Horace (Q. Horatius Flaccus) trans. William Ewart Gladstone
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.
An even mind in days of care,
And in thy days of joy to bear
A chastened mood, remember: why?
'T is, Dellius, that thou hast to die.

Alike, if all thy life be sad,
Or festal season find thee glad,
On the lone turf at ease recline,
and quaff thy best Falernian wine.

Why do tall pine and poplar white
To weave their friendly shade delight?
This flitting stream, why hath it sped
So headlong down its wandering bed?

Bring wine, bring perfumes, bring fresh flowers
Of roses, all too brief their hours!
While purse, and age, and Sisters Three
Permit, though dark their threads may be.

This home, these glades, no longer thine,
Which auburn Tiber laps, resign;
Resign the towering heaps of gold,
Which one thine heir, not thou, shall hold.

Be hoary Inachus thy sire,
Or be thou risen from the mire;
Be rich, or poor, it boots thee not:
Unpitying Orcus casts his lot.

All, all, we drive to doom. The urn
Discharges every Life in turn:
For every Life, or soon or late,
The boat, and endless exile, wait.

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