IMITATION OF HORACE. ADDRESSED TO THE LATE LADY MILLAR. BY THE SAME. 1. WHY with fo many sprigs bestow'd Nor fimple tale, or fimpler ode Young S will you ruin è For, Millar, that at Bath he stays, Since Henderfon no longer plays, 11. Why up the hill no more toils he, To bid the fun good-morrow? Or breathing rage against the flanks Of Jackson's steeds, or thine, O Franks, Calls in my whip to borrow? III. No III. No more, the fultry day to cool, He cleaves with sportive vigour, IV. No more, at crazy Shandy-hall, In eafy chair I catch him ;. Him, who fo late for wit renow❜d, That not all Queen's could match him. V. Thus great Achilles once, we find, And quite content to prove his might Dream'd of no bloodier battle. Temperat ora frenis? Cur timet flavum Tiberim Tangere? Cur olivum Sanguine viperino Cautiùs vitet, neque jam Livida gustat armis Brachia, fæpè disco, Sæpè trans finem jaculo Nobilis expedito? Quid latet, ut marinæ Filium dicunt Thetidos Sub lacrymofa Troja. Funera; ne virilis Cultus in cædem, & Lycias Proriperet catervas ? LOVE ELEGY. BY THE SAME. Now funk in dumb defpondence on the thorn, Sweet child of forrow! with regret, like thine, Yet then again, ye flumbers, o'er my eyes And tho' through every femblance ye can range, No mein more graceful, and no face more fair. In vain I call: obedient to my will, No vifions rise, no flumbers o'er me creep. And now in glory from yon eastern hill The fun afcending bids me wake to weep. Ah! |