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Then dance, perhaps, or fondling spread
My flutt'ring Wings around his Head :
Or on his Lyre repose to Reft,
While Dreams of Musick footh


Breaft, .
Adicu, 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.


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YOUTH, exposing to be sold,

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

I pradife

creon very elegantly makes his Youth fpeak in this manner, to ridicule the Unpoliteness of a Person, who could be so ignorant of the Charms of Love, as to desire to

part with it,

VER. 10.


Ο δ' άπε Δωριάζων,
Λάβ’ αώτον οππόσο λης.
"Όμως δ' ίν' οκμάθης σαν,
Ούκ είμι κηegτέχνας.
'Αλλ' και θέλω συνοικήν
"Έρωτι σαντορέκλα.

Δος ών, δος αώτον ημίν
Δραχμής, καλόν σύνδυνον.

"Έρως, συ δ' ευθέως με
Πύρωσον α 3 μη, συ

15 Κατα φλογος τακήση.


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 Instant 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 so enrag'd for the Loss of his Bridge of Boats on the Hellefpont, that he order'd the Sea to be scourg'd, to revenge himself on Neptune. And the modern Indians, when any Misfortune befalls them, whip their Idols. Theocritus has a very remarkable Pafsage to this Purpose, in his seventh Idyllium, where he makes a Shepherd address his God in this manner :

κήν δ' ταύθ' έρδους, ο Πον φίλε, μή τύ τι παίδες 'Αρκαδικοί σκίλλαισιν αο αλάρας τε και ώμες Τανίκα μαρίσιοεές, όκκα κρέα τυτθα παρείη

I practise not the mimick Arts,

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

Then let him sport on mine, said I, Here's Gold !-- Give me the heav'nly Boy.

But, Cupid! if you fail to fire My Breast with am'rous soft Desire, That Instant you shall melt away, To more ignoble Flames a Prey.



Ein árnas vd'oues, xatu zesa Tenóruxeare
Δακνόμενο κνάσαιο, και αν κνίδαισι καθόδους.
Είνς ' Ηθωνών εν ώρεσι χίματι μέσω,
"Εζρον παρ' ποταμόν τετραμμένα, εγγύθεν αρκε.
'Εν και θέρεί συμάτοισι παρ Αιθιόπεσι νομεύοις,
Πέτρα υπό Βλεμύων, όθεν έκέτι Νάλα ορατός:
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'it thou, if thy Suppliant thou deny,
Torn by revengeful Nails, on Nettles lie!
On Edon's Hills, where lazy Heber flows,
May't thou all Winter freeze 'midst chilling Snows;
And with black Æthiops curse the Sammer-heats,
Where, under Blemyan Rocks, fcorch'd Nile retreats.




Εις εαυτόν.

ΛΕγεσιν αι γυναίκες,

'Ανακρέων, Γέρων &
Λαβων έσοπτρον άθρει
Κόμας μου έκέτ' έσας,
Ψιλον δέ σου μέτωπον.

5 Εγώ

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

Quod fummum forma decus est, cecidere capilli,

Vernantesque comas trißis abegit hyems.
Nunc umbra nudara fua jam tempora mærent,

Areaque attritis nidet adufta pilis.
O fallax natura Deum! qua prima dedifti

Etati noftræ gaudia, prima rapis,
Infelix, modo crinibus nitebas,
Phæbo pulchrior, & forore Pheebi :
At nunc lavior aëre, vel rotundo

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M often by the Women told,

Alas! Anacreon, 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.



Horti tubere, quod creavit unda,
Ridentes fugis, & times puellas.
Ut mortem citiùs venire credas,
Scito jam capitis perille partem.
Beauty is fall’n! thy Hair's soft Vernal Grace,
To Wint’ry Baldness gives untimely Place.
Thy injur'd Temples mourn their ravish'd Shade,
Waste, like a stubbled 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 Phoebus' Self might envy to behold ;
But now for Smoothness, nor the liquid Air,
Nor Wave-born Tuber can with thee compare.


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