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lay his intemperate hands on you, who are by Lo means a match for him; and should rend the chaplet that is platted in your hair, and your inoffensive garment.



O Varus, you can plant no tree preferable to the sacred 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 wine, complains of the hardships of war or of poverty? Who does not rather [celebrate] thee, Father Bacchus, and thee, comely 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. O beauteous Bacchus, I will not rouse thee against thy will, nor will I Erry abroad thy [mysteries, which are] covered with various leaves. Cease your dire cymbals, together with your Phrygian horn, whose followers are blind Self-love and Arrogance, holding up too high her empty head, and the Faith communicative of secrets, and more transparent than glass.



The cruel mother of the Cupids, and the son of the Theban Semele, and lascivious ease, command me to give back my mind to its deserted loves. The splendour of Glycera, shining brighter than the Parian marble, in flames me: her agreeable petulance, and her countenance, too unsteady to be beheld, inflame me. Venus, rushing on me with her whole force, has quitted Cyprus; and suffers me not to sing of the Scythians, and the Parthian, furious when his horse is turned for flight, or any subject which is not to the present purpose. Here,

slaves, place me a live turf; here, place me vervains and frankincense, with a flagon of two-year old wine. She will approach more propitious, after a victim has been sacrificed.



My dear knight Mæcenas, you shall drink [at my house] ignoble Sabine wine in sober cups, which I my. self sealed up in the Grecian cask, stored at the time, when so loud an applause was given to you in the amphitheatre, that the banks of your ancestral river, together with the cheerful echo of the Vatican mountain, returned your praises. You, [when you are at home,] will drink the Cæcuban, and the grape which is squeezed in the Calenian press: but 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 loved by the supreme Jupiter. Ye (virgins), praise her that rejoices in the rivers, and the thick groves, which project either from the cold Algidus, or the gloomy woods of Erymanthus, or the green Cragus. Ye boys, extol with equal praises Apollo's Delos, and his shoulder adorned with a quiver, and with his brother Mercury's lyre. He, moved 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 ud the Britons.



The man of upright life and pure from wickedness, Q fuscus, has no need of the Moorish javelins or bow, or

quiver loaded with poisoned darts. Whether he is about to make his journey through the sultry Syrtes, or the in. hospitable 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 too neighbouring sun, in a land deprived of habitations; [there] will I love my sweetly-smiling, sweetly-speaking Lalage.



You shun me, Chloe, like a fawn that is seeking its tim. orous 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 has terrified 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 that you are mature for a husband.



What shame or bound can there be to our affectionate regret for so dear a person? O Melpomene, on whom your father has bestowed a clear voice and the harp, teach me the mournful strains. Does then perpetual sleep oppress Quinctilius? To whom when will modesty, and uncorrupt faith the sister of Justice, and undisguised truth, find any equal? He died lamented by many good men, but more lamented by none than by you, my Vitgil. You, though pious, alas! in vain demand Quinctilius

back from the gods, who did not lend him to as on such terms. What, though you could strike the lyre, listened to by the trees, with more sweetness than the Thracian Orpheus; yet the blood can never return to the empty shade, which Mercury, inexorable to reverse the fates, has with his dreadful Caduceus once driven to the gloomy throng. This is hard: but what it is out of our power amend, becomes more supportable by patience.



The wanton youths less violently shake thy fastened windows with their redoubled knocks, nor do they rob you of your rest; and your door, which formerly moved its yielding hinges freely, now sticks lovingly to its threshold. Less and less often do you now hear: "My Lydia, dost thou sleep the live-long night while I your lover am dying?" Now you are an old woman, it will be your turn to bewail the insolence of rakes, when you are neglected in a lonely alley, while the Thracian wind rages at the Interlunium: when that hot desire and lust, which is wont to render furions the dams of horses, shall rage about your ulcerous liver: not without complaint, that sprightly youth rejoice rather in the verdant ivy and growing myrtle, and dedicate sapless leaves to Eurus, the companion of winter.



A friend to the Muses, I will deliver up grief and fears to the wanton winds, to waft into the Cretan Sea; sin gularly careless, what king of a frozen region is dreaded under the pole, or what terrifies Tiridates. O sweet muse, who art delighted with pure fountains, weave together the sunny flowers, weave a chaplet for my Lamia. With out thee, my praises profit nothing. To render him immortal by new strains, to render him immortal by the Lesbian lyre, becomes both thee and thy sisters.



To quarrel over your cups, which were made for joy, is downright Thracian. Away with the barbarous custom and protect modest Bacchus from bloody frays. How im mensely disagreeable to wine and candles is the sabre of the Medes! O my companions, repress your wicked vo ciferations, and rest quietly on bended elbow. Would you have me also take my share of stout Falernian? Let the brother of Opuntian Megilla then declare, with what wound he is blest, with what dart he is dying.-What, do you refuse? I will not drink upon any other condition. Whatever kind of passion rules you, it scorches you with flames you need not be ashamed of, and you always indulge in an honourable, an ingenuous love. Come, whatever is your case, trust it to faithful ears. Ah, unhappy! in what a Charybdis art thou struggling, O youth, worthy of a better flame! What witch, what magician, with his Thessalian incantations, what deity can free you? Pegasus himself will scarcely deliver you, so entangled, from this three-fold chimera.



The [want of the] scanty present of a little sand near the Mantinian shore, confines thee, O Archytas, the surveyor of sea and earth, and of the innumerable sand: neither is it of any advantage to you, to have explored the celestial regions, and to have traversed the round world in your imagination, since thou wast to die. Thus also did the father of Pelops, the guest of the gods, die; and Tithonus likewise was translated to the skies, and Minos, though admitted to the secrets of Jupiter; and the Tartarean regions are possessed of the son of Panthous, once more sent down to the receptacle of the dead; notwithstanding, having retaken his shield from the temple, he gave evidence of the Trojan times, and that he had resigned to gloomy death nothing but his sinews and skin; in your

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