ODES I.18: AD QUINCTILIUM VARUM | IN PRAISE OF MODERATE DRINKING | ||||||||
Horace (Q. Horatius Flaccus) | trans. Alan Marshfield | ||||||||
Nullam, Vare, sacra vite prius severis arborem circa mite solum Tiburis et moenia Catili. Siccis omnia nam dura deus proposuit, neque mordaces aliter diffugiunt sollicitudines. Quis post vina gravem militiam aut pauperiem crepat? Quis non te potius, Bacche pater, teque, decens
Centaurea monet cum Lapithis rixa super mero debellata, monet Sithoniis non levis Euhius, cum fas atque nefas exiguo fine libidinum discernunt avidi. Non ego te, candide Bassareu, invitum quatiam, nec variis obsita frondibus sub divum rapiam. Saeva tene cum Berecyntio cornu tympana, quae subsequitur caecus Amor sui et tollens vacuum plus nimio Gloria verticem arcanique Fides prodiga, perlucidior vitro. |
See no foliage advanced, Varus, before mulching the sacred vine's roots round Tibur's mellow ways, under walls Catilus founded once. Oh, teetotallers, mourn! since the god ordained it be hard on you; for how do otherwise people kill their gnawing anxieties? Who bleats, after the wine's flowing, of war's tents, or of being skint? Who'd like either one gone - sweet and demure Venus or Father
to their knees the Lapiths fought once against those rotten-drunk
by their tale as well: how right from wrong by lust's exiguous hairs those beasts judged, avid. I, bright god Bassareus, will not try against your edict to explode in that kind of glut. The leaves will not be pushed from your dark ikons at my call. Quell the wild cymbal and horn used at Cybele's upland orgies, Phrygian Earth Mother, with blind Self-Love as their sequel, the void head of Conceit flung
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Transl. copyright © Alan Marshfield 2001