——fungar vice cotis, acutum
 Reddere quæ ferrum valet, expers ipsa secandi.

I hope it will not be expected from me, that I should say any thing of my fellow undertakers in this Miscellany. Some of them are too nearly related to me, to be commended without suspicion of partiality;[58] others I am sure need it not; and the rest I have not perused.

To conclude, I am sensible that I have written this too hastily and too loosely; I fear I have been tedious, and, which is worse, it comes out from the first draught, and uncorrected. This I grant is no excuse; for it may be reasonably urged, why did he not write with more leisure, or, if he had it not, (which was certainly my case,) why did he attempt to write on so nice a subject? The objection is unanswerable; but, in part of recompence, let me assure the reader, that, in hasty productions, he is sure to meet with an author's present sense, which cooler thoughts would possibly have disguised. There is undoubtedly more of spirit, though not of judgment, in these uncorrect essays; and consequently, though my hazard be the greater, yet the reader's pleasure is not the less.

John Dryden.

FOOTNOTES:

[47] Mainburg's "History of the League," translated by our author, at the command of Charles II.

[48] First published in 1680.

[49] Sir Peter Lely, by birth a Dutchman, came to England in 1641, and died in 1680. There is a remarkable similarity between his female portraits, which seems to have arisen from the circumstance mentioned by Dryden, of his bringing all his subjects as near as possible to his own idea of the beautiful. Pope's lines in his praise are too well known to be quoted.

[50] Annibale Caro died at Rome, 1566.

[51] He died in the year of Rome 699, before the commencement of the Augustan age.

[52] The celebrated Hobbes, who died in 1679.

[53] I wish our author had attended to his noble friend Roscommon's recommendation:

Immodest words admit of no defence,
 For want of decency is want of sense;
 What moderate fop would range the Park, or stews,
 Who among troops of faultless nymphs might chuse?

[54] This error, however, went through the subsequent editions.

[55] Thomas Creech, a particular friend of our author. He was born in 1659, and in June 1700 committed suicide; for which rash action no adequate cause has been assigned. Besides the translation of Lucretius, which is his principal work, he executed an indifferent version of Horace, and translated parts of Theocritus, Ovid, Juvenal, Virgil, &c. In his translation of Lucretius, he omitted the indelicate part of the Fourth Book; a deficiency which Dryden thought fit to supply, for which he has above assigned some very inadequate reasons. Creech's Lucretius first appeared at Oxford, in 8vo, 1682, and was reprinted in the year following. The annotations, to which our author alludes a little lower, were originally attached to a Latin edition of Lucretius, superintended by Creech, and afterwards transferred to his English version. They display great learning, and an intimate acquaintance with the Epicurean philosophy.

[56] Our author, in the Dedication to "Cleomenes," compliments Lord Rochester on his power of critically understanding the beauties of Horace, and upon his particular affection for this particular Ode. See Vol. VIII. p. 193.

[57] Mr Malone has observed, that this quotation, as well as that which follows, is inaccurate; the words of Juvenal are, "nequeo monstrare, et sentio tantum."

[58] Dryden's son was amongst the contributors.

TRANSLATIONS

FROM

THEOCRITUS.

AMARYLLIS:

OR,

THE THIRD IDYLLIUM OF THEOCRITUS,

PARAPHRASED.[59]

