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With lively chat; and then to bed they went;
But Tarquin still pursued his vile intent;
All dark, about the dead of night he rose,
And softly to Lucretia's chamber goes;
His naked sword he carried in his hand,
That what he could not win he might command;
With rapture on her bed himself he threw,
And as approaching to her lips he drew,
Dear cousin, ah, my dearest life, he said,
'Tis I, 'tis Tarquin; why are you afraid?
Trembling with fear, she not a word could say,
Her spirits fled, she fainted quite away;

Like as a lamb beneath a wolf's rude

paws,

Appall'd and stunn'd, her breath she hardly draws;
What can she do? resistance would be vain,

She a weak woman, he a vigorous man.
Should she
cry out? his naked sword was by;
One scream, said he, and you this instant die:
Would she escape? his hands lay on her breast,
Now first by hands of any stranger press'd :

The lover urged by threats, rewards, and prayers;
But neither prayers, rewards, nor threats, she hears:

Functus erat dapibus: poscunt sua tempora somni.
Nox erat; et tota lumina nulla domo.

Surgit, et auratum vagina deripit ensem:
Et venit in thalamos, nupta pudica, tuos.
Utque torum pressit; ferrum, Lucretia, mecum est,
Natus, ait, regis, Tarquiniusque vocor.
Illa nihil: neque enim vocem viresque loquendi,
Aut aliquid toto pectore mentis habet.
Sed tremit, ut quondam stabulis deprensa relictis,
Parva sub infesto cum jacet agne lupo.
Quid faciat? pugnet? vincetur femina pugna.
Clamet? at in dextra, qui necet, ensis adest.
Effugiat? positis urgetur pectora palmis;

Nunc primum externa pectora tacta manu.

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will

Will you not yield? he cries; then know my
When these my warm desires have had their fill,
By your dead corpse I'll kill and lay a slave,
And in that posture both together leave;
Then feign myself a witness of your shame,
And fix a lasting blemish on your fame.
Her mind the fears of blemish'd fame controul,
And shake the resolutions of her soul;
But of thy conquest, Tarquin, never boast,
Gaining that fort, thou hast a kingdom lost;
Vengeance thy complicated guilt attends,
Which both in thine, and fam❜ly's ruin ends.
With rising day the sad Lucretia rose,
Her inward grief her outward habit shows;
Mournful she sat in tears, and all alone,
As if she'd lost her only darling son;
Then for her husband and her father sent,
Who Ardea left in haste to know th' intent;
Who, when they saw her all in mourning dress'd,
To know the occasion of her grief, request;
Whose funeral she mourn'd desired to know,
Or why she had put on those robes of woe?

Instat amans hostis precibus, pretioque, minisque:
Nec prece, nec pretio, nec movet ille minis.
Nil agis; eripiam, dixit, per crimina vitam:
Falsus adulterii testis adulter ero.

Interimam famulum; cum quo deprensa fereris.
Succubuit famæ victa puella metu.

Quid, victor, gaudes? hæc te victoria perdet.
Heu quanto regnis nox stetit una tuis!
Jamque erat orta dies: passis sedet illa capillis;
Ut solet ad nati mater itura rogum.
Grandævumque patrem fido cum conjuge castris
Evocat; et posita venit uterque mora.

Utque vident habitum; quæ luctus causa, requirunt:
Cui paret exsequias, quove sit icta malo.

She long conceal'd the melancholy cause,
While from her eyes a briny fountain flows:
Her aged sire, and tender husband strive
To heal her grief, and words of comfort give;
Yet dread some fatal consequence to hear,
And begg'd she would the cruel cause declare.»

Illa diu reticet, pudibundaque celat amictu
Ora. Fluunt lacrymæ more perennis aquæ.
Hinc pater, hinc conjux lacrymas solantur, et orant
Indicet: et cæco flentque paventque metu.

Ter conata loqui, etc.

Our readers will easily perceive by this short specimen, how very unequal Mr Massey is to a translation of Ovid. In many places he has deviated entirely from the sense, and in every part fallen infinitely below the strength, elegance, and spirit of the original. We must beg leave, therefore, to remind him of the old Italian proverb, and hope he will never for the future traduce and injure any of those poor ancients who never injured him, by thus pestering the world with such translations as even his own schoolboys ought to be whipped for.

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I

CRITICISM

ON

BARRET'S TRANSLATION

OF

OVID'S EPISTLES.

PUBLISHED IN MDCCLIX.

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