ODES - I.22 THE MAN, MY FRIEND, WHOSE
CONSCIOUS HEART ...
Horace (Q. Horatius Flaccus) trans. Samuel Johnson
Integer uitae scelerisque purus
non eget Mauris laculis neque arcu
nec uenenatis grauida sagittis,
Fusce, pharetra,

siue per Syrtis iter aestuosas
siue facturus per inhospitalem
Caucasum uel quae loca fabulosus
lambit Hydaspes.

Namque me silua lupus in Sabina,
dum meam canto Lalagem et ultra
terminum curis uagor expeditis,
fugit inermem,

quale portentum neque militaris
Daunias latis alit aesculetis
nec Iubae tellus generat, leonum
arida nutrix.

Pone me pigris ubi nulla campis
arbor aestiua recreatur aura,
quod latus mundi nebulae malusque
Iuppiter urget;

pone sub curru nimium propinqui
solis in terra domibus negata:
dulce ridentem Lalagen amabo,
dulce loquentem.
The man, my friend, whose conscious heart
With virtue's sacred ardour glows,
Nor taints with death th' envenomed dart,
Nor needs the guard of Moorish bows.

O'er icy Caucasus he treads,
Or torrid Afric's faithless sands
Or where the famed Hydaspes spreads
His liquid wealth through barbarous lands.

For while in Sabine forests charmed
By Lalage, too far I strayed,
Me - singing careless and unarmed -
A furious wolf approached - and fled.

No beast more dreadful ever stained
Apulia's spacious wilds with gore,
No beast more fierce Numidia's land
(The lion's thirsty parent) bore.

Place me where no soft summer gale
Among the quivering branches sighs,
Where clouds condensed for ever veil
With horrid gloom the frowning skies.

Place me beneath the burning zone,
A clime denied to human race,
My flame for Lalage I'll own;
Her voice, her smiles, my song shall grace.

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