II. But we that are no _Polliticians_, But Rogues that are Impudent, Barefac’d and Great, Boldly head the _Rude Rable_ in times of Sedition; And bear all down before us, in Church and in State. Your Impudence is the best State-Trick; And he that by Law meanes to rule, Let his History with ours be related; And tho’ we are the Knaves, we know who’s the Fool. _A Paraphrase on the Eleventh_ Ode _Out of the first Book of_ Horace. Dear _Silvia_, let’s no farther strive, To know how long we have to Live; Let Busy Gown-men search to know Their Fates above, while we Contemplate Beauties greater Power below, Whose only Smiles give Immortality; But who seeks Fortune in a Star, } Aims at a Distance much too far, } She’s more inconstant than they are. } What though this year must be our last, } Faster than Time our Joys let’s hast; } Nor think of Ills to come, or past. } Give me but Love and Wine, I’ll ne’er Complain my Destiny’s severe. Since Life bears so uncertain Date, } With Pleasure we’ll attend our Fate, } And Chearfully go meet it at the Gate. } The Brave and Witty know no Fear or Sorrow, Let us enjoy to day, we’ll dye to Morrow. _A Translation._ I. _Lydia_, Lovely Maid, more fair Than Milk or whitest Lilies are, Than Polisht _Indian_ Iv’ry shows, Or the fair unblushing Rose. II. Open, Maid, thy Locks that hold Wealth more bright than shining Gold, Over thy white shoulders laid, Spread thy Locks, my Charming Maid. III. _Lydia_, ope’ thy starry Eyes, Shew the Beds where _Cupid_ lies, Open, Maid, thy Rosie-Cheeks, Red as Sun-declining streaks. IV. Shew thy Coral Lips, my Love, Kiss me softer than the Dove, Till my Ravisht Soul does lie Panting in an Ecstasie. V. Oh hold--and do not pierce my Heart, Which beats, as life wou’d thence depart, Hide thy Breasts that swell and rise, Hide ‘em from my wishing Eyes. VI. Shut thy Bosome, white as Snow, Whence _Arabian_ perfumes flow; Hide it from my Raptur’d Touch, I have gaz’d--and kist too much. VII. Cruel Maid--on Malice bent, Seest thou not my Languishment? _Lydia!_--Oh I faint!--I die! With thy Beauties Luxury. _A Paraphrase on_ OVID’S _Epistle of_ OENONE _to_ PARIS. THE ARGUMENT.