(3) ADDITIONS TO THE WORKS OF THE Earl of RoscOMMON, The SIXTH ODE of the THIRD Book of HORACE. Of the Corruption of the Times. T HOSE ills your ancestors have done, Unless you foon repair The falling temples which the Gods provoke, Propitious Heav'n, that rais'd your fathers high, (As it rewarded their refpect) Hath fharply punish'd your neglect; Begun by their command, at their command they end. Let Craffus' ghost, and Labienus tell, How twice by Jove's revenge our legions fell, And, with infulting pride, Shining in Roman fpoils, the Parthian victors ride; The Scythian and Ægyptian fcum Had almoft ruin'd Rome, While our feditions took their part, Fill'd each Ægyptian fail, and wing'd each Scythian dart. First, thofe flagitious times Infectious ftreams of crowding fins began, Behold a ripe and melting maid, Bound prentice to the wanton trade; Ionian artifts, at a mighty price, Inftruct her in the mysteries of vice; What nets to spread, where subtle baits to lay, And with an early hand they form the temper'd clay, Marry'd, their leffons fhe improves And fcorns the common mean design, No! the brib'd husband knows of all, Or Or city Cannibal, repairs, Who feeds upon the flesh of heirs, Convenient brutes, whofe tributary flame, Pays the full price of luft, and gilds the flighted fhame. "Twas not the spawn of fuch as these, That dy'd with Punick blood the conquer'd feas, Made the proud Afian monarch feel And won the long difputed world at Zama's fatal field. But foldiers of a ruftick mould, Rough, hardy, season'd, manly, bold, Either they dug the ftubborn ground, Or through hewn woods their weighty ftrokes did found. And after the declining fun Had chang'd the fhadows, and their task was done, Home with their weary team they took their way, And drown'd in friendly bowls the labour of the day. Time fenfibly all things impairs; Our fathers have been worse than theirs ; (With all the pains we take) have skill enough to be. TRANSLATION of the following Verse from LUCAN. Victrix Caufa Diis placuit, fed Victa Catoni. TH HE Gods were pleas'd to chufe the conqu'ring fide, But CATO thought he conquer'd when he dy'd. O DE upon SOLITUDE. I, HALL, facred folitude! from this calm bay, I view the world's tempeftuous fea; All those fenfeless vanities: With pity mov'd for others, caft away Sunk deep into the gulphs of an afflicted ftate. Fly from her kind embracing arms, Deaf to her fondeft call, blind to her greatest charms, They in their fhipwreck'd ftate themfelves obdurate please. II. Hail facred folitude, foul of my foul, It is by thee I truly live, Thou doft a better life and nobler vigour give: Doft each unruly appetite control : Thy conftant quiet fills my peaceful breaft, With unmix'd joy, uninterrupted rest. This private folitary shade; And, with fantaftic wounds by beauty made, The |