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ΥΑκινθίνη με ράβδω

Χαλεπώς "Έρως βαδίζον7' 'Εκέλυσε συνlesχάζαν"

Δια

VER. 15. The Queen, who gives soft Wishes Birth.] Cicero reckons up 'four Venus's ; the first, the Daughter of Cælum; the second, Cupid's Mother, who sprung from the Foam of the Sea; the third, Jupiter and Dione's Daughter, who marry'd Vulcan; and the fourth, Tyr, or Aftarte, who was the Wife of Adonis.

VER. 16. With Comus, God of feftal Mirth.] Comus was the God of Revelling : Philostratus, in his third Book of Pictures, represents him young and handsome, red-fac'd by drinking, with a lighted Flambeau in his Hand, which he holds to the Ground as if to burn his Legs with it: He is wreath'd with Flowers, and surrounded with Feastings and Pleasures.

VER. 3.

15

The Queen who gives soft Wishes Birth,
With Comus, God of Festal Mirth,
(The feftal God to old Men dear)
Come wing’d with Joy to revel here.

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L.

OVE's awful God, fair Venus' Son,

Compelld me once with him to run. His Hand a Whip of Hyacinths grac’d, With which he urg'd my tim'rous Hafte.

Away

VÉR. 3. His Hand a Whip of Hyacinths graid.] The Hyacinth is, fabled to have sprung from the Blood of Hyacinthus the Son of Amyclas, who was belov'd by Apollo, and Nain by him as they were playing together at Coits, thro' the Jealousy of Zephyrus, who blew the Coit of Apollo at Hyacinth's Head, to revenge the Slights he had received from him. 'Y &x evden på Edo, will also fignify a Wand of a Purple or Hyacinthian Colour.

The Design of the Poet is to shew us the irresistible Nature of Love, who can force Obedience with the slightest Weapons, a Flower being as potent in his Hand as a Bow and Arrows. A late celebrated Writer of our own has apply'd this Truth in the following elegant

manner,

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Δια τοξέων μ' αναόρων,
Ξυλόχων τε και φαράγων,
Τροχάονία σειρεν ύδρG..
Keadin 3 piro's céziers
'Ανέβαινε, καν απέσει.

Ό ' "Έρως μέτωπα σείων
Απαλος αεροίσιν, άπε,
Συ δε δύνη φιλήσαι.

1ο

Ω Δ Η

Flavia the leaft and flightest Toy
Can with refiftless Art employ :
This Fan, in meaner Hands, would prove
An Engine of fmall Force in Love ;
Yet She, with graceful Air and Mien,
Not to be told, or 1afely feen,
Directs its wanton Motions fo,
That it wounds more than Cupid's Bow;
Gives Coolness to the matchless Dame,
To ev'ry other Breast a Flame.

VER. 7 & 8. 'Till midst our Flight, a Serpent's Sting

Set all my trembling Soul or Wing.] His being kung by the Serpent, was to punish him for his Insensibility. To contend with Love, is nothing but Vanity and Self-Torture. VER, 11 & 12. How long must I reprove ?

When will you, Rebel, learn to live ! ] By this Expression Cupid would intimate, that if he had

submitted

5

Away we cours'd, thro’ foaming Floods,
O’er rocky Steeps, thro’ shady Woods;
Till ʼmidst our Flight, a Serpent's Sting
Set all my trembling Soul on Wing.

:
When Cupid flying to my Aid,
Wi:h downy Pinions fann'd my Head,

And cry'd, How long must I reprove? ; When will you, Rebel, learn to love!

O DE

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submitted sooner, he should have suffered less. And the
Facility with which he heal'd Anacreon, informs us, that
the Pleasures of Love easily make us forget the Pains of
Expectation.

Mr. Longepierre quotes an ancient Epigram in his Re-
marks on this Ode, which very much resembles the
Turn of it, tho' the Fiction is different.
Leéto compositus, vix prima silentia noctis

Carpebam, & fonino lumina vieta dabam :
Cum me favus Amor prensum, furfumque capillis

Excitat, & lacerum pervigilare jubet.
Tu Famulus meus, inquit, ames cùm mille puellas,

Solus, Io, folus dure jacere potes?
Exilio, & pedibus nudis, tunicaque foluta,

Omne iter impedio, nullum iter expedio.
Nunc propero; nunc ire piget; rursumque redire

Pænitet ; & pudor eft ftare via media.
Ecce tacent voces Hominum firepitusque Ferarum,
Et volucrum cantus, turbaque fida canum,

Solus

Ç 4

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Solus ego ex cunétis paveo fomnumque torumque,

Et fequor imperium, feve Cupido, tuum.
With softest Down, and softer Silence blest,
I just began to welcome balmy Reft;
When cruel Love the Joys of Sleep deny'd,
And pulld my Hair, and thus upbraiding cry'd.
Thou figh'st to make a thousand Nymphs thy own,
And dar'it thou, Rebel, dar'it thou lie alone?
In Haste I rise, half-dreit, and bare-foot run
A thousand different Ways, pursuing none.

One

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