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ODE XVI.

TO GROSPHUS.

He who is toss'd on dangerous seas,
Prays, Grosphus, to the gods for ease,
Whilst 'midst the storm no moon he sees,

Nor friendly star :

For ease the warlike Thracian longs,
For ease the Mede his warlike

songs Would change,—but wealth soothes not the wrongs

Which spring from war.

For neither gold, nor consul's train
Can cheer the mind when

pangs

remain ; Nor drive the cares which ever reign

O'er splendid roof.

Happy that moderate man, whose board
Is with paternal heir-looms stored :-
No fear, lest he should lose his hoard,

Keeps sleep aloof.

Why to each climate should we race
Who flourish but a little space ?
Can exiles, who avoid all trace,

Flee from themselves ?

Scandit æratas vitiosa naves
Cura: nec turmas equitum relinquit,
Ocyor cervis, et agente nimbos

Ocyor Euro.

Lætus in præsens animus, quod ultra est
Oderit curare; et amara lento
Temperet risu. Nihil est ab omni

Parte beatum.

Abstulit clarum cita mors Achillem:
Longa Tithonum minuit senectus :
Et mihi forsan, tibi quod negârit,

Porriget hora.

Te greges centum, Siculæque circum
Mugiunt vaccæ; tibi tollit hinnitum
Apta quadrigis equa: te bis Afro

Murice tinctæ

Vestiunt lanæ : mihi parva rura, et
Spiritum Graiæ tenuem Camoenæ
Parca non mendax dedit, et malignum

Spernere vulgus.

Gaunt care can climb the stoutest ship,
The fleetest horseman can outstrip,
Or winds, which cause poor barks to slip

On sandy shelves.

Minds that in present bounty share,
Vex not themselves with future care ;
Serene they dwell, since woes impair

All earthly joy.

Soon did grim death Achilles find;
Tithonus lived-against his mind!
Time may, perchance, to me though kind,

To thee prove coy.

Around thee graze fat sheep and kine,
A stately equipage is thine,
In costly dress thou lov'st to shine,

Of purple dye.

For me, a small estate I use,
I cultivate the Grecian Muse;
These gifts of fate I ne'er abuse,

Though poor, yet high.

THE

SAPPHIC ODES OF HORACE.

BOOK III.

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