Horace, Ode 4.1

Intermissa, Venus, diu

rursus bella moves? Parce, precor, precor.

Non sum qualis eram bonae

sub regno Cinarae. Desine, dulcium

mater saeva Cupidinum,

circa lustra decem flectere mollibus

iam durum imperiis: abi,

quo blandae iuvenum te revocant preces.

Tempestivius in domum

Pauli, purpureis ales oloribus,

comissabere Maximi,

si torrere iecur quaeris idoneum.

Namque et nobilis et decens

et pro sollicitis non tacitus reis

et centum puer artium

late signa feret militiae tuae;

et quandoque potentior

largi muneribus riserit aemuli,

Albanos prope te lacus

ponet marmoream sub trabe citrea.

Illic plurima naribus

duces tura, lyraeque et Berecyntiae

delectabere tibiae

mixtis carminibus non sine fistula;

illic bis pueri die

numen cum teneris virginibus tuum

laudantes pede candido

in morem Salium ter quatient humum.

Me nec femina nec puer

iam nec spes animi credula mutui

nec certare iuvat mero

nec vincire novis tempora floribus.

Sed cur heu, Ligurine, cur

manat rara meas lacrima per genas?

Cur facunda parum decoro

inter verba cadit lingua silentio?

Nocturnis ego somniis

iam captum teneo, iam volucrem sequor

te per gramina Martii

campi, te per aquas, dure, volubilis.

Venus, are you again moving

the wars stopped for a long time? Spare me, I pray, I pray.

I am not the kind which I was

under the rule of good Cinara. Cease, savage

mother of sweet Cupids,

to now soften the hard one about fifty

to your gentle commands: go forth

to where the gentle prayers of youths call you back.

You will more timely carouse,

winged by purple swans, to the

house of Paulus Maximus,

if you seek a suitable liver to burn.

For a boy noble and pleasant

and not silent on behalf of worried defendants

and of one hundred skills

will bear your military standard far;

and at whatever time he, more powerful,

laughs at the gifts of a lavish rival,

he will put a marble you (or statue of you)

under a citrus-wood roof near the Alban lake.

There, you will lead to your nostrils

the greatest frankincenses, and you will delight in the

songs mixed with the Phrygian pipe

and the flute not without the pan-pipe;

There the boys with the

tender virgins praising your divinity twice a day

will shake the earth

three times in the Salian custom.

Now, neither a woman nor a boy

nor the trusting hope of a mutual spirit

nor to struggle with wine

nor to bind the times with fresh flowers is pleasing to me.

But alas, why, Ligurinus, why

does a rare tear flow down my cheeks?

Why does my elegant speech

fall to an unbecoming silence among words ?

Now I hold you, unfeeling,

caught in my dreams at night, now I follow you

flying through the grassy

Martius field, through rolling seas.

Horace, Ode 2.16

Otium divos rogat in patenti

prensus Aegaeo, simul atra nubes

condidit lunam neque certa fulgent

sidera nautis;

otium bello furiosa Thrace,

otium Medi pharetra decori,

Grosphe, non gemmis neque purpura ve-

nale nec auro.

Non enim gazae neque consularis

summovet lictor miseros tumultus

mentis et curas laqueata circum

tecta volantis.

Vivitur parvo bene, cui paternum

splendet in mensa tenui salinum

nec levis somnos timor aut cupido

sordidus aufert.

Quid brevi fortes iaculamur aevo

multa? Quid terras alioi calentis

sole mutamus? Patriae quis exsul

se quoque fugit?

Scandit aeratas vitiosa navis

Cura nec turmas equitum relinquit,

ocior cervis et agente nimbos

ocior Euro.

Laetus in praesens animus quod ultra est

oderit curare et amara lento

temperet risu. Nihil est ab omni

parte beatum.

Abstulit clarum cita mors Achillem,

longa Tithonum minuit senectus;

et mihi forsan tibi quod negarit,

porriget hora.

