THE PASSION OF BYBLIS, Made English.

From Ovid. Me am. Lib. 9.

By Mr. Dennis.

LONDON, Printed for Rich. Parker at the Ʋnicorn under the Piazza of the Royal Exchange, 1692.

THE PREFACE.

THE Passion of Byblis seems to be, in the Ori­ginal, not only one of Ovid's most masterly pieces, but a Passion in some places the most happily touch'd of any that I have seen amongst the An­cients or Moderns. The Sentiments are so tender and yet so delicate, the expressions so fit and withal so easie, with that facility which is proper to express Love, and peculiar to this Charming Poet; the turns of Passion are so surprizing and yet so natural, and there seems to be something in the very sound of the Verse so soft and so pa­thetick, that a man who reads the Original, must have no sense of these matters if he is not transported with it.

When I was desir'd to make it English, I read over the Original to some men of sense, to see whether they would be touch'd with the same passages with which I had been mov'd so much. And when I saw that I was not mistaken, I resolv'd to imitate them in our native tongue, with as much address as I could.

Not that I am of the opinion that I have done ju­stice to the admirable Original; but then you must give me leave to do some to my self; and as I would not have [Page]my faults imputed to Ovid, so, since I have so many of my own to account for, I do not desire to stand charg'd with his, which as his Translator I was oblig'd to copy.

I will chiefly take Notice of two, the one general, and the other particular. The general one is the Incon­sistency that appears in the Character of Byblis. For she, who in some Places of her Passion appears so relu­ctant, seems too abandon'd in others; which are two or three Passages of her Letter (for from the beginning of the Story to the Letter, every thing seems to me to be just enough) in which she says some things that are by no means consistent with that Modesty, which she ought to have, as a Lady, a Virgin, and a Woman of Honor. I know very well that a Woman of Honor, when once she is seiz'd by a great Passion, has more violent Desires than the most abandon'd Woman can have. For aban­don'd Women are consequently weak, and it is a true Observation, that weak People, tho they are subject to Pas­sions at every turn, yet are they never throughly agitated by them. But this is most certain, that a Woman of Ho­nor can never break out into immodest Expressions, let her Passion be never so violent. For Immodesty in Expres­sion must show her profligate to the very last Degree, and must be utterly inconsistent with any measure of Honor. Now Byblis, who shows in some places so much of Honor, by such sharp Remorse, and such furious Reluctancy, ought certainly to have contented her self with a bare Con­fession of her Passion; and not to have behav'd her self [Page]as if she thought her Brother so very young, that he was to be instructed how to proceed in the Cure of it.

It may be said perhaps that the Relation of the Dream, which precedes the Letter, is the most immodest thing in the Story. I will easily grant it, and that that Relation is in the original, the most alluring description that can be imagin'd, and almost equally transporting with what it describes. But it must then be consider'd that what Byblis says there, she only speaks to her self, which a­mounts to no more than if she but barely thought it. And there is nothing certainly in that Reflection on her Dream, but what is extreamly natural.

The second Fault in this Passion of Byblis, is in the passage that immediately follows the return of the Messen­ger. For that which ought to be the most moving, is the coldest part of the Story. I speak of the first thirteen Lines of the Latin (for all that follows seems to be suf­ficiently warm) where Byblis, who can scarce speak for the Violence of her Grief, is yet for speaking in Allegory; which is nothing but an imperfect kind of Similitude.

Now Simile in this place could not be moving, because it could not be natural; it being by no means the Lan­guage of great Grief. For to be in a capacity to make a good similitude, the Mind must have several qualificati­ons, and two more particularly; which are utterly incon­sistent with that Passion. First, The Soul must be suscep­tible of a great many Idea's, and the Imagination capaci­ous of a great many Images. For the Fancy must run [Page]thro, and compare a great many Objects, before it can start a hint from them, which may carry with it that ap­pearance of likeness which may afterward by the Judg­ment be improved to an exact resemblance (not but that I know very well, that the Soul on those occasions acts with that prodigious Celerity, that it is its self insensible of the degrees of its own motion.) Now it is the Nature of Grief to confine the Soul, and straiten the Imagination, and extreamly to lessen the number of their Objects. And indeed if the Passion is very violent, a man is incessantly thinking of the cause of it. For example, the unfortu­nate Lover has eternally before his Eyes, the Image of his Cruel Fair-one. He thinks Day and Night of her alone, he contemplates nothing but her, and if he complains of her, 'tis only after that simple unaffected way, by which Nature teaches man to discharge his Soul of sorrow. And it is for this very reason that the greater part of Mr. Cow­ley's amorous Verses are universally exploded by men of sence, at the same time that they confess, that several of his Miscellaneous Writings, his Pindaric Odes, and his Di­vine Hymn to Light, will justly deserve the Admiration of our latest Posterity. For in most of those amorous Verses, there appears thro the disguise of an affected Passion, a Gayety of Heart, a Wantonness of Wit, and a Soul that's at Liberty to roam about the Ʋniverse, and return home laden with rich, but far fetch'd Conceits. As merry in this respect as the Madrigals of our amorous Rakehells; who languish in Simile, whilst they thrive in Carkass; and who eating their Half-Crowns [Page]every day thrice, decay and dye by Metaphor. In short, no sort of imagery ever can be the Language of Grief. If a man complains in Simile, I either laugh or sleep. For this is plain, that if a man's Affliction will suffer him to divert his mind by one Simile, he may as well do it by twenty, and so on to the end of the Chapter. If such a man therefore is miserable, it is because he is resolved he will be so. Now a man must have an extraordinary stock of good Nature, who can pity a Blockhead, who is a Wretch by choice.