To Amaryllis love compels my way,
 My browzing goats upon the mountains stray;
 O Tityrus, tend them well, and see them fed } In pastures fresh, and to their watering led;} And 'ware the ridgling with his budding head.} Ah, beauteous nymph! can you forget your love,
 The conscious grottos, and the shady grove,
 Where stretched at ease your tender limbs were laid,
 Your nameless beauties nakedly displayed?
 Then I was called your darling, your desire,
 With kisses such as set my soul on fire:
 But you are changed, yet I am still the same;
 My heart maintains for both a double flame,
 Grieved, but unmoved, and patient of your scorn;
 So faithful I, and you so much forsworn!
 I die, and death will finish all my pain;
 Yet, ere I die, behold me once again:
 Am I so much deformed, so changed of late?
 What partial judges are our love and hate!
 Ten wildings have I gathered for my dear;
 How ruddy, like your lips, their streaks appear!
 Far-off you viewed them with a longing eye
 Upon the topmost branch (the tree was high);
 Yet nimbly up, from bough to bough, I swerved,[60]
 And for to-morrow have ten more reserved.
 Look on me kindly, and some pity shew,
 Or give me leave at least to look on you.
 Some god transform me by his heavenly power,
 Even to a bee to buzz within your bower,
 The winding ivy-chaplet to invade,
 And folded fern, that your fair forehead shade.
 Now to my cost the force of love I find,
 The heavy hand it bears on human kind.
 The milk of tygers was his infant food, } Taught from his tender years the taste of blood; } His brother whelps and he ran wild about the wood.} Ah nymph, trained up in his tyrannic court,
 To make the sufferings of your slaves your sport!
 Unheeded ruin! treacherous delight!
 O polished hardness, softened to the sight!
 Whose radiant eyes your ebon brows adorn,
 Like midnight those, and these like break of morn!
 Smile once again, revive me with your charms,
 And let me die contented in your arms.
 I would not ask to live another day,
 Might I but sweetly kiss my soul away.
 Ah, why am I from empty joys debarred?
 For kisses are but empty when compared.
 I rave, and in my raging fit shall tear
 The garland, which I wove for you to wear,
 Of parsley, with a wreath of ivy bound,
 And bordered with a rosy edging round.
 What pangs I feel, unpitied and unheard!
 Since I must die, why is my fate deferred!
 I strip my body of my shepherd's frock;
 Behold that dreadful downfal of a rock,
 Where yon old fisher views the waves from high!
 'Tis that convenient leap I mean to try.
 You would be pleased to see me plunge to shore,
 But better pleased if I should rise no more.
 I might have read my fortune long ago,
 When, seeking my success in love to know,
 I tried the infallible prophetic way,
 A poppy-leaf upon my palm to lay.
 I struck, and yet no lucky crack did follow;
 Yet I struck hard, and yet the leaf lay hollow;
 And, which was worse, if any worse could prove,
 The withering leaf foreshowed your withering love.
 Yet farther,—ah, how far a lover dares!
 My last recourse I had to sieve and sheers,
 And told the witch Agreo my disease:
 (Agreo, that in harvest used to lease;
 But, harvest done, to chare-work did aspire;
 Meat, drink, and two-pence was her daily hire;)
 To work she went, her charms she muttered o'er,} And yet the resty sieve wagged ne'er the more; } I wept for woe, the testy beldame swore, } And, foaming with her God, foretold my fate,
 That I was doomed to love, and you to hate.
 A milk-white goat for you I did provide;
 Two milk-white kids run frisking by her side,
 For which the nut-brown lass, Erithacis,
 Full often offered many a savoury kiss.
 Hers they shall be, since you refuse the price;
 What madman would o'erstand his market twice!
 My right eye itches, some good-luck is near,} Perhaps my Amaryllis may appear; } I'll set up such a note as she shall hear. } What nymph but my melodious voice would move?
 She must be flint, if she refuse my love.
 Hippomenes, who ran with noble strife } To win his lady, or to lose his life, } (What shift some men will make to get a wife?)} Threw down a golden apple in her way;
 For all her haste, she could not choose but stay:
 Renown said, Run; the glittering bribe cried, Hold;
 The man might have been hanged, but for his gold.
 Yet some suppose 'twas love, (some few indeed!)
 That stopt the fatal fury of her speed:
 She saw, she sighed; her nimble feet refuse
 Their wonted speed, and she took pains to lose.
 A prophet some, and some a poet cry,[61]
 (No matter which, so neither of them lie,)
 From steepy Othry's top to Pylus drove
 His herd, and for his pains enjoyed his love.
 If such another wager should be laid,
 I'll find the man, if you can find the maid.
 Why name I men, when love extended finds
 His power on high, and in celestial minds?
 Venus the shepherd's homely habit took,
 And managed something else besides the crook;
 Nay, when Adonis died, was heard to roar,
 And never from her heart forgave the boar.
 How blest was fair Endymion with his moon,
 Who sleeps on Latmos' top from night to noon!
 What Jason from Medea's love possest,
 You shall not hear, but know 'tis like the rest.
 My aching head can scarce support the pain;
 This cursed love will surely turn my brain:
 Feel how it shoots, and yet you take no pity;
 Nay, then, 'tis time to end my doleful ditty.
 A clammy sweat does o'er my temples creep,
 My heavy eyes are urged with iron sleep;
 I lay me down to gasp my latest breath,
 The wolves will get a breakfast by my death;
 Yet scarce enough their hunger to supply,
 For love has made me carrion ere I die.

FOOTNOTES:

[59] This appeared in the First Miscellany.