Te greges centum Siculaeque circum

mugiunt vaccae, tibi tollit hinnitum

apta quadrigis equa, te bis Afro

murice tinctae

vestiunt lanae; mihi parva rura et

spiritum Graiae tenuem Camenae

Parca non mendax dedit et malignum

spernere vulgus.

The sailor caught in the open Aegean sea asks

the gods for leisure, at the same time a black cloud

has hidden the moon and the sure constellations

don't shine for sailors;

Thrace, wild from war, asks for leisure,

the Medes, decorated with a quiver, ask for leisure,

Grosphus, which is not for sale for gems or

purple or gold.

Indeed neither treasure nor an attendant of a

consul clears away the wretched riots

of the mind and the cares flying around

the paneled ceiling.

He lives well on little, on whose thin table

an ancestral salt-cellar shines,

and for whom unclean fear and desire

do not carry away light slumbers.

Why do we, brave for a short time, aim for many

things? Why do we exchange lands burning

for another sun? Which exile of the fatherland

likewise flees himself?

Vicious worry climbs bronze ships

and does not abandon the troops of horsemen,

swifter than the deer and swifter than the clouds

driven by the east wind.

May the mind happy in the present hate to worry

about that which is beyond and may it combine

bitterness with untroubled laughter. Nothing is fortunate

from every part.

Quick death took away bright Achilles,

long old age diminished Tithonus;

and, perhaps, time will extend for me that which

it has denied to you

One hundred herds and Sicilian cows low
around you, the mare suitable for a chariot
raises a neigh for you, the wool stained twice
with African shellfish

clothes you; not-deceitful Fate has given to me
a small farm and the slight breath of the Greek Muse
and has allowed me to scorn the
spiteful crowd.

Horace, Ode 2.20

Non usitata nec tenui ferar

penna biformis per liquidum aethera

vates, neque in terris morabor

longius invidiaque maior

urbes relinquam. Non ego, pauperum

sanguis parentum, non ego, quem vocas,

dilecte Maecenas, obibo

nec Stygia cohibebor unda.

Iam iam residunt cruribus asperae

pelles, et album mutor in alitem

superne, nascunturque leves

per digitos umerosque plumae.

Iam Daedaleo notior Icaro

visam gementis litora Bosphori

Syrtisque Gaetulas canorus

ales Hyperboreosque campos.

Me Colchus et, qui dissimulat metum

Marsae cohortis, Dacus et ultimi

nosent Geloni, me peritus

discet Hiber Rhodanique potor.

Absint inani funere neniae

luctusque turpes et querimoniae;

compesce clamorem ac sequlcri

mitte supervacuos honors.

A two-formed poet, I will be borne through the

clear sky on wings neither slight nor

common, nor will I delay in lands

for a long time and greater than envy

I will abandon the cities. Not I, the family of

poor parents, not I, whom you send for,

dear Maecenas, I will not die

nor will I be restrained by a Stygian wave.

Now already the rough skins shrink

on my legs, and I am changed to a white bird

above, and light feathers spring forth

on my fingers and shoulders.

Now, more famous than Icarus son of Daedalus,

I, a melodious bird, will visit the shores of the

groaning Bosphorus and Syrtis and Gaetulia and

the Hyperborean fields.

The Colchians will know me, who hide their

fear of the Marsian friend, and the Dacians and the

farthest Gelonians will know me, the skilled

Spaniard and the drinker of the Rhone will hear of me.

The funeral dirges and shameful grievings and

complaints are absent from the empty funeral;

restrain the noise and dismiss the unnecessary

honors of the tomb.

Horace, Ode 3.30

Exegi monumentum aere perennnius

regalique situ pyramidum altius,

quod non imber edax, non Aquilo impotens

possit diruere aut innumerabilis

annorum series et fuga temporum.

