Et teneras raptim veneres, blandosque lepores, Et tacitos risus transtulit in tabulam. Pingendo desiste tuum signare dolorem; Filioli longum vivet imago tui; Vivet, et æternâ vives tu laude, nec arte THE 1 TEARS OF A PAINTER. APELLES, hearing that his boy Had just expir'd-his only joy! M Although the sight with anguish tore him, "("Tis all that I can now bestow,) "This tribute of a father's wo!" 1 Then, faithful to the two-fold part,ena in To a just image of his son. Thus far is well. But view again The cause of thy paternal pain! Thy melancholy task fulfil! zab qÅ J. Again his pencil's powers he tries, For on his lips a smile he spies And still his cheek unfaded shows p The deepest damask of the rose óbom si2 Then, heedful to the finish'd whole, 2010 eit With fondest eagerness he stole, loe die 9512 tro einit idit bienın9vai muiqiɔan¶ Till scarce himself distinctly knew The cherub copied from the true. Now, painter, cease! Thy task is done. Long lives this image of thy son; Nor short-liv'd shall thy glory prove, Or of thy labour, or thy love.d as ww AD Ad dextram, ad lævam, porro, retro, itque reditque,ita mudo od vent das! an. 10 9 12 of Deprensum in laqueo quem labyrinthus habet, Et legit et relegit gressus, sese explicet unde, Perplexum quærens unde revolvat iter. Bok Sta modò, respira paulum, simul accipe filum; Certius et melius non Ariadne dabit. T Sic te, sic solum, expedies errore; viarum W Principium invenias, id tibi finis erit. FROM right to left, and to and fro, ̈ (t And turn, and turn, and turn again, 2407 To solve the myst'ry, but in vain; Stand still and breathe, and take from me A clew, that soon shall set you free! Not Ariadne, if you meet her, Herself could serve you with a better. You enter'd easily-find where And make, with ease, your exit there! "QUIS fuit infelix adeò! quis perditus æque!" Conqueritur mæsto carmine tristis amans. Non novus hic questus, rarove auditus; amantes Deserti et spreti mille queruntur idem. Fatum decantas quod tu miserabile, multus NO SORROW PECULIAR TO THE SUFFERER. THE lover, in melodious verses, His singular distress rehearses, Still closing with a rueful cry, Too deaf to hear, too hard to feel; Not her alone that censure fits, Nor thou alone hast lost thy wits. A |