So may thy Trojans, who are yet alive,
Live ftill, and with no future fortune strive;
So may thy youthful fon old age attain,
And thy dead father's bones in peace remain;
As thou haft pity on unhappy me,

175

Who knew no crime, but too much love of thee.
I am not born from fierce Achilles' line,

Nor did my parents against Troy combine.
To be thy wife if I unworthy prove,

180

By fome inferior name admit
my love.
To be fecur'd of ftill poffeffing thee,
What would I do, and what would I not be !
Our Libyan coasts their certain feafons know,
When free from tempefts paffengers may go :
But now with northern blafts the billows roar, 185
And drive the floating fea-weed to the shore.
Leave to my care the time to fail away;
When fafe, I will not fuffer thee to stay.
Thy weary men would be with ease content;
Their fails are tatter'd, and their mafts are spent.
If by no merit I thy mind can move,
What thou deny'st my merit, give my love.
Stay, 'till I learn my loss to undergo ;
And give me time to ftruggle with my woe.
If not, know this, I will not fuffer long ; 195
My life's too loathfome, and my love too strong.
Death holds my pen, and dictates what I fay,
While cross my lap the Trojan fword I lay.

191

My tears flow down; the fharp edge cuts their flood,

And drinks my forrows, that must drink my

blood.

200

How well thy gift does with my fate agree !
My funeral pomp is cheaply made by thee.
To no new wounds my bofom I difplay:
The fword but enters where love made the way.
But thou, dear fifter, and yet dearer friend, 205
Shalt my cold afhes to their urn attend.
Sichæus' wife let not the marble boast,
I loft that title, when my fame I lost.
This short infcription only let it bear:
"Unhappy Dido lies in quiet here.

210

"The cause of death, and sword by which she

"Eneas gave the reft her arm fupply'd."

TRANSLATIONS

FROM

OVID'S ART OF LOVE.

THE

FIRST BOOK

OF

OVID'S ART OF LOVE.

IN Cupid's fchool whoe'er would take degree,
Muft learn his rudiments, by reading me.
Seamen with failing arts their veffels move;
Art guides the chariot; art inftructs to love.
Of fhips and chariots others know the rule;
But I am master in Love's mighty school.
Cupid indeed is obftinate and wild,

A ftubborn god; but yet the god's a child:
Easy to govern in his tender age,

Like fierce Achilles in his pupillage :

That hero, born for conqueft, trembling ftood
Before the Centaur, and receiv'd the rod.
As Chiron mollify'd his cruel mind

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With art, and taught his warlike hands to wind

Ver. 1. In Cupid's fchool] We cannot fee, without real re gret and mortification, fuch a waste of time and talent as what our author has flung away in tranflating fo loofe and flagitious, as well as trifling work of his favourite Ovid, full of fome of the moft exceptionable and naufeous circumftances of ancient mythology. Imoft undoubtedly fhall make no comment on it, nar on the two fucceeding tranflations. Dr. J. WARTON,

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