Horace (Q. Horatius Flaccus) trans. William Sinclair Marris
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.
He who is innocent and pure
Needs not to go equipped
With spear or quiver of the Moor
And arrows poison-tipped.

Not though he fare through Syrtes' waves,
Cold Caucasus' expanse,
Or regions that Hydaspes laves,
That river of romance.

I roamed beyond my farm at ease,
I sang of Lalage,
And met unarmed among the trees
A wolf, who fled from me.

Martial Apulia, forest-land,
Bred never monster worse;
Nor such was weaned 'mid Juba's sand,
The lions' thirsty nurse.

Set me on steppes, where summer air
No leaf has ever kissed,
The zone that lies in dull despair
Of sombre sky and mist;

Set me where flames so fierce a heat
That there no dwellers be:
Yet will I love her - smiling-sweet,
Sweet-speaking Lalage.

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