"Traitor! dost thou, dost thou to grace pretend, Clad, as thou art, in trophies of my friend? 1371 To his sad soul a grateful off'ring go!

'Tis Pallas, Pallas gives this deadly blow.”

He rais'd his arm aloft, and, at the word,

Deep in his bosom drove the shining sword.

The streaming blood distain'd his arms around;

1375

And the disdainful soul came rushing through the

wound.

POSTSCRIPT

TO THE

READER.

WHAT Virgil wrote in the vigour of his age, in plenty and at ease, I have undertaken to translate in my declining years; struggling with wants, oppressed with sickness, curbed in my genius, liable to be misconstrued in all I write; and my judges, if they are not very equitable, already prejudiced against me, by the lying character which has been given them of my morals. Yet, steady to my principles, and not dispirited with my afflictions, I have, by the blessing of God on my endeavours, overcome all difficulties, and, in some measure, acquitted myself of the debt which I owed the public when I undertook this work. In the first place, therefore, I thankfully acknowledge to the Almighty Power the assistance he has given me in the beginning, the prosecution, and conclusion, of my pre