Come, and forfake thy cloying ftore; Thy turret that furveys, from high, That wife men fcorn, and fools adore: Come, give thy foul a loose, and tafte the pleasures of the poor. IV. Sometimes 'tis grateful to the rich to try V. The fun is in the lion mounted high; Barks from afar, And with his fultry breath infects` the sky; The ground below is parch'd, the Heav'ns above us fry. The fhepherd drives his fainting flock Beneath the covert of a rock, And feeks refreshing rivulets nigh: The Sylvans to their fhades retire, Thofe very fhades and ftreams new fhades and streams require, And want a cooling breeze of wind to fan the raging fire. VI. Thou, what befits the new Lord Mayor, And what the city factions dare, And what the quiver-bearing foe, Bat But God has, wifely, hid from human fight The dark decrees of future fate, And fown their feeds in depth of night; VII. Enjoy the prefent smiling hour; And put it out of fortune's pow'r : And always in extreme. Now with a noiselefs gentle course And bears down all before it with impetuous force: Sheep and their folds together drown: Both house and homested into feas are borne ; And woods, made thin with winds, their scatter'd honours mourn. VIII. Happy the man, and happy he alone, To-morrow do thy worft, for I have liv'd to-day The joys I have poffefs'd, in spite of fate are mine, IX. Fortune, that, with malicious joy, Does man her flave opprefs, Proud of her office to destroy, Is feldom pleas'd to bless : Still Still various and unconstant still, But with an inclination to be ill, Promotes, degrades, delights in strife, I can enjoy her while fhe's kind; And thakes the wings and will not stay, The little or the much she gave, is quietly refign'd What is't to me, Who never fail in her unfaithful fea, And pray to Gods that will not hear, For me, fecure, from fortune's blows, In my small pinace I can fail, THE The SECOND EPODE of H OR A CE. OW happy in his low degree, How rich in humble poverty, is he, Who leads a quiet country life; And court and ftate, he wifely fhuns, But either to the clasping vine Does the fupporting poplar wed, He views his herds in vales afar, Or mead for cooling drink prepares, Of virgin honey in the jars. Or in the now declining year, When bounteous autumn rears his head, He joys to pull the ripen'd pear, And cluft'ring grapes with purple spread. The fairest of his fruit he ferves, But when the blaft of winter blows, eyes. And feeks the tusky boar to rear, With well-mouth'd hounds and pointed (pear! Or fpreads his fubtle nets from fight With twinkling glafles, to betray The larks that in the meshes light, Or makes the fearful hare his prey. Amidst his harmless easy joys No anxious care invades his health, But if a chaste and pleasing wife, |