or nose were altered; but it is his business to make it resemble the original. In two cases only there may a seeming difficulty arise; that is, if the thought be notoriously trivial, or dis honest: but the same answer will serve for both, that then they ought not to be translated:
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.
CANACE TO MACAREUS. EPIST. XI.
THE ARGUMENT.
Macareus and Canace, son and daughter to Eolus, 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 Eolus, 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 bro. ther Macareus, who had taken sanctuary in the temple of Apollo.
IF 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 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 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
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. 'Tis love, said she; and then my downcast eyes,
And guilty dumbness, witness'd my surprise. Forc'd at the last, my shameful 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 consent, Then with tumultuous joys my heart did beat, And guilt, that made them anxious, made them great."
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 e'en my dying had my guilt betray'd.
Thou cam'st, and in thy count'nance sate de-
spair;
Rent were thy garments all, and torn thy hair:
Yet feigning comfort, which thou couldst not
give,
(Prest in thy arms, and whisp'ring me to live:) For both our sakes, (saidst thou,) preserve thy life;
Live, my dear sister, and my dearer wife.
Rais'd by that name, with my last pangs I
[we love.
Such pow'r have words, when spoke by those
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,
And now appear'd the messenger of death;
Sad were his looks, and scarce he drew his
breath,
[word
To say, "Your father sends you"-(with that
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 dow'r 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.
For thee, poor babe, what crime could they pre-
How could thy infant innocence offend? [tend?
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;
With olive branches cover'd round about;
And, muttering pray'rs, as holy rites she meant,
Through the divided crowd unquestion'd went.
Just at the door, th' unhappy infant cried :
The grandsire heard him, and the theft he For soon I will o'ertake thy infant ghost.
Swift as a whirlwind to the nurse he flies,
And deafs his stormy subjects with his cries.
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
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 ev'ry bird of prey.
The babe cried 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.
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
And faithfully my last desires fulfil,
As I perform my cruel father's will.
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 profane? Was it for this, your fleet did shelter find From swelling seas, and ev'ry faithless wind? (For though a distan: 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. Ill-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, I 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. You on such terms would ne'er have let me go; 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. 'T is virtue to repent a vicious deed, Did he repent, that Paris might succeed? Sure 't is 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. IfI 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 valu'd, 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:
Either 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 't is your love moves ms, 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.
[stand,
Sometimes you'd sigh, sometimes disorder'd
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, [done :
And blushing sate for things which you have
Then murmur'd to myself, He 'll for my sake
Do any thing; I hope 't was no mistake.
Oft have I read within this pleasing grove,
Under my name, those charming words, I love.
I, 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
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
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 He fear'd my face, but trusted to my life,
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, [sight:
To think such nymphs would show you such a
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, 't is confest,
The men, who flatter highest, please us best.
That I suspect it, ought not to displease;
For miracles are not belicv'd with ease.
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.
E'en while I write, my fearful conscious eyes
Look often back, misdoubting a surprise.
For now the rumour spreads among the crowd,
At court it whispers, but in town aloud.
Dissemble
you, whate'er you hear 'em 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 burden: 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 possess'd.
To leave me here his venture was not hard,
Because he thought my virtue was my guard.
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
Our flames are mutual, and my husband's gone:
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 denied.
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
employ :
A rape is requisite to shame-fac'd joy.
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 kindled fire if each of us supprest.
The faith of strangers is too prone to change,
And, like themselves, their wandering passions
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 ŒŒnone leave?
But lest I 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 port,
To view the Trojan wealth and Prian'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?
E'en 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 flatt'ry 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
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 per-
plex,
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
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.
Eneas, the son of Venus and Anchises, having, at the destruction of Troy, saved his gods, his fa ther, 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 Eneas and his fleet with great civility, fell passionately in love with him, and in the end denied him not the last favours. But Mercury ad
monishing Æneas to go in search of Italy, (a king. dom promised him by the gods) he readily prepared to follow 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 Meander'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 pray'r? 'T is 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 tow'rs 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'a,
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 tow'rs the height of Carthage
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:
Eneas 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 born:
Like that, which now thy trembling sailors fear;
Like that, whose rage should still detain thee
here.
Behold how high the foamy billows ride!
The winds and waves are on the juster side.
To winter weather and a stormy sea
I'll owe, what rather I would owe to thee.
Death thou deserv'st from heav'n's avenging
But I'm unwilling to become the cause. (laws;
To shun my love, if thou wilt seek thy fate,
"T is a dear purchase, and a costly hate.
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