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only there may a seeming difficulty arise; that is, if the thought be notoriously trivial or dishonest: but the same answer will serve for both, that then they ought not to be translated:

Et quæ

Desperes tractata nitescere posse, relinquas.

Thus I have ventured to give my opinion on this subject against the authority of two great men, but I hope without offence to either of their memories; for I both loved them living, and reverence them now they are dead. But if, after what I have urged, it be thought by better judges, that the praise of a translation consists in adding new beauties to the piece, thereby to recompense the loss which it sustains by change of language, I shall be willing to be taught better, and to recant. In the mean time, it seems to me, that the true reason, why we have so few versions which are tolerable, is not from the too close pursuing of the author's sense; but because there are so few, who have all the talents which are requisite for translation, and that there is so little praise, and so small encouragement, for so considerable a part of learning.

FROM

OVID'S EPISTLES.

CANACE TO MACAREUS.

EPIST. XI.

THE ARGUMENT.

Macareus and Canace, son and daughter to Æolus, god of the winds, loved each other incestuously: Canace was delivered of a son, and committed him to her nurse, to be secretly conveyed away. The infant crying out, by that means was discovered to Æolus, who, enraged at the wickedness of his children, commanded the babe to be exposed to wild beasts on the mountains; and withal, sent a sword to Canace, with this message, That her crimes would instruct her how to use it. With this sword she slew herself: but before she died, she writ the following letter to her brother Macareus, who had taken sanctuary in the temple of Apollo,

Ir streaming blood my fatal letter stain,
Imagine, ere you read, the writer slain;
One hand the sword, and one the pen employs,
And in my lap the ready paper lies.

Think in this posture thou behold'st me write :
In this my cruel father would delight.
O! were he present, that his eyes and hands
Might see, and urge, the death which he com-
mands:

Than all the raging winds more dreadful, he,
Unmov'd, without a tear, my wounds would see.
Jove justly plac'd him on a stormy throne,
His people's temper is so like his own.

The North and South, and each contending blast,

Are underneath his wide dominion cast:
Those he can rule; but his tempestuous mind
Is, like his airy kingdom, unconfin'd.
Ah! what avail my kindred gods above,
That in their number I can reckon Jove?
What help will all my heavenly friends afford,
When to my breast I lift the pointed sword?
That hour, which join'd us, came before its time:
In death we had been one without a crime.
Why did thy flames beyond a brother's move?
Why lov'd I thee with more than sister's love?
For I lov'd too; and, knowing not my wound,
A secret pleasure in thy kisses found:
My cheeks no longer did their colour boast,
My food grew loathsome, and my strength I lost:
Still ere I spoke, a sigh would stop my tongue;
Short were my slumbers, and my nights were long.

I knew not from my love these griefs did grow,
Yet was, alas, the thing I did not know.
My wily nurse by long experience found,
And first discover'd to my soul its wound. [eyes,
"Tis love," said she; and then my down-cast
Forc'd at the last, my shameful pain I tell :
And guilty dumbness, witness'd my surprise.
And, oh, what follow'd we both know too well!
When, half denying, more than half content,
Embraces warm'd me to a full consent.
Then with tumultuous joys my heart did beat,
And guilt that made them anxious made them
great.

But now my swelling womb heav'd up my breast,
What herbs, what plants, did not my nurse produce,
And rising weight my sinking limbs opprest.
To make abortion by their powerful juice?
What med'cines try'd we not, to thee unknown?
Our first crime common; this was mine alone.
But the strong child, secure in his dark cell,
With Nature's vigour did our arts repel.
And now the pale-fac'd empress of the night
Nine times had fill'd her orb with borrow'd light:
Not knowing 'twas my labour, I complain
Of sudden shootings, and of grinding pain:
My throes came thicker, and my cries increas'd,
Which with her hand the conscious nurse sup-

press'd.

To that unhappy fortune was I come,

Pain urg'd my clamours, but fear kept me dumb.
With inward struggling I restrain'd my cries,
And drunk the tears that trickled from my eyes.
Death was in sight, Lucina gave no aid;
And ev'n my dying had my guilt betray'd.
Thou cam'st, and in thy countenance sate despair;
Rent were thy garments all, and torn thy hair:
Yet, feigning comfort, which thou couldst not give,
(Prest in thy arms, and whispering me to live):
"For both our sakes," saidst thou, "preserve thy
Live, my dear sister, and my dearer wife." [life;
Rais'd by that name, with my last pangs I strove :
Such power have words, when spoke by those we
love.

