English

AD ARIUSTUM FUSCUM

I

Take it from me: A guy who's square,
His chances always are the best.
I'm in the know, for I've been there,
And that's no ancient Roman jest.

What time he hits the hay to rest
There's nothing on his mind but hair,
No javelin upon his chest —
Take it from me, a guy who's square.

There's nothing that can throw a scare

Integer vitae.

Sinless, and sound, the bold good liver DARES ,
Nor needs the Moor's keen javelin, or his bow;
No quiver, charg'd with latent deaths he bears,
Where pointed poisons glow.

Safe, o'er the quicksand's foamy shoals he rows;
Safe, every wild of Caucasus surveys:
Or, where thy fabled stream, Hydaspes , flows,
Dreadless of danger, strays.

Once, o'er Sabinum 's forest's silent shade,

The man, my friend, whose conscious heart
With virtue's sacred ardour glows,
Nor taints with death th'envenom'd dart,
Nor needs the guard of Moorish bows.

Tho' Scythia's icy cliffs he treads
Or torrid Africk's faithless sands;
Or where the fam'd Hydaspes spreads
His liquid wealth o'er barb'rous lands.

For while by Chloe's image charm'd,
Too far in Sabine woods I stray'd,

Vile potabis.

Born to be the plain man's friend,
Come, and to his taste descend;
In temperate draughts, from cans for household use,
Drink lean Salinum 's healthful juice.
'Tis thin, and hard — but, ah Maecenas knows,
What aid from strength, to pitied weakness flows:
I, my great patron, lending Grecian lees ,
Taught the sweeten'd Sharp to please:

'Twas Maecenas — let me, stay —
Ay! 'twas done, on that dear day ,
When the voic'd Theatric player
Hail'd, so loud, your entrance, there,

I.

T HE Tyrant Queen of soft Desires,
With the resistless aid of sprightly Wine
And wanton Ease, conspires
To make my Heart its Peace resign,
And re-admit Love's long rejected Fires.
For beauteous Glycera I burn,
The Flames so long repell'd with double Force return:
Endless her Charms appear, and shine more bright
Than polish'd Marble when reflecting Light;
With winning coyness, she my Soul disarms,

ODE 14

T O A S HIP

Yet on fresh billows seaward wilt thou ride,
O ship? What dost thou? Seek a hav'n, and there
Rest thee: for lo! thy side
Is oarless all and bare,

And the swift south-west wind hath maimed thy mast,
And thy yards creak, and, every cable lost,
Yield must thy keel at last
On tyrannous sea-waves tossed.

AD LYDIAM

What time thou yearnest for the arms
Of Telephus, I fain would twist 'em;
When thou dost praise his other charms
It just upsets my well-known system;
My brain is like a three-ring circus,
In short, it gets my capra hircus .

My reason reels, my cheeks grow pale,
My heart becomes unduly spiteful,
My verses in the Evening Mail
Are far from snappy and delightful.

Ne'er fash your thumb what gods decree
To be the weird o' you or me,
Nor deal in cantrup's kittle cunning
To speir how fast your days are running,
But patient lippen for the best ,
Nor be in dowy thought opprest,
Whether we see mare winters come
Than this that spits wi' canker'd foam.

Now moisten weel your geyzen'd wa'as
Wi' couthy friends and hearty blaws ;
Ne'er lat your hope o'ergang your days ,
For eild and thraldom never stays;
The day looks gash , toot aff your horn ,
Nor care yae strae about the morn .

ODE 11

T O L EUCONÖE

Seek not, for thou shalt not find it, what my end, what thine shall be;
Ask not of Chaldaea's science what God wills, Leuconoe:
Better far, what comes, to bear it. Haply many a wintry blast
Waits thee still; and this, it may be, Jove ordains to be thy last,
Which flings now the flagging sea-wave on the obstinate sandstone-reef
Be thou wise: fill up the wine-cup; shortening, since the time is brief,

I

It's wrang indeed now, Jenny, white,
To spoil a lad sae rare;
The gams 'at yence were his delyte,
Peer Jacky minds nae mair.

II

Nae mair he cracks the leave o' th' green,
The cliverest far abuin;
But lakes at wait-nae-whats wuthin
Aw sunday efter-nuin.

III

Nae mair i' th' nights thro' woods he leads,
To trace the wand'rin brock;
But sits i' th' nuik, and nought else heeds,