Page:Virgil's Pastorals, Georgics and Aeneis - Dryden (1709) - volume 1.pdf/282

126 Sharp tasted Citrons Median Climes produce: Bitter the Rind, but gen'rous is the Juice: A cordial Fruit, a present Antidote Against the direful Stepdam's deadly Draught: Who mixing wicked Weeds with Words impure, The Fate of envy'd Orphans wou'd procure. Large is the Plant, and like a Laurel grows, And did it not a diff'rent Scent disclose, A Laurel were: the fragrant Flow'rs contemn The stormy Winds, tenacious of their Stem. With this the Medes, to lab'ring Age, bequeath New Lungs, and cure the sourness of the Breath.
 * But neither Median Woods, (a plenteous Land,)

Fair Ganges, Hermus rolling Golden Sand, Nor Bactria, nor the richer Indian Fields, Nor all the Gummy Stores Arabia yields; Nor any foreign Earth of greater Name, Can with sweet Italy contend in Fame. No Bulls, whose Nostrils breath a living Flame, Have turn'd our Turf, no Teeth of Serpents here Were sown, an armed Host, and Iron Crop to bear. But fruitful Vines, and the fat Olives fraight, And Harvests heavy with their fruitful weight, Adorn our Fields; and on the chearful Green, The grazing Flocks and lowing Herds are seen. The Warrior Horse, here bred, is taught to train, There flows Clitumnus thro' the flow'ry Plain;