Non omnis moriar multaque pars mei

vitabit Libitinam; usque ego postera

crescam laude recens. Dum Capitolium

scandet cum tacita virgine pontifex,

dicar, qua violens obstrepit Aufidus

et qua pauper aquae Daunus agrestium

regnavit populorum, ex humili potens,

princeps Aeolium carmen ad Italos

deduxisse modos. Sume superbiam

quaesitam meritis et mihi Delphica

lauro cinge volens, Melpomene, comam.

I have finished a monument more lasting than bronze

and higher than the royal structure of the pyramids,

which neither the destructive rain, nor wild Aquilo

is able to destroy, nor the countless

series of years and flight of ages.

I will not wholly die and a great part of me

will avoid Libitina; I will continuously arise

fresh with later praise. While a priest will climb

the Capitoline with a silent maiden,

I shall be spoken of where the violent Aufidus roars

and where Daunus, poor in water, ruled

a rural people, powerful from humble origin,

the first to have brought Aeolic song to

Italian meters. Accept the proud honor

obtained by your merits and with the Delphic

laural, Melpomene, gladly encircle my hair.

Horace, Ode 1.38

Persicos odi, puer, apparatus;

displicent nexae philyra coronae;

mitte sectari rosa quo locorum

sera moretur.

Simplici myrto nihil allabores

sedulus curo: neque te ministrum

dedecet myrtus neque me sub arta

vite bibentem.

I hate Persian trappings, slave;

the crowns tied with lime-tree displease me;

do not pursue where of all places the

late rose delays.

I desire that you not take the trouble to

add anything to simple myrtle: nor is myrtle

unsuitable for you, attending, or for me, drinking

under a narrow vine.

Horace, Ode 2.13

Ille et nefasto te posuit die,

quicumque primum, et sacrilega manu

produxit, arbos, in nepotum

perniciem opprobriumque pagi.

Illum et parentis credidderim sui

fregisse cervicem et penetralia

sparsisse nocturno cruore

hospitis; ille venena Colcha

et quicquid usquam concipitur nefas

tractavit, agro qui statuit meo

te, triste lignum, te caducum

in domini caput immerentis.

Quid quisque vitet, numquam homini satis

cautum est in horas. Navita Bosphorum

Poenus perhorrescit neque ultra

caeca timet aliunde fata;

miles sagittas et celerem fugam

Parthi, catenas Parthus et Italum

robur; sed improvisa leti

vis rapuit rapietque gentis.

Quam paene furvae regna Proserpinae

et iudicantem vidimus Aeacum

sedesque discriptas piorum et

Aeoliis fidibus querentem

Sappho puellis de popularibus

et te sonantem plenius aureo,

Alcaee, plectro dura navis,

dura fugae mala, dura belli.

Utrumque sacro digna silentio

mirantur umbrae dicere; sed magis

pugnas et exactos tyrannos

densum umeris bibit aure vulgus.

Quid mirum, ubi illis carminibus stupens

demittit atras belua centiceps

auris, et intorti capillis

Eumenidum recreantur angues?

Quin et Prometheus et Pelopis parens

dulci laborem decipitur sono,

nec curat Orion leones

aut timidos agitare lyncas.

He placed you on an inauspicious day,

whoever first placed you, and with a sacrilegious hand

he tended you, tree, to the ruin of his descendants

and the shame of the district.

I would believe that he had broke the neck

of his parents and that he had scattered the

hearthstones with the nocturnal blood

of h is guest; he has dealt with Colchian poisons

and whatever sin is ever conceived,

he who placed you in my field,

wretched log, you destined to fall

on the head of an undeserving master.

That which one avoids, one is never cautious

enough from one hour to the next. A Punic sailor

trembles at the Bosphorus, and does not fear

blind fates from somewhere else beyond;

a soldier trembles at the arrows and swift flight

of Parthia, and a Parthian fears Italian chains and

strength; but the unexpected strength of death

has seized and will seize the nations.

