English

Ha! whither rush ye? to what deeds of guilt?
Why lift the sword again?
Has not enough of Latian blood been spilt
To purple land and main?

Not with proud Carthage war ye now, to set
Her turrets in a blaze;
Nor fight to lead the Briton, tameless yet,
Chained on the public ways.

But that our country, at the Parthian's prayer,
May perish self-o'erthrown.
The wolf and lion war not thus; they spare
Their kindred each his own.

What moves ye thus? blind fury, heaven's decree,
Or restless guilt? Reply! —

Vile cur, why will you late and soon
At honest people fly?
You, you, the veriest poltroon
Whene'er a wolf comes by!

Come on, and if your stomach be
So ravenous for fight,
I'm ready! Try your teeth on me,
You 'll find that I can bite.

For like Molossian mastiff stout,
Or dun Laconian hound,
That keeps sure ward, and sharp look-out
For all the sheepfolds round,

Through drifted snow with ears thrown back
I'm ready, night or day,
To follow fearless on the track

Happy the Man who free from Cares and Strife,
(Such was the calm primaeval State of Life)
Securely ploughs his Fields and ancient Seat,
Fix'd in th'Indulgence of propitious Fate:
Him nor loud Trumpet's Clangors rouse to Arms,
Nor the fierce Deep's tempestuous Rage alarms;
He shuns the Bar, the Pride and empty State
That gilds the glittering Palace of the Great.
Now, pleasing Toil, the wanton-wreathing Vines
In soft Embraces to the Poplar joins;
To prune his barren Boughs his Hand employs;

PLEASURES OF A COUNTRY LIFE .

Happy the man, remote from toil and care,
As in the golden age men were;
Who ploughs his native field with his own team,
And hath no debts of which to dream!
Who starts not to the trump's shrill reveillee,
Nor views with fright the raging sea;
Shuns the hoarse forum and the haughty gate
Of wealth, and of the vulgar great;
Well pleased around his poplars tall to twine

EPODE 2

" Happy — who far from turmoil, like the men
That lived in days gone by,
With his own oxen ploughs his native glen,
Nor dreams of usury!
Him the fierce clarion summons not to war;
He dreads not angry seas:
The courts — the stately citizens' proud door —
He gets him far from these
His maiden-vines it is his gentle craft
With poplars tall to wed:

Blest as th'immortal Gods is he
Who lives from toilsome bus'ness free,
Like the first race in Saturns reign
When floods of Nectar stain'd the main,
Manuring with laborious hand
His own hereditary Land,
Whome no contracted debts molest
No griping Creditors infesst.
No trumpets sound, no Soldiers cries,
Drive the soft Slumbers from his eyes,
He sees no boist'rous Tempests sweep
The Surface of the boiling Deep,
Him no contentious suits in law
From his belov'd retirement draw,
He ne'er with forc'd Submission waits

My Prayers are heard, O Lyce , now
They're heard; years write thee Ag'd, yet thou
Youthfull and green in Will,
Putt'st in for handsome still,
And shameless dost intrude among
The Sports and feastings of the young.

There, thaw'd with Wine, thy ragged throat
To Cupid shakes some feeble Note,
To move unwilling fires,
And rouze our lodg'd desires,
When he still wakes in Chia 's face,

BOOK IV

ODE 13

T O L YCE

L YCE , the gods have listened to my prayer:
The gods have listened, Lyce. Thou art gray
And still would'st thou seem fair;
Still unshamed drink, and play,

And, wine-flushed, woo slow-answering Love with weak
Shrill pipings. With young Chia He doth dwell,
Queen of the harp; her cheek

From Hurace , Book iv. Ode 12.

Observe how calmly warm my Friend, . .
O'er the smooth Plains the Zephyrs Blow,
While Trees in gentlest Motion bend,
And Streams scarce murmur as they flow.
Sweet Philomela sends her Song
Of pleasing Sadness thro' the Groves,
Wailing a wretched Virgin's Wrong
And a base King's incestuous Loves.
The Shepherds to the Shades repair

AD PHYLLIDEM

Phyllis, I've a keg of fine fermented grape juice,
Alban wine that's been nine years in the cellar.
Ivy chaplets? Sure. Also, in the garden,
Plenty of parsley.

See my little shack — why, you'd hardly know it.
All the rooms are swept, Sunday-like and shiny;
Flowers all around, altar simply famished —
Hungry for lamb stew.

Neighbours all are coming over to the party,
All the busy boys, all the giggling girlies,