English

It was the very noon of night,
The stars were softly shining;
And radiant in the amorous light,
Your arms about me twining,
You swore, " While tempests goad the seas,
While wolf and sheep are enemies,
I will be yours, though Hades freeze
And Heaven starts declining. "

Oh fair but still more fickle love,
Oh beautiful and blind one,
You are a maid unworthy of
A lover and a kind one.
Think you that Horace will give place
To him now wrapped in your embrace?
Nay, he will seek a fairer face

You better sure shall live, not evermore
Trying high seas, nor, while sea's rage you flee,
Pressing too much upon ill-harboured shore.

The golden mean who loves, lives safely free
From filth of forworn house, and quiet lives,
Released from court, where envy needs must be.

The wind most oft the hugest pine-tree grieves;
The stately towers come down with greater fall;

Horace: Ode: 7: Lib: 4

Snowes now are fled, and fields are deckt with flowers,
With new leaves the naked bowers:
The time o'th'yeare is chang'd, and flouds that were.
Now againe but Riv'letts are.
The Nymphs and Graces nak'd their daunces lead
Through each pleasant flowry mead.
The yeare would teach by's mutability
Not t'hope for their lifes immortality

The Springs compagnion Zephirus doth charme

Horace: Ode: 13: Lib: 3

O sacred Fountaine, clearer farre
Than purest Cristalls are.
Worthy, like to a Pow'r divine.
A Sacrifice of Wine:
And to be deckt about thy brinke
With Violett, and Pinke:
Tomorrow I doe promise Thee
To offer up a hee
Kidd butted, for a Sacrafice
Whose blood (like to the Skies
When Phebus setts) sprinkled shall be
in honour of thy Purity.

Horace: Ode: 10: Lib 2

A Mediocrity to be observed in both Fortunes

Thou may'st live happy, if thy minde
Neither aspire too high, nor grind
Upon the shelf of baseness lowe,
But in the mid'st twixt both delight to goe.

The golden Mediocrity
Whoe loves is safe, for Poverty
Is base, and too great Sumptuousness
Procureth Envy, Cares, and wretchednes.

Horace: Ode: 38 Lib: 1

I hate the princely Sumptuousness
Of Persian banquetts, and the dress
Of Rosie garlands: Pass not where
Those Roses growe; but voyd of care
Nothing but Myrtle doe prepare.

(The Myrtle usefull is to mend
The vapours, which from wine ascend)
Neither disgrace will't be to thee
It to provide; nor yett to mee,
Drinking neath Bacchus shady tree.

Horace: Ode: 9: Lib: 1:

Dos't thou not see how in one night
The fields grow aged, and turn white?
The ofspring of the Forrest now
Putts on a night-capp, and doth bow.
The sharper frost lays an arrest
Upon faire Avons Liquid brest.

Why should we shiv'ring turne with these to ice,
When an increase of fire, with Ale and spice
May thaugh us througly? double then thy pains

If any painter shou'd design
A human visage, and subjoin
A horse's neck with plumage swoln,
And limbs from various creatures stol'n,
Untill the figure, in th'event,
Which for a beauteous dame was meant,
At length most scandalously ends
In a black fish's tail — my friends!
Admitted to so strange a sight,
Wou'd not your laughter be outright?
Believe me, Pisos, that a book
Will just like such a picture look,
Whose matter, like a sick man's dreams,
Is form'd of vanities and whims;

Satire VII.

" Long while a list'ner, I wou'd speak,
But somewhat dread my mind to break,
As but a slave" — " What, is it you?
Is't Davus?" — " Davus good and true:
That is so far as to give hope
There's no occasion for a rope." —
" Well, use the right the Roman sire
Allows you by the winter fire,
And since December's come about,
Come let us fairly have it out."
" There is a portion of mankind
Who're constantly to vice inclin'd,

Satire VI

This was the summit of my views,
A little piece of land to use,
Where was a garden and a well,
Near to the house in which I dwell,
And something of a wood above.
The Gods in their paternal love
Have more and better sent than these,
And, Mercury, I rest at ease,
Nor ask I anything beside,
But that these blessings may abide.
If I cannot my conscience charge,
That I by fraud my wealth enlarge,
Nor am about by fond excess
To make my little matters less;