English

At this th' Impatient Hero sowrly smil'd:
His Heart, impetuous in his Bosom boil'd,
And justled by two Tides of equal sway,
Stood, for a while, suspended in his way.
Betwixt his Reason, and his Rage untam'd;
One whisper'd soft, and one aloud reclaim'd:
That only counsell'd to the safer side;
This to the Sword, his ready Hand apply'd.
Unpunish'd to support th' Affront was hard:
Nor easy was th' Attempt to force the Guard.
But soon the thirst of Vengeance fir'd his Blood:

Daphnis . The Shepheard Paris bore the Spartan Bride
By force away, and then by force enjoy'd;
But I by free consent can boast a Bliss,
A fairer Helen , and a sweeter kiss.
CHLORIS . Kisses are empty joyes and soon are o're.
DAPH . A Kiss betwixt the lips is something more.
CHLO . I wipe my mouth, and where's your kissing then?
DAPH . I swear you wipe it to be kiss'd agen.
CHLO . Go tend your Herd, and kiss your Cows at home;

The shepherd Paris bore the Spartan bride
By force away, and then by force enjoyed;
But I by free consent can boast a bliss,
A fairer Helen, and a sweeter kiss. Chloris
Kisses are empty joys, and soon are o'er. Daphnis
A kiss betwixt the lips is something more. Chloris
I wipe my mouth, and where's your kissing then? Daphnis
I swear you wipe it to be kissed again. Chloris
Go tend your herd, and kiss your cows at home;
I am a maid, and in my beauties' bloom. Daphnis
'Tis well remembered: do not waste your time,

THE FOURTH BOOK OF THE GEORGICS

The gifts of heav'n my foll'wing song pursues,
Airial honey, and ambrosial dews.
Maecenas, read this other part, that sings
Embattled squadrons, and advent'rous kings:
A mighty pomp, tho' made of little things,
Their arms, their arts, their manners, I disclose,
And how they war, and whence the people rose:
Slight is the subject, but the praise not small,
If Heav'n assist, and Phaebus hear my call.
First, for thy bees a quiet station find,

THE THIRD BOOK OF THE GEORGICS

Thy fields, propitious Pales, I rehearse;
And sing thy pastures in no vulgar verse,
Amphrysian shepherd; the Lycaean woods,
Arcadia's flow'ry plains, and pleasing floods
All other themes that careless minds invite
Are worn with use, unworthy me to write.
Busiris' altars, and the dire decrees
Of hard Eurystheus, ev'ry reader sees;
Hylas the boy, Latona's erring isle,
And Pelops' iv'ry shoulder, and his toil
For fair Hippodame, with all the rest

THE SECOND BOOK OF THE GEORGICS

Thus far of tillage, and of heav'nly signs:
Now sing, my Muse, the growth of gen'rous vines,
The shady groves, the woodland progeny,
And the slow product of Minerva's tree.
Great Father Bacchus! to my song repair;
For clust'ring grapes are thy peculiar care:
For thee, large bunches load the bending vine,
And the last blessings of the year are thine.
To thee his joys the jolly Autumn owes,
When the fermenting juice the vat o'erflows.

P RELUDE

What makes a plenteous harvest, when to turn
The fruitful soil, and when to sow the corn;
The care of sheep, of oxen, and of kine,
And how to raise on elms the teeming vine;
The birth and genius of the frugal bee,
I sing, Maecenas, and I sing to thee.
Ye deities, who fields and plains protect,
Who rule the seasons, and the year direct,
Bacchus and fostering Ceres, powers divine,
Who gave us corn for mast, for water, wine;

THE FIRST BOOK OF THE GEORGICS

What makes a plenteous harvest, when to turn
The fruitful soil, and when to sow the corn;
The care of sheep, of oxen, and of kine,
And how to raise on elms the teeming vine;
The birth and genius of the frugal bee,
I sing, Maecenas, and I sing to thee.
Ye deities, who fields and plains protect,
Who rule the seasons, and the year direct,
Bacchus and fost'ring Ceres, pow'rs divine,
Who gave us corn for mast, for water, wine;

Will you come to the bower I have shaded for you?
Our couch shall be roses all spangled with dew.
Tommy Moore, Tommy Moore, I'll be hang'd if I do,
It would give me a cough, and a rheumatise too.
The girl who is prudent, I take it would rather
Repose (tho' alone) upon horsehair or feather.
Poor Peggy O'Corcoran listened to some
Who sang in her ear, Will you come? Will you come?
She swells and she squaddles . . so what I suppose is
She must have been lying one day upon roses.

I strove with none, for none was worth my strife:
Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art:
I warmed both hands before the fire of Life;
It sinks; and I am ready to depart.