Horace, Ode 1.9

Vides ut alta stet nive candidum

Soracte, nec iam sustineant onus

silvae laborantes, geluque

flumina constiterint acuto.

Dissolve frigues ligna super foco

large reponens atque benignius

deprome quadrimum Sabina,

o Thaliarche, merum diota.

Permitte divis cetera, qui simul

stravere ventos aequore fervido

deproeliantis, nec cupressi

nec veteres agitantur orni.

Quid sit futurum cras fuge quaerere, et

quem Fors dierum cumque dabit lucro

appone, nec dulcis ameres

sperne puer neque tu choreas,

donec virenti canities abest

morosa. Nunc et campus et areae

lenesque sub noctem susurri

composita reqetantur hora,

nunc et latentis proditor intimo

gratus puellae risus ab angulo

pignusque derptum lacertis

aut digito male pertinaci.

You see how high Soracte stands, bright with

snow, and no longer do the straining forests

support the burden, and the rivers have

frozen with sharp frost.

Melt the cold piling logs high upon

the hearth and more generously

draw off the four-winter wine, oh

Thaliarche, from the Sabine jar.

Leave other things to the gods, who

as soon as they calm the winds on the stormy seas

from fighting each other, they agitate neither

the cypress trees nor the old ash trees.

Avoid seeking what is about to be tomorrow, and

assign to profit whatever days Fortune will

give, and scorn neither loves

nor dances, boy,

while your bloom is absent from irritable

white hairs. Now both field and parks

and light whispers repeated under night

at the arranged hour,

and now the pleasing laughter betraying the

hidden girl in the most secret corner

and the pledge seized from the

badly resisting arms with a finger.

Horace, Ode 1.10

Mercuri, facunde nepos Atlantis,

qui feros cultus hominum recentum

voce formasti catus et decorae

more palaestrae,

te canam, magni Iovis et deorum

nuntium curvaeque lyrae parentem,

callidum quicquid placuit iocoso

condere furto.

Te, boves olim nisi redidisses

per dolum amotas, puerum minaci

voce dum terret, viduus pharetra

risit Apollo.

Quin et Atridas duce te superbos

Ilio dives Priamus relicto

Thessalosque ignis et iniqua Troiae

castra fefellit.

Tu pias laetis animas reponis

sedibus virgaque levem coerces

aurea turbam, superis deorum

gratus et imis.

Mercury, eloquent grandson of Atlas,

who shrewdly formed the savage customs

of recently-formed men with his voice and

with the custom of the beautiful wrestling-place,

I will sing of you, messenger of the gods and of great

Jove and parent of the curved lyre,

crafty to hide whatever is pleasing with a

funny trick.

Once, unless you had returned the cows

stolen through deceit, while Apollo tried to frighten

the baby with a terrifying voice, he laughed at the

widowed quiver.

Not only that, but also wealthy Priam slipped you by

the arrogant leader Atreus to abandoned Troy

and Thessalian fires and camps

unjust to Troy.

You restore pious souls to happy

homes and you confine the light crowd

with your golden staff, pleasing to the

highest and lowest of the gods.

Horace, Ode 1.11

Tu ne quaesieris - scire nefas - quem mihi, quem tibi

finem di dederint, Leuconoe, nec Babylonios

temptaris numeros. Ut melius quicquid erit pati,

seu pluris hiemes, seu tribuit Iuppiter ultimam,

quae nunc oppositis debilitat pumicibus mare

Tyrrhenum. Sapias, vina liques, et spatio brevi

spem longam reseces. Dum loquimur, fugerit invida

aetas: carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero.

You should not seek - to know is a sin - which end (of life)

the gods have given to me, which end to you, Leuconoe, nor

should you test Babylonian numbers. How much better to suffer

whatever will be, whether Jupiter assigns many winters, or the last (day),

which now the Tyrrhenum sea weakens with the opposite

pumice (stones). Be wise, strain the wine, and cut back hope

for a long life in a short time. While we talk, envious time will

flee: seize the day, trusting as little as possible to the future.

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 3.13

O fons Bandusiae, splendidior vitro,

dulci digne mero non sine floribus,

cras donaberis haedo,

cui frons turgida cornibus

primis et venerem et proelia destinat.

Frustra: nam gelidos inficiet tibi

rubro sanguine rivos

lascivi suboles gregis.

Te flagrantis atrox hora Caniculae

nescit tangere, tu frigus amabile

fessis vomere tauris

praebes et pecori vago.

Fies nobilium tu quoque fontium,

me diecente cavis impositam ilicem

saxis, unde loquaces

lymphae desiliunt tuae.

Oh fountain of Bandusia, more splendid than glass,

appropriate for sweet wine not without flowers,

tomorrow you will be presented with a kid,

whose forehead growing with first horns

is destined for love and battles.

In vain: for the offspring of the playful herd

will stain your cold streams

with red blood.

The fierce hour (or season) of flaming Canicula

does not know to touch you, you offer

pleasant cold to the bulls tired from

the plow and the wandering herd.

Even you will become the most famous of fountains,

with me singing of the wood established on hollow

stones, from which your talkative

waters jump down.

Horace, Ode 2.6

Septimi, Gadis aditure mecum et

Cantabrum indoctum iuga ferre nostra et

barbaras Sytris, ubi Maura semper

aestuat unda,

Tibur Argeo positum colono

sit meae sedes utinam senectae,

sit modus lasso maris et viarum

militiaeque.

Unde si Parcae prohibent iniquae,

dulce pellitis ovibus Galaesi

flumen et regnata petam Laconi

rura Phalantho.

Ille terrarum mihi praeter omnis

angulus ridet, ubi non Hymetto

mella decedunt viridique certat

baca Venafro;

ver ubi longum tepidasque praebet

Iuppiter brumas, et amicu Aulon

fertili Baccho minimum Falernis

invidet uvis.

Ille te mecum locus et beatae

postulant arces; ibi tu calentem

debita sparges lacrima favillam

vatis amici.

Septimius, ready to go to Gades with me and

to Cantabrus unlearned to bear our yoke and

the barbaric Syrtis, where the Maura wave

always seethes,

to Tibur founded by an Argive farmer,

would that it be my seat of old age,

would that it be the end to weariness of sea

and of journeys and of war.

Whence if the Fates forbid unfairly,

I will aim for the river of Galaesus

dear to skin-covered sheep and the farms of Laconus

ruled by Phalanthus.

That corner of lands smiles upon me

beyonds all others, where the honeys do not

yield in comparison to Hymettus and the olive

fights with green Venafrum;

where Juppiter offers a long spring and

warm winters, and Aulon friendly to

fertile Bacchus envies as little as possible

the grapes of Falernus.

That place and the blessed hilltops

summon you with me; there you you will scatter

the warm ashes of your friend the poet

with due tears.

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.