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But now I fain would substitute for taunt

Kind sentiments; so you again approve (Now that my foolish satire I recant)

Me as your friend, and give me back your love.



O’ER sweet Lucretilis to range,
Oft does the nimble Faunus change

Lycæum's hilly seat :
And, ever to my she-goats kind,
Guards them alike from pluvial wind,

And summer's fiery heat.

Securely now, throughout the grove,
The wives of the rank husband rove,

Hither and thither seen,
Seeking the thyme, no danger nigh,
Or strawberries that hidden lie:
None fear the serpents green,

Nec Martiales hæduleæ lupos ;
Utcunque dulci, Tyndari, fistula

Valles et Usticæ cubantis

Lævia personuere saxa.

Dî me tuentur : Dîs pietas mea
Et musa cordi est.

Hìc tibi copia
Manabit ad plenum benigno

Ruris honorum opulenta cornu.

Hic in reductâ valle Caniculæ

Vitabis æstus, et fide Teïâ

Dices laborantes


Penelopen, vitreamque Circen.

Hìc innocentis pocula Lesbii
Duces sub umbrâ ; nec Semeleïus

The kids no wolf of Mars assails

; Whene'er, my Tyndaris, the vales,

And rocks all even-worn
Of slope Ustica, with the sound
Of his harmonious pipe rebound,

On floating echoes borne.

The Gods, the Gods do me protect :
The Gods my piety respect,

And glory in my hymn.
Here Plenty her rich horn shall fill
For thee with rural honours, till

It overflow the brim.

Here, in this winding vale's retreat,
Shalt thou avoid the dogstar's heat,

And on thy Teïan shell
Of the two fair who strove to be
One object's love, Penelope,

And dazzling Circe, tell.

Here shalt thou quaff, without control, The unintoxicating bowl

Of Lesbian 'neath the shade;

Cum Marte confundet Thyoneus

Proelia : nec metues protervum

Suspecta Cyrum, ne malè dispari
Incontinentes injiciat manus,
Et scindat hærentem coronam

Crinibus, immeritamque vestem.



NULLAM, Vare, sacrâ vite priùs severis arborem, Circa mite solum Tiburis et monia Catilî.

Siccis omnia nam dura Deus proposuit ; neque Mordaces aliter diffugiunt sollicitudines.

Nor Semeleïan Thyon here
With Mars contending shalt thou fear :

Nor be the least afraid

Lest Cyrus, in a jealous whim,
Rudely on thee, no match for him,

His wanton hands should press ; And snatch from out thy braided hair The flowery coronal, or tear

Thy unoffending dress.



No tree, my Varus, on the ground
Of fertile Tiber plant, or round
The walls of Catilus entwine,
In preference to the sacred vine.

For see, the God all things ordains Should come awry to sober brains ; And by no other method may Corroding cares be chas'd away.

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