But secondly, For the Mind to be capable of making Similitudes, it is necessary it should be serene (unless it be transported with that noble Euthusiasm, which delights, illuminates, and exalts the Soul, at the very same time it disturbs it.) For without Serenity a man can never have Penetration enough to discern the Nature of things, which Penetration is absolutely necessary for the making a just Similitude; And it is upon this very account that Aristo­tle says in his Rhetorick, that to be happy in making Similitudes, it is absolutely necessary to be a man of good Sence.

Some of my Friends, to whom I have recited in Con­versation, the substance of what I have here repeated in Writing, have advised me to leave out this unseasonable Similitude, especially since I have made so bold with Ovid, as to insert here and there a Thought of my own. For it is my Lord Roscommon's opinion, that it is much safer to leave out than add. Tho no man pays more deference [Page]to his Judgment than I do, I cannot be of his mind in this. For tho I am not ignorant that a scurvy present, is but a more civil Affront; I cannot but believe it to be less injurious than a Robbery. And if any man should be caught, ipso facto, stripping another upon the Road, it would be but an impudent excuse in him, to alledge that the Cloaths but ill became their Owner. All that I could do here, was by giving this passage another turn, to make that appear in the Copy to be spoken in a short, but down­right Fury, whose fault it was in the original to seem to be spoken with too much Considerateness, and too much Coolness of Temper.

The Author of the Satyrs upon the Jesuits, who has translated this Passion of Byblis, has not meddled with the Catastrophe. Now the Catastrophe was absolutely necessa­ry, that the Story at ending might make a deeper impres­sion: I have therefore contracted it in the last five Lines, but at the same time I have alter'd it. For to make it moving it was necessary to make it credible.

The Transformation of Byblis might do very well in the time of Augustus Caesar. For at that time those Trans­formations were a part of the Roman Religion, and the Poets may be said to be the Secular Priests, who transmit­ted its mysteries to the People. But those transubstantia­ting Doctrines, which were taught in those times by that Harmonious Clergy of the credulous Church of old Rome, would look as absurdly to us as the Chimerical Metamor­phosis, which is pretended to be acted at the very time it is sung in our modern Roman Churches.

I must beg pardon for the Liberty which I have taken in the numbers, which is so great that it may well be entitled License. But then the Reader will have the greater Variety, and if those Numbers are not harmoni­ous, it is not for want of care about them. I have par­ticularly taken care to be exact in the Rimes, in which the former Translators of this passage have been very defective. I am not so miserably mistaken, as to think riming essential to our English Poetry. I am far better acquainted with Milton, than that comes too. Who without the assistance of Rime, is one of the most sublime of our English Poets. Nay, there is something so transcendently sublime in his first, second, and sixth Books, that were the Language as pure as the Images are vast and daring, I do not believe it could be equall'd, no, not in all antiquity. But tho I know that Ri­ming is not absolutely necessary to our Versification, yet I am for having a man do throughly what he has once pretended to do. Writing in blank Verse looks like a contempt of Rime, and a generous disdain of a barba­rous Custom; but Writing in such Rimes as a Boy may laugh at, at Crambo, looks at the best like a fruitless attempt, and an impotent Affectation.

My Lord Roscommon who writ in blank Verse with so much success, yet was nicely exact in Riming, when­ever he pretended to rime. And in the very essay upon translated Verse in which he exclaims against Rime, I [Page]defy any man to show me half a dozen couplets which do not rime exactly.

In short, if riming is ever necessary in so strong and masculine a Language as ours, it must be on these ten­der occasions. For tho I have heard several maintain, that a thing may be expressed as nobly and vigorously in blank Verse, as in Rime; I never yet heard any one pre­tend that it might be expressed as softly. But granting it could, it is yet very certain, that a thing must be much more tender in perfect Rimes, than imperfect. For where the Reader expects a Rime, there jarring sounds must render that harsh, which agreeing sounds would render easie. But then it is necessary that the Rimes should be unconstrained, and no word us'd upon their account in the place where it is not proper.