[60] To swerve, as the word is here used, means to draw one's self up a tree by clinging round it with the legs and arms. It occurs in the old ballad of Sir Andrew Barton, where he sends one of his men aloft:

Then Gordon swarved the maine-mast tree,
 He swarved it with might and main.


Reliques of Ancient Poetry, Vol. II. p. 192

[61] Melampus, the son of Amythaon, was a prophet and physician. Tibullus cites him in the character of an augur:

——compertum est veracibus ut mihi signis,
 Queis Amythaonius nequeat certare Melampus.

As a physician, he discovered the use of hellebore; thence called Melampodium.

THE

EPITHALAMIUM

OF

HELEN AND MENELAUS.

FROM THE

EIGHTEENTH IDYLLIUM OF THEOCRITUS.[62]

Twelve Spartan virgins, noble, young, and fair,
 With violet wreaths adorned their flowing hair;
 And to the pompous palace did resort,
 Where Menelaus kept his royal court.
 There, hand in hand, a comely choir they led, } To sing a blessing to his nuptial bed, } With curious needles wrought, and painted flowers bespread.} Jove's beauteous daughter now his bride must be,
 And Jove himself was less a God than he;
 For this their artful hands instruct the lute to sound,
 Their feet assist their hands, and justly beat the ground.
 This was their song:—Why, happy bridegroom, why,
 Ere yet the stars are kindled in the sky,
 Ere twilight shades, or evening dews are shed,
 Why dost thou steal so soon away to bed?
 Has Somnus brushed thy eye-lids with his rod,} Or do thy legs refuse to bear their load, } With flowing bowls of a more generous god? } If gentle slumber on thy temples creep,
 (But, naughty man, thou dost not mean to sleep,)
 Betake thee to thy bed, thou drowzy drone,
 Sleep by thyself, and leave thy bride alone:
 Go, leave her with her maiden mates to play
 At sports more harmless till the break of day;
 Give us this evening; thou hast morn and night,
 And all the year before thee, for delight.
 O happy youth! to thee, among the crowd
 Of rival princes, Cupid sneezed aloud;
 And every lucky omen sent before,
 To meet thee landing on the Spartan shore.
 Of all our heroes, thou canst boast alone,
 That Jove, whene'er he thunders, calls thee son;
 Betwixt two sheets thou shalt enjoy her bare,} With whom no Grecian virgin can compare; } So soft, so sweet, so balmy, and so fair. } A boy, like thee, would make a kingly line;
 But oh, a girl like her must be divine.
 Her equals we in years, but not in face,
 Twelve score viragos of the Spartan race,
 While naked to Eurotas' banks we bend,
 And there in manly exercise contend,
 When she appears, are all eclipsed and lost,
 And hide the beauties that we made our boast.
 So, when the night and winter disappear,
 The purple morning, rising with the year,
 Salutes the spring, as her celestial eyes
 Adorn the world, and brighten all the skies;
 So beauteous Helen shines among the rest,
 Tall, slender, straight, with all the Graces blest.
 As pines the mountains, or as fields the corn,
 Or as Thessalian steeds the race adorn;
 So rosy-coloured Helen is the pride
 Of Lacedemon, and of Greece beside.
 Like her no nymph can willing osiers bend } In basket-works, which painted streaks commend;} With Pallas in the loom she may contend. } But none, ah! none can animate the lyre,
 And the mute strings with vocal souls inspire;
 Whether the learned Minerva be her theme,
 Or chaste Diana bathing in the stream,
 None can record their heavenly praise so well
 As Helen, in whose eyes ten thousand Cupids dwell.
 O fair, O graceful! yet with maids enrolled,
 But whom to-morrow's sun a matron shall behold!
 Yet ere to-morrow's sun shall show his head,} The dewy paths of meadows we will tread, } For crowns and chaplets to adorn thy head. } Where all shall weep, and wish for thy return,
 As bleating lambs their absent mother mourn.
 Our noblest maids shall to thy name bequeath
 The boughs of Lotos, formed into a wreath.
 This monument, thy maiden beauties due,
 High on a plane-tree shall be hung to view;
 On the smooth rind the passenger shall see
 Thy name engraved, and worship Helen's tree;
 Balm, from a silver-box distilled around,
 Shall all bedew the roots, and scent the sacred ground.
 The balm, 'tis true, can aged plants prolong,
 But Helen's name will keep it ever young.
 Hail bride, hail bridegroom, son-in-law to Jove!
 With fruitful joys Latona bless your love!
 Let Venus furnish you with full desires,
 Add vigour to your wills, and fuel to your fires!
 Almighty Jove augment your wealthy store,
 Give much to you, and to his grandsons more!
 From generous loins a generous race will spring,
 Each girl, like her, a queen; each boy, like you, a king.
 Now sleep, if sleep you can; but while you rest,
 Sleep close, with folded arms, and breast to breast.
 Rise in the morn; but oh! before you rise,
 Forget not to perform your morning sacrifice.
 We will be with you ere the crowing cock
 Salutes the light, and struts before his feathered flock.
 Hymen, oh Hymen, to thy triumphs run,
 And view the mighty spoils thou hast in battle won!

