus. Et hunc mori credis ? ER In obitum Rev. V. Dris Mansell, Rgo iterum in lacrymas, & sævi murmura planctus Scilicet illa novas quæ jam fert dextra sagittas, Ite ô, quos nostri jungunt consortia damni; Et sociis animos conciliate viis. Noscat & æternam mutua dextra fidem. Una cibos ferat, una suas vocet arbor in umbras. Certum erit interea quanto sit major habenda, LUKE 2. Quærit Jesum suum Maria, &c. AND Nd is he gone, whom these armes held but now? Did ever greife, & joy in one poore heart Soe soone change part? Hee's gone. the fair'st flower, that e're bosome drest, My wombes Hee's gone. My joyes, & My soules sweet rest. chast pride is gone, my heaven-borne boy; And where is joy? & his lov'd steppes to wait upon, My joy is gone. hee are gone; my greife, & I not leaving with me, till he come, Hee's gone. Oh come then. bring Thy mother her lost joy: Oh come, sweet boy. Make hast, & come, or e're my greife, & I Make hast, & dy. Peace, heart! the heavens are angry. all their spheres Rival thy teares. I was mistaken. some faire sphære, or other Was thy blest mother. What, but the fairest heaven, could owne the birth Yet sure thou Oft have these Of soe faire earth? did'st lodge heere. this wombe of mine armes thy cradle envied, Oft to thy easy eares hath this shrill tongue Trembled, & sung. Oft have I wrapt thy slumbers in soft aires, Oft hath this hand those silken casements kept, Oft have my hungry kisses made thine eyes Too early rise. Oft have I spoild my kisses daintiest diet, Oft from this breast to thine my love-tost heart Oft my lost soule have I bin glad to seeke Oft have these armes alas! show'd to these eyes Dawne then to me, thou morne of mine owne day, And lett heaven stay. Oh, would'st thou heere still fixe thy faire abode, What hinders, but my bosome still might be Whosoever shall loose his life &c. MATH. 16. 25. Oe I may gaine thy death, my life I'le give. (My life's thy death, & in thy death I live.) Or else, my life, I'le hide thee in his grave, By three daies losse æternally to save. |