O’er crackling ice, o’er gulfs profound,
    With nimble glide the skaiters play;
  O’er treacherous Pleasure’s flowery ground
    Thus lightly skim, and haste away.

* * * * *

  TRANSLATION

OF A SPEECH OF AQUILEIO IN THE ‘ADRIANO’ OF METASTASIO, BEGINNING, ’TU CHE IN CORTE INVECCHIASTI.’

  Grown old in courts, thou art not surely one
  Who keeps the rigid rules of ancient honour: 
  Well skill’d to soothe a foe with looks of kindness,
  To sink the fatal precipice before him,
  And then lament his fall with seeming friendship: 
  Open to all, true only to thyself,
  Thou know’st those arts which blast with envious praise,
  Which aggravate a fault with feign’d excuses,
  And drive discountenanced Virtue from the throne
  That leave the blame of rigour to the prince, 10
  And of his every gift usurp the merit;
  That hide in seeming zeal a wicked purpose,
  And only build upon each other’s ruin.

* * * * *

  IMPROMPTU

ON HEARING MISS THRALE CONSULTING WITH A FRIEND ABOUT A GOWN AND HAT SHE WAS INCLINED TO WEAR.

  Wear the gown, and wear the hat,
    Snatch thy pleasures while they last;
  Hadst thou nine lives, like a cat,
    Soon those nine lives would be past.

* * * * *

  TRANSLATION OF VIRGIL.

  PASTORAL I.

   Mileboeus.  Now, Tityrus, you supine and careless laid,
  Play on your pipe beneath yon beechen shade;
  While wretched we about the world must roam,
  And leave our pleasing fields, and native home;
  Here at your ease you sing your amorous flame,
  And the wood rings with Amaryllis’ name.

   Tityrus.  Those blessings, friend, a deity bestow’d,
  For I shall never think him less than god;
  Oft on his altars shall my firstlings lie,
  Their blood the consecrated stones shall dye:  10
  He gave my flocks to graze the flowery meads,
  And me to tune at ease the unequal reeds.

   Mileboeus. My admiration only I express’d,
  (No spark of envy harbours in my breast),
  That when confusion o’er the country reigns,
  To you alone this happy state remains. 
  Here I, though faint myself, must drive my goats,
  Far from their ancient fields and humble cots. 
  This scarce I lead, who left on yonder rock
  Two tender kids, the hopes of all the flock. 20
  Had we not been perverse and careless grown,
  This dire event by omens was foreshown;
  Our trees were blasted by the thunder stroke,
  And left-hand crows, from an old hollow oak,
  Foretold the coming evil by their dismal croak.

* * * * *

  TRANSLATION OF HORACE.

BOOK I. ODE XXII.