Nunc, per gramina fusi, Densa fronde salicti, Dum defenditur imber, Molles ducimus horas. Hic, dum debita morti Paulum vita moratur, Nunc rescire priora, Nunc instare futuris, Nunc summi prece sancta Patris numen adire est. Quicquid quraeitur ultra, Caeco ducit amore, Vel spe ludit inani, Luctus mox pariturum. [a] These lines are a translation of part of a song in the Complete Angler of Isaac Walton, written by John Chalkhill, a friend of Spenser, and a good poet in his time. They are but part of the last stanza, which, that the reader may have it entire, is here given at length: If the sun's excessive heat Make our bodies swelter, To an osier hedge we get For a friendly shelter! Where in a dike, Perch or pike, Roach or dace, We do chase, Bleak or gudgeon, Without grudging, We are still contented. Or we sometimes pass an hour Under a green willow, That defends us from a shower, Making earth our pillow; Where we may Think and pray, Before death Stops our breath: Other joys Are but toys, And to be lamented. [a]Quisquis iter tendis, vitreas qua lucidus undas Speluncae late Thamesis praetendit opacae; Marmorea trepidant qua lentae in fornice guttae, Crystallisque latex fractus scintillat acutis; Gemmaque, luxuriae nondum famulata nitenti Splendit, et incoquitur tectum sine fraude metallum; Ingredere O! rerum pura cole mente parentem; Auriferasque auri metuens scrutare cavernas. Ingredere! Egeriae sacrum en tibi panditur antrum! Hic, in se totum, longe per opaca futuri Temporis, Henricum rapuit vis vivida mentis: Hic pia Vindamius traxit suspiria, in ipsa Morte memor patriae; hic Marmonti pectore prima Coelestis fido caluerunt semina flammae. Temnere opes, pretium sceleris, patriamque tueri Fortis, ades; tibi, sponte, patet venerabile limen. [a] The above lines are a version of Pope's verses on his own grotto, which begin, "Thou, who shall stop where Thames' translucent wave." GRAECORTUM EPIGRAMMATUM VERSIONES METRICAE. Pag. 2. Brodaei edit. Bas. ann. 1549. Non Argos pugilem, non me Messana creavit; Patria Sparta mihi est, patria clara virum. Arte valent isti, mihi robo revivere solo est, Convenit ut natis, inclyta Sparta, tuis. Br. 2. Quandoquidem passim nulla ratione feruntur, Cuncta cinis, cuncta et ludicra, cuncta nihil. Br. 5. Pectore qui duro, crudos de vite racemos, Venturi exsecuit vascula prima meri, Labraque constrictus, semesos, jamque terendos Sub pedibus, populo praetereunte, jacit. Supplicium huic, quoniam crescentia gaudia laesit, Det Bacchus, dederat quale, Lycurge, tibi. Hae poterant uvae laeto convivia cantu Mulcere, aut pectus triste levare malis.