3 O evil foresight and pernicious care! Wilt thou indeed abide by this appeal? Shall we the lessons of thy pen compare With private honour or with public zeal? Whence, then, at things divine those darts of scorn? Why are the woes, which virtuous men have borne For sacred truth, a prey to laughter given? What fiend, what foe of Nature urged thy arm The Almighty of his sceptre to disarm, To push this earth adrift and leave it loose from Heaven? 4 Ye godlike shades of legislators old, Ye who made Rome victorious, Athens wise, Ye first of mortals with the bless'd enroll'd, Say, did not horror in your bosoms rise, When thus, by impious vanity impell'd, A magistrate, a monarch, ye beheld Affronting civil order's holiest bands, Those bands which ye so labour'd to improve, Those hopes and fears of justice from above, Which tamed the savage world to your divine commands? ODE XIV. THE COMPLAINT. 1 Away! away! Tempt me no more, insidious love: Thy soothing sway Long did my youthful bosom prove: At length thy treason is discern'd, At length some dear-bought caution earn'd: Away! nor hope my riper age to move. 2 I know, I see Her merit. Needs it now be shown, Alas, to me? How often, to myself unknown, The graceful, gentle, virtuous maid Have I admired! How often said, What joy to call a heart like hers one's own! 3 But, flattering god, O squanderer of content and ease, In thy abode Will care's rude lesson learn to please? O say, deceiver, hast thou won Proud Fortune to attend thy throne, Or placed thy friends above her stern decrees? ODE XV. ON DOMESTIC MANNERS. (UNFINISHED.) 1 Meek Honour, female shame, Oh! whither, sweetest offspring of the sky, From Albion dost thou fly, Of Albion's daughters once the favourite fame? O beauty's only friend, Who giv'st her pleasing reverence to inspire; Who selfish, bold desire Dost to esteem and dear affection turn; Alas, of thee forlorn What joy, what praise, what hope can life pretend? 2 Behold, our youths in vain Concerning nuptial happiness inquire: Our maids no more aspire The arts of bashful Hymen to attain; But with triumphant eyes And cheeks impassive, as they move along, Ask homage of the throng. The lover swears that in a harlot's arms Are found the self-same charms, And worthless and deserted lives and dies. 3 Behold, unbless'd at home, The father of the cheerless household mourns: The night in vain returns, For Love and glad Content at distance roam; While she, in whom his mind Seeks refuge from the day's dull task of cares, To meet him she prepares, Through noise and spleen and all the gamester's art, A listless, harass'd heart, Where not one tender thought can welcome find.