Choice prize, and migratory crane. Who does not, leading such a life, But if withal, he have a wife Who for the house and bairns takes thought,— A faithful Sabine mate, suppose, Or one embrowned by Daunian sun,— To cheer him, when, the day's work done, Pavidumque leporem, et advenam laqueo gruem, Jucunda captat praemia. Quis non malarum, quas amor curas habet, Haec inter obliviscitur?! Quodsi pudica mulier in partem juvet Domum, atque dulces liberos, (Sabina qualis, aut perusta solibus Pernicis uxor Apuli,) Sacrum vetustis exstruat lignis focum Lassi sub adventum viri: Claudensque textis cratibus laetum pecus, Distenta siccet ubera; Et horna dulci vina promens dolio, Si quos Eois intonata fluctibus Hiems ad hoc vertat mare: Non Afra avis descendat in ventrem meum, Non attagen Ionicus Jucundior, quam lecta de pinguissimis Oliva ramis arborum, Aut herba lapathi prata amantis, et gravi Malvae salubres corpori, Vel agna festis caesa Terminalibus, Vel haedus ereptus lupo. Has inter epulas, ut juvat pastas oves Videre properantes domum! Videre fessos vomerem inversum boves X In order placed, and just degrees, From business, and turn country squire, These verses would seem to have been written during a fit of indigestion brought on by eating garlic. WITH sacrilegious hand, whoever Medea, when admiring most Of the whole Argonautic host Their handsome chief, with this besmeared Positosque vernas, ditis examen domus, Circum renidentes Lares! Haec ubi, locutus fenerator Alphius, Jam jam futurus rusticus, Omnem redegit Idibus pecuniam; Quaerit Kalendis ponere. III. AD MAECENATEM. PARENTIS olim si quis impia manu Senile guttur fregerit, Edit cicutis allium nocentius. O dura messorum ilia! Quid hoc veneni saevit in praecordiis? Num viperinus his cruor Incoctus herbis me fefellit? An malas Canidia tractavit dapes? Ut Argonautas praeter omnes candidum Ignota tauris illigaturum juga, The necks of untamed bulls to yoke. Gifts smeared with this she took to cloak Ere on winged serpent thence she hied. Never on parched Apulia weighs. More furiously his consort's vest Burned not on stout Alcides' breast. If ever you are droll enough Maecenas, to desire such stuff, Well, then I pray, the girl you love Back, with her hand, your lips may shove, This, like the ninth Ode of the first Book, is a convivial song written in winter. A FEARFUL storm contracts the sky, and showers of rain and snow Bring down aerial Jupiter: now ocean, forests now, Roar with the Thracian north wind: let us, my comrades, seize The weather's opportunity, and, while still firm our knees, And it becomes us, let old age smoothen his wrinkled brow. Wine pressed when my Torquatus held the consulship do thou Produce leave talking of aught else: perchance the deity Will with good turn resettle things. 'Tis pleasant now to be |