« PreviousContinue »
Quo nos cunque feret melior fortuna parente,
Ibimus, o socii comitesque :
Certus enim promisit Apollo
O fortes, pejoraque passi
Cras ingens iterabimus æquor.”
Nor always labouring is of showers for us below, So, Plancus, thou be wise and recollect with mellow wine
Grief and the toils of life to banish, whether thee The camp possess refulgent with the glittering standards
shine, Or Tibur shade thee 'neath its thick-leaved canopy. When Teucer Salamis forsook, and from his father fed,
He yet his brow, wet with the juice to Bacchus dear, With coronet of poplar leaves to have intwined is said,
And thus his anxious friends address'd in accents clear : “Wherever fortune, kinder than a parent, bids repair, There let us bend our steps, O friends and comrades
mine: While Teucer leads, your augur Teucer is, avaunt despair !
For clearly has Apollo given his word divine
O gallant men, and who have oft worse things with me Endured, the present moment seize in wine your cares to
drown : To-morrow we once more will plough the mighty sea.”
YDIA, dic, per omnes
Te Deos oro, Sybarin cur properas amando
Cur neque militaris
Temperat ora frænis ?
Brachia; sæpe disco,
Quid latet, ut marinæ
Funera, ne virilis
Y all the Gods, my Lydia, pray explain,
Why you to ruin Sybaris impel By loving him? Why he the sunny plain
Detests, who dust and heat can bear so well ? Why ʼmongst his equals cares he not to ride,
A soldier bred; nor, with the bit well arm'd
At yellow Tiber why is he alarmed?
Shuns he the oil? nor on his arm is found
For quoit and dart oft sent beyond the bound? Why hides he, as did Thetis' son they say,
That time when Troy fell overwhelm’d with woe, For fear his man's attire should him betray
And drag to slaughter of the Lycian foe?
IDES, ut altâ stet nive candidum
Soracte, nec jam sustineant onus Sylvæ laborantes, geluque
Flumina constiterint acuto? Dissolve frigus, ligna super foco Largè reponens, atque benigniùs Deprome quadrimum Sabinâ,
O Thaliarche, merum diotâ. Permitte Divis cetera : qui simul Stravere ventos æquore fervido Depræliantes, nec cupressi,
Nec veteres agitantur orni.
Sperne, puer, neque tu choreas,
Compositâ repetantur horâ.
Aut digito malè pertinaci.