Horace (Q. Horatius Flaccus) trans. Thomas Hawkins
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.
Who lives upright, and pure of heart
(O Fuscus) neither needs the dart,
Nor bow, nor quiver, fraught with store
Of shafts envenom'd by the Moor:

Whether o're Libya's parched sands,
Or Caucasus that houseless stands,
He takes the journey; or those places
Through which the fam'd Hydaspes traces.

For careless through the Sabin grove
Whilest chaunting Lalage, I rove,
Not well observing limits due,
A wolf from me unarmed flew.

A monster such as all exceeds,
Which in huge woods fierce Daunia feeds:
Or those that Juba's kingdome hath,
The Desart-nurse of lions wrath.

Place me in coldest Champanies, where
No Summer-warmth the trees do cheer:
Let me in that dull Climate rest,
Which clouds and sullen Jove infest:

Yea place me underneath the Carre
Of too near Phoebus: seated farre
From dwellings: Lalage Ile love,
Whose smiles, whose words so sweetly move.

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