But since I have mention'd Mr Oldham's performance, in this Translation, I think fit to add further, that I have been told by some, that a great many will never for­give me the attempting it after him. I desire them to consider, that the same Mr. Oldham undertook Horace's Art of Poetry after my Lord Roscommon. Now my Lord Roscommon was Politeness it self. Never man thought more clearly, more truly, more justly than he did; never man express'd himself more fitly and more becomingly. In eve­ry thing that he writ, his Language was as perfect as his Conceptions were often sublime. On every thing that came from him, he has stamp'd the character not only of an exalted [Page]Wit, but of a man of a high Condition, and of a courtly Mind.

If I should affirm that Mr. Oldham had by no means all the good Qualities which are conspicuous in my Lord Roscommon, who is there that must not assent to it? If then I am guilty of presumption in attempting what Mr. Oldham undertook before me, I hope I may be excused by his own example. But if some People yet can resolve to be angry, I must beg them to consider for what. Is it because I have a desire to please them? That methinks is unnatural. Tho I should own, I have an Ambition to give them more Delight than the fore-mentioned Gentle­man has done before me, I cannot see any thing in such a Confession which can reasonably disoblige them. Such an knowledgment ought rather to gain me their Favor, or at least to conquer their Prejudice, especially since 'tis the interest of every Reader to be as candid as the Case will let him be. 'Tis true, a man of sence can never be satisfi'd with a silly thing. But a peevish, unreasonable Caviller, will never be satisfied with any thing. Little considering that by a false delicacy he makes himself pass those moments scurvily, which another perhaps has done his part to make him pass agreeably.

Besides, if I should succeed here, ev'n beyond my wish, I should be very far upon that score, from arrogating Prehe­minence over any man. The following Translation is a trifle, and can never be conclusive of any such thing. To succeed in [Page]it required neither Force nor Genius, but only a Tenderness of Soul (which Mr. Oldham's masculine temper disdain'd) and an extraordinary propensity to that humane frailty, Com­passion; and a certain Felicity which usually accompanies the dictates of the softer Passions. To conclude, I leave it to any one to consider whether a Satyrist, as Mr. Oldham was, at the very time that, inspir'd by a generous rage, he had assum'd a resolution of exposing the Follies, and lashing the Vices of the Age, could be fitly dispos'd to ex­cite Compassion; by setting before our eyes an unfortunate Lady, whose Love was at once her Folly and her Crime.

THE Passion of Byblis.