How nearly I did see the kingdoms of

dusky Proserpina and judging Aeacus

and the assigned seats of the pious ones and

Sappho complaining with an Aeolian lyre

about the local girls

and you, Alcaeus, sounding more fully

with a golden quill of the hardships at sea,

the evil hardships of exile, and the hardships of war.

The shades each marvel to say things worthy

of a sacred silence; but the crowd, packed to the

shoulders, drinks with their ear more

the battles and exiled tyrants.

What strange thing is it, when the hundred-headed

beast, astounded by these songs, droops his black

ears, and the snakes twisting

in the hairs of the Fates rest?

Yes, even Prometheus and the parent of Pelops

are deceived with respect to their labor by a sweet sound,

nor does Orion care to pursue

the lions or the timid lynxes.

Horace, Ode 2.14

Eheu fugaces, Postume, Postume,

labuntur anni, nec pietas moram

rugis et instanti senectae

adferet indomitaeque morti;

non, si trecenis, quotquot eunt dies,

amice, places illacrimabilem

Plutona tauris, qui ter amplum

Geryonen Tityonque tristi

compescit unda - scilicet omnibus,

quicumque terrae munere vescimur,

enaviganda, sive reges

sive inopes erimus coloni.

Frustra cruento Marte carebimus

fractisque rauci fluctibus Hadriae,

frustra per autumnos nocentem

corporibus metuemus Austrum.

Visendus ater flumine languido

Cocytos errans et Danai genus

infame damnatusque longi

Sisyphus Aeolides laboris.

LInquenda tellus et domus et placens

uxor, neque harum quas colis arborum

te praeter invisas cupressos

ulla brevem dominum sequetur.

Absumet heres Caecuba dignior

servata centum clavibus et mero

tinguet pavimentum superbo

pontificum potiore cenis.

Alas! Postumus, Postumus the swift years

slip away, nor does piety bring delay for

wrinkles and looming old age

and fierce death;

not even if, however many days go by, my friend,

you may appease pitiless Pluto with three hundred

bulls at a time, he who restrains triply large

Geryon and Tityos with the gloomy

water - which surely must be sailed by all,

whoever of us enjoys a gift of earth,

whether we will be kings

or poor farmers.

In vain, we will abstain from bloody Mars

and the broken waves of the raucous Adriatic sea,

in vain through autumn we will fear the

south wind harmful to our bodies.

The dark Cocytos river wandering with a sluggish

stream must be visited and the notorious family

of Danaus and Sisyphus Aeolides

condemned to a long labor.

Your land and your home and your pleasing

wife must be abandoned, and nor will any of

the these trees which you maintain follow you,

a short-lived master, except the hated cypresses.

Your more worthy heir will waste your Caecuban wine

guarded by a hundred keys and he will stain

the pavement with arrogant wine, better

than the dinner of the high priests.

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 2.10

Rectius vives, Licini, neque altum

semper urgendo neque, dum procellas

cautus horrescis, nimium premendo

litus iniquum.

Auream quisquis mediocritatem

diligit, tutus caret obsoleti

sordibus tecti, caret invidenda

sobrius aula.

Saepius ventis agitatur ingens

pinus et celsae graviore casu

decidunt turres feriuntque summos

fulgura montis.

Sperat infestis, metuit secundis

alteram sortem bene praeparatum

pectus. Informis hiemes reducit

Iuppiter; idem

summovet. Non, si male nunc, et olim

sic erit: quondam cithara tacentem

suscitat Musam neque semper arcum

tendit Apollo.

Rebus angustis animosus atque

fortis appare; sapienter idem

contrahes vento nimium secundo

turgida vela.

You will live better, Licinius, by neither

always pressing the deep nor, while you carefully

dread storms, by excessively pressing

the treacherous shore.

Whoever values a golden mean

is safely free from the squalor

of a worn-out house, is soberly free from

an envious palace.

The vast pine is more often moved

by the wind and the high towers fall

with a more serious fall and the lightening

strikes the highest mountains.

