HORACE I, 11.
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Seek not, Lucome, to know how long you're going to live yet— What boons the gods will yet withhold, or what they're going to give yet; For Jupiter will have his way, despite how much we worry— Some will hang on for many a day and some die in a hurry, The wisest thing for you to do is to embark this diem Upon a merry escapade with some such bard as I am; And while we sport, I'll reel you off such odes as shall surprise ye— To-morrow, when the headache comes—well, then I'll satirize ye! |
HORACE I, 13.
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When, Lydia, you (once fond and true, But now grown cold and supercilious) Praise Telly's charms of neck and arms— Well, by the dog! it makes me bilious! Then, with despite, my cheeks wax white, My doddering brain gets weak and giddy, My eyes o'erflow with tears which show That passion melts my vitals, Liddy! Deny, false jade, your escapade, And, lo! your wounded shoulders show it! No manly spark left such a mark— (Leastwise he surely was no poet!) With savage buss did Telephus Abraid your lips, so plump and mellow— As you would save what Venus gave, I charge you shun that awkward fellow! And now I say thrice happy they That call on Hymen to requite 'em; For, though love cools, the wedded fools Must cleave 'till death doth disunite 'em! |