ODE VI. TO AGRIPPA. DESCRIB'D shalt thou by Varius be, For we to tell of things like these, The crafty-soul'd Ulysses' path, Or Pelops' cruel family, Dare not attempt: the themes so high, Our power so weak; while diffidence, And the sweet Muse that loves to sway The peaceful lyre without pretence, Forbid me sully with a lay Of faulty genius, such as mine, Quis Martem tunicâ tectum adamantinâ Nigrum Merionen? aut ope Palladis Nos convivia, nos prælia virginum CARMEN VII. AD MUNATIUM PLANCUM. LAUDABUNT alii claram Rhodon, aut Mitylenen, Aut Epheson, bimarisve Corinthi Monia, vel Baccho Thebas, vel Apolline Delphos Who worthily of Mars shall write In adamantine tunic bound? Thickly with Trojan dust embrown'd? We, whether fir'd with love, or free, Of banquets, and the virgin fray, Too forward youth with sharpen'd nails. ODE VII. TO MUNATIUS PLANCUS. SOME may fam'd Rhodes or Mitylene please, Or Ephesus, to celebrate; Or Corinth, with its walls between two seas, Or Thebes by Bacchus render❜d great, Insignes, aut Thessala Tempe. Sunt quibus unum opus est, intactæ Palladis urbem Carmine perpetuo celebrare, et Undique decerptæ frondi præponere olivam. Plurimus, in Junonis honorem, Aptum dicit equis Argos, ditesque Mycenas. Nec tam Larissæ percussit campus opimæ, Et præceps Anio, et Tiburni lucus, et uda Albus ut obscuro deterget nubila cœlo Sæpe Notus, neque parturit imbres Perpetuos: sic tu sapiens finire memento Tristitiam vitæque labores Molli, Plance, mero; seu te fulgentia signis Castra tenent, seu densa tenebit Tiburis umbra tui. Teucer Salamina patremque Cum fugeret, tamen uda Lyæo Tempora populeâ fertur vinxisse coronâ, Sic tristes affatus amicos: Or Delphi by Apollo, or thy vale, Thessalian Tempe. Some there are And rich Mycenae, Juno honouring, sing. And old Tiburnus' shady seat, 'Mid sylvan groves, and orchards passing fair, As oft the white south-wind the darken'd air With showers; so, Plancus, mind life's care and pains Wisely to end with mellow wine; Whether the camp, gay-banner'd, thee detains, Own Tibur. From his sire when Teucer filed, His wine-moist brow with poplar wreaths 'tis said, |