Horace (Q. Horatius Flaccus) trans. J. Howard Deazeley
Aequam memento rebus in arduis
seruare mentem, non secus in bonis
ab insolentia temperatam
laetitia, moriture Delli,

seu maestus omni tempore uixeris,
seu te in remoto gramine per dies
festos reclinatum bearis
interiore nota Falerni.

Quo pinus ingens albaque populus
umbram hospitalem consociare amant
ramis? Quid obliquo laborat
lympha fugax trepidare riuo?

Huc uina et unguenta et nimium breuis
flores amoenae ferre iube rosae,
dum res et aetas et sororum
fila trium patiuntur atra.

Cedes coemptis saltibus et domo
uillaque flauus quam Tiberis lauit,
cedes et exstructis in altum
diuitiis potietur heres.

Diuesne prisco natus ab Inacho
nil interest an pauper et infima
de gente sub diuo moreris,
uictima nil miserantis Orci.

Omnes eodem cogimur, omnium
uersata urna serius ocius
sors exitura et nos in aeternum
exsilium impositura cumbae.
When life is hard, your soul possess
In calm serene; when times are fair,
Refrain from triumph's haughty air,
For, Dellius, death will come no less

If length of days be wholly spanned
With grief, or if as glad hours laugh
You lie in quiet meads and quaff
Falernum's wine of choicest brand;

Where lofty pines and poplars white
Their boughs in friendly shade entwine
Together, and with winding line
The brooklet babbles in its flight.

Here call for wine and nard and bloom
Of roses fading all too fast,
While youth remains and fortunes last
And Fate still spares the thread of doom.

The lawns you buy you must forsake,
That home by tawny Tiber's wave;
The growing stores for which you slave
In heirship will another take.

What boots your wealth or long descent
From Inachus? As well to lie
A lowly beggar 'neath the sky
For any ruth in Death's intent.

One bourn constrains us all; for all
The lots are shaken in the urn,
Whence, soon or late, will fall our turn
Of exile's barge without recall.

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