Come, and forfake thy cloying ftore;

Thy turret that furveys, from high,
The fmoke, and wealth, and noise of Rome;
And all the busy pageantry

That wife men fcorn, and fools adore:

Come, give thy foul a loose, and tafte the pleasures of the

poor.

IV.

Sometimes 'tis grateful to the rich to try
A fhort viciffitude, and fit of poverty :
A favoury dish, a homely treat,
Where all'is plain, where all is neat,
Without the stately spacious room,
The Perfian carpet, or the Tyrian loom,
Clear up the cloudy foreheads of the great.

V.

The fun is in the lion mounted high;
The Syrian ftar,

Barks from afar,

And with his fultry breath infects` the sky; The ground below is parch'd, the Heav'ns above us fry. The fhepherd drives his fainting flock

Beneath the covert of a rock,

And feeks refreshing rivulets nigh:

The Sylvans to their fhades retire,

Thofe very fhades and ftreams new fhades and streams

require,

And want a cooling breeze of wind to fan the raging fire.

VI.

Thou, what befits the new Lord Mayor,

And what the city factions dare,
And what the Gallic arms will do,

And what the quiver-bearing foe,
Art anxiously inquifitive to know:

Bat

But God has, wifely, hid from human fight

The dark decrees of future fate,

And fown their feeds in depth of night;
He laughs at all the giddy turns of state;
When mortals fearch too foon, and fear too late,

VII.

Enjoy the prefent smiling hour;

And put it out of fortune's pow'r :
The tide of bufinefs, like the running ftream,
Is fometimes high, and fometimes low,
A quiet ebb, or a tempeftuous flow,

And always in extreme.

Now with a noiselefs gentle course
It keeps within the middle bed;
Anon it lifts aloft the head,

And bears down all before it with impetuous force:
And trunks of trees come rolling down,

Sheep and their folds together drown:

Both house and homested into feas are borne ;
And rocks are from their old foundations torn,

And woods, made thin with winds, their scatter'd honours

mourn.

VIII.

Happy the man, and happy he alone,
He, who can call to-day his own :
He who, fecure within, can fsay,

To-morrow do thy worft, for I have liv'd to-day
Be fair, or foul, or rain, or fhine,

The joys I have poffefs'd, in spite of fate are mine,
Not Heav'n itself upon the paft has pow'r;
But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.

IX.

Fortune, that, with malicious joy,

Does man her flave opprefs,

Proud of her office to destroy,

Is feldom pleas'd to bless :

Still

Still various and unconstant still,

But with an inclination to be ill,

Promotes, degrades, delights in strife,
And makes a lottery of life.

I can enjoy her while fhe's kind;
But when the dances in the wind,

And thakes the wings and will not stay,
I puff the prostitute away :

The little or the much she gave, is quietly refign'd
Content with poverty, my foul I arm;
And virtue, tho' in rags, will keep me warm.
X.

What is't to me,

Who never fail in her unfaithful fea,
If ftorms arife, and clouds grow black;
If the maft split, and threaten wreck?
Then let the greedy merchant fear
For his ill-gotten gain;

And pray to Gods that will not hear,
While the debating winds and billows bear
His wealth into the main.

For me, fecure, from fortune's blows,
Secure of what I cannot lose,

In

my small pinace I can fail,
Contemning all the bluft'ring roar ;
And running with a merry gale,
With friendly ftars my safety seek
Within fome little winding creek;
And fee the ftorm afhore.

THE

The SECOND EPODE of

H OR A CE.

OW happy in his low degree,

How rich in humble poverty, is he,

Who leads a quiet country life;
Difcharg'd of bufinefs, void of ftrife,
And from the griping fcrivener free?
Thus, ere the feeds of vice were fown,
Liv'd men in better ages born,
Who plow'd with oxen of their own
Their fmall paternal field of corn.
Nor trumpets fummon him to war.
Nor drums difturb his morning sleep,
Nor knows he merchants gainful care,
Nor fears the dangers of the deep.
The clamours of contentious law,

And court and ftate, he wifely fhuns,
Nor brib'd with hopes, nor dar'd with awe,
To fervile falutations runs ;

But either to the clasping vine

Does the fupporting poplar wed,
Or with his pruning-hook disjoin
Unbearing branches from their head,
And grafts more happy in their stead:
Or, climbing to a hilly steep,

He views his herds in vales afar,
Or fheers his overburden'd sheep,

Or mead for cooling drink prepares,

Of virgin honey in the jars.

Or in the now declining year,

When bounteous autumn rears his head,

He joys to pull the ripen'd pear,

And cluft'ring grapes with purple spread.

The fairest of his fruit he ferves,
Priapus, thy rewards:
Sylvanus too his part deferves,
Whofe care the fences guards.
Sometimes beneath an ancient oak,
Or on the matted grafs he lies;
No God of fleep he need invoke ;
The ftream that o'er the pebbles flies
With gentle fumber crowns his
The wind that whistles through the fprays
Maintains the confort of the fong;
And hidden birds with native lays
The golden fleep prolong.

But when the blaft of winter blows,
And hoary froft inverts the year,
Into the naked woods he goes,

eyes.

And feeks the tusky boar to rear, With well-mouth'd hounds and pointed (pear! Or fpreads his fubtle nets from fight With twinkling glafles, to betray The larks that in the meshes light, Or makes the fearful hare his prey. Amidst his harmless easy joys

No anxious care invades his health,
Nor love his peace of mind destroys,
Nor wicked avarice of wealth,

But if a chaste and pleasing wife,
To ease the bufinefs of his life,
Divides with him his houthold care,
Such as the Sabine matrons were,
Such as the swift Apulian's bride,
Sun-burnt and fwarthy tho' fhe be,
Will fire for winter nights provide,
And without noife will overfee
His children and his family;
And order all things till he come,
Sweaty and overlabour'd, home;