The babe, as if he heard what thou hadst sworn,
With hasty joy sprung forward to be born.
What helps it to have weather'd out one storm?
Fear of our father does another form.

High in his hall, rock'd in a chair of state,
The king with his tempestuous council sate.
Through this large room our only passage lay,
By which we could the new-born babe convey.
Swath'd in her lap, the bold nurse bore him out,
With olive-branches cover'd round about;

And, muttering prayers, as holy rites she meant,
Through the divided crowd unquestion'd went.
Just at the door, th' unhappy infant cry'd:
The grandsire heard him, and the theft he spy'd.
Swift as a whirlwind to the nurse he dies,
And deafs his stormy subjects with his aries.
With one fierce puff he blows the leaves away:
Expos'd the self-discover'd infant lay.
The noise reach'd me, and my presaging mind
Too soon its own approaching woes divin'd.
Not ships at sea with winds are shaken more,
Nor seas themselves, when angry tempests roar,
Than I, when my loud father's voice I hear:
The bed beneath me trembled with my fear.
He rush'd upon me, and divulg'd my stain;
Scarce from my murder could his hands refrain.
I only answer'd him with silent tears;

They flow'd; my tongue was frozen up with
fears.

His little grand-child he commands away,
To mountain wolves and every bird of prey.
The babe cry'd out, as if he understood,
And begg'd his pardon with what voice he could.
By what expressions can my grief be shown?
(Yet you may guess my anguish by your own:)
To see my bowels, and, what yet was worse,
Your bowels too, condemn'd to such a curse!
Out went the king; my voice its freedom found,
My breasts I beat, my blubber'd cheeks I wound.
And now appear'd the messenger of Death;
Sad were his looks, and scarce he drew his breath,
To say, "Your father sends you"-(with that

word

His trembling hands presented me a sword):
"Your father sends you this; and lets you know,
That your own crimes the use of it will show."
Too well I know the sense those words impart :
His present shall be treasur'd in my heart.
Are these the nuptial gifts a bride receives?
And this the fatal dower a father gives?
Thou god of marriage, shun thy own disgrace,
And take thy torch from this detested place:
Instead of that, let Furies light their brands,
And fire my pile with their infernal hands.
With happier fortune may my sisters wed;
Warn'd by the dire example of the dead.

HELEN TO PARIS.

EPIST. XVII.

THE ARGUMENT.

Helen, having received an epistle from Paris, returns the following answer: wherein she seems at first to chide him for his presumption in writing as he had done, which could only proceed from his low opinion of her virtue; then owns herself to be sensible of the passion, which he had expressed for her, though she much suspected his constancy; and at last discovers her inclination to be favourable to him: the whole letter showing the extreme artifice of womankind.

WHEN loose epistles violate chaste eyes,
She half consents, who silently denies.
How dares a stranger, with designs so vain,
Marriage and hospitable rights prophane ?
Was it for this, your fleet did shelter find
From swelling seas, and every faithless wind?
(For though a distant country brought you forth,
Your usage here was equal to your worth.)
Does this deserve to be rewarded so?
Did you come here a stranger or a foe?
Your partial judgment may perhaps complain,
And think me barbarous for my just disdain.
il-bred then let me be, but not unchaste,
Nor my clear fame with any spot defac'd.
Though in my face there's no affected frown,
Nor in my carriage a feign'd niceness shown,
I keep my honour still without a stain,
Nor has my love made any coxcomb vain.
Your boldness I with admiration see;
What hope had you to gain a queen like me?
Because a hero forc'd me once away,
Am I thought fit to be a second prey?
Had I been won, 1 had deserv'd your blame,
But sure my part was nothing but the shame.
Yet the base theft to him no fruit did bear,
I'scap'd unhurt by any thing but fear.
Rude force might some unwilling kisses gain;
But that was all he ever could obtain.

