Without fearing the fierce south-westerlies The breast of the man who first committed To your care, guide you to Attica’s shores, My head too will be raised to touch the stars.Ĭome, cloud veiling your bright shoulders,Īnd Helen’s brothers, the brightest of stars, Won’t refuse to exert herself on her Lesbian lyre.Īnd if you enter me among all the lyric poets, Joins me to the gods on high: cool groves,Īnd the gathering of light nymphs and satyrs,ĭraw me from the throng, if Euterpe the Muse Wild boar rampages, through his close meshes. Hounds catch sight of a deer, or a Marsian Stays out under frozen skies, if his faithful Mixed with the horns, and the warfare hatedīy mothers. Many love camp, and the sound of trumpets Nor to lose the best part of a whole day lying There’s one who won’t scorn cups of old Massic, His shattered ships, unsuited to poverty. They fight the Icarian waves, loves the peaceĪnd the soil near his town, but quickly rebuilds The merchant afraid of the African winds as To sail the seas, in fear, in a Cyprian boat. The peasant who loves to break clods in his nativeįields, won’t be tempted, by living like Attalus, Whatever he gleaned from the Libyan threshing. That one, if he’s stored away in his granary This man, if the fickle crowd of Citizens
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