The well-prepared heart hopes for the other fate

in dangerous affairs, and fears the other fate in favorable

affairs. Jupiter brings back ugly

winters; likewise,

he removes them. If it is badly now, once it will

not be so: once Apollo stirs the silent

Muse with his lyre and does not

always stretch his bow.

Appear strong and firm in steep

affairs; likewise, you will wisely

shorten your sails swollen in a

too favorable wind.

Horace, Ode 2.15

Iam pauca aratro iugera regiae

moles relinquent, undique latius

extenta visentur Lucrino

stagna lacu, plantanusque caelebs

evincet ulmos; tum violaria et

myrtus et omnis copia narium

spargent olivetis oderem

fertilibus domino priori.

Tum spissa ramis laurea fervidos

excludet ictus. Non ita Romuli

praescriptum et intonsi Catonis

auspiciis veterumque norma.

Privatus illis census erat brevis,

commune magnum; nulla decempedis

metata privatis opacam

porticus excipiebat Arcton,

nec fortuitum spernere caespitem

leges sinebant, oppida publico

sumptu iubentes et deorum

templa novo decorare saxo.

Now the kingly piles abandon few

fields to the plow, and the stretched pools

will be visited on all sides by the wider

Lucrine Lake, and the unmarried plane-tree

will drive out the elms; then the violets and

myrtles and all the wealth of the nostrils

will scatter their odor in the olive-yards fertile

for an earlier master.

Then the laurel with thick branches will shut out the

fiery strokes. Not thus had it been ordered for

Romulus and the auspices of unshaven Cato

and by the old standard.

The private census was short for these,

the public census was great; no covered walkway

with ten feet measured was retaining the

shady North for private citizens,

nor were the laws allowing to scorn

chance earth, and the towns ordered to honor

the temples of the gods with new stone

at public expense.

Horace, Ode 2.2

Nullus argento color est avaris

abdito terris, inimice lamnae

Crispe Sallusti, nisi temperato

splendeat usu.

Vivet extento Proculeius aevo,

notus in fratres animi paterni:

illum aget penna metuente solvi

fama superstes.

Latius regnes avidum domando

spiritum quam si Libyam remotis

Gadibus iungas et uterque Poenus

serviat uni.

Crescit indulgens sibi dirus hydrops,

nec sitim pellit, nisi causa morbi

fugerit venis et aquosus albo

corpore languor.

Redditum Cyri solio Phraaten

dissidens plebi numero beatorum

eximit Virtus populumque falsis

dedocet uti

vocibus, regnum et diadema tutum

deferens uni propriamque laurem,

quisquis ingentis oculo irretorto

spectat acervos.

No luster is with silver hidden away

in earth by misers, Sallustius Crispus

despiser of wealth, unless it shines

refraining from use.

Proculeius will live with a prolonged life,

known for his paternal attitude to his brothers:

surviving fame will drive him on wings

fearing to be released.

Latius, you may rule greed with

a tamed spirit, which, if you may join Libya

with remote Gades, and Poenus may serve

water to one master.

An awful dropsy indulgent to itself comes forth,

nor does it drive out thirst, unless the cause of illness

will flee from the veins and the wet feebleness

from the white body.

Virtue disagreeing with the people removes

Phraaten, restored to the Cyrian throne, from the number of the blessed,

and teaches the people not

to use false

words, restoring on him alone the royal power

and safe crown, and his very own honor,

whoever considers vast treasures with

an undistracted eye.

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 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.

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 3.21

O nata mecum consule Manlio,

seu tu querelas sive geris iocos

seu rixam et insanos ameres

seu facilem, pia testa, somnum,

quocumque lectum nomine Massicum

servas, moveri digna bono die,

descende Corvino iubente

promere languidiora vina.

Non ille, quamquam Socraticis madet

sermonibus, te negleget horridus:

narratur et prisci Catonis

saepe mero caluisse virtus.

