[55] Thomas Creech, a particular friend of our author. He was born in 1659, and in June 1700 committed suicide; for which rash action no adequate cause has been assigned. Besides the translation of Lucretius, which is his principal work, he executed an indifferent version of Horace, and translated parts of Theocritus, Ovid, Juvenal, Virgil, &c. In his translation of Lucretius, he omitted the indelicate part of the Fourth Book; a deficiency which Dryden thought fit to supply, for which he has above assigned some very inadequate reasons. Creech's Lucretius first appeared at Oxford, in 8vo, 1682, and was reprinted in the year following. The annotations, to which our author alludes a little lower, were originally attached to a Latin edition of Lucretius, superintended by Creech, and afterwards transferred to his English version. They display great learning, and an intimate acquaintance with the Epicurean philosophy. [56] Our author, in the Dedication to "Cleomenes," compliments Lord Rochester on his power of critically understanding the beauties of Horace, and upon his particular affection for this particular Ode. See Vol. VIII. p. 193. [57] Mr Malone has observed, that this quotation, as well as that which follows, is inaccurate; the words of Juvenal are, "nequeo _monstrare_, et sentio tantum." [58] Dryden's son was amongst the contributors. TRANSLATIONS FROM THEOCRITUS. AMARYLLIS: OR, THE THIRD IDYLLIUM OF THEOCRITUS, PARAPHRASED.[59] To Amaryllis love compels my way, My browzing goats upon the mountains stray; O Tityrus, tend them well, and see them fed } In pastures fresh, and to their watering led; } And 'ware the ridgling with his budding head. } Ah, beauteous nymph! can you forget your love, The conscious grottos, and the shady grove, Where stretched at ease your tender limbs were laid, Your nameless beauties nakedly displayed? Then I was called your darling, your desire, With kisses such as set my soul on fire: But you are changed, yet I am still the same; My heart maintains for both a double flame, Grieved, but unmoved, and patient of your scorn; So faithful I, and you so much forsworn! I die, and death will finish all my pain; Yet, ere I die, behold me once again: Am I so much deformed, so changed of late? What partial judges are our love and hate! Ten wildings have I gathered for my dear; How ruddy, like your lips, their streaks appear! Far-off you viewed them with a longing eye Upon the topmost branch (the tree was high); Yet nimbly up, from bough to bough, I swerved,[60] And for to-morrow have ten more reserved. Look on me kindly, and some pity shew, Or give me leave at least to look on you. Some god transform me by his heavenly power, Even to a bee to buzz within your bower, The winding ivy-chaplet to invade, And folded fern, that your fair forehead shade.