Page images

Quis post vina gravem militiam aut pauperiem

crepat? Quis non te potiùs, Bacche pater, teque, decens

Venus ?
At ne quis modici transiliat munera Liberi,
Centaurea monet cum Lapithis rixa super mero
Debellata ; monet Sithoniis non levis Evius,
Cum fas atque nefas exiguo fine libidinum
Discernunt avidi.

Non ego te, candide Bassareu, Invitum quatiam, nec variis obsita frondibus Sub divum rapiam.

Sæva tene cum Berecynthio Cornu tympana, quæ subsequitur cæcus Amor sui, Et tollens vacuum plùs nimiò Gloria verticem, Arcanique Fides prodiga, perlucidior vitro.

Who, after wine, of warfare's pains
Or pinching poverty complains ?
Who does not rather, Venus sweet,
And thee, O father Bacchus, greet ?
But lest any should o'erpass
The gifts of modest Liber's glass,
The Lapithæ and Centaurs' brawl,
Fought o'er the wine-cup, warns us all ;
Warns us too Evius, in his ire
To the Sithonians most dire,
Who, greedy in their lust, but slight
Distinction make 'twixt wrong and right.

O candid Bassareus, I ne'er
Unwilling thee to shake will dare,
Or drag thy mysteries to light
By varied foliage hid from sight.

Peace to your grating cymbals, peace, —
Your Berecynthian cornets cease,
Which blind Self-love, and Glory vain
Holding too high her empty brain,
And Faith betraying all she knows,
As glass transparent, follow close.



MATER sæva Cupidinum,

Thebanæque jubet me Semeles puer, Et lasciva Licentia,

Finitis animum reddere amoribus.


Urit me Glyceræ nitor,

Splendentis Pario marmore puriùs ; Urit grata protervitas,

Et vultus nimiùm lubricus aspici.

In me tota ruens Venus

Cyprum deseruit; nec patitur Scythas, Et versis animosum equis

Parthum dicere, nec quæ nihil attinent.



THE Cupids' mother, cruel one,
And Theban Semele's wild son,

And join'd with these

Lascivious Ease, Bid me give up my mind once more To loves I thought had long been o'er.

Fires me my Glycera's form of light, Than Parian marble far more bright;

Fires me no less

Her wantonness,
So coyly pleasing, and her look
Too dazzling for the eye to brook.

On me all Venus rushing quits
Her Cyprus; nor a strain permits

Of Scythian deeds,

Or fiery Medes, Who, fighting on their coursers, fly; Or aught to love does not apply.

Hic vivum mihi cespitem, hìc

Verbenas, pueri, ponite, thuraque, Bimi cum paterâ meri ;

Mactatâ veniet lenior hostiâ.



VILE potabis modicis Sabinum
Cantharis, Græcâ quod ego ipse testa
Conditum levi, datus in theatro

Cum tibi plausus,

[ocr errors]

Care Mæcenas eques; ut paterni
Fluminis ripæ, simul et jocosa
Redderet laudes tibi Vaticani

Montis imago.

« PreviousContinue »