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my Tyndaris, the vales and the smooth rocks of the sloping Ustica, have resounded with his melodious pipe. The Gods are my protectors. My piety and my muse are agreeable to the Gods. Here plenty, rich with rural honours, shall flow to you, with her generous horn filled to the brim. Here, in a sequestered vale, shall you avoid the heat of the dog-star; and on your Anacreontic harp shall you sing of Penelope and the frail Circe, striving for one lover: here shall you quaff, under a shade, cups of unintoxicating Lesbian. Nor shall the raging son of Semele enter the combat with Mars; and unsuspected you shall not fear the insolent Cyrus, lest he should lay his intemperate hands on you, who are by no means a match for him; and should cut the chaplet that is plaited in your hair, and your inoffensive garment.



That miserable is the life of milk-sops, but more so that of drunkards.

O VARUS, you can plant no tree preferably to the vine, about the mellow soil of Tibur, and the walls of Catilus. For God hath rendered every thing cross to the sober: nor do biting cares disperse any otherwise, than by the use of wine. Who, after drinking, ever complains of the hardships of war or poverty? Who does not rather celebrate thee, father Bacchus, and thee, O lovely Venus? Nevertheless, the battle of the Centaurs

.with the Lapithæ, which was fought in their cups, admonishes us not to exceed a moderate use of the gifts of Bacchus. And Bacchus himself admonishes us in his severity to the Thracians, when, greedy to satisfy their lusts, they make little distinction between right and wrong. 0 candid Bacchus, I will not rouse thee against thy will, nor will I bring abroad thy mysteries which are covered with various leaves. Cease your direful cymbals, together with your Phrygian horn, whose followers are blind self-love, and arrogance, holding up too high her empty head, and that sort of faith which is communicative of secrets, and is more transparent than glass.



That he was inflamed with the love of her.

THE cruel mother of the Cupids, and the son of the Theban Semele, and my own lascivious case, command me to give back my mind to its deserted loves. The splendour of Glycera, shining brighter than the Parian marble, inflames me: her agreeable petulancy, and her countenance, too unsteady to be beheld, inflame me. Venus, attacking me with her whole force, has quitted Cyprus; nor suffers me to sing of the Scythians, and the Parthian, furious when his horse is turned for flight, nor any subject which is not to my present purpose. Here, slaves, place me a live turf; here, place me the vervians and

frankincense, with a flagon of two year old wine. Glycera will approach more propitious, after I have sacrificed a victim.



The poet intimates to Mæcenas, who had offered himself to be his guest, that he should only treat him with common wine, unless he himself brought better along with him.

My dear knight Mæcenas, you shall drink at my house the ignoble Sabine wine in sober cups, which I myself sealed up, in a Grecian cask, stored at that time, when so great an applause was given you in the amphitheatre, that the banks of your family river, together with the cheerful echo of the Vatican mountain, returned your praises. You, when you are at home, will drink the Cecuban, and the juice of that grape which is squeezed in the Calenian press: for neither the Falernian vines, nor the Formian hills, season my cups.



YE tender virgins, sing Diana; ye boys, sing Apollo, with his unshorn hair, and Latona, passionately beloved by the supreme Jupiter. Y

(virgins) praise her that rejoices in the rivers, and the thick groves, which project either from the cold Algidos, or the gloomy woods of Erymanthus, or the green Cragus. Ye boys, extol with equal praises Tempe and Apollo's Delos, and his shoulder adorned with a quiver, and his brother Mercury's lyre. He, prevailed upon by your intercession, shall drive away calamitous war, and miserable famine, and the plague, from the Roman people, and their sovereign Cæsar, to the Persians and the Britons.



That through the protection of conscious innocence, and Lalage's favour, he never feared any thing.

THE man of perfect life, and pure from wickedness, O Fuscus, has no occasion for the Moorish javelins nor bow, nor the quiver, loaded with poisoned darts, whether he is about to make his journey through the sultry Syrtes, or the inhospitable Caucasus, or those places which Hydaspes, celebrated in story, washes. For lately, as I was singing my Lalage, and wandered beyond my usual bounds, devoid of care, a wolf in the Sabine wood fled from me, though I was unarmed. Such a monster, as neither the warlike Apulia nourishes in its extensive woods, nor the land of Juba, the dry nurse of lions, produces. Place me in those barren plains, where no tree is refreshed by the genial air; at that part of the world, which clouds and an inclement atmosphere infest; place me

under the chariot of the sun too near, in a land deprived of habitations; there will I love my sweetly smiling, sweetly speaking Lalage.



That, being now marriageable, she had no reason to be frightened at the sight of a man.

You shun me, my Chloe, like a fawn that is seeking its timorous mother in the pathless mountains, not without a vain dread of the breezes and the thickets: for she trembles both in her heart and knees, whether the arrival of the spring hath become terrible to her by its rustling leaves, or the green lizards have stirred the bush. But I do not follow you, like a savage tigress, or a Gætulian lion, to tear you to pieces. Therefore, quit your mother, now you are mature for a husband.



He admonishes him to bear with patience the death of Quintilius.

WHAT shame or bound can there be to our affection for so dear a person? O Melpomene, to whom your father has given a melting voice, and, the harp, teach me the mournful strains. Does then a perpetual sleep oppress Quintilius? To whom when will modesty, and uncorrupt faith,

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