Poor mortal unmerry, who seekest to know What will bid thy brow soften, thy quips and cranks flow, To the house of the mother I bid thee repair— Thou wilt find, if she's pleased, what thy heart covets there. —J. A. ST. JOHN. * * * * * MELANIPPIDES. (Book xiv. § 7, p. 984.) But Athené flung away From her pure hand those noxious instruments It late had touch'd, and thus did say— "Hence, ye banes of beauty, hence; What? shall I my charms disgrace By making such an odious face?"—BLAND. * * * * * PRATINAS. (Book xiv. § 8, p. 985.) What means this tumult? Why this rage? What thunder shakes th' Athenian stage? 'Tis frantic Bromius bids me sing, He tunes the pipe, he smites the string; The Dryads with their chief accord, Submit, and hail the drama's lord. Be still! and let distraction cease, Nor thus profane the Muse's peace; By sacred fiat I preside, The minstrel's master and his guide; He, whilst the chorus strains proceed, Shall follow with responsive reed; To measured notes whilst they advance, He in wild maze shall lead the dance. So generals in the front appear, Whilst music echoes from the rear. Now silence each discordant sound! For see, with ivy chaplet crown'd, Bacchus appears! He speaks in me— Hear, and obey the god's decree!—CUMBERLAND. _The same._