BRight Nymphs, the Objects of Mankind's Desires,
From Byblis learn t' avoid incestuous Fires:
She Caunus lov'd, with tenderness above
The cold endearments of a Sisters Love.
At first she knew it not, unhappy Maid!
To impious Flames by Piety betraid.
She frequently would kiss the beauteous Boy,
And thought her Duty what she found her Joy.
Her Love for Duty she mistook with ease,
Yet was surpriz'd that Duty thus should please.
Her twining Arms his lovely Neck would clasp,
Fierce was each Kiss, and furious ev'ry Grasp.
Insensibly her Passion gathers force,
And has to Female Stratagems recourse.
About to visit Caunus, e're She goes,
Her skilful Maids her wanton Dress compose;
And all the Ornaments of Art prepare
To set forth all that Heav'n has giv'n the Fair,
Ten thousand Cupids in her Eyes, & Graces in her Air.
Then in her Glass sh' explores what pow'r there lyes,
In a Majestic easie Meen, and lovely glancing Eyes;
Practices Smiles, such by which Souls are caught,
Great, God-like Spirits to dependance brought,
The Magic by the great Enchantress Nature taught.
She envies ev'ry Face that's form'd to please,
And wonders why, not knowing her disease.
So men in Hecticks, wasting for their Urn,
Hourly consume, yet feel not that they burn.
Pent in her inmost Breast the raging Fire,
Had not as yet flam'd up to high desire;
Her Brother, now her Lord, her Dear she names,
And kindred, Love thus tenderly disclaims.
Her Passion now she doubts, yet does controul,
No guilty thought yet stain'd her waking Soul,
On it, with Night, the black pollution stole.
A pleasing Dream t' her side her Brother brings,
With panting Breasts she murmuring to him clings:
Strait in her Face offended Nature flies,
And Blushes dawn around her darkned Eyes,
She wakes, but hush'd & rapt in fearful wonder lies.
Her Dream at once can charm her and torment,
The aery Omen boads some dire Event.
A long time mute she all her Soul surveys,
And then its grief in these wild words displays.
What means the Vision of the guilty Night?
Ah Wretch! What Horror! mix'd with what delight!
Why did that lovely shape break in upon my sight?
'Tis true, ev'n Envy no defect can find,
Or in the Beauties of his Face, or Graces of his mind.
Ev'n Envy can contented on him gaze,
By liking sullenly it self amaze,
And learn to speak a foreign Language, Praise.
The Gods have made him fit to be desir'd,
Have made him by themselves to be admir'd.
But oh! a Brother's once endearing name
Is now the Foe that's fatal to my Flame.
Yet whilst awake I can continue chaste,
May ev'ry golden Dream be like the last.
For what vain Fop the sport of such a Bed
Can idly blab? or what dull Libel spread?
Honor's secure, whilst Pleasure I persue,
And this false bliss is surely worth the true.
Bright Queen of Love, and wing'd delicious Boy
Soft, sweet, and swift as was my flitting Joy;
Into what Heav'n of Rapture was I caught!
Too powerful joys for words, too vast for thought!
By dying Sighs, and broken Murmurs, best
When absent mourn'd, and when enjoy'd exprest.
The Vision did such quick delight dispense,
I sometimes doubt if fancy were not sense.
I felt, perfectly felt, what I adore,
The God-like touch gave bliss unknown before.
Th' immortal Pleasure ran thro all my Frame,
Thro all my Bones, and inmost Marrow came,
That melted and ran pouring down before th' im­petuous Flame.
For ever shall the charming Memory last
Of Transports, which, alas! too quickly past!
For the Malignant Goddess of the Night,
Envying my Bliss, urg'd on her Head-long Flight.
O! could we but dissolve great Nature's tye,
How well we link'd in stricter Bonds might lye?
Who could be fitlier pair'd than thou and I?
As thou no Maid can'st e're transport like me,
Who such high Happiness can give to thee?
Ah Caunus! that we ev'ry Night like this
Might lie entranc'd in vast exstatic Bliss!
Curst be the time when my great Father did
The Deed for me, which I'm with thee forbid;
Would I had been (deriv'd from some poor Swain)
But the most lovesome she upon the Plain:
What Nature must deny me now, the God might then obtain.
Ah! who must ravish'd in thy' Embraces be?
Exalted above Goddesses is she,
Fairest of men! who must b'embrac'd by thee.
I never can that full content enjoy,
Thou Brother! Thou! too dear, too charming Boy!
By being thus far mine, dost all my Hopes destroy.
But what import or what are then my Dreams,
The fond Results of Hypochondriack Steams?
Or do they as divinely' inspir'd presage?
The Gods forbid! The Gods repel this Rage!
The Gods this Fever of my Soul assuage!
Yet Saturn of his Sister made his Bride,
And in incestuous Fires the Thunderer fry'd.
But Gods have high Prerogatives, and they
Who rule the World with Arbitrary Sway
Are unconfin'd by Laws which we obey.
Laws by those happy Beings are disdain'd,
Who would b' imperfect if like us restrain'd.
Then from thy Breast expel these impious Fires,
Tho, with thy Love's, Life's genial Flame expires.
Yes: if all other Methods fail, I'le dye,
Caunus will kiss me as I panting lye,
To his sweet Lips, as to its Heav'n, my parting Soul will fly.
Yet say thou shouldst indulge thy wild Desire,
T' accomplish it does his Consent require.
What you thus wish, and your chief good esteem,
To him may black and execrable seem.
Yet formerly, to quench a Sisters Flame,
Macareus Conscience did contemn, and Fame.
Ah Wretch! hast thou resolv'd upon the Deed?
Whence can these Thoughts? these curst Remarks proceed,
Oh whither am I driv'n! O whither tost!
How in tempestuous Thought my Reason's lost?
Hence ye obscene Flames, ye Furies hence, go dwell
In your own native Soil, profoundest Hell.
Love the sweet Youth, but love without a Fault,
