No ſtedfaſt faith is here, no ſure repoſe;
An armed truce is all this nation knows:
The rage of battle works, when battles ceaſe;
And wars are brooding in the lap of peace.
Since Cæsar wills, and I a wretch muſt be,
Let me be ſafe at leaſt in miſery!
To my ſad grave in calm oblivion ſteal,
Nor add the woes I fear to all I feel!
Ye tuneful maids! who once, in happier days,
Beneath the myrtle grove inſpir'd my lays,
How ſhall I now your wonted aid implore;
Where ſeek your footſteps on this ſavage ſhore,
Whoſe ruder echoes ne'er were taught to bear
The poet's numbers or the lover's care?
Yet here, forever here, your bard muſt dwell,
Who ſung of ſports and tender loves ſo well.
Here muſt he live: but when he yields his breath
