Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Horace, Ode 1.22

Integer vitae scelerisque purus
non eget Mauris iaculis neque arcu
nec venenatis gravida sagittis,
Fusce, pharetra,

sive per Syrtis iter aestuosas
sive facturus per inhospitalem
Caucasum vel quae loca fabulosus
lambit Hydaspes.

Namque me silva lupus in Sabina,
dum meam canto Lalagen et ultra
terminum curis vagor expeditis,
fugit inermem;

quale portentum neque militaris
Daunias latis alit aesculetis
nec Iubae tellus generat, Ieonum
arida nutrix.

Pone me pigris ubi nulla campis
arbor aestiva recreatur aura,
quod latus mundi nebulae malusque
Iuppiter urget;

pone sub curru nimium propinqui
solis in terra domibus negata:
dulce ridentem Lalagen amabo,
dulce loquentem.

He who is upright in life and pure of sin
does not need Moorish javelins nor bow
nor a quiver swollen with poisonous
arrows, Fuscus,

whether a journey must be made through the burning
Syrtes or through the inhospitable Caucasus
or the places which the famous
Hydaspes washes.

On the other hand, in the Sabine forest, while I
am singing of my Lalage and wandering beyond my
border free from cares, a wolf flees
me, unarmed;

such a omen as warlike Apulia does not
support in the wide oak forests
and the land of Juba does not produce, dry
nurse of lions.

Put me in lazy fields where no
tree is restored by a summer breeze,
the side of the world which clouds and bad
weather presses;

put me under the chariot of the too-near
sun, in a land denied houses:
I will love Lalage sweetly laughing,
sweetly speaking.


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