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Hadst thou nine lives like a cat,
Soon those nine lives would be past.




Now, Tityrus, you, supine and careless, laid, Play on your pipe beneath yon beechen shade; While wretched we about the world must roam, And leave our pleasing fields, and native home; Here at your case you sing your amorous flame, And the wood rings with Amarilla's name.

Tityrus. Those blessings, friend, a Deity bestowed,

For I shall never think Him less than God;
Oft on His altars shall my firstlings lie,

Their blood the consecrated stones shall die:
He gave my flocks to graze the flow'ry meads,
And me to tune at ease the unequal reeds.

Milebaus. My admiration only I exprest, (No spark of envy harbors in my breast) That when confusion o'er the country reigns, Το you alone this happy state remains. Here I, though faint myself, must drive my goats, Far from their ancient fields and humble cots.

This scarce I lead, who left on yonder rock
Two tender kids, the hopes of all the flock.
Had we not been perverse and careless grown,
This dire event by omens were foreshown;
Our trees were blasted by the thunder-stroke,
And left-hand crows from an old hollow oak,
Foretold the coming evil by their dismal croak.



THE man, my friend, whose conscious heart
With virtue's sacred ardour glows,
Nor taints with death the envenomed dart,
Nor needs the guard of Moorish bows:

Though Scythia's icy cliffs he treads,
Or horrid Africk's faithless sands;
Or where the famed Hydaspes spreads
His liquid wealth o'er barbarous lands.
For while by Chloe's image charmed,
Too far in Sabine woods I stray'd;
Me singing, carcless, and unarmed,
A grisly wolf surprised, and fled.
No savage more portentous stained
Apulia's spacious wilds with gore;

None fiercer Juba's thirsty land,
Dire nurse of raging lions, bore.

Place me where no soft summer gale
Among the quivering branches sighs,
Where clouds condensed for ever veil
With horrid gloom the frowning skies;

Place me beneath the burning line,
A clime denied to human race;
I'll sing of Chloe's charms divine,
Her heavenly voice, and beauteous face.



CLOUDS do not always veil the skies,
Nor showers immerse the verdant plain;
Nor do the billows always rise,

Or storms afflict the ruffled main.

Nor, Valgius, on the Armenian shores
Do the chained waters always freeze;
Not always furious Boreas roars,
Or bends with violent force the trees.


But are ever drowned in tears,
For Mystes dead you ever mourn;
No setting sol can ease your cares,
But finds you sad at his return.

The wise experienced Grecian sage,
Mourned not Antilochus so long;
Nor did king Priam's hoary age
So much lament his slaughtered son,

Leave off, at length, these woman's sighs,
Augustus' numerous trophies sing;
Repeat that prince's victories,
To whom all nations tribute bring.

Niphates rolls an humbler wave,
At length the undaunted Scythian yields,
Content to live the Romans' slave,
And scarce forsakes his native fields.


Of Part of the Dialogue between Hector and Andromache. From the sixth book of Homar's Iliad.

SHE ceas'd: then godlike Hector answered kind, (His various plumage sporting in the wind)

That post and all the rest, shall be my care;
But shall I then forsake the unfinish'd war?
How would the Trojans brand great Hector's

And one base action sully all my fame,
Acquired by wounds and battles bravely fought!
Oh! how my soul abhors so mean a thought!
Long have I learned to slight this fleeting breath,
And view with cheerful eyes approaching death.
The inexorable Sisters have decreed

That Priam's house, and Priam's self, shall bleed: The day shall come, in which proud Troy shall


And spread its smoking ruins o'er the field.
Yet Hecuba's, nor Priam's hoary age,
Whose blood shall quench some Grecian's thirs-

ty rage,

Nor my brave brothers that have bit the ground, Their souls dismissed through many a ghastly


Can in my bosom half that grief create,

As the sad thought of your impending fate; When some proud Grecian dame shall tasks impose,

Mimick your tears, and ridicule your woes:
Beneath Hyperia's waters shall you sweat,

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