O'er-vaunted glory is a perilous thing;
For on it Zeus, whose glance fills all with fear,
His thunderbolts doth fling.
That fortune fair I praise
That rouseth not the Gods to jealousy.
May I ne'er tread the devastator's ways,
Nor as a prisoner see
My life wear out in drear captivity!
Epode
And now at bidding of the courier-flame,