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There are whose one employment 'tis to celebrate the city
Of Pallas the immaculate with never-ending ditty,
And first of leaves culled anywhere, to rank the olive leaf.
In Juno's honour yet again are many who, in chief
Extol Mycenae opulent, or Argos-rich in horse.
Me patient Lacedaemon struck not with so much of force,
Nor did Larissa's fertile plain so much my fancy take,
As does my residence beside Albunea's plashing lake,
And beside headlong Anio, and the Tiburtian grove,
And apple orchards wet with rills that through the
furrows rove.

As oftentimes the clear south wind sweeps from the darkened sky

The misty clouds, and storms of rain breeds not perpetually,

E'en so to wisely put an end in bowls of mellow wine To doleful thoughts and cares of life, be not thou, Plancus mine,

Ever forgetful, whether thou within the camp abide, Where standards glisten, or amidst the thickset shades


Of thine own Tibur. Teucer, when from Salamis he fled, And from his father Telamon, still not the less, 'tis said, With coronet of poplar leaves his wine-bathed temples bound,

And thus addressed the saddened friends that still with him he found:

'O comrades and associates, go will we wheresoe'ér Fortune, than parent kindlier, our devious course may steer,

Sunt quibus unum opus est, intactae Palladis urbem

Carmine perpetuo celebrare, et

Undique decerptam fronti praeponere olivam.

Plurimus, in Junonis honorem,

Aptum dicet equis Argos, ditesque Mycenas.
Me nec tam patiens Lacedaemon,

Nec tam Larissae percussit campus opimae,
Quam domus Albuneae resonantis,

Et praeceps Anio, et Tiburni lucus, et uda
Mobilibus pomaria rivis.

Albus ut obscurò deterget nubila caelo
Saepe Notus, neque parturit imbres

Perpetuos: sic tu sapiens finire memento

Tristitiam vitaeque labores

Molli, Plance, mero: seu te fulgentia signis

Castra tenent, seu densa tenebit

Tiburis umbra tui. Teucer Salamina patremque

Cùm fugeret, tamen uda Lyaeo

Tempora populea fertur vinxisse corona;

Sic tristes affatus amicos:

Quo nos cunque feret melior fortuna parente,
Ibimus, socii comitesque:

With Teucer augur, Teucer guide, despair ye not of


For thus with steadfast promise 'twas unerring Phoebus


A new-found island shall become a rival Salamis.

O gallant heroes, who with me have harder things

than this

Ofttimes endured, with generous wine dispel your

sorrows now:

To-morrow yet again will we far-stretching ocean plough.'

Commentators have vainly endeavoured to guess what particular youth is here represented under the name of Sybaris. No doubt there were plenty at Rome in Horace's time whom the cap offered by him would have very well fitted.

SAY, Lydia, pr'ythee, why 'tis

Your love to ruin hurries Sybaris!

Patient of dust and sun,

Wherefore does he the sultry drill-ground shun?

Wherefore, in martial guise,

Rides he not with his peers, nor jagged bit tries

On Gallic mouths? Why fears

To bathe in yellow Tiber? Why appears

More heedful to elude

The athlete's unguent than the viper's blood?

Why does he never now

Arms, black and blue by wearing armour, show?—

Nil desperandum Teucro duce, et auspice Teucro:

Certus enim promisit Apollo,

Ambiguam tellure nova Salamina futuram.

O fortes, pejoraque passi

Mecum saepe viri, nunc vino pellite curas;

Cras ingens iterabimus aequor.


LYDIA, dic, per omnes

Te deos oro, Sybarin cur properas amando
Perdere; cur apricum

Oderit campum, patiens pulveris atque solis?

Cur neque militaris

Inter aequales equitat, Gallica nec lupatis

Temperat ora frenis?

Cur timet flavum Tiberim tangere? Cur olivum
Sanguine viperino

Cautius vitat? neque jam livida gestat armis

He, once full oft renowned

For quoit or dart despatched beyond the bound!

Why hides he, as they say

Did marine Thetis' son near Troy's sad day

Of doom, whom male attire

Would force on Lycian hosts and carnage dire?

An adaptation of a drinking song by Alcaeus, a fragment of which has been preserved by Athenaeus.

SEEST thou how whitened with deep-lying snow
Soracte stands? and how the forests bow,
Straining beneath the weight? and how the force
Of piercing frost stays rivers in their course?
Heap logs upon the fire, to thaw the cold;
Heap freely; and of wine, the four-year old,
Be liberal, O Thaliarch, and produce
A two-eared Sabine flagon of the juice.
The rest leave to the gods, at whose decree
The winds that battled with the foaming sea
Were at the instant hushed, and motionless
Are the old ash-trees now, and cypresses.
From asking what to-morrow brings, refrain;
What day soe'er thy lot may give, as gain
Account; and look not, boy, askance
On sweet amours, nor on the circling dance.
As long as from thy strength morose old age
Still stands aloof, in martial sports engage,

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