^{translated from the Latin by John Dryden}

Thus every Creature, and of every Kind,
The secret Joys of sweet Coition find:
Not only Man’s Imperial Race; but they
That wing the liquid Air, or swim the Sea,
Or haunt the Desert, rush into the flame:
For Love is Lord of all; and is in all the same.
’Tis with this rage, the Mother Lion stung,
Scours o’re the Plain; regardless of her young:
Demanding Rites of Love, she sternly stalks;
And hunts her Lover in his lonely Walks.
’Tis then the shapeless Bear his Den forsakes;
In Woods and Fields a wild destruction makes.
Boars whet their Tusks; to battle Tygers move;
Enrag’d with hunger, more enrag’d with love.
Then wo to him, that in the desert Land
Of Lybia travels, o’re the burning Sand.
The Stallion snuffs the well-known Scent afar;
And snorts and trembles for the distant Mare:
Nor bitts nor Bridles, can his rage restrain;
And rugged Rocks are interpos’d in vain.

He makes his way o’re Mountains, and contemns
Unruly Torrents, and unfoorded Streams.
The bristled Boar, who feels the pleasing wound,
New grinds his arming Tusks, and digs the ground.
The sleepy Leacher shuts his little Eyes;
About his churning Chaps the frothy bubbles rise:
He rubs his sides against a Tree; prepares
And hardens both his Shoulders for the Wars.

Lur’d by some Captain’s smooth address,

His scarlet coat and roguish face,

One Half-A-Joe on drum-head laid,

A tavern-treat—and reckoning paid;

See yonder simple lad consign’d

To slavery of the basest kind.

With only skill to drive a plough

a musquet he must handle now;

Must twirl there and twirl it there

Now on the ground, no in the air:

Its every motion by some rule

Of practice, taught in Frederick’s school, *

Must be directed—nicely true—

Or he be beaten black—and blue.

A sergeant, rais’d from cleaning shoes

May now this country lad abuse:—

On meager fare grown poor and lean,

He treats him like a mere machine,

Directs his look, directs his step,

And kicks him into decent shape,

From aukward habit frees the clown,

Erects his head—or knocks him down,

Last Friday week to Battery-Green

The sergeant came with this Machine—

One motion of the firelock miss’d—

The Tutor thump’d him with his fist:

I saw him lift his hickory cane,

I heard poor Jeffery’s head complain!—

Yet this—and more—’s forc’d to bear;

And this goes on from year to year,

’Till desperate grown at such a lot,

He drinks—deserts—and so is shot!

^{°The Prussian manual exercise.}