But Tyber now thou feek'ft, to be at best,
When there arriv'd, a poor precarious gueft.
Yet it deludes thy fearch: perhaps it will
To thy old age lie undiscover'd still.

A ready crown and wealth in dow'r I bring,
And, without conqu'ring, here thou art a king.
Here thou to Carthage may'ft transfer thy Troy:
Here young Afcanius may his arms employ;
And, while we live fecure in foft repose,
Bring many laurels home from conquer'd foes.
By Cupid's arrows, I adjure thee stay;
By all the Gods, companions of thy way.
So may thy Trojans, who are yet alive,
Live ftill, and with no future fortune strive;
So may thy youthful fon old age attain,
And thy dead father's bones in peace remain:
As thou haft pity on unhappy me,

Who knew no crime, but too much love of thee.
I am not born from fierce Achilles' line,

Nor did my parents against Troy combine.
To be thy wife if I unworthy prove,
By fome inferior name admit my love.
To be fecur'd of ftill poffeffing thee,
What would I do, and what would I not be!
Our Libyan coasts their certain seasons know,
When free from tempefts paffengers may go:
But now with northern blafts the billows roar,
And drive the floating fea-weed to the shore,
Leave to my care the time to fail away;
When fafe, I will not fuffer thee to stay.
Thy weary men would be with ease content;
Their fails are tatter'd, and their mafts are spent.
If by no merit I thy mind can move,

What thou deny'st my merit, give my love.
Stay, 'till I learn my lofs to undergo;

And give me time to ftruggle with my woe.

If not, know this, I will not fuffer long;
My life's too loathfome, and my love too strong.
Death holds my pen and dictates what I say,
While cross my lap the Trojan sword I lay.
My tears flow down; the sharp edge cuts their flood,
And drinks my forrows that must drink my blood.
How well thy gift does with my fate agree!
My fun'ral pomp is cheaply made by thee.
To no new wounds my bofom I display:
The fword but enters where love made the way.
But thou, dear fifter, and yet dearer friend,
Shalt my cold afhes to their urn attend.
Sichæus' wife let not the marble boast,
I loft that title, when my fame I loft.
This fhort infcription only let it bear:
"Unhappy Dido lies in quiet here.

"The cause of death, and sword by which she dy'd, "Eneas gave: the reft her arm fupply'd."

TRANSLATIONS

FROM

OVID's ART of LOVE.

SR

FIRST BOOK

OF

OVID'S ART of LOVE.

'N Cupid's fchool whoe'er would take degree,

IN

Muft learn his rudiments, by reading me.
Seamen with failing arts their veffels move;
Art guides the chariot; art inftructs to love.
Of hips and chariots others know the rule;
But I am mafter in Love's mighty school.
Cupid indeed is obftinate and wild,

A ftubborn God; but yet the God's a child:
Easy to govern in his tender age,

Like fierce Achilles in his pupillage:

That hero, born for conqueft, trembling stood
Before the Centaur, and receiv'd the rod.
As Chiron mollify'd his cruel mind

With art, and taught his warlike hands to wind
The filver ftrings of his melodious lyre:
So Love's fair Goddess does my foul inspire,
To teach her fofter arts; to footh the mind,
And smooth the rugged breasts of human kind.
Yet Cupid and Achilles, each with fcorn
And rage were fill'd; and both were goddess-born.
The bull, reclaim'd and yok'd, the burden draws:
The horse receives the bit within his jaws;
And ftubborn Love fhall bend beneath my sway,
Tho' ftruggling oft he ftrives to disobey.

He