Horace, Ode 2.12

Nolis longa ferae bella Numantiae

nec durum Hannibalem nec Siculum mare

Poeno purpureeum sanguine mollibus

aptari citharae modis,

nec saevos Lapithas et nimium mero

Hylaeum domitosque Herculea manu

Telluris iuvenes, unde periculum

fulgens contremuit domus

Saturni veteris; tuque pedestribus

dices historiis proelia Caesaris,

Maecenas, melius ductaque per vias

regum colla minacium.

Me dulcis dominae Musa Licymniae

cantus, me voluit dicere lucidum

fulgentis oculos et bene mutuis

fidum pectus amoribus;

quam nec ferre pedem dedecuit choris

nec certare ioco nec dare bracchia

ludentem nitidis virginibus sacro

Dianae celebris die.

Num tu quae tenuit dives Achaemenes

aut pinguis Phyrgiae Mygdonias opes

permutare velis crine Licymniae,

plenas aut Arabum domos,

cum flagrantia detorquet ad oscula

cervicem, aut facili saevitia negat,

quae poscente magis gaudeat eripi,

interdum rapere occupet?

You would not want the long wars of wild Numantia

nor hard Hannibal nor the Sicilian sea

to be made purple by Punic blood

by a lyre with sweet measures,

nor the savage Lapiths and Hylaeus with too much

wine and the sons of Earth conquered by

Herculean hand, whence the house

of ancient Saturn trembles at

the flashing danger; and you, Maecenas, can better

tell the battles of Caesar in historical prose,

and the necks of threatening kings led

through the streets.

The Muse wished me to say the sweet songs

to mistress Licymnia, to speak (of/about) her eyes brightly

shining and her heart well faithful

to mutual loves;

she who had not been unsuited to bear her foot with the choruses

nor to fight with a joke nor to give her arms,

playing with the shining maidens on the sacred

day of festive Diana.

For would you wish to exchange the riches which

Achaemenes holds or the Mygdonian wealth of

fertile Phrygia for a hair of Licymnia,

or the full Arabic homes,

when she bends her neck to your burning

kisses, or she refuses, with easy rage,

the kisses which, more than a woman demanding,

she rejoices to be snatched, and sometimes she attacks to snatch?

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.

Horace, Ode 3.9

"Donec gratus eram tibi

nec quisquam potior bracchia candidae

cervici iuvenis dabat,

Persarum vigui rege beatior."

"Donec non alia magis

arsisti neque erat Lydia post Chloen,

multi Lydia nominis

Romana vigui clarior Ilia."

"Me nunc Thressa Chloe regit,

dulcis docta modos et citharae sciens,

pro qua non metuam mori

si parcent animae fata superstiti."

"Me torret face mutua

Thurini Calais filius Ornyti,

pro quo bis patiar mori,

si parcent puero fata superstiti."

"Quid si prisca redit Venus

diductosque iugo cogit aeneo?

si flava excutitur Chloe

reiectaeque patet ianua Lydiae?"

"Quamquam sidere pulchrior

ille est, tu levior cortice et improbo

iracundior Hadria,

tecum vivere amem, tecum obeam libens!"

"As long as I was pleasing to you

and any better young man was not giving

his arms to your bright neck,

I flourished, happier than the king of the Persians."

"As long as you burned for no other

more and Lydia was not after Chloe,

Lydia of many names,

I flourished brighter than Roman Ilia."

"Now Thracian Chloe rules me,

learned in sweet measures and skilled of the lyre,

for whom I would not fear to die

if the Fates will spare my surviving sweetheart."

"Thurinus Calais son of Ornytus burns

me with a mutual flame,

for whom I would suffer to die twice,

if the Fates will spare my surviving boy."

"What if ancient Venus returns

and forces the separated ones into a bronze yoke?

If blonde Chloe is cast out

and the door is open to scorned Lydia?"

"Although he is more beautiful

than a star, you are lighter than a cork and angrier

than the wicked Adriatic sea,

I would love to live with you, I, willing, would die with you!"

Horace, Ode 3.26

Vixi puellis nuper idoneus

et militavi non sine gloria.