And love him as the kindest Sister ought.
But yet did he thus rave for Byblis, I
Could ne're resolve to see my Caunus dye.
I should Compassion have of him; I sure
Should him, by humoring his frenzy, cure.
Well! if thou shouldst that easy Creature be,
Can'st thou abandon'd be to that degree,
As to speak first? Can'st thou for Favor sue?
Thou art a Virgin, great, and modest too.
Ah! we are modest, but because we're frail,
O're whom does not Almighty Love prevail?
But yet th' expedient which I mean to try,
Shall both with Bashfulness and Love comply.
A Letter shall my troubled thoughts convey,
And by its black Contents my secret Fires betray.
This Resolution fix'd her doubtful Mind,
Then, on her Arm, her lovely Head reclin'd.
Yes, he shall know what torturing pains I feel,
I can no more my desperate case conceal,
Such Frenzy soon would its own cause reveal.
O what infernal flame! What fury's this!
Gods! from what height I plunge, to what abyss!
Eternally farewell, O Honor, Vertue, Bliss!
Then with sad Looks and trembling Hand sh'indites,
Begins and doubts, nay damns what scarce she writes.
Yet to what now she blames, she strait returns;
With Rapture now sh'invents, what now she burns.
Then what this moment to the Flames she dooms,
The next she with a whirl of thought resumes.
Incessantly she turns her fev'rish mind,
Too discompos'd ev'n her own will to find.
Your Sister, (Caunus!) thus at first she wrote,
Ah no! his Lover! Sister thus I blot.
Your Lover sends that health she wants, for I
Unless you give me health, must surely dye.
As for my Name, O let it not be told,
Till promis'd happiness makes Byblis bold!
'Tis she who for you hourly wastes away,
Heeding you might have seen this ev'ry day.
Love ev'ry day still languish'd in my look,
Which colour, health, and sprightly joy forsook.
How often, when no cause of Grief was known,
Have I some inward, deep disturbance shown?
How oft did Tears steal from my mournful Eyes,
And in my Breasts convulsive heavings rise?
Then on a sudden sadness turn'd to rage,
And my wild arms did your soft limbs engage.
As the luxuriant tendrils of the Vine
Around the Flm with wanton windings twine,
My springing arms flew round and lock'd in thine.
And when thy Lips to mine they fiercely brought,
My burning Lips at thine for moisture sought.
No Sisters faint salute! no tasteless Kiss!
But piercing like a Dove's, and murmuring at its bliss.
But yet tho deep, ah deep! the flaming Dart,
Piercing my burning breast, transfix'd my heart,
Alarm'd, like wretches by nocturnal Fire,
And trembling at the terrible desire,
Long time I strove its fury to asswage,
And long time strugling Virtue stopt its rage.
This Truth, O all ye Chaster Powers attest!
Ye saw the fearful conflict in my Breast,
When Honour, Piety, Remorse and Shame,
My very vitals tore t' expel my flame.
In misery grown obstinate, I bore
What never tender Virgin did before.
When what I suffer'd other Maids but hear,
'Twill wound their gentle hearts, and force a tear.
Retreating, long I fought th' unequal field,
But now I turn to conquering Love, and yield.
I here my self his Slave and yours confess,
And cry for mercy in extream distress;
But you alone can my sad state redress.
Her Life who loves you hangs upon your breath,
And upon that alas! depends her Death.
I love to that degree, that neither Gods nor Fate,
If you pronounce my Doom, have pow'r t' extend my date.
My Life or Death determine by your Voice,
Can you deliberate in such a choice?
Can you be proof against such Words as these?
These from the person whom you hate might please.
Me Nature has begun to make your Friend,
What Nature has begun a God must end.
Unsatisfi'd, unblest by Nature's tye,
All Night I languish, and all Day I dye,
Till riveted by Love to your dear Breast I lye.
Let Dotards Slaves to musty Morals be,
Austerities and Impotence agree.
But in us two hot Youth and fierce Desire
To sublime Raptures furiously aspire,
And into right and wrong want leisure to enquire.
Thus young we yet may Innocence pretend,
Or grant we know we Natures bounds transcend
By great examples of our Gods we gloriously offend.
All Letts t' Enjoyment are remov'd by Fate,
Unless it be (forbid it Heav'n!) thy Hate.
No rigorous Parents interpose to break
The assignations we may hourly make.
Our frequent meetings need no scandal fear,
For intimacy's honourable here.
What Spy can our delicious thefts detect?
Who can disclose what none can e're suspect?
Should some bold censurer our conduct blame,
A Brother's and a Sister's awful name,
Would answ'ring stop the sawcy mouths of Fame.
We' in publick kiss, embrace, and whisp'ring walk,
And hand in hand soft melting things we talk.
When two like us in close embraces kiss,
Does there not something use to follow this?
Upon that something (ah how very small!)
Depends my happiness, my life, my all.
Pity a wretch, who thus much dares express,
Who wrack'd by mortal pangs, dares Love confess.
Which, whilst they all my nobler powers controul,
Tear forth the secret of my tortur'd Soul.
If Nature's Law seems broke whilst this you read,
Think that for happiness, for life I plead,
Here Nature's self her Law must supersede.
You surely kill me if unkind you prove,
O barbarous return of boundless Love!
Think how upon my Sepulchre 'twill sound,
How ev'ry Heart thro ev'ry Ear 'twill wound;
Here Byblis lyes, a tender, wretched Maid,
By Caunus for her Love with Death repaid.
Thus all on fire her working Mind indites,
Till ev'ry Page and Margent's full, she writes.
Then she her Crime folds up, and shrowds from Sight,
And sealing, shuts the monstrous birth from Light.
