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Quo nos cunque feret melior Fortuna parente,

“ Ibimus, o socii comitesque. “ Nil desperandum Teucro duce, et auspice Teucro :

“ Certus enim promisit Apollo
Ambiguam tellure novâ Salamina futuram.

“ O fortes, pejoraque passi
“ Mecum sæpe viri, nunc vino pellite curas :

“ Cras ingens iterabimus æquor."

CARMEN VIII.

AD LYDIAM.

LYDIA, dic, per omnes

Te Deos oro, Sybarin cur properas amando Perdere ? cur apricum

Oderit campum, patiens pulveris atque solis ?

“ Comrades and followers, we'll go

where'er “ Fate, kinder than a sire, decides; “ 'Neath Teucer's auspices let none despair,

“ Let none despair while Teucer guides. “ For me Apollo, ever answering true,

“ Hath promis'd there shall spring to fame " Another Salamis in countries new,

“ Making ambiguous the name. “ O valiant men, who oft with me have borne

“ Worse things than these, now gaily steep “ All sorrow in the bowl; at early morn

“ We'll try again the vasty deep."

ODE VIII.

TO LYDIA.

Oh! tell me, Lydia, by all
The Gods above on thee I call,
Why Sybaris, with amorous wooing,
You hasten thus to his undoing ?
Why hates he now the sultry plain
Who dust and sun could once sustain ?

D

Cur neque

militaris Inter æquales equitat, Gallica nec lupatis Temperat ora frænis ?

Cur timet flavum Tiberim tangere? cur olivum Sanguine viperino

Cautiùs vitat? neque jam livida gestat armis Brachia, sæpe disco,

Sæpe trans finem jaculo nobilis expedito? Quid latet, ut marinæ

Filium dicunt Thetidis sub lacrymosa Trojæ Funera; ne virilis

Cultus in cædem, et Lycias proriperet catervas?

CARMEN IX.

AD THALIARCHUM.

VIDES, ut altâ stet nive candidum
Soracte, nec jam sustineant onus

Why now no more in martial pride
Does he among his equals ride?
Nor with the sharply bitted rein
His Gallic courser's mouth restrain ?
Why dreads he yellow Tiber ? why
Of oil, than viper's blood, more shy ?
Why on those arms no more are found
Dark livid marks, beyond the bound
Who oft the discus, oft the dart
Could hurl, the deftest in the art ?
Why lies he hid, as once 'twas done,
They say, by sea-born Thetis' son,
Just ere the mournful end of Troy,
For fear a manly dress the boy
Should into dangerous slaughter drive,
Or tempt with Lycian bands to strive ?

ODE IX.

TO THALIARCHUS.

SEE, how old Soracte's height
Stands with snowy mantle white,

Silvæ laborantes, geluque

Flumina constiterint acuto.

Dissolve frigus, ligna super foco
Largè reponens : atque benigniùs
Deprome quadrimum Sabina,

O Thaliarche, merum diotâ.

Permitte Divis cætera : qui simul
Stravere ventos æquore

fervido Depræliantes; nec cupressi,

Nec veteres agitantur orni.

Quid sit futurum cras, fuge quærere; et Quem sors dierum cunque dabit, lucro Appone: nec dulces amores

Sperne, puer, neque tu choreas,

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