DANS SA I. EPISTRE AU ROY.
POURQUOI ces elephans, ces armes, ce bagage,
Et ces vaiffeaux tout prests à quitter le rivage?
Difoit au roi Pyrrhus, un fage confident,
Cenfeiller tres-fenfé d'un roi tres-imprudent.
Je vais, lui dit ce prince, à Rome où l'on m'apelle.
Quoi faire? l'affieger. L'entreprise eft fort belle,
Et digne feulement d'Alexandre ou de vous,
Mais quand nous l'aurons prife, & bien que feronsnous ?
Du refte des Latins la conquefte eft facile.
Sans doute, ils font à nous: eft-ce tout? La Sicile
Delà nous tend les bras, & bien-tost sans effort
Syracufe recoit nos vaiffeaux dans fon port.
En demeurés-vous là? Dés que nous l'aurons prife,
Il ne faut qu'un bon vent & Carthage eft conquife:
Les chemins font ouverts: qui peut nous arrester?
Je vous entens, feigneur, nous allons tout dompter :
Nous allons traverfer les fables de Lybie;
Affervir en paffant l'Egypte, l'Arabie;
IN HIS FIRST EPISTLE TO LEWIS XIV.
WHAT mean these elephants, arms, warlike
And all these ships, prepar'd to leave the shore?
Thus Cyneas, faithful, old, experienc'd, wife,
Addrefs'd king Pyrrhus ;-thus the king replies;
'Tis glory calls us hence; to Rome we go.
For what?-To conquer.-Rome's a noble foe,
A prize for Alexander fit, or you;
But Rome reduc'd, what next, Sir, will
The reft of Italy my chains shall wear.
And is that all?-No, Sicily lies near;
See how fhe ftretches out her beauteous arms,
And tempts the victor with unguarded charms!
In Syracufa's port this fleet shall ride.
'Tis well-and there you will at last abide ?-
No; that fubdued, again we'll hoift our fails,
And put to fea; and, blow but profperous gales,
Carthage must foon be ours, an easy prey,
The paffage open: what obftructs our way?
Then, Sir, your vaft defign I understand,
To conquer all the earth, cross feas and land,
O'er Africk's fpacious wilds your reign extend,
Beneath your fword make proud Arabia bend;
R
Courir delà le Gange en de nouveaux païs ;
Faire trembler le Scythe aux bords du Tanaïs;
Et ranger fous nos loix tout ce vafte Hemisphere;
Mais de retour enfin, que pretendez-vous faire ?
Alors, cher Cineas, victorieux, contens,
Nous pourrons rire à l'aise, & prendre du bon temps.
Hé, feigneur, dés ce jour, fans fortir de l'Epire,
Du matin jufqu'au foir qui vous défend de rire?
Then feek remoter worlds, where Ganges pours
His fwelling ftream; beyond Hydafpes' fhores,
Through Indian realms to carry dire alarms,
And make the hardy Scythian dread your arms.
But fay-this wondrous race of glory run,
When we return, fay what shall then be done?
Then pleas'd, my friend, we'll spend the joyful day
In full delight, and laugh our cares away.
And why not now? Alas! Sir, need we roam
For this fo far, or quit our native home?
No-let us now each valued hour employ,
Nor for the future lose the prefent joy.
SOLACE of life, my sweet companion lyre!
On this fair poplar bough I'll hang thee high,
While the gay fields all foft delights inspire,
And not one cloud deforms the fmiling sky.
While whispering gales, that court the leaves and flowers,
Play through thy strings, and gently make them found, Luxurious I'll diffolve the flowing hours
In balmy flumbers on the carpet ground.
But fee-what fudden gloom obfcures the air!
What falling fhowers impetuous change the day!
Let's rife, my lyre-Ah Pleasure falfe as fair!
How faithless are thy charms, how short thy ftay!
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