Now she an old Domestic calls by Name,
With accents more than half supprest by Shame.
Thou art my very faithful Servant still,
With secresy and speed perform my Will.
Of this important Letter, here, take care,
On it my Life and Fame depend, go bear —
Here grief and conscious shame her accents smother,
Then after a long sad pause—
Go bear it to, said she, Ah Gods! —my Brother.
Now as she from the fatal Writing parts,
It falls; she trembling at the Omen, stars:
Yet fondly to destruction on she goes.
Her trusty Slave a fit conjuncture chose;
To Caunus his apartment he repairs,
And to the noble Youth the dreadful Secret bears.
Rage, horror, wonder, seiz'd him at the view,
From him the Letter furiously he threw.
Storming, his Hand upon his Sword he lays,
And to the trembling Messenger he says:
Flagitious Pander to incestuous Fires!
Slave! thou shouldst dye, as thy bold crime requires,
Did not the honour of my house and name
Tell me, thy blood, if spilt, would spread our shame.
But quickly from my just resentment fly,
Or that shall yet prevail, and thou shalt dye.
This to the Slave, with a stern brow he said;
He pale at instant death, and shudd'ring, fled,
And with the mortal news struck dying Byblis dead.
An Icy damp, cold as the dart of Death,
Thrill'd thro her throbbing breast & stop'd her breath
Life's flame's o're-pow'r'd in ev'ry other part,
But still Love's fire maintains it at her heart.
As soon as her returning Spirits gave
Just strength to mourn, and sence enough to rave,
With hollow voice the trembling air she wounds,
And softly sighs out these afflicting sounds.
Repell'd! disdain'd! nay, loath'd! could worse befal,
Thy conduct and thy crime deserve it all.
For why hast thou, O wretch, to madness bold!
Thus rashly thy prodigious Secret told?
What Fool would Happiness, Life, Fame commit
To a fond Letter in confusion writ?
Thou shouldst in doubtful terms have first addrest,
Th'uncertain depths have sounded of his Breast.
Fool! thus presumptuously to leave the Shore,
And not the Winds, nor the new Seas explore.
Those Winds now roar, and the mad Seas run high,
And all things round look hideous to my Eye,
A raging Main! and black tempestuous Sky!
To Death I thro surrounding Horrors go,
Now, now the Billows on the Rocks the bounding Vessel throw!
And yet by Omens certain and divine,
Thou wer't forbid to urge thy dire design.
In the pronouncing how the Message hung,
Foreboding Ruine on thy fault'ring Tongue!
Thy Genius whisper'd thee within, beware!
And from without some God cry'd out, forbear!
Thy Letter by immortal impulse fell,
As thou deliver'd'st it (thou sawst it well)
The Paper, mov'd by some eternal mind,
Th' accursed Errant by its flight declin'd:
O had thy Hope together fled! but Fate thy Doom design'd.
Thy purpose else, by portents thus deterr'd,
Thou hadst giv'n o're: giv'n o're? ah no! deferr'd.
Who knows? upon some happier day perhaps thou hadst been heard.
And yet would any one but thou have sent,
When all thus lay at stake? thou shouldst have went.
He from thy Lines not half thy sense could know,
Thy Eyes thy Love in all its Fury show.
H' had seen those dying Eyes, and such a Look,
As might a fell Barbarians Soul have shook.
H' had heard the tender'st things, and in a tone
That's fit t' express a dying Lovers moan.
Round his reluctant Neck my Arms I'd flung,
And to his Breast with strange Convulsions clung.
Then prostrate at his Feet h'had seen me lying,
There groaning, trembling, fainting, swooning, dying.
If one of these to move his Heart had fail'd,
His barbarous Heart, they all had sure prevail'd.
Perhaps thy Servant caus'd thy ill success,
By hasty management without address.
He might absurdly chuse some busy hour,
Too rude and harsh for Love's soft tender pow'r.
Therefore he fail'd the noble Youth to move,
Can one who has those Eyes inexorable prove?
His Breast's of no impenetrable mold,
No Adamantine Bars his Heart infold.
He did not from a Tygress spring, no he
Sprung from the same soft yielding Nymph with me.
Come, he must yet be mine, I'le try once more,
Once more? a thousand times, I'le ne're give o're.
True, I could wish, if Actions once begun,
By empty wishes were to be undone.
Then could I wish, I never had indulg'd
This luckless Love, at least had ne're divulg'd.
But since what's past ev'n Fate can ne're recall,
now must through, whate're extreams befall.
He'll think if I thus lightly could disclaim,
I lightly entertain'd th' incestuous Flame.
Perhaps he may suspect some close design,
His Int'rest with his Fame to undermine.
That specious baits were for his Virtue laid,
To be to public Infamy betray'd.
He'll fancy this some common, base desire,
Whereas the God the God these Ravings does inspire.
His wrathful breath incenses thus my Blood,
Drives on the liquid Fire, and rowls the stormy Flood.
Shouldst thou desist? the horrid crime's conceiv'd,
And Innocence can never, never be retriev'd.
Thy Guilt has reach'd a very dreadful height,
What? so much Guilt? and for it no Delight?
Advancing, little can thy Guilt inhaunce,
And to the vast Delight of Gods it Byblis may advance.
Thus as some ease upon her Bed she sought,
Her lab'ring Fancy to Distraction wrought,
Tossing, she fluctuates in tempestuous thought.
Her sickly mind oppos'd designs revolves,
What it repents of to repeat resolves.
Her Brother obstinately she persues,
Often repuls'd, she oft th' Assault renews.
Her Flame, that found these stops, more fiercely burn'd,
But at the last to meer Distraction turn'd.
Poor, hapless Beauty! once thy conqu'ring Eyes
Could boast the noblest Carian Hearts their Prize,
Now mad she lies in solitude, on Caunus raves and dyes.

