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Favour'd thus by heav'n above,
Their lives are one return of love';
For he, poor fellow, so possessed,
Is richer than with East and West,
And she, in her enamour'd boy,
Finds all that she can frame of joy.

Now who has seen, in Love's subjection,
Two more blest in their connection,
Or a more entire affection?

Nunc ab auspicio bono profecti,
Mutuis animis amant, amanter.
Unam Septimius misellus Acmen
Mavolt quam Syrias Britanniasque;
Uno in Septimio fidelis Acme
Facit delicias libidinesque.

Quis ullos homines beatiores
Vidit? Quis Venerem auspicatiorem?

HORACE TO PYRRHA.

ODE V. LIB. I.

PYRRHA, what ardent stripling now,

In one of thy embower'd retreats, Would

press thee to indulge his vow Amidst a world of flow'rs and sweets ? For whom are bound thy tresses bright With unconcern so exquisite ? Alas, how oft shall he bewail His fickle stars and faithless gale,

Quis multa gracilis te puer in rosa
Perfusus liquidis urget odoribus
Grato, Pyrrha, sub antro?

Cui flavam religas comam
Simplex munditiis ? Heu, quoties fidem
Mutatosque deos flebit, et aspera

And stare with unaccustom'd eyes,
When the black winds and waters rise,
Though now the sunshine hour beguiles
His bark along thy golden smiles,
Trusting to see thee, for his play,
For ever keep smooth holiday !
Poor dazzled fools, who bask beside thee,
And trust because they never tried thee!
For me, and for my dangers past,
The grateful picture hangs at last

Nigris æquora ventis

Emirabitur insolens,
Qui nunc te fruitur credulus aurea,
Qui semper vacuam, semper amabilem
Sperat, nescius auræ

Fallacis ! Miseri quibus
Intentata nites ! Me tabula sacer
Votiva paries indicat uvida

L

Within the mighty Neptune's fane,
Who snatch'd me, dripping, from the main.

Suspendisse potenti

Vestimenta maris deo.

PART OF A CHORUS IN SENECA'S TRAGEDY OF THYESTES,

'Tis not wealth that makes a king,
Nor the purple's colouring,
Nor a brow that's bound with gold,
Nor gates on mighty hinges rolled.

The king is he, who void of fear,
Looks abroad with bosom clear;

Regem non faciunt opes,
Non vestis Tyriæ color,
Non frontis nota regiæ,
Non auro nitidæ fores.

Rex est, qui posuit metus,
Et diri mala pectoris ;

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