I intreat you to forsake, as soon as possible, the corrupt coast of Baia. _Ibid._ A coast most unfriendly to modest maids. 320. Confections of Tivoli. 322. May Tibur, to my latest hours, Afford a kind and calm retreat; Tibur, beneath whose lofty towers, The Græcians fix’d their blissful seat. FRANCIS. 322. The walls of the moist Tibur then flood, which was founded by the Greeks. _Ibid._ For little folks become their little fate, And at my age, not Rome’s imperial seat, ... But Tibur’s solitude my taste can please. 325. When retired to the cool dream of Digentia, which supplies the cold village of Mandela with water; what, my friend, do you imagine, are my sentiments and wishes? _Ibid._ Pan from Arcadia’s heights descends, To visit oft my rural seat—— FRANCIS. But as a bee, which thro’ the shady groves, Feeble of wing, with idle murmurs roves, Sips on the bloom, and, with unceasing toil, From the sweet thyme extracts his flow’ry spoil, So I, weak bard! round Tibur’s lucid spring, Of humble strain laborious verses sing. FRANCIS. 328. But me not patient Lacedæmon charms, Nor fair Larissa with such transport warms, As pure Albuneus’ rock resounding source, And rapid Anio, headlong in his course, Or Tibur, fenced by groves from solar beams, And fruitful orchards bath’d by ductile dreams. FRANCIS. 331. Hither I, Apollo, have come, accompanied by the Muses. This shall henceforth be our Delphos, Delos, and Helicon. 335. The woods all thunder’d, and the mountains shook, The lake of Trivia heard the note profound. ... Pale at the piercing call, the mothers prest With shrieks their starting infants to the breast. PITT. 362. The man in conscious virtue bold, Who dares his secret purpose hold, Unshaken hears the crowd’s tumultuous cries, And the stern tyrant’s brow —— —— defies. FRANCIS. 363. While Michael was forming this statue, shocked with the recollection of Brutus’ crime, he left his design unfinished. 369. I also am a painter. 383. Do you imagine there is but little difference between acting from feeling, as nature dictates, or from art? 444. I am the workmanship of Marcus Agratus, not of Praxiteles. 502. If they, who through the venturous ocean range, Not their own passions, but the climate, change; Anxious thro’ seas and land to search for rest, Is but laborious idleness at best. FRANCIS. ERRATA.