Here, take This, Mars, no Toy you'll find
This flighted Shaft, the Boy rejoin'd :

In hafte Mars fnatch'd it from the Child,
With conscious Triumph Venus fmil❜d.
But Mars, deep-fighing with the Smart,
Here, Cupid, take your cruel Dart!
I own the Error of my Pride:

No, keep it, Mars, the Wanton cry'd.

15

IT

Wing'd with Pain is Cupid's Dart; But the moft Joy-killing Pain,

Waits the Love which loves in vain.

Noble

Μήτι θίγης πλάνα δῶρα τὰ γδ πυρί πάντα βέ

Cara.

Idyll. 1.

Would he refign his Arms, ev'n those disclaim;
The Gifts of Love are ting'd with subtle Flame.

Sterling's Poems.

Mr.

ΓένΘ ἐδὲν εἰς Ἔρωτα

Σοφίη, τρόπο πατάς.
Μόνον ἄργυρον βλέπεσιν.

Ἀπόλοιτο πρῶτα αὐτὸς
Ὁ ἢ ἄργυρον φιλήσας.
Διὰ τὸτον ἐκ ἀδελφὸς,

Δια το τον ε τοκλες.

5

ΙΟ

Πόσ

Mr. Le Fevre was fo tranfported with this Ode, that

he could not forbear crying out,

Felix, ah ! nimium felix, cui Carmine tali

Fluxit ab Aoniis vena beata jugis.

Quid melius diftaret Amor, Rifufque, Focique,
Et cum germanis Gratia jun&ta fuis?
Thrice happy he! to whofe enraptur❜d Soul
Such Numbers from th' Aonian Mountains roll;
More finish'd what could Love or Laughter write,
Or what the Graces dictate more polite?

VE R. 5. Noble Birth has loft its Charms.]
Nil tibi Nobilitas poterit conducere amanti.

Propert.

Your noble Birth can't plead the cause of Love.

VER. 6. Wit no more the Heart alarms.] Ovid fays the fame.

This is the Golden Age, all worship Gold;

Honours are purchas'd, Love and Beauty fold;

Should

Noble Birth has loft its Charms, Wit no more the Heart alarms: Virtue pleads in vain for Love,

Gold alone can Beauty move.

Curft be He! ah, doubly curft!

Who ador'd the Idol firft.

Gold 'mongst Brothers fows Debate,

Gold begets Paternal Hate,

5

Lights

Should Homer come with his harmonious Train,
And not prefent, Homer's turn'd out again.

Art of Love.

VER. 8. Gold alone can Beauty move.]
Non ego divitibus venio Præceptor amandi,
Nil opus eft illi, qui dabit, arte mea.

I no Inftructions to the Rich impart,
He needs not, that prefents, my useless Art.

Ovid.

VE R. 11. Gold 'mong f Brothers Jows Debate.] Η φιλοχρημοστη μήτηρ κακότητΘ απάσης. Χρυσὸς ἀεὶ δόλΘ ὅτι καὶ ἄργυρο ἀνθρώποισι. Χρυσὲ κακῶν ἀρχηγές βιοφθόρε, πάντα χαλέπτων, Εἴθε σε μὴ θνητοῖσι γενέως τῆμα ποθεινόν. Σε δὲ ἕκητι μάχαι τε λεηλασίαι τε φόνοι τε, Εχθρο 5 τέκνα γονεῦσιν, ἀδελφειοί τε συναίμοις. Phocylides.

The

Πόλεμοι, φόνοι δι' αὐτόν.

Τὸ ἢ χερον, Ὀλλύμεθα
Διὰ τὸτον οι φιλῶντες.

ΩΔΗ

The worst of Ills from fordid Av'rice flow,
And Gold is but the glitt'ring Bait of Woe.
Nefarious Gold! of Virtue's Bane replete,
Oh that thy fatal Poison were less sweet!
Of thee are born Wars, Murders, and Alarms,
Paternal Curfes, and fraternal Arms.

We have a beautiful Imitation of this Ode by Tafso, in the First Scene of the Second A&t of his Amyntas.

E veramente il fecol d'oro è questo,
Perche fol vince l'oro, e regna loro,
O chiunque tu fofti, che insegnafti
Primo à vender l'Amor, fia maledetto
Il tuo cener fepolto, e l'offa freddes
E non fi trovi mai paftore, e ninfa,
Che lor dica paffando, habbiate pace :
Ma le bagni la pioggia; e muoua il vento;
E con pie immondo la greggia il calpestri,
El peregrin. tu prima fuergognafti
La nobilità d'Amor; tu le fue liete

Dolcezze

Dolcezze inamarifti; amor venale,
Amor fervo del oro; è il piu fozzo
Che produca la terra & il mal fra l'onde.

Behold the Golden Age, ye Swains!
Gold only conquers, only reigns.
But whofoe'er thou be'ft, whofe Art
Deluded firft a Venal Heart,

May Curses on thy Ashes feize!

Nor may thy Bones e'er welcome Peace!
May no kind Swain in paffing by,
Nor blooming Nymph, a Requiem cry!
But Winds thy Grave for ever tear,
And Storms for ever revel there!
Whilft all the Sylvan Herds agree,
With Feet impure to tread on thee.
You firft debauch'd Love's noble Fire,
And dafh'd the Cup of foft Defire:
Nor Earth, nor Sea a Monster hold,
So bafe as Love for fordid Gold.

VER. 5 & 6.