FOOTNOTES:

[62] This and the three following Idylliums were first published in the Second Miscellany.

THE

DESPAIRING LOVER.

FROM THE

TWENTY-THIRD IDYLLIUM OF THEOCRITUS.

With inauspicious love, a wretched swain
 Pursued the fairest nymph of all the plain;
 Fairest indeed, but prouder far than fair,
 She plunged him hopeless in a deep despair:
 Her heavenly form too haughtily she prized,
 His person hated, and his gifts despised;
 Nor knew the force of Cupid's cruel darts,
 Nor feared his awful power on human hearts;
 But either from her hopeless lover fled,
 Or with disdainful glances shot him dead.
 No kiss, no look, to cheer the drooping boy,
 No word she spoke, she scorned even to deny;
 But, as a hunted panther casts about
 Her glaring eyes, and pricks her listening ears to scout;
 So she, to shun his toils, her cares employed,
 And fiercely in her savage freedom joyed.
 Her mouth she writhed, her forehead taught to frown,
 Her eyes to sparkle fires to love unknown;
 Her sallow cheeks her envious mind did shew,
 And every feature spoke aloud the curstness of a shrew.
 Yet could not he his obvious fate escape;
 His love still dressed her in a pleasing shape;
 And every sullen frown, and bitter scorn,
 But fanned the fuel that too fast did burn.
 Long time, unequal to his mighty pain,
 He strove to curb it, but he strove in vain;
 At last his woes broke out, and begged relief
 With tears, the dumb petitioners of grief;
 With tears so tender, as adorned his love,
 And any heart, but only hers, would move.
 Trembling before her bolted doors he stood,
 And there poured out the unprofitable flood;
 Staring his eyes, and hagard was his look;
 Then, kissing first the threshold, thus he spoke.
 Ah nymph, more cruel than of human race!
 Thy tygress heart belies thy angel face;
 Too well thou show'st thy pedigree from stone,
 Thy grandame's was the first by Pyrrha thrown;
 Unworthy thou to be so long desired;
 But so my love, and so my fate required.
 I beg not now (for 'tis in vain) to live;
 But take this gift, the last that I can give.
 This friendly cord shall soon decide the strife
 Betwixt my lingering love and loathsome life:
 This moment puts an end to all my pain;
 I shall no more despair, nor thou disdain.
 Farewell, ungrateful and unkind! I go
 Condemned by thee to those sad shades below.
 I go the extremest remedy to prove,
 To drink oblivion, and to drench my love:
 There happily to lose my long desires;
 But ah! what draught so deep to quench my fires?
 Farewell, ye never-opening gates, ye stones,
 And threshold guilty of my midnight moans!
 What I have suffered here ye know too well;
 What I shall do, the Gods and I can tell.
 The rose is fragrant, but it fades in time;
 The violet sweet, but quickly past the prime;
 White lilies hang their heads, and soon decay,
 And whiter snow in minutes melts away:
 Such is your blooming youth, and withering so;
 The time will come, it will, when you shall know
 The rage of love; your haughty heart shall burn
 In flames like mine, and meet a like return.
 Obdurate as you are, oh! hear at least
 My dying prayers, and grant my last request!—
 When first you ope your doors, and, passing by,
 The sad ill-omened object meets your eye,
 Think it not lost a moment if you stay;
 The breathless wretch, so made by you, survey;
 Some cruel pleasure will from thence arise,
 To view the mighty ravage of your eyes.
 I wish (but oh! my wish is vain, I fear)
 The kind oblation of a falling tear.
 Then loose the knot, and take me from the place,
 And spread your mantle o'er my grisly face;
 Upon my livid lips bestow a kiss,—
 O envy not the dead, they feel not bliss!
 Nor fear your kisses can restore my breath;
 Even you are not more pitiless than death.
 Then for my corpse a homely grave provide,
 Which love and me from public scorn may hide;
 Thrice call upon my name, thrice beat your breast,
 And hail me thrice to everlasting rest:
 Last, let my tomb this sad inscription bear;— } "A wretch, whom love has killed, lies buried here; } "O passengers, Aminta's eyes beware." } Thus having said, and furious with his love,
 He heaved, with more than human force, to move
 A weighty stone, (the labour of a team,)
 And, raised from thence, he reached the neighbouring beam;
 Around its bulk a sliding knot he throws,
 And fitted to his neck the fatal noose;
 Then, spurning backward, took a swing, till death
 Crept up, and stopt the passage of his breath.
 The bounce burst ope the door; the scornful fair
 Relentless looked, and saw him beat his quivering feet in air;
 Nor wept his fate, nor cast a pitying eye,
 Nor took him down, but brushed regardless by;
 And, as she past, her chance or fate was such,
 Her garments touched the dead, polluted by the touch.
 Next to the dance, thence to the bath did move;
 The bath was sacred to the God of Love;
 Whose injured image, with a wrathful eye,
 Stood threatning from a pedestal on high.
 Nodding a while, and watchful of his blow,
 He fell, and, falling, crushed the ungrateful nymph below:
 Her gushing blood the pavement all besmeared;
 And this her last expiring voice was heard;—
 "Lovers, farewell, revenge has reached my scorn;
 "Thus warned, be wise, and love for love return."

