TO ALBIUS TIBULLUS
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II
Grieve not, my Albius, if thoughts of Glycera may haunt you, Nor chant your mournful elegies because she faithless proves; If now a younger man than you this cruel charmer loves, Let not the kindly favors of the past rise up to taunt you. Lycoris of the little brow for Cyrus feels a passion, And Cyrus, on the other hand, toward Pholoe inclines; But ere this crafty Cyrus can accomplish his designs She-goats will wed Apulian wolves in deference to fashion. Such is the will, the cruel will, of love-inciting Venus, Who takes delight in wanton sport and ill-considered jokes, And brings ridiculous misfits beneath her brazen yokes,— A very infelicitous proceeding, just between us. As for myself, young Myrtale, slave-born and lacking graces, And wilder than the Adrian tides which form Calabrian bays, Entangled me in pleasing chains and compromising ways, When—just my luck—a better girl was courting my embraces. |
TO MÆCENAS
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Mