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Then dance, perhaps, or fondling fpread
My flutt'ring Wings around his Head:

Or on his Lyre repofe to Reft,'

While Dreams of Mufick footh my Breaft..

Adieu, dear Stranger! pr'ythee go,

You've all that you defir'd to know.

Hence, I entreat you, hence away!
You've made me prattle like a Jay.

35

40

COROM

O DE

Χ.

4

A

On a Waxen Image of CUPID.

YOUTH, expofing to be fold,

A Waxen Love of beauteous Mold, With wing'd Demand I ask'd the Price: Ev'n what you lift, the Ruftick cries,

I practife

creon very elegantly makes his Youth fpeak in this manner, to ridicule the Unpoliteness of a Person, who could be fo ignorant of the Charms of Love, as to defire to part with it.

VER. 10.

Ὁ δ' εἶπε Δωριάζων,
Λάβ ̓ αὐτὸν ἱππόσε λῆς.
Ὅμως δ ̓ ἵν ̓ ἐκμάθης πᾶν,
Οὐκ εἴμι κηροτέχνας.
Αλλ' ἐ θέλω συνοικὴν
"Ερωτι πανορέκια.

Δὸς ἦν, δὸς αὐτὸν ἡμῖν
Δραχμής, καλὸν σύνδυνον.
Ἔρως, σύ δ' ευθέως με

Πύρωσον εἰ ἢ μή, σύ

Κατὰ φλογὸς τακήσῃ.

ΤΟ

15

ΩΔΗ

VER. 10. Here's Gold! --- Give me the heavnly Boy.] The Price offer'd in the Original, is a Drachm, which was an Attic Coin, worth about Seven-pence Halfpenny of our Money.

VER. 13 & 14. That Infant you fall melt away,

To more ignoble Flames a Prey. It was no unusual thing with the Ancients to threaten their Gods, as well as to pray to them. Herodotus informs us, that Xerxes was fo enrag'd for the Lofs of his Bridge of Boats on the Hellefpont, that he order'd the Sea to be fcourg'd, to revenge himfelf on Neptune. And the modern Indians, when any Misfortune befalls them, whip their Idols. Theocritus has a very remarkable Paf fage to this Purpose, in his feventh Idyllium, where he makes a Shepherd addrefs his God in this manner:

Κἂν μ' ταῦθ ̓ ἕρδοις, ὦ Παν φίλε, μή τύ τι παῖδες Αρκαδικοὶ σκίλλαισιν ὑπὸ πλευράς τε καὶ ὤμος Τανάκα μαςίσδοιέν, όκκα κρέα τυτθὰ παρείη

EX

I practise not the mimick Arts,

Nor form'd this Potentate of Hearts;
But Love, an ever-wishing Guest,
No more fhall wanton on my Breast.

Then let him sport on mine, faid I,
Here's Gold !--- Give me the heav'nly Boy.
But, Cupid! if you fail to fire
My Breast with am'rous foft Defire,
That Inftant you fhall melt away,
To more ignoble Flames a Prey.

5

10

ODE

Εἰ δ ̓ ἄλλως νάσαις, και μ' χρέα παν ̓ ὀνύχεσι ΔακνόμυΘ κνάσαιο, καὶ ἐν κνίδαισι καθεύδεις. Εἴης δ ̓ Ἠδωνῶν μὲ ἐν ὤρεσι χείματι μέσῳ,

βρον παρ' ποταμὸν τετραμμένΘ, ἐγγύθεν ἄρκικο Ἐν ἢ θέρει πυμάτοισι πὰρ Αἰθιόπεωι νομεύοις, Πέτρᾳ ὑπὸ Βλεμύων, ὅθεν ἐκέτι ΝελΘ ὁρατός. O Sacred Pan! if thou indulge my Pray'r May no Arcadian Youths their Scourges rear, Nor for neglected Flocks thy Shoulders tear. But may'st thou, if thy Suppliant thou deny, Torn by revengeful Nails, on Nettles lie! On Edon's Hills, where lazy Heber flows, May'st thou all Winter freeze 'midst chilling Snows; And with black Ethiops curfe the Summer-heats, Where, under Blemyan Rocks, fcorch'd Nile retreats.

VER. 4.

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VER. 4. Fall'n is thy Hair, quite fall'n away!] The Hair was very much regarded amongst the Ancients, and esteem'd by them as a principal Part of Beauty. Petronius defcribes the Lofs of it in the following elegant manner :

Quod fummum forma decus eft, cecidere capilli,
Vernantefque comas triftis abegit hyems.
Nunc umbra nudata sua jam tempora mærent,
Areaque attritis nidet adusta pilis.

O fallax natura Deum! quæ prima dedifti
#tati noftra gaudia, prima rapis,

Infelix, modo crinibus nitebas,
Phabo pulchrier, & forore Phabi :
At nunc lævior aëre, vel rotundo

Horti

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M often by the Women told,

I'Mao anderen, thou grow'st old:

Here, in this Glass thyself survey,
Fall'n is thy Hair, quite fall'n away!
No Ringlets wanton o'er thy Brow,
It's all a Field of Baldness now.

5

But

Horti tubere, quod creavit unda,
Ridentes fugis, & times puellas.
Ut mortem citiùs venire credas,
Scito jam capitis periffe partem.

Beauty is fall'n'! thy Hair's foft Vernal Grace,
To Wint'ry Baldness gives untimely Place.
Thy injur'd Temples mourn their ravish'd Shade,
Wafte, like a ftubbled Field, thy Brow is laid.
Fallacious Gods! your treach'rous Gifts how vain!
You only give us Joy, to give us Pain.
Unhappy Youth! but late thy curling Gold
Ev'n Phœbus' Self might envy to behold;
But now for Smoothness, nor the liquid Air,
Nor Wave-born Tuber can with thee compare.

The

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