DAPHNIS AND CHLORIS.

FROM THE

TWENTY SEVENTH IDYLLIUM OF THEOCRITUS.

DAPHNIS.
The shepherd Paris bore the Spartan bride
 By force away, and then by force enjoyed;
 But I by free consent can boast a bliss,
 A fairer Helen, and a sweeter kiss.
CHLORIS.
Kisses are empty joys, and soon are o'er.
DAPHNIS.
A kiss betwixt the lips is something more.
CHLORIS.
I wipe my mouth, and where's your kissing then?
DAPHNIS.
I swear you wipe it to be kissed agen.
 CHLORIS.
Go, tend your herd, and kiss your cows at home;
 I am a maid, and in my beauty's bloom.
DAPHNIS.
'Tis well remembered; do not waste your time,
 But wisely use it ere you pass your prime.
CHLORIS.
Blown roses hold their sweetness to the last,
 And raisins keep their luscious native taste.
DAPHNIS.
The sun's too hot; those olive shades are near;
 I fain would whisper something in your ear.
CHLORIS.
'Tis honest talking where we may be seen; } God knows what secret mischief you may mean;} I doubt you'll play the wag, and kiss again.}
DAPHNIS.
At least beneath yon elm you need not fear;
 My pipe's in tune, if you're disposed to hear.
CHLORIS.
Play by yourself, I dare not venture thither;
 You, and your naughty pipe, go hang together.
DAPHNIS.
Coy nymph, beware, lest Venus you offend.
CHLORIS.
I shall have chaste Diana still to friend.
 DAPHNIS.
You have a soul, and Cupid has a dart.
CHLORIS.
Diana will defend, or heal my heart.
 Nay, fie, what mean you in this open place?
 Unhand me, or I swear I'll scratch your face.
 Let go for shame; you make me mad for spite;
 My mouth's my own; and, if you kiss, I'll bite.
DAPHNIS.
Away with your dissembling female tricks;
 What, would you 'scape the fate of all your sex?
CHLORIS.
I swear, I'll keep my maidenhead till death,
 And die as pure as queen Elizabeth.
DAPHNIS.
Nay, mum for that; but let me lay thee down;
 Better with me, than with some nauseous clown.
CHLORIS.
I'd have you know, if I were so inclined, } I have been woo'd by many a wealthy hind; } But never found a husband to my mind. }
DAPHNIS.
But they are absent all; and I am here.} }
CHLORIS. } } The matrimonial yoke is hard to bear, } And marriage is a woeful word to hear. }
DAPHNIS.
A scarecrow, set to frighten fools away;
 Marriage has joys, and you shall have assay.
CHLORIS.
Sour sauce is often mixed with our delight;
 You kick by day more than you kiss by night.
DAPHNIS.
Sham stories all; but say the worst you can,
 A very wife fears neither God nor man.
CHLORIS.
But child-birth is, they say, a deadly pain;
 It costs at least a month to knit again.
DAPHNIS.
Diana cures the wounds Lucina made;
 Your goddess is a midwife by her trade.
CHLORIS.
But I shall spoil my beauty, if I bear.
DAPHNIS.
But Mam and Dad are pretty names to hear.
CHLORIS.
But there's a civil question used of late;
 Where lies my jointure, where your own estate?
DAPHNIS.
My flocks, my fields, my woods, my pastures take,
 With settlement as good as law can make.
 CHLORIS.
Swear then you will not leave me on the common,
 But marry me, and make an honest woman.
DAPHNIS.
I swear by Pan, though he wears horns you'll say,
 Cudgelled and kicked, I'll not be forced away.
CHLORIS.
I bargain for a wedding-bed at least,
 A house, and handsome lodging for a guest.
DAPHNIS.
A house well furnished shall be thine to keep;