Annotations

P. 5. WOuld I had been (deriv'd from some poor Swain,) &c.

The Latin is, Tu me vellem generosior esses.

Mr. Oldham renders, it thus. ‘Would thou wert noble, I more meanly born’ He makes her give this reason for her Wish, vid. ‘Then guiltless I'd despair'd, and suffer'd Scorn.’

Whereas the reason that I make her give is just opposite to it, vid. Then I might guiltless have enjoyed my Caunus. Ovid expresses no reason, but implies one; for there is something Pindarical in the sense of the passage, and the Connexion is left to be made by the Rea­der, as we shall find anon. In the mean while let us see, whither Mr. Oldham's reason or mine is that of Ovid. To discover which let us consider, which is most agreeable to good sense, and the nature of her Passion, and most suitable to the Design of the Poet. It does not seem to me to be consistent with good sense, to make Byblis, who so vehemently desir'd to enjoy her Brother, and who at the same time saw the impossibility of it, and felt the Plague of Despair, wish that she had been of a more obscure Descent, rather than of her Brother's illustrious Stock; only that with the same vehement desire she might have the same Despair. Nor does this seem to be consistent with the Nature of Love. For they who are throughly seiz'd with that Passion, place all their Felicity in the beloved Object, and even in Despair most ardently desire Possession. And such can no more wish to be in a Condition of Life, that might render them incapable of enjoying what they love, than any man or woman can truly wish to be miserable. It [Page 23]had been therefore more consonant to good sense, and the Nature of her Passion, to make her speak thus. Had my Birth been more lowly, and I had been tormented with the same desire, tho there had been then an improbability of satisfying it, yet considering what a Leveller Love is, there had not been then, as there is now, an absolute impossibility of innocently enjoying my Caunus. To discover if this be not Ovid's sense, I think fit with this passage to cite what immediately precedes and follows.

O ego, si liceat mutato nomine jungi,
Quam bene, Caune, tuo poteram nurus esse Parenti!
Quam bene, Caune, meo poteras gener esse Parenti!
Omnia Dii facerent essent communia nobis
Praeter avos, tu me vellem generosior esses.
Nescio quam facies igitur pulcherrime matrem

That is to say, Could we but dissolve the bonds of Nature, how well we might be joyn'd in stricter! I wish that having every thing else in common, we had at least a different Lineage; would I had been inferior to Caunus, rather than thus have been equal to him. But alas! this is but a vain wish, and therefore another must be the happy she who must possess all that I languish for. I believe this will be allow'd to be a just explication of Ovid 's sense. For the last verse by the word igitur must necessarily be an inference, from something expressed or implied in the last but one. Now that which is implied can be nothing but this. If you had been of a dif­ferent Parentage, tho you had been more nobly descended, yet there had then been a possibility (such is the force of Love) of my being blest in innocently possessing you; which possibility now is destroyed by Relation. Therefore another, &c. Besides, if we do but consider, that every thing that precedes and follows Byb­lis's wish, that her Brother had been more nobly descended, appears plainly to be spoke out of a furious desire of enjoying him; we. need make no doubt but that very wish too proceeds from the same desire.

P. 7. To his sweet Lips as to its Heaven, &c.

This is not the thought of Ovid. Mr. Sands has touch'd upon it, but very faintly. Mr. Oldham has kept wide of it. But because no thought that can ever be substituted, can make amends for that of the original, I think my self obliged to do Ovid that Justice as to insert it here. The Latin is thus then.

Aut nostro vetitus de corde fugabitur ardor,
Aut hoc si nequeo, peream precor ipsa, toro (que)
Mortua componar; positae (que) det oscula frater.

That is to say, Either I will expel this incestuous Love from my Breast, or dye in the attempt, and be laid out on the mournful Herse. One would have thought that there had been an end of her and her Passion, when by an admirable and surprizing return of it, she immediately adds, positae (que) det oscula Frater. Let my Bro­ther embrace me as Flie sensless there. So that here she seems to make provision for her Passion, against a time when it can be no more, to anticipate the satisfaction of her Brother's embracing her in the moment in which she cannot be sensible of it, and, by imagination in the same sentence, to extend her love beyond that death by which she propounds to end it. This is indeed livelily to paint the extream disorder of a violent and irregular Passion. But what Hand must give us a copy of so divine an original? Who must not despair of imita­ting successfully the wonderful celerity of this incomparable turn?

P. 12
All Lets t'enjoyment, &c. The Latin is,
Nec nos aut durus Pater aut reverentia famae
Aut Timor impediet.

Mr. Oldham has render'd it thus. [Page 25]

Let neither Awe of Fathers Frowns, nor Shame
For ought that can be told by blabbing Fame,
Nor any Ghastlier fantom Fear can frame
Frighten or stop us, in the way to Bliss.

So that he makes Byblis start several difficulties enough to frighten her Brother, if he were inclin'd to complyance, and then exhorts him to go on in spight of them. Whereas the design of Ovid, is to make her answer such Objections as may probably be made by Caunus. The things that can chiefly be objected in such a case are two, viz. The Rigor of Parents, and Apprehension of Infamy. Now neither of these have reason to frighten us. For says she, Dulcia fraterno sub nomine furta tegemus. That is, we shall conceal our incestuous Love under the disguise of fraternal Affection, and tho we appear ne­ver so fond to our Parents, and the rest of the World, they will be ra­ther apt to extol our Piety, than to arraign our Incest. But this Verse, Dulcia, &c. which Byblis speaks as a reason for what pre­ceded it, looks in Mr. Oldham like the Introduction of a new Propo­sition.

P. 19
Come he must yet be mine, &c.

The Latin is.

Vincetur: repetendus erit, nec taedia coepti
Ulla mei capiam, dum spiritus iste manebit.

Mr. Oldham has rendered it thus.

Alive I'll pray, till Breath in Prayers be lost,
And after come a kind beseeching Ghost.

Where he pushes Ovid's thought a little too far, and indeed be­yond the bounds of good sense. 'Tis true, I have met with some Gen­tlemen, who admire this passage very much, as something forsooth [Page 26]very soft, But like will to like, says the Proverb. For indeed those Gentlemen may be said to be soft with a vengeance, I would fain ask them one question. For what should this poor Ghost come a begging? For the Charity of the Flesh? That would be very pleasant. And yet the Charity of the Flesh is certainly the business in question.

P. 20.
He'll think if thus, &c.

The Latin is.

Vel quia desierim, leviter voluisse videbor.

Which Mr. Oldham renders thus.

Should I desist, 'twill be believ'd that I,
By slightly asking, taught him to deny.

I wonder that a man of Mr. Oldham's Sense and Learning should mistake leviter voluisse for slightly asking. By which mistake he has run himself upon two absurdities. For first he puts a sentiment into the mouth of Byblis, that is altogether base, and unworthy of a Wo­man of Honor, as if she were afraid of not being thought impudent enough, or of not being thought in good earnest. Secondly, he makes her bring that as an argument for persisting in her design, which is directly conclusive of the contrary. For what she says, in Prose, and in plain English, is this. If I should now conquer this Passion, and grow once more the vertuous Byblis, I am afraid the World, who may come to know what a civil Request I made to my Bro­ther, and afterwards took the very first Denial, I am afraid this ill-natur'd World will believe that I was but in jest. Truly a very pleasant and very reasonable Fear. But what does she call slightly asking? The sending such a Letter as hers? For my part I know but one way she had to put the business more home to him. This cannot be the sense of Ovid. For tho. Ovid is not the justest man in the World in his thinking, (for justness is not his Talent) yet he seldom thinks so preposterously, nor could Mr. Oldham have done it, if he had not writ this in a hurry. By leviter voluisse then is meant not [Page 27]slightly to have asked, but lightly to have inclin'd my Will; and then the meaning has not only something very sensible in it, but very extra­ordinary and very noble. For thus Byblis is made to assert her Honor, by her very persisting in a most execrable crime, for now the sense runs thus. If I should now upon this first Repulse give over, then men will reasonably conclude, that since it was in my power so soon to desist, it was in my power not to have given way to this Passion at first; and that she who could so easily stop its progress, might much more easily have prevented its very beginning; and con­sequently the advances which I have made to my Brother, will be imputed rather to my natural inclination to such horrible Wick­edness, or some strange and base infirmity in me, than the force of a Passion inflicted by an offended God. But if after having shown so much Remorse, and so much Reluctancy, I still persist, notwithstanding that Remorse, notwithstanding that Reluctancy, nay notwithstanding Despair; why then my Brother and all the World must acknowledge that Byblis is not to blame; but that since she does what doing she disapproves, and sollicits a Vice, the very thought of which strikes her with Horror, it is demon­strably evident that her Passion is supernatural; and is not actu­ated by her own Will, but some more sublime, some eternal prin­ciple which Mortals in vain resist.

FINIS.

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