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That place, those hills of rich delight
Both thee and me to rest invite:
And when thy poet fades from sight,

His memory lives!

ODE VIII.

AD BARINEN.

ULLA si juris tibi pejerati

Poena, Barine, nocuisset unquam ;

Dente si nigro fieres, vel uno

Turpior ungui ;

Crederem. Sed tu simul obligâsti

Perfidum votis caput, enitescis
Pulchrior multo, juvenumque prodis

Publica cura.

Expedit matris cineres opertos

Fallere, et toto taciturna noctis

Signa cum cœlo, gelidâque divos

Morte carentes.

Ridet hoc, inquam, Venus ipsa; rident Simplices Nymphæ, ferus et Cupido,

Semper ardentes acuens sagittas

Cote cruentâ.

Adde quòd pubes tibi crescit omnis,
Servitus crescit nova; nec priores

Impiæ tectum dominæ relinquunt
Sæpe minati.

ODE VIII.

TO BARINE.

BARINE, if thy want of truth,

E'en with a blacken'd nail or tooth,

Had e'er been punish'd-then, forsooth,

Thy word I'd trust!

But when invoking wrath divine,

Then more and more thy beauties shine,
And all Rome's youth that form of thine

Inflames with lust.

It is, no doubt, a thriving trade

To cheat with lies a mother's shade ;

Oaths made by heaven to evade,

And by the gods.

Venus, I know, enjoys the fun,

As doth her arrow-barbing son,

Whilst each kind nymph―ay, every one—

Assenting, nods.

The rising generation, too,

With zest thy blandishments pursue,

Whilst former suitors still are true,

Nor can depart;

Te suis matres metuunt juvencis, Te senes parci, miseræque nuper Virgines nuptæ, tua ne retardet Aura maritos.

Mothers for sons feel deep alarm,

And prudent sires are dreading harm; Each anxious bride mistrusts thy charm Bedeck'd with art.

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