Odes 2.17 (Creech): Cur Me Querelis

WHy am I kill'd with thy Complaint?
'Tis more than any God will grant,
'Tis more, my Lord, than I can bear;
That you on whom my hopes rely,
That you my great support should dy,
And leave thy Melancholly Horace here:

Did you my better half decay
For what should I, the other, stay?
What comfort could compose my Mind
When neither whole, nor yet so dear
I should be doom'd to linger here,
And feel my worser part still left behind?

The same black Day shall seize on both,
It is a fixt, and Solemn Oath,
Wee'l go, I've Sworn, We both will go;
Tho you may first begin the Race,
I'le follow with a nimble pace,
And joyn you e're you reach the Waves below:

Did fierce Chimera dart her fire,
To make my frighted Soul retire,
Yet still I would attend you State;
Tho hundred handed Gyas Rose,
In vain should all his strength oppose,
For Justice bids, and 'tis approv'd by Fate:

What ever Star did at my Birth prevail,
Whether my Fate was weigh'd in Libra's Scale,
Or Fatal Scorpio's Beams did shine;
Or Capricorn's disturbing Rays
Those Tyrants of the Western Seas,
'Tis Strange how much your Stars consent with mine:

From Saturn's fatal influence
Jove's milder Rays were your defence,
He clog'd the Wings of hasty Death;
When thrice with an auspicious voice
The States of Rome proclaim'd their joys,
And with their own supply'd their fading Breath:

My Head had felt a falling Oak,
But Faunus did divert the stroak;
Faunus, the Witts kind guardian God,
The Shrine you vow'd the Gods prepare,
Let offer'd Bulls reward their Care:
For me a Lamb shall shed his meaner Blood.