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HORACE

"T is now the Thracian Chloe whose accomplishments inthrall

me,

So sweet in modulations, such a mistress of the lyre.

In truth the fates, however terrible, could not appall me;

If they would spare her, sweet my soul, I gladly would expire.

LYDIA

And now the son of Ornytus, young Calais, inflames me

With mutual, restless passion and an all-consuming fire;

And if the fates, however dread, would spare the youth who claims

me,

Not only once would I face death, but gladly twice expire.

HORACE

What if our early love returns to prove we were mistaken

And bind with brazen yoke the twain, to part, ah! nevermore? What if the charming Chloe of the golden locks be shaken And slighted Lydia again glide through the open door?

LYDIA

Though he is fairer than the star that shines so far above you, Thou lighter than a cork, more stormy than the Adrian Sea, Still should I long to live with you, to live for you and love you,

And cheerfully see death's approach if thou wert near to me.

THE ROASTING OF LYDIA

No more your needed rest at night
By ribald youth is troubled;
No more your windows, fastened tight,
Yield to their knocks redoubled.

TO GLYCERA

No longer you may hear them cry,
"Why art thou, Lydia, lying
In heavy sleep till morn is nigh,
While I, your love, am dying?"

Grown old and faded, you bewail
The rake's insulting sally,

While round your home the Thracian gale
Storms through the lonely alley.

What furious thoughts will fill your breast,
What passions, fierce and tinglish
(Cannot be properly expressed

In calm, reposeful English).

Learn this, and hold your carping tongue:
Youth will be found rejoicing

In ivy green and myrtle young,
The praise of fresh life voicing;

And not content to dedicate,
With much protesting shiver,
The sapless leaves to winter's mate,
Hebrus, the cold dark river.

TO GLYCERA

THE cruel mother of the Loves,

And other Powers offended,

Have stirred my heart, where newly roves
The passion that was ended.

"T is Glycera, to boldness prone, Whose radiant beauty fires me; While fairer than the Parian stone

Her dazzling face inspires me.

387

And on from Cyprus Venus speeds,
Forbidding-ah! the pity-

The Scythian lays, the Parthian meeds,
And such irrelevant ditty.

Here, boys, bring turf and vervain too;
Have bowls of wine adjacent;

And ere our sacrifice is through
She may be more complaisant.

TO LYDIA

I

WHEN, Lydia, you (once fond and true, But now grown cold and supercilious) Praise Telly's charms of neck and arms— Well, by the dog! it makes me bilious!

Then with despite my cheeks wax white, My doddering brain gets weak and giddy, My eyes o'erflow with tears which show That passion melts my vitals, Liddy!

Deny, false jade, your escapade,

And, lo! your wounded shoulders show it! No manly spark left such a mark— Leastwise he surely was no poet!

With savage buss did Telephus

Abrade your lips, so plump and mellow; As you would save what Venus gave, I charge you shun that awkward fellow!

And now I say thrice happy they

That call on Hymen to requite 'em; For, though love cools, the wedded fools Must cleave till death doth disunite 'em.

TO LYDIA

TO LYDIA

II

WHEN praising Telephus you sing
His rosy neck and waxen arms,
Forgetful of the pangs that wring
This heart for my neglected charms,

Soft down my cheek the tear-drop flows,
My color comes and goes the while,
And my rebellious liver glows,

And fiercely swells with laboring bile.

Perchance yon silly, passionate youth,
Distempered by the fumes of wine,
Has marred your shoulder with his tooth,
Or scarred those rosy lips of thine.

Be warned; he cannot faithful prove,
Who, with the cruel kiss you prize,
Has hurt the little mouth I love,

Where Venus's own nectar lies.

Whom golden links unbroken bind,
Thrice happy-more than thrice are they;
And constant, both in heart and mind,
In love await the final day.

TO QUINTIUS HIRPINUS

To Scythian and Cantabrian plots,
Pay them no heed, O Quintius!

So long as we

From care are free,

Vexations cannot cinch us.

389

Unwrinkled youth and grace, forsooth,
Speed hand in hand together;

The songs we sing

In time of spring

Are hushed in wintry weather.

Why, even flow'rs change with the hours And the moon has divers phases

And shall the mind

Be racked to find

A clew to Fortune's mazes?

Nay; 'neath this tree let

you and me

Woo Bacchus to caress us;

We're old, 't is true,

But still we two

Are thoroughbreds, God bless us!

While the wine gets cool in yonder pool,
Let's spruce up nice and tidy;
Who knows, old boy,

But we may decoy

The fair but furtive Lyde?

She can execute on her ivory lute

Sonatas full of passion,

And she bangs her hair
(Which is passing fair)

In the good old Spartan fashion.

WINE, WOMEN, AND SONG

O VARUS mine,

Plant thou the vine

Within this kindly soil of Tibur;
Nor temporal woes,

Nor spiritual, knows

The man who's a discreet imbiber.

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