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We all must see Cocytus flow
With sullen current, black and slow;

And Danäus' hateful brood;
And Sisyphus, condemn’d by fate
His mortal crimes to expiate

By labours still renew'd.

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Thy land, thy house, thy pleasing wife,
Must all be left with parting life:

The cypress, tree of gloom,
Alone, of all thou lov'st to tend,
Shall on its short-liv'd lord attend,

And wave above thy tomb.

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Thy cellars, guarded with such care
By bundred locks, thy lavish heir

Shall ransack of their hoard;
And wine thy marble floors shall drown
More rich than e'er was seen to crown

A pontiff's splendid board.

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Od. iii. 9.

Hor.

Donec gratus eram tibi,

Nec quisquam potior brachia candidæ Cervici juvenis dabat;

Persarum vigui rege beatior.

LYD.

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Donec non alia magis

Arsisti, neque erat Lydia post Chloën; Multi Lydia nominis

Romana vigui clarior Ilia.

HOR.

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Me nunc Cressa Chloë regit,

Dulces docta modos, et citharæ sciens; Pro qua non metuam mori,

Si parcent animæ fata superstiti.

Od. iii. 9.

HOR.

WHILE I was dear to thee,
While with encircling arms

No youth, preferr’d to me,
Dar'd to profane thy bosom's snowy charms;

I envied not, by thee ador'd,
The wealth, the bliss of Persia’s lord.

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Lyd. While all thy bosom glow'd

With love for me alone,

And Lydia there abode,
Where Chloe now has fix'd her hateful throne;

Well pleas’d, our Roman Ilia's fame
I deem'd eclips'd by Lydia's name.

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HoR.

'Tis true, my captive heart
The fair-hair'd Chloe sways,
Skill'd with transcendent art

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To touch the lyre, and breathe harmonious lays;

For her my life were gladly paid,

So Heav'n would spare my Cretan maid. .

LYD.

Me torret face mutua
Thurini Calais filius Ornyti;

bis patiar mori,
Si parcent puero fata superstiti.

Pro quo

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Hor.

Quid ? si prisca redit Venus.

Diductosque jugo cogit aheneo ? Si flava excutitur Chloë,

Rejectæque patet janua Lydiæ ?

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LYD.

Quamquam sidere pulchrior

Ille est, tu levior cortice, et improbo Iracundior Adria;

Tecum vivere amem, tecum obeam libens.

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LYD. My breast with fond desire

For youthful Calais burns ;

Touch'd with a mutual fire
The son of Ornithus my love returns;

For him I'd doubly die with joy,

So Heav'n would spare my Thurian boy. Hor. What if the former chain,

That we too rashly broke,

We yet should weave again,
And bow once more beneath th’accustom'd yoke?
If Chloe's

sway
no more I

own, And Lydia fill the vacant throne ? LYD.

Though bright as Morning Star
My Calaïs' beaming brow;

Though more inconstant far,
And easier chaf'd than Adria's billows thou,

With thee my life I'd gladly spend,
Content with thee that life to end.

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[This Ode has already appeared in print, my friend, Lord Ravensworth, having paid me the compliment of adopting it in his able and classical translation of the whole of the Odes of Horace.-D.]

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