 And, for a flock-bed, I can sheer my sheep.
CHLORIS.
What tale shall I to my old father tell?
DAPHNIS.
'Twill make him chuckle thou'rt bestowed so well.
CHLORIS.
But, after all, in troth I am to blame
 To be so loving, ere I know your name;
 A pleasant sounding name's a pretty thing.
DAPHNIS.
Faith, mine's a very pretty name to sing.
 They call me Daphnis; Lycidas my sire;
 Both sound as well as woman can desire.
 Nomæa bore me; farmers in degree;
 He a good husband, a good housewife she.
 CHLORIS.
Your kindred is not much amiss, 'tis true;
 Yet I am somewhat better born than you.
DAPHNIS.
I know your father, and his family;
 And, without boasting, am as good as he,
 Menalcas; and no master goes before.
CHLORIS.
Hang both our pedigrees! not one word more;
 But if you love me, let me see your living,
 Your house, and home; for seeing is believing.
DAPHNIS.
See first yon cypress grove, a shade from noon.
CHLORIS.
Browze on, my goats; for I'll be with you soon.
DAPHNIS.
Feed well, my bulls, to whet your appetite,
 That each may take a lusty leap at night.
CHLORIS.
What do you mean, uncivil as you are,
 To touch my breasts, and leave my bosom bare?
DAPHNIS.
These pretty bubbies, first, I make my own.
CHLORIS.
Pull out your hand, I swear, or I shall swoon.
 DAPHNIS.
Why does thy ebbing blood forsake thy face?
CHLORIS.
Throw me at least upon a cleaner place;
 My linen ruffled, and my waistcoat soiling—
 What, do you think new clothes were made for spoiling?
DAPHNIS.
I'll lay my lambkins underneath thy back.
CHLORIS.
My head-gear's off; what filthy work you make!
DAPHNIS.
To Venus, first, I lay these offerings by.
CHLORIS.
Nay, first look round, that nobody be nigh:
 Methinks I hear a whispering in the grove.
DAPHNIS.
The cypress trees are telling tales of love.
CHLORIS.
You tear off all behind me, and before me;
 And I'm as naked as my mother bore me.
DAPHNIS.
I'll buy thee better clothes than these I tear,
 And lie so close I'll cover thee from air.
CHLORIS.
You're liberal now; but when your turn is sped,
 You'll wish me choked with every crust of bread.
 DAPHNIS.
I'll give thee more, much more than I have told;
 Would I could coin my very heart to gold!
CHLORIS.
Forgive thy handmaid, huntress of the wood!
 I see there's no resisting flesh and blood!
DAPHNIS.
The noble deed is done!—my herds I'll cull;
 Cupid, be thine a calf; and Venus, thine a bull.
CHLORIS.
A maid I came in an unlucky hour,
 But hence return without my virgin flower.
DAPHNIS.
A maid is but a barren name at best;
 If thou canst hold, I bid for twins at least.
 Thus did this happy pair their love dispense
 With mutual joys, and gratified their sense;
 The God of Love was there, a bidden guest,
 And present at his own mysterious feast.
 His azure mantle underneath he spread,
 And scattered roses on the nuptial bed;
 While folded in each other's arms they lay, } He blew the flames, and furnished out the play, } And from their foreheads wiped the balmy sweat away.} First rose the maid, and with a glowing face,
 Her downcast eyes beheld her print upon the grass;
 Thence to her herd she sped herself in haste: } The bridegroom started from his trance at last,} And piping homeward jocundly he past. }

TRANSLATIONS

FROM

LUCRETIUS.

THE

BEGINNING OF

THE FIRST BOOK

OF

LUCRETIUS.