Tu lene tormentum ingenio admoves

plerumque duro; tu sapientium

curas et arcanum iocoso

consilium retegis Lyaeo;

tu spem reducis mentibus anxiis

viresque et addis cornua pauperi,

post te neque iratos trementi

regum apcies neque militum arma.

Te Liber et si laeta aderit Venus

senesque nodum slovere Gratiae

vivaeque producent lucernae,

dum rediens fugat astra Phoebus.

Oh pious jar, born by consul Manlius with me,

whether you carry complaints with jokes

or a fight and insane loves

or easy sleep,

You preserve select Massic wine under whatever

pretext, worthy to be brought down on an auspicious day,

descend by Corvinus ordering

to bring out a fainter wine.

That one, although he is wet with Socratic

speeches, will not be so austere as to neglect you:

and the virtue of ancient Cato is often said

to have grown warm with wine.

You apply a twist of the arm with an

unusually harsh nature; you reveal the problems

of philosophers and secret

debates to funny Bacchus;

you restore hope to anxious minds

and you increase strength and horns for the poor,

after you trembling at neither the angry crowns

of kings nor the weapons of soldiers.

Liber and Venus, if she arrives happy,

and the Graces slow to break their clasp

and the oil lamps alight will prolong you,

while Phoebus returning will chase away the stars.

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 1.20

Vile potabis modicis Sabinum

cantharis, Graeca quod ego ipse testa

conditum levi, datus in theatro

cum tibi plausus,

care Maecenas eques, ut paterni

fluminis ripae simul et iocosa

redderet laudes tibi Vaticani

montis imago.

Caecubum et prelo domitam Caleno

tu bibes uvam: mea nec Falernae

temperant vites neque Formiani

pocula colles.

You will drink cheap Sabine wine from

plain cups, which I myself sealed, put into

Greek jars, when applause had been given

to you in the theater,

dear knight Maecenas, as at the same time

the banks of the ancestral river and the funny

echo of the Vaticanus mountain return

praises to you.

You may drink Caecuban wine and the grape

crushed with a Calenian wine-press; neither

Falernian vines nor Formian wines

flavor my cups.

Horace, Ode 1.18

Nullam, Vare, sacra vite prius severis arborem

circa mite solum Tibruis et moenia Catili;

siccis omnia nam dura deus proposiuit neque

mordaces aliter diffugiunt sollicitundines.

Quis post vina gravem militiam aut pauperiem crepat?

Quis non te potius, Bacche pater, teque decens Venus?

Ac ne quis modici transiliat munera Liberi,

Centaurea monet cum Lapithis rixa super mero

debellata, menet Sithoniis non levis Euhius,

cum fas atque nefas exiguo fine libidinum

discernunt avidi. Non ego te, candide Bassareu,

invitum quatiam nec variis obsita frondibus

sub divum rapiam. Saeva tene cum Berecyntio

cornu tympana, quae subsequitur caecus Amor sui

et tollens vacuam plus nimio Gloria verticem

arcanique Fides prodiga, perlucidior vitro.

Plant no tree, Varus, before the sacred vine

around the soft ground of the Tibur and walls of Catilus;

a god has ordained everything difficult for dry people and

biting anxieties don't flee in any other way.

Who rattles on about serious military service or poverty after wine?

Who does not rattle on more about you, father Bacchus, and you, comely Venus?

And yet anyone abuses the gifts of moderate Bacchus,

the battle fought to the bitter end of the Centaurs over their wine with the

Lapiths warns, Bacchus not light with the Thracians warns,

when those greedy of desire discern lawful from sin

with a small limit. I do not shake you, white Bacchus,

unwilling, nor do I snatch by the light of day your

sacred things covered with various leaves. Hold savage

drums and the horn from Berecyntus, which blind self-love follows

and Glory raising an empty crown too high and

Faith wasteful of secrets, more transparent than glass.