rob it of its native luftre. There is, therefore, a liberty to be allowed for the expreffion; neither is it neceffary that words and lines fhould be confined to the meafure of their original. The fenfe of an author, generally speaking, is to be facred and inviolable. If the fancy of Ovid be luxuriant, it is his character to be fo; and if I retrench it, he is no longer Ovid. It will be replied, that he receives advantage by this lopping of his fuperfluous branches; but I rejoin, that a tranflator has no fuch right. When a painter copies from the life, I fuppofe he has no privilege to alter features, and lineaments, under pretence that his picture will look better: perhaps the face, which he has drawn, would be more exact, if the eyes or nofe were altered; but it is his bufinefs to make it refemble the original. In two cafes only there may a feeming difficulty arife; that is, if the thought be notoriously trivial, or difhoneft: but the fame answer will ferve for both, that then they ought not to be tranflated: Et quæ

Defperes tractata nitefcere poffe, relinquas.

Thus I have ventured to give my opinion on this fubject 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 tranflation confifts in adding new beauties to the piece, thereby to recompenfe the lofs which it fuftains by change of language, I fhall be willing to be taught better, and to recant. In the mean time, it seems to me, that the true reason, why we have fo few verfions which are tolerable, is not from the too close pursuing of the author's fenfe, but because there are fo few, who have all the talents, which are requifite for tranflation, and that there is fo little praife, and fo fmall encouragement, for fo confiderable a part of learning.

CANACE TO MACAREUS.

EPIST. XI.

THE ARGUMENT.

Macareus and Canace, fon and daughter to Æolus, God of the Winds, loved each other incestuously: Canace was delivered of a fon, and committed him to her nurse, to be fecretly conveyed away. The infant crying out, by that means was discovered to Eolus, who, inraged at the wickedness of his children, commanded the babe to be exposed to wild beafts on the mountains: and withal, fent a fword to Canace, with this message, That her crimes would instruct her how to use it. With this sword fhe flew berfelf: but before she died, fhe writ the following letter to her brother Macareus, who had taken fanctuary in the temple of Apollo.

F ftreaming blood my fatal letter ftain,

I or you evite

Imagine, ere you read, the writer flain;
One hand the sword, and one the

And in my lap the ready paper lies.

pen employs,

Think in this posture thou behold'ft me write :

In this my cruel father would delight.

O! were he prefent, that his eyes and hands! Might fee, and urge, the death which he commands:

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

The North and South, and each contending blaft,
Are underneath his wide dominion caft:
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 heav'nly 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 fifter's love?
For I lov'd too; and knowing not my wound,
A fecret pleasure in thy kiffes found:
My cheeks no longer did their color boast,

My food grew loathsome, and my strength I loft:
Still ere I fpoke, a figh would ftop my tongue;
Short were my flumbers, 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 foul its wound.
'Tis love, said she; and then my down-caft eyes,
And guilty dumbness, witness'd my furprize.
Forc'd at the last, my fhameful pain I tell :
And, oh, what follow'd we both know too well!
"When half denying, more than half content,
"Embraces warm'd me to a full confent.
"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,
And rifing weight my finking limbs oppreft.
What herbs, what plants, did not my nurse produce,
To make abortion by their pow'rful juice?
What medicines try'd we not, to thee unknown?
Our first crime common; this was mine alone.
But the strong child, fecure in his dark cell,
With nature's vigor 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 labor, I complain

Of fudden fhootings, and of grinding pain:

My throes came thicker, and my cries increas'd, Which with her hand the confcious nurse fupprefs'd.

To that unhappy fortune was I come,

Pain urg'd my clamors, but fear kept me dumb.
With inward struggling I reftrain'd my cries,
And drunk the tears that trickled from my eyes.
Death was in fight, Lucina gave no aid;
And even my dying had my guilt betray'd.
Thou cam'ft, and in thy count'nance fate despair;
Rent were thy garments all, and torn thy hair:
Yet feigning comfort, which thou couldst not give,
(Preft in thy arms, and whifp'ring me to live :)
For both our fakes, (faidft thou) preferve thy life;
Live, my dear fifter, and my dearer wife.
Rais'd by that name, with my last pangs
I ftrove:
Such pow'r have words, when spoke by those we

love.

The babe, as if he heard what thou hadft fworn,
With hafty joy fprung forward to be born.
What helps it to have weather'd out one ftorm?
Fear of our father does another form.

High in his hall, rock'd in a chair of state,
The king with his tempeftuous council fate.
Thro this large room our only paffage lay,
By which we could the new-born babe convey.