No. II
Ode V. of the First Book of Horace
Translated by Milton
Quis multa gracilis, &c.
What slender youth, bedew’d with liquid odours,
Courts thee on roses in some pleasant cave?
Pyrrha, for whom bind’st thou
In wreaths thy golden hair,
Plain in thy neatness? O how oft shall he
On faith and changed Gods complain, and seas
Rough with black winds, and storms
Unwonted, shall admire.
Who now enjoys thee credulous, all gold,
Who always vacant, always amiable,
Hopes thee; of flattering gales
Unmindful? Hapless they
To whom thou untry’d seem’st fair. Me in my vow’d
Picture the sacred wall declares t’have hung
My dank and dropping weeds
To the stern God of sea.