Friday, March 11, 2011

Horace, Ode 1.25

Parcius iunctas quatiunt fenestras
iactibus crebris iuvenes protervi,
nec tibi somnos adimunt, amatque
ianua limen,

quae prius multum facilis movebat
cardines. Audis minus et minus iam:
"Me tuo longas pereunte noctes
Lydia, dormis?"

Invicem moechos anus arrogantis
flebis in solo levis angiportu,
Thracio bacchante magis sub inter-
lunia vento,

cum tibi flagrans amor et libido,
quae solet matres furiare equorum,
saeviet circa iecur ulcerosum,
non sine questu,

laeta quod pubes hedera virenti
gaudeat pulla magis atque myrto,
aridas frondes hiemis sodali
dedicet Euro.

The bold young men less often shake
your joined windows with frequent throwings,
nor do they steal slumbers from you, and the door
loves the threshold,

which earlier was moving its hinges more
easily. You hear less and less now:
"With me wasting away long nights for you,
Lydia, you sleep?"

In turn a weak old woman you will cry for
arrogant adulterers in a lonely alley,
with the Thracian wind reveling more
on moonless nights,

when love and desire blazes for you,
such as is accustomed to madden the mothers of horses,
it will rage around your inflamed liver,
not without complaint,

because happy youth rejoices with the green ivy
more than the somber myrtle,
and dedicates the dry leaves to Euro,
the companion of winter.

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