HORACE, ODE XVI. BOOK II.

To GROS PHU S.

1.

FOR gentle Eafe and downy Sleep

To Heav'n the trembling Sailor bends,

When fudden on th' Ægean Deep

The dreadful Hurricane defcends.

II.

For Eafe the warlike Thracian cries,

The Mede in graceful Armour bold;
O Grofphus! not the purchas'd Prize
Of Jewels, Purple, or of Gold.

III.

Not all that Indian Treasures give,

Nor Guards and Honours of the Great,

Uneafie Care away can drive,

That hovers o'er the stately Seat.

IV. The

IV.

The humble Swain may Quiet find,
Who, with clean Competency bleft,

Has no vile Paffion of the Mind

To ruffle his untainted Breast,

V.

With vain Pursuits why fhould we wafte

A fleeting Life? why change our Sky? Since, to what Climes foe'er we haste,

We from our felves can never fly.

VI.

Care in the gilded Veffel fails,

And closely fits the flying Steed

Cou'd we afcend the Eastern Gales,

;

This wou'd prevent our airy Speed.

VII.

The Mind with prefent Lot content,

And fir'd with no ambitious Views,

Receives with Smiles the Bleffings lent,

And here for no Perfection fues.

VIII.

In Youth was great Achilles flain ;
Tithonus pin'd with long Decay;
To me the Gods may Favours deign,
For which you fruitless Incense pay.

IX.

A thousand Heifers round you low,
And Flocks the verdant Profpect hide ;
While on your Back their Fleeces glow,
And warm you with a purple Pride.

X.

Me chearful, tho' with mean Estate,

The Mufe with Talents has endow'd,
And the propitious Hand of Fate
Has kindly rais'd above the Crowd.

A

A Letter to a Lady, with a Prefent of Turkey-Eggs.

F

Parta mea Veneri funt munera

decem mifi, cras altera mittam.

AIR Virgin, this Epiftle begs

Your kind Acceptance of these Eggs,

Which a majestick Hen has laid;

Than which a statelier ne'er survey'd

Or, where the feeds, Britannia's Ifle,
Or, whence the fprung, the fruitful Nile.
Were with your felf, the tuneful Nine,

On what I here present, to dine,

An Egg wou'd be the equal Share,
Of each immortal, fmiling Fair.

What Presents now falute your Hand,
Shall doubled be at your Command.

Nor, Madam, my Design mistake; Suppofing I an Offer make

Of Viands I my self refuse,

And want the Tafte or Skill to use.

On these, when fimply dreft, I dine, And never at my Stars repine. Temper'd in Froize they please my Fancy,

Or in the verdant Hue of Tanfy.

These copious in the Pudding put,
The Vicar claims a fecond Cut.
Shou'd Plums and Sewet too confpire,
No Monarch like the rural Squire :
The City Lord will gladly own
Their Virtues each returning Noon,
When Custard trembles in his Spoon.
He'll smooth his Magifterial Face,
And blefs the Pow'rs that gave the Mace.
The May'refs too, his honour'd Dame,
In Silence then confirms the fame.