For thee, poor babe, what crime could they pre- You on such terms would ne'er have let me go;

tend?

How could thy infant innocence offend?

A guilt there was; but, oh, that guilt was mine!
Thou suffer'st for a sin that was not thine.
Thy mother's grief and crime! but just enjoy'd,
Shown to my sight, and born to be destroy'd!
Unhappy offspring of my teeming womb!
Dragg'd headlong from thy cradle to thy tomb!
Thy unoffending life I could not save,
Nor weeping could I follow to thy grave:
Nor on thy tomb could offer my shorn hair:
Nor show the grief which tender mothers bear.
Yet long thou shalt not from my arms be lost;
For soon I will o'ertake thy infant ghost.
But thou, my love, and now my love's despair,
Perform his funerals with paternal care.
His scatter'd limbs with my dead body burn;
And once more join us in the pious urn.
If on my wounded breast thou dropp'st a tear,
Think for whose sake my breast that wound did

bear;

And faithfully my last desires fulfil,
As I perform my cruel father's will.

Were he like you, we had not parted so.
Untouch'd the youth restor❜d me to my friends,
And modest usage made me some amends.
'Tis virtue to repent a vicious deed.
Did he repent, that Paris might succeed?
Sure 'tis some Fate that sets me above wrongs,
Yet still exposes me to busy tongues.
I'll not complain; for who's displeas'd with love,
If it sincere, discreet, and constant prove?
But that I fear; not that I think you base,
Or doubt the blooming beauties of my face;
But all your sex is subject to deceive,
And ours, alas, too willing to believe.
Yet others yield; and love o'ercomes the best:
But why should I not shine above the rest?
Fair Leda's story seems at first to be
A fit example ready form'd for me.
But she was cozen'd by a borrow'd shape,
And under harmless feathers felt a rape.
If I should yield, what reason could I use?
By what mistake the loving crime excuse?
Her fault was in her powerful lover lost;
But of what Jupiter have I to boast?.

Though you to heroes and to kings succeed,
Our famous race does no addition need;
And great alliances but useless prove

To one, that comes herself from mighty Jove.
Go then, and boast in some less haughty place
Your Phrygian blood, and Priam's ancient race;
Which I would show I valued, if I durst;
You are the fifth from Jove, but I the first.
The crown of Troy is powerful, I confess;
But I have reason to think ours no less.
Your letter, fill'd with promises of all
That men can good, and women pleasant call,
Gives expectation such an ample field,
As would move goddesses themselves to yield.
But if I e'er offend great Juno's laws,
Yourself shall be the dear, the only cause:
Fither my honour I'll to death maintain,
Or follow you, without mean thoughts of gain.
Not that so fair a present I despise;
We like the gift, when we the giver prize.
But 'tis your love moves me, which made you take
Such pains, and run such hazards for my sake.
I have perceiv'd (though I dissembled too)
A thousand things that love has made you do.
Your eager eyes would almost dazzle mine,
In which (wild man) your wanton thoughts would
shine.

Sometimes you'd sigh, sometimes disorder'd stand,
And with unusual ardour press my hand;
Contrive just after me to take the glass,
Nor would you let the least occasion pass:
When oft I fear'd I did not mind alone,
And blushing sate for things which you have done:
Thea murmur'd to myself, "He 'il for my sake
Do any thing;" I hope 'twas no mistake.
Oft I have read within this pleasing grove,
Under my name, those charming words, I love.
1, frowning, seem'd not to believe your flame.
But now, alas, am come to write the same.
If I were capable to do amiss,

I could not but be sensible of this.

For oh! your face has such peculiar charms,
That who can hold from flying to your arms?
But what I ne'er can have without offence,
May some blest maid possess with innocence.
Pleasure may tempt, but virtue more should move;
O learn of me to want the thing you love.
What you desire is sought by all mankind:
As you have eyes, so others are not blind.
Like you they see, like you my charms adore;
They wish not less, but you dare venture more.
Oh! had you then upon our coasts been brought,
My virgin-love when thousand rivals sought,
You had I seen, you should have had my voice;
Nor could my husband justly blame my choice:
For both our hopes, alas! you come too late;
Another now is master of my fate.

;

More to my wish I could have liv'd with you,
And yet my present lot can undergo.
Cease to solicit a weak woman's will,
And urge not her you love to so much ill
But let me live contented as I may,
And make not my unspotted fame your prey.
Some right you claim, since naked to your eyes
Three goddesses disputed beauty's prize:
One offer'd valour; t' other crowns; but she
Obtain'd her cause, who smiling promis'd me.
But first I am not of belief so light,

To think such nymphs would show you such a sight:

VOL. IX.

Yet granting this, the other part is feign'd; A bribe so mean your sentence had not gain'd. With partial eyes I should myself regard; To think that Venus made me her reward: I humbly am content with human praise; A goddess's applause would envy raise. But be it as you say; for, 'tis confest, The men, who flatter highest, please us best. That I suspect it, ought not to displease; For miracles are not believ'd with case. One joy I have, that I had Venus' voice; A greater yet, that you confirm'd her choice; That proffer'd laurels, promis'd sovereignty, Juno and Pallas you contemn'd for me. Am I your empire then, and your renown? What heart of rock, but must by this be won? And yet bear witness, O you powers above, How rude I am in all the arts of Love! My hand is yet untaught to write to men: This is th' essay of my unpractis'd pen. Happy those nymphs, whom use has perfect made! I think all crime, and tremble at a shade. Ev'n while I write, my fearful conscious eyes Look often back, misdoubting a surprise. For now the rumour spreads among the crowd, At court in whispers, but in town aloud: Dissemble you, whate'er you hear them say: To leave off loving were your better way; Yet if you will dissemble it, you may. Love secretly: the absence of my lord More freedom gives, but does not all afford: Long is his journey, long will be his stay; Call'd by affairs of consequence away. To go, or not, when unresolv'd he stood, I bid him make what swift return he could: Then, kissing me, he said, "I recommend All to thy care, but most my Trojan friend." I smil'd at what he innocently said,

And only answer'd, " You shall be obey'd." Propitious winds have borne him far from hence, But let not this secure your confidence. Absent he is, yet absent he commands: You know the proverb, "Princes have long hands." My fame's my burthen; for the more I'm prais d, A juster ground of jealousy is rais'd. Were I less fair, I might have been more blest: Great beauty through great danger is possest. To leave me here, his venture was not hard, Because he thought my virtue was my guard. He fear'd my face, but trusted to my life, The beauty doubted, but believ'd the wife. You bid me use th' occasion while I can, Put in our hands by the good easy man. I would, and yet I doubt 'twixt love and fear; One draws me from you, and one brings me near. Our flames are mutual, and my husband's goue : The nights are long; I fear to lie alone. One house contains us, and weak walls divide, And you 're too pressing to be long deny'd. Let me not live, but every thing conspires To join our loves, and yet my fear retires. You court with words, when you should force emA rape is requisite to shame-fac'd joy. [ploy: Indulgent to the wrongs which we receive, Our sex can suffer what we dare not give. What have I said? for both of us 't were best, Our kindling fire if each of us supprest. The faith of strangers is too prone to change, And, like themselves, their wand'ring passions

range.

K

Hypsipile, and the fond Minonian maid,
Were both by trusting of their guests betray'd.
How can I doubt that other men deceive,
When you yourself did fair Oenone leave?
But lest 1 should upbraid your treachery,
You make a merit of that crime to me.
Yet grant you were to faithful love inclin'd,
Your weary Trojans wait but for a wind.
Should you prevail; while I assign the night,
Your sails are hoisted, and you take your flight:
Some bawling mariner our love destroys,
And breaks asunder our unfinish'd joys.
But I with you may leave the Spartan court,
To view the Trojan wealth and Priam's court:
Shown while I see, I shall expose my fame,
And fill a foreign country with my shame.
In Asia what reception shall I find?
And what dishonour leave in Greece behind?
What will your brothers, Priam, Hecuba,
And what will all your modest matrons say?
Ev'n you, when on this action you reflect,
My future conduct justly may suspect,
And whate'er stranger lands upon your coast,
Conclude me, by your own example, lost.
I from your rage a strumpet's name shall hear,
While you forget what part in it you bear.
You, my crime's author, will my crime upbraid:
Deep under ground, oh, let me first be laid!
You boast the pomp and plenty of your land,
And promise all shall be at my command:
Your Trojan wealth, believe me, I despise;
My own poor native land has dearer ties.
Should I be injur'd on your Phrygian shore,
What help of kindred could I there implore?
Medea was by Jason's flattery won:

I may, like her, believe, and be undone.
Plain honest hearts, like mine, suspect no cheat,
And love contributes to its own deceit.
The ships, about whose sides loud tempests roar,
With gentle winds were wafted from the shore.
Your teeming mother dream'd a flaming brand,
Sprung from her womb, consum'd the Trojan

land.

To second this, old prophecies conspire,
That Ilium shall be burnt with Grecian fire.
Both give me fear; nor is it much allay'd,
That Venus is oblig'd our loves to aid.
For they, who lost their cause, revenge will take;
And for one friend two enemies you make.
Nor can I doubt, but, should I follow you,
The sword would soon our fatal crime pursue.
A wrong so great my husband's rage would rouse,
And my relations would his cause espouse.
You boast your strength and courage; but, alas!
Your words receive small credit from your face.
Let heroes in the dusty field delight,
Those limbs were fashion'd for another fight.
Bid Hector sally from the walls of Troy;
A sweeter quarrel should your arms employ.
Yet fears like these should not my mind perplex,
Were I as wise as many of my sex.

But Time and you may bolder thoughts inspire;
And I perhaps may yield to your desire.
You last demand a private conference;

These are your words, but I can guess your

sense.

Your unripe hopes their harvest must attend:
Be rul'd by me, and Time may be your friend.
This is enough to let you understand;
For now my pen has tir'd my tender hand;

My woman knows the secret of my heart,
And may hereafter better news impart.

DIDO TO ENEAS.
EPIST. VII.

THE ARGUMENT.

Encas, the son of Venus and Anchises, having, at the destruction of Troy, saved his gods, his father, and son Ascanius, from the fire, put to sea with twenty sail of ships; and, having been long tost with tempests, was at last cast upon the shore of Libya, where queen Dido (flying from the cruelty of Pygmalion her brother, who had killed her husband Sichæus) had lately built Carthage. She entertained Æneas and his fleet with great civility, fell passionately in love with him, and in the end denied him not the last favours. But Mercury admonishing Æneas to go in search of Italy, (a kingdom promised him by the gods) he readily prepared to obey him. Dido soon perceived it, and having in vain tried all other means to engage him to stay, at last in despair writes to him as follows.

So, on Mæander's banks, when death is nigh,
The mournful swan sings her own elegy.
Not that I hope (for, oh, that hope were vain!)
By words your lost affection to regain:
But, having lost whate'er was worth my care,
Why should I fear to lose a dying prayer?
"Tis then resolv'd poor Dido must be left,
Of life, of honour, and of love bereft!
While you, with loosen'd sails and vows, prepare
To seek a land, that flies the searcher's care.
Nor can my rising towers your flight restrain,
Nor my new empire, offer'd you in vain.

| Built walls you shun, unbuilt you seek; that land
Is yet to conquer; but you this command.
Suppose you landed where your wish design'd,
Think what reception foreigners would find.
What people is so void of common sense,
To vote succession from a native prince?
Yet there new sceptres and new loves you seek;
New vows to plight, and plighted vows to break.
When will your towers the height of Carthage

know?

Or when your eyes discern such crowds below?
If such a town and subjects you could see,
Still would you want a wife, who lov'd like me.
For, oh, I burn, like fires with incense bright:
Not holy tapers flame with purer light:
Encas is my thoughts' perpetual theme;
Their daily longing, and their nightly dream.
Yet he 's ungrateful and obdurate still:
Fool that I am to place my heart so ill!
Myself I cannot to myself restore :
Still I complain, and still I love him more.
Have pity, Cupid, on my bleeding heart,
And pierce thy brother's with an equal dart.
I rave: nor canst thou Venus' offspring be,
Love's mother could not bear a son like thee.
From harden'd oak, or from a rock's cold womb,
At least thou art from some fierce tigress come;
Or on rough seas, from their foundation torn,
Got by the Winds and in a tempest boru:

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