Wednesday, February 23, 2011

Horace, Ode 1.17

Velox amoenum saepe Lucretilem
mutat Lycaeo Faunus et igneam
defendit aestatem capellis
usque meis pluviosque ventos.

Impune tutum per nemus arbutos
quaerunt latentis et thyma deviae
olentis uxores mariti,
nec viridis metuunt colubras

nec Martialis haediliae lupos,
utcumque dulci, Tyndari, fistula
valles et Usticae cubantis
levia personuere saxa.

Di me tuentur, dis pietas mea
et Musa cordi est; hinc tibi copia
manabit ad plenum benigno
ruris honorum opulenta cornu.

Hic in reducta valle Caniculae
vitabis aestus, et fide Teia
dices laborantis in uno
Penelopen vitreamque Circen;

hic innocentis pocula Lesbii
duces sub umbra, nec Semeleius
cum Marte confundet Thyoneus
proelia, nec metues protervum

suspecta Cyrum, ne male dispari
incontinentis iniciat manus
et scindat haerentem coronam
crinibus immeritamque vestem.

Swift Faunus often exchanges
pleasant Lucretilus for Lycaeus and
always wards off the summer heat and
rainy winds from my goats.

The wandering wives of smelly husbands
harmlessly search through the safe forest
for the hidden strawberry trees and thyme,
the kids fear neither green serpents

nor Martial wolves,
whenever, Tyndareus, the sloping Ustican valley
and smooth stones have echoed
with the sweet pipe.

The gods watch over me, my piety
is dear to the gods and Muses; here, for you,
a rich plenty will flow to the full
from an abundant horn of the honors of the country.

Here in a valley set back you will avoid
the heat of Canicula , and on a Tean string
you will speak of those in distress for one man,
Penelope and glassy Circes;

here you will slowly drink cups of harmless
Lesbian wine under the shade, neither will
Thyoneus son of Semele pour out battles
with Mars, nor will you being suspected

fear headstrong Cyrus, lest he throws
a violent hand on you badly unequal
and tears the crown sticking to the hairs
and the undeserving garment.

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