After long Marches, both their Armies tir'd,
At length they find the Place fo much admir'd.
When, in a little time, each doth descry
The glimps of an approaching Enemy:
Each at the fight with equal Pleasure move,
As we fhould do in well rewarded Love.
Blood-thirty Souls, whofe only perfect Joy
Confifts in what their Fury can deftroy.
And now both Armies do prepare to Fight,
And each the other unto War incite.
In vain, alas! for all the Force and Strength
Was now confumed by their Marches length;
But the great Chiefs, impatient of delay,
Refolve by fingle Fight to try the Day.
Tranflated from SENECA'S TROA S.
Verum eft? & timidos fabula decipit?"
By Mr. G LANVILL.
S't true that Souls their Bodies do furvive? Or does a Flam the timorous World deceive? When fome dear Friend our dying Eyes has clos'd, And Life's laft Day, Death's endlefs Night impos'd;; When the eas'd Corps, like an o'er-jaded Slave At length fet free, lies quiet in the Grave; Were it not wife the Soul too to Entomb! But muft we ftill endure Life's wretched Doom? Or happier do we die entire and whole, Leave no continuing Relict of a Soul? But when the vital Vapour of our Breath, Gafp'd into Air, is loft in Clouds and Death, We're gone, and all that was of us before, To any thing of Life is then no more?
Yes, thus we Perish, and thus undergo
Th' approaching Lot of all things here below.
Time flies, and all the Sea or Sun goes round
With fure and quick Destruction shall confound.
Swift as above the Stars, and Moon, and Sun,
In hurrying Orbs their hafty Courses run;
We Poft to Fate, nor when we disappear
Are we, or ever shall be, any where.
As fhort-liv'd Smoak afcending from the Flame,
Hovers, diffolves, and ne'er shall be again.
As gather'd Clouds by scattering Blasts disjoin'd,
Difperfe and fly before the hoftile Wind:
So that thin fleeting thing Life paffes o'er,
So flows our Spirit out, and then's no more.
After Death's nothing; Death it self is nought, Th' extreameft Bound of a short Race of Thought. Let Slaves and Fools their Fears and Hopes give o'er, Solicit and delude themselves no more.
Wou'd you know where you fhall be after Death?
There, where you were before you fuck'd in Breath.
The Dead and the Unborn are just the fame,
The Dead returning whence the Living came.
Time takes us whole, throws all into the Grave;
Death will no more the Soul than Body fave.
For Hell and the damn'd Fiend that Lords it there,
With all the Torments we fo vainly fear,
Are empty Rumours, melancholy Whims,
Fantaftick Notions, idle, frightful Dreams.
HORACE, Book. I. Ode XIII. Cum Tu, Lydia, Telephi, &c.
W His tolle Neck, and his foft waxen Arms,
Hen happy Strephon's too prevailing Charms,
Inhuman Lydia, wantonly you praise,
How cruelly my Jealous Spleen you raise!
Anger boils up in my hot labouring Breast,
Not to be hid, and less to be fuppreft.
Then 'twixt the Rage, the Fondness, and the Shame,
Nor Speech, nor Thoughts, nor Looks remain the
Fickle as my Mind my various Colour fhews, [fame.
And with my Tide of Paffion Ebbs and Flows:
Tears ftealing fall diftill'd by soft Defire,
To fhew the melting flowness of the Fire.
III.
Ah! when I fee that livid Neck betray
The drunken Youth's too rudely wanton Play;
When on those paffive Lips the mark I find
Of frantick boiling Kiffes left behind;
I rave to think thefe cruel Tokens fhew
Things I cannot mistake, and wou'd not know.
How fond's the Hope, how foolish and how vain,
Of lafting Love from the ungrateful Swain!
Who that foft Lip fo roughly can invade?
Hurting with cruel Joy the tender Maid.
Quickly they're glutted who fo fierce devour;
They fuck the Nectar, and throw by the Flower.
But oh thrice happy they that equal move
In an unbroken Yoak of faithful Love!
Whom no Complaint, no Strife, no Jealousie,
Sers from their gentle, grateful Bondage free;
But ftill they dear faft mutual Slaves remain,
'Till unkind Death breaks the unwilling Chain,
HORACE, Book I. Ode XXIII.
Vitas Hinnuleo me fimilis Chloe.
By the fame Hand.
HEN, Chloe, by your Slave purfu'd,
Why shou'd you fly fo faft?
So the ftray'd Fawn i'th' pathless Wood
To her loft Dam makes hafte.
Each Noife alarms, and all things add
New Terror to her Fear;
She starts at ev'ry dancing Shade,
Each Breath of singing Air.
With ev'ry Leaf, each Bush that shakes,
Throughout the murmuring Grove;
Her Sympathetick Heart partakes,
She trembles as they move.
Fond Maid, unlike the Wolf and Boar,
I hunt not to Destroy:
My utmoft Prey wou'd be no more
Than you might give with Joy.
Urg'd on by foft and gentle Love,
I harmlessly pursue:
Your Flight to me may cruel prove,
But not my Chafe to you.
Ceafe idle Dreams of fancy'd Harms,
To Childish Fears Trapans;
Leave running to thy Mother's Arms
Who now art fit for Man's.
An ACCOUNT of the Greatest
English POET S.
To Mr. H. S. April 3, 1694.
By Mr. Jo. ADDISON.
Since port Account of all the Muse possest;
Ince, dearest Harry, you will needs request
That, down from Chaucer's days to Dryden's Times,
Have spent their noble Rage in British Rhimes;
Without more Preface, wrote in formal length,
To Speak the Undertaker's want of Strength,
I'll try to make their fevral Beauties known,
And how their Verfes worth, tho' not my own.
Long had our dull Fore-Fathers flept Supine,
Nor felt the Raptures of the tuneful Nine;
"Till Chaucer firft, a merry Bard, arofe;
And many a Story told in Rhime, and Profe.
But Age has rufted what the Poet writ,
Worn out his Language, and obfcur'd his Wit:
In vain he Jefts in his unpolish'd Strain,
And tries to make his Readers laugh in vain.
Old Spencer next, warm'd with Poetick Rage,
In antick Tales amus'd a barb❜rous Age;
An Age that yet uncultivate and rude,
Where-e'er the Poet's Fancy led, purfu'd
Thro' pathlefs Fields, and unfrequented Floods,
To Dens of Dragons, and enchanted Woods.
But now the mystick Tale, that pleas'd of Yore,
Can charm an understanding Age no more;
The long-fpun Allegories fulfom grow,
While the dull Moral lyes too plain below.
We view well-pleas'd at diftance all the Sights
Of Arms and Palfries, Battels, Fields and Fights,
And Damsels in Distress, and Courteous Knights.
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