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For he, poor fellow, so possessed,
Is richer than with East and West-
And she, in her enamour'd boy,
Finds all that she can frame of joy.

Now who has seen, in Love's subjection,
Two more blest in their connection, +
Or a more entire affection?


Mavolt quam Syrias Britanniasque ;
Uno in Septimio fidelis Acme
Facit delicias libidinesque.

Quis ullos homines beatiores
Vidit? Quis Venerem auspicatiorem?



PYRRHA, what ardent stripling now,

In one of thy embower'd retreats, Would press thee to indulge his vow

Amidst a world of flow'rs and sweets? For whom are bound thy tresses bright With unconcern so exquisite ? Alas, how oft shall he be wail His fickle stars and faithless gale, And stare with unaccustom'd eyes, When the black winds and waters rise, Though now the sunshine hour beguiles His bark along thy golden smiles,

Quis multa gracilis te puer in rosa
Perfusus liquidis urget odoribus

Grato, Pyrrha, sub antro?

Cui fiavam religas comam
Simplex munditiis? Heu, quoties fidem
Mutatosque deos flebit, et aspera
Nigris æquora ventis

Emirabitur insolens,
Qui nunc te fruitur credulus aurea,
Qui semper vacuam, semper amabilem

Trusting to see thee, for his play,
For ever keep smooth holyday!
Poor dazzled fools, who bask beside thee,
And trust because they never tried thee!
For me, and for my dangers past,
The grateful picture hangs at last
Within the mighty Neptune's fane,
Who snatch'd me, dripping, from the main.

Sperat, nescius auræ

Fallacis ! Miseri quibus Intentata nites ! Me tabula sacer Votiva paries indicat uvida Suspendisse potenti

Vestimenta maris deo.



"Tis not wealth that makes a king,
Nor the purple's colouring,
Nor a brow that's bound with gold,
Nor gates on mighty hinges rollid.

The king is he, who, void of fear,
Looks abroad with bosom clear;
Who can tread ambition down,
Nor be sway'd by smile or frown;
Nor for all the treasure cares
That mine conceals, or harvest wears,

REGEM non faciunt opes,
Non vestis Tyri« color,
Non frontis nota regiæ,
Non auro nitidfores.

Rex est, qui posuit metus,
Et diri mala pectoris;
Quem non ambitio impotens,
Et nunquam stabilis favor
Vulgi pr. cipitis movet.
Non quidquid fodit occidens;

Or that golden sands deliver,
Bosom'd in a glassy river.

What shall move his placid might?
Not the headlong thunderlight,
Nor the storm that rushes out
To snatch the shivering waves about,
Nor all the shapes of slaughter's trade
With forward lance or fiery blade.
Safe with wisdom for his crown,
He looks on all things calmly down;
He welcomes fate, when fate is near,
Nor taints his dying breath with fear.

Aut unda Tagus aurea
Claro devehit alveo;
Non quidquid Libycis terit
Fervens area messibus.

Quem non concutiet cadeas
Obliqui via fulminis,
Non Eurus rapiens mare,
Aut spvo rabidus freto
Ventosi tumor Adriæ ;
Quem non lancea militis,
Non strictus domuit chalybs;
Qui tuto positus loco,
Infra se vidit omnia ;
Occurritque suo libens
Fato, nec queritur mori.

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