Horace (Q. Horatius Flaccus) trans. A. S. Kline
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 pathís 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 Jubaís 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 thatís burdened by mists
and a gloomy sky:

set me down in a land denied habitation,
where the sunís chariot rumbles too near the earth:
Iíll still be in love with my sweetly laughing,
sweet talking Lalage.

Click here 8 for another translation of this poem.

Trans. Copyright © A. S. Kline 2003

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