| ODES - I.22 | THE MAN OF LIFE UPRIGHT ... |
| Horace (Q. Horatius Flaccus) | trans. Wentworth Dillon, ......................Earl of Roscommon |
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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. |
Virtue, dear friend, needs no defence, No arms, but its own innocence; Quivers and bows, and poison'd darts, Are only us'd by guilty hearts. An honest mind safely alone May travel through the burning zone; Or thro' the deepest Scythian snows, Or where the fam'd Hydaspes flows. While rul'd by a resistless fire, Our great Orinda I admire, The hungry wolves that see me stray, Unarm'd and single, run away. Set me in the remotest place That ever Neptune did embrace; When there her image fills my breast, Helicon is not half so blest. Leave me upon some Lybian plain, So she my fancy entertain, And when the thirsty monsters meet, They'll all pay homage to my feet. The magic of Orinda's name Not only can their fierceness tame, But if that mighty word I once rehearse, They seem submissively to roar in verse. |
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