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O tyrant! with what justice canst thou hope 
The promise of the year, a plenteous crop, 
When thou destroy'st thy laboring steer, who till'd. 
And plough'd with pains, thy else ungrateful field? 
From his yet reeking neck to draw the yoke, 
That neck, with which the furly clods he broke; 
And to the hatchet yield thy husbandman, 
Who finish'd autumn, and the spring began! 
Nor this alone! but Heav’n itself to bribe, 
We to the gods our impious acts ascribe: 
First recompense with death their tedious toil; 
Then call the bless’d above to share the spoil: 
The fairest victim must the pow’rs appease, 
(So fatal 'tis sometimes too much to please!) 
A purple fillet his broad brows adorns, 
With flow'ry garlands crown'd, and gilded horns: 
He hears the murd’rous pray'r the priest prefers, 
But understands not, 'tis his doom he hears: 
Beholds the meal betwixt his temples cast, 
(The fruit and product of his labours past;) 
And in the water views perhaps the knife 
Uplifted to deprive him of his life; 
Then broken up alive, his entrails sees 
Torn out, for priests t' inspect the gods' decrees. 
From whence, O mortal men, this gust of blood 
Have you deriv’d, and interdicted food? 
Be taught by me this dire delight to shun, 
Warn'd by my precepts, by my practice won: 
And when you eat the well-deserving beast, 
Think, on the lab’rour of your field you feast! 
Now, since the god inspires me to proceed, 
Be that, whate’er inspiring pow'r, obey'd. 
For I will sing of mighty mysteries, 
Of truths conceal'd before, from human ejms, 
Dark oracles unveil, and open all the skies. 
Pleas'd as I am to walk along the sphere 
Of shining stars, and travel with the year, 
To leave the heavy earth, and scale the height 
Of Atlas , who supports the heavy weight; 
To look from upper light, and thence survey 
Mistaken mortals wandering from the way, 
And wanting wisdom, fearful for the state 
Of future things, and trembling at their fate! 
Those I would teach; and by right reason bring 
To think of death , as but an idle thing. 
Why thus affrighted at an empty name, 
A dream of darkness, and fictitious fame? 
Vain themes of w r it, which but in poems pass, 
And fables of a world that never was! 
What feels the body, when the soul expires, 
By time corrupted, or consum'd by fires? 
Nor dies the spirit , but new life repeats 
In other forms, and only changes seats. 
Then, death , so call'd, is but old matter dress'd, 
In some new figure, and a vary’d vest: 
