Sidor som bilder
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Well; on my terms thou wilt not be my heir?
If thou car'it little, less shall be my care :
Were none of all my father's sisters left:
Nay, were I of

my mother's kin beref: :
None by an uncle's or a grandame's fidë,
Yet I could some adopted heir provide.
I need but také my journey half a day
From haughty Rome, and at Aricia stay,
Where Fortune throws poor Manius in my way.
Him will I choose : What! him of humble birth,
Obscure, a foundling, and a fon of earth?
Obscure? Why proythee what am I? I know
My father, grandsire, and great-grandfire too.
If farther I derive my pedigree,
I can but guess beyond the fourth degree.
The rest of my forgotten

ancestors Were sons of carth, like him, or fons of whores. Yet, why would'st thòu, old covetou's wretch,

aspire To be my heir, who might'st have been

my

fire ?
In Nature's race, should'st thou demand of me
My torch, when I in course run after thee?
Think I approach thee, like the God of gain,
With wings on head and heels, as poets feign :
Thy moderate fortune from my gift receive ;
Now fairly take it, or as fairly leave.
But take it as it is, and ask no more.
What, when thou haft embezzled all thy store ?
Where 's all thy father left? 'Tis true, I grant,
Some I have mortgag'd, to supply my want :

The

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The legacies of Tadiùs too are fown;
All spent, and on the self-fame errand gone.
How little then to my poor share will fall !
Little indeed; bue yeć that little's all.

Nor tell me, in a dying father's tone,
Be careful ftill of the main chance, my fon;
Put out thy principal in trusty hands:
Live on the use; and never dip thy lands :
But yet what's left for me? What 's left, my friend!
Ask that again, and all the rest I spend.
Is not my fortunes at my own command ?
Pour oil, and pour it with a plenteous hand,
Upon my sallads, boy: shall I be fed
With sodden nettles, and a sing'd sow's head ?
'Tis holiday ; provide me better cheer ;
'Tis holiday, and Mall be round the year.
Shall I my houshold gods and genius cheat,
To make him rich, who grudges me my meat ?
That he may loll at ease; and, pamper'd high,
When I am laid, may feed on giblet-pie?
And, when his throbbing luft extends the vein,
Have wherewithal his whores to entertain ?
Shall I in homespun cloth be clad, that he
His paunch in triumph may before him fee?

Go, miser, go; for lucre fell thy soul ; Truck wares for wares, and trudge from pole to

pole : That men may say, when thou art dead and gone, · See wliat a valt estate he left his son !

How

How large a family of brawny knaves,
Well fed, and fat as Cappadocian flaves !
Increase thy wealth, and double all thy store ;
'Tis done : now double that, and swell the score;
To every thousand add ten thousand more.
Then say, Chryfippus, thou who would'st confine
Thy heap, where I shall put an end to mine,

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CON

C Ο Ν Τ Ε Ν Τ S

OF

Τ Η Ε

SE V E N T H V O L UM E

OF

DR Y DE N’S PO E M S.

Page 1

VIR
IRGIL'S ÆNEIS. Book XI.

Book XII.
Postscript

46

94

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TRANSLATIONS FROM PERSIUS.

308

Prologue to the First Satire
Satire the First, in Dialogue betwixt the Poet and
his Friend or Monitor

310 Satire the Second, dedicated to his Friend Plotius Macrinus, on his Birth-day

231
The Third Satire
The Fourth Satire
The Fifth Satire, infcrib'd to the Rev. Dr. Busby 343
The Sixth Satire. To Cræsus Bassus, a Lyric

Poet

326

536

356

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