Saepe trans finem jaculo nobilis expedito? Quid latet, ut marinae
Filium dicunt Thetidis sub lacrimosa Trojae Funera, ne virilis
Cultus in caedem et Lycias proriperet catervas?
VIDES, ut alta stet nive candidum Soracte, nec jam sustineant onus Silvae laborantes, geluque
Flumina constiterint acuto ? Dissolve frigus, ligna super foco Large reponens; atque benignius Deprome quadrimum Sabina,
O Thaliarche, merum diota. Permitte divis cetera: qui simul Stravere ventos aequore fervido Deproeliantes, nec cupressi,
Nec veteres agitantur orni. Quid sit futurum cras, fuge quaerere: et Quem sors dierum cunque dabit, lucro Appone: nec dulces amores
Sperne puer, neque tu choreas,
Donec virenti canities abest
Morosa. Nunc et campus, et areae,
And let soft whispers, oftentimes, at night In the still hours, thy whisperings requite, When welcome laughter from her inner lair, Has told thee of the hoyden hiding there, And fondling arms of love-pledge are divested From fingers, that but feign to hold it, wrested.
This also is supposed to be an imitation of a poem of Alcaeus.
MERCURY, grandson eloquent of Atlas, Who the rude ways didst of mankind primeval Skilfully form, instructing them in speech and Graces palaestric;
Thee will I sing, of mighty Jove the legate, And of all gods; thee the curved lyre's inventor, Cunning to hide whatsoe'er take thy fancy, Sportively stealing.
Thee, a boy yet, while harsh in tone he threatened, Shouldest thou not bring back his stolen oxen, Robbed of his quiver also, into laughter
'Twas with thee guiding him that wealthy Priam Fleeing from Troy, the haughty sons of Atreus Duped, and the Phthian watch, and foes encamped round Ilium's rampart.
Lenesque sub noctem susurri Composita repetantur hora; Nunc et latentis proditor intimo Gratus puellae risus ab angulo, Pignusque dereptum lacertis, Aut digito male pertinaci.
MERCURI, facunde nepos Atlantis, Qui feros cultus hominum recentúm Voce formâsti catus, et decorae More palaestrae :
Te canam, magni Jovis et deorum Nuntium, curvaeque lyrae parentem ; Callidum, quidquid placuit, jocoso Condere furto.
Te boves olim nisi reddidisses
Per dolum amotas, puerum minaci Voce dum terret, viduus pharetra Risit Apollo.
Quin et Atridas, duce te, superbos, Ilio dives Priamus relicto,
Thessalosque ignes, et iniqua Trojae Castra fefellit.
Thou in their mansions of delight installest Pious men's souls, the airy throng directing With thy gold wand-approved by Gods supernal And by infernal.
Fortune-telling would seem to have been much in vogue at Rome in Horace's time, and Chaldeans its chief professors.
DON'T ask ('tis forbidden to know) what will be The bound set by the gods, or for you, or for me, Nor yet, my Leuconoë, try to explore
Babylonian cyphers: for, trust me, there's more Of sense shown in bearing whate'er may betide, Whether many more winters Jove yet may provide, Or this-which on barriers of pumice has cast The broken Tyrrhenian sea-be our last.
Be wise, rack your wine, and from life's narrow scope Cut away the delusion of far-reaching hope. E'en now, while we speak, spiteful time slips away: Don't believe in the future, lay hold on to-day.
Tu pias laetis animas reponis Sedibus, virgaque levem coërces Aurea turbam, superis deorum Gratus, et imis.
Tu ne quaesiêris (scire nefas) quem mihi, quem tibi Finem dî dederint, Leuconoë; nec Babylonios Tentâris numeros. Ut melius, quidquid erit, pati! Seu plures hiemes, seu tribuit Juppiter ultimam, Quae nunc oppositis debilitat pumicibus mare Tyrrhenum. Sapias, vina liques, et spatio brevi Spem longam reseces. Dum loquimur, fugerit invida Aetas carpe diem, quàm minimum credula postero.
« ForrigeFortsæt » |