The Greeks had genius—'twas a gift
The Muse vouchsafed in glorious measure;
The boon of Fame they made their aim
And prized above all worldly treasure.
But we—how do we train our youth?
Not in the arts that are immortal,
But in the greed for gains that speed
From him who stands at Death's dark portal.
Ah, when this slavish love of gold
Once binds the soul in greasy fetters,
How prostrate lies—how droops and dies
The great, the noble cause of letters!

HORACE I, 34.

I have not worshiped God, my King—
Folly has led my heart astray;
Backward I turn my course to learn
The wisdom of a wiser way.
How marvelous is God, the King!
How do His lightnings cleave the sky—
His thundering car spreads fear afar,
And even hell is quaked thereby!
Omnipotent is God, our King!
There is no thought He hath not read,
And many a crown His hand plucks down
To place it on a worthier head!

HORACE I, 33.

Not to lament that rival flame
Wherewith the heartless Glycera scorns you,
Nor waste your time in maudlin rhyme,
How many a modern instance warns you.
Fair-browed Lycoris pines away
Because her Cyrus loves another;
The ruthless churl informs the girl
He loves her only as a brother.
For he, in turn, courts Pholoe—
A maid unscotched of love's fierce virus—
Why, goats will mate with wolves they hate
Ere Pholoe will mate with Cyrus!
Ah, weak and hapless human hearts—
By cruel Mother Venus fated
To spend this life in hopeless strife,
Because incongruously mated!
Such torture, Albius, is my lot;
For, though a better mistress wooed me,
My Myrtale has captured me
And with her cruelties subdued me!