| LIBER I - XXII | SINGING OF LALAGE |
| Horace (Q. Horatius Flaccus) | trans. A. S. Kline |
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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. |
The man who is pure of life, and free of sin, has no need, dear Fuscus, for Moorish javelins, nor a bow and a quiver, fully loaded with poisoned arrows, whether his path’s through the sweltering Syrtes, or through the inhospitable Caucasus, or makes its way through those fabulous regions Hydaspes waters. While I was wandering, beyond the boundaries of my farm, in the Sabine woods, and singing free from care, lightly-defended, of my Lalage, a wolf fled from me: a monster not even warlike Apulia nourishes deep in its far-flung oak forests, or that Juba’s parched Numidian land breeds, nursery of lions. Set me down on the lifeless plains, where no trees spring to life in the burning midsummer wind, that wide stretch of the world that’s burdened by mists and a gloomy sky: set me down in a land denied habitation, where the sun’s chariot rumbles too near the earth: I’ll still be in love with my sweetly laughing, sweet talking Lalage. |
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Trans. Copyright © A. S. Kline 2003