Nunc arma defunctumque bello

barbiton hic paries habebit,

laevum marinae qui Veneris latus

custodit. Hic, hic ponite lucida

funalia et vectes et arcus

oppositis foribus minacis.

O quae beatam diva tenes Cyprum et

Memphin carentem Sithonia nive,

regina, sublimi flagello

tange Chloen semel arrogantem.

Recently, I lived suitable for boys
and I served as a soldier not without glory.
Now this wall will have my weapons
and my lyre dead from war,

which guards the left side of marine

Venus. Here, here put the bright
torches and levers and bows
threatening to the opposite doors.

Oh, blessed goddess of Cyprus who holds

Memphis free from Sithonian snow,

queen, with your uplifted lash

touch arrogant Chloe once.

Horace, Ode 1.23

Vitas inuleo me similis, Chloe,

quaerenti pavidam montibus aviis

matrem non sine vano

aurarum et siluae metu.

Nam seu mobilibus veris inhorruit

adventus foliis, seu virides rubum

dimovere lacertae,

et corde et genibus tremit.

Atqui non ego te tigris ut aspera

Gaetulusve leo frangere persequor:

tandem desine matrem

tempestiva sequi viro.

You avoid me like a fawn, Chloe,

searching for its fearful mother in lonely

mountains not without an empty fear

of breezes and the forest.

For whether the arrival of spring quivers

with moving leaves, or the green lizards have

pushed aside the bramble,

and the fawn trembles with its heart and knees.

And yet I do not pursue you to crush you

as a harsh tiger or Gaetulian lion:

finally you, ripe to follow a man,

abandon your mother.

Horace, Ode 1.27

Natis in usum laetitiae scyphis

pugnare Thracum est: tollite barbarum

morem, verecundumque Bacchum

sanguineis prohibete rixis.

Vino et lucernis Medus acinaces

immane quantum discrepat: impium

lenite clamorem, sodales,

et cubito remanete presso.

Vultis severi me quoque sumere

partem Falerni? Dicat Opuntiae

frater Megillae, quo beatus

vulnere, qua pereat sagitta.

Cessat voluntas? Non alia bibam

mercede. Quae te cumque comat Venus,

non erubescendis adurit

ignibus igenuoque semper

amore peccas. Quicquid habes, age,

depone tutis auribus. A miser,

quanta laborabas Charybdi,

digne puer meliore flamma!

Quae saga, quis te solvere Thessalis

magus venenis, quis poterit deus?

Vix illigatum te triformi

Pegasus expediet Chimaera.

It is Thracian to fight with bowls made for

the use of happiness: toss away the barbaric

custom, and defend modest Bacchus

from bloody battles.

How greatly the Persian dagger is at odds

with wine and oil lamps: calm the

impious shouting, friends,

and remain on your pressed elbows.

You wish me to likewise take up a part of

stern Falernian wine? The brother of

Opus will speak, by which wound he is

blessed, by which arrow he is wounded.

Does desire withdraw? I will drink for no other

price. With whom does Venus tame you,

she burns with no fires that you need blush

for and she always blunders with natural

love. Whatever you have, come on,

put it down on safe ears. Oh wretched one,

you labored over such a Charybdis,

boy worthy of better flame!

Which witch, which magician, which god is able

to release you from Thessalian poisons?

Pegasus will scarcely free you entangled

with a tri-formed Chimaera.

Horace, Ode 1.5

Quis multa gracilis te puer in rosa

perfusus liquidis urget odoribus

grato, Pyrrha, sub antro?

Cui flavam religas comam,

simplex munditiis? Heu quotiens fidem

mutatosque deos flebit et aspera

nigris aequora ventis

emirabitur insolens

qui nunc te fruitur credulus aurea,

qui semper vacuam, semper amabilem

sperat, nescius aurae

fallacis. Miseri, quibus

intemptata nites. Me tabula sacer

votiva paries indicat uvida

suspendisse potenti

vestimenta maris deo.

What slender boy drenched in liquid perfumes

presses upon you many roses,

Pyrrha, under a pleasing cave?

For whom do you tie your yellow hair,

simple with elegance? Alas, how often he will

lament faithlessness and changed gods and he will

marvel in surprise at the rough sea with

black winds

he who now enjoys you, trusting, you are golden,

he who hopes that you will always be free, always lovable,

unaware of a treacherous breeze.

Wretched ones, for whom

you, untried, shine. The sacred wall with the

votive tablet indicates that I have suspended

my wet clothes to the

god of the sea.

Horace, Ode 1.8

Lydia, dic per omnis

hoc deos vere, Sybarin cur properes amando

perdere, cur apricum

oderit campum, patiens pulveris atque solis

cur neque militaris

inter aequalis equitet, Gallica nec lupatis

temperet ora frenis.

Cur timet flabum Tiberim tangere? Cur olivum

sanguine viperino

cautius vitat neque iam livida gestat armis

bracchia, saepe disco,

saepe trans finem iaculo nobilis expedito?

Quid latet, ut marinae

filium dicunt Thetidis sub lacrimosa Troiae

funera, ne virilis

cultus in caedem et Lycias proriperet catervas?

Lydia, say this truly

through all the gods, why do you hurry to ruin Sybaris

by loving him, why does

he hate the sunny field, the suffering of the dust and of the sun,

why does he not ride

horseback among equal soldiers, and does not control Gallic mouths

with jagged bits?

Why does he fear to tough the yellow Tiber? Why does he avoid

an olive more warily

than viper blood and now does not carry weapons on bruised

arms, often famed for

the disk, often for his javelin cleared across the end?

Why does he lie hidden, just as they say

the sons of marine Thetis lie hidden just before the tearful burial

of Troy, lest his

manly costume and Lycian troops hustle him forth to murder.

Horace, Ode 1.13

Cum tu, Lydia, Telephi

cervicem roseam, cerea Telephi

laudas bracchia, vae, meum

fervens difficili bile tumet iecur.

Tum nec mens mihi nec color

certa sede manent, umor et in genas

furtim labitur, arguens

quam lentis penitus macerer ignibus.

Uror, seu tibi candidos

turparunt umeros immodicae mero

rixae, sive puer furens

impressit memorem dente labris notam.

Non, si me satis audias,

speres perpetuum dulcia barbare

laedentem oscula quae Venus

quinta parte sui nectaris imbuit.

Felices ter et amplius

quos irrupta tenet copula nec malis

divulsus querimoniis

suprema citius solvet amor die.

When you, Lydia, praise the

red neck of Telephus, the waxen

arms of Telephus, alas, my

burning liver swells with hard bile.

Then neither my mind nor my color

remains in a sure seat, and a tear

secretly slips down my cheek, proving

how deeply I am soaked with slow fires.

I am burned, whether your bright

shoulders are disfigured from excessive drunken

fights, or if the angry boy

stamped an unforgettable mark on your lips with his teeth.

If you listen to me enough, you should not

hope for sweet lips striking barbarically to be

perpetual which Venus has drenched

with a fifth part of her own nectar.

Happy three times and more are those

for whom love holds unbroken bonds

and will not quickly unbind, broken up from

evil quarrels, until the last day.

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.

Catullus 5

Vivamus, mea Lesbia, atque amemus,

rumoresque senum severiorum

omnes unius aestimemus assis.

soles occidere et redire possunt:

nobis, cum semel occidit brevis lux,

nox est perpetua una dormienda.

da mi basia mille, deinde centum,

dein mille altera, dein secunda centum,

deinde usque altera mille, deinde centum.

dein, cum milia multa fecerimus,

conturbabimus illa, ne sciamus,

aut nequis malus invidere possit,

cum tantum sciat esse basiorum.

Let us live, my Lesbia, let us love,

and let us value all the rumors of the

old men and the severe men at a single penny.

Suns are able to rise and to set:

but for us, when our short light has set,

night is one perpetual sleep.

Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred,

then another thousand, then a second hundred,

then, when we have made many thousands,

we will mix them up, so that we will not know the number,

so that nobody can cast an evil eye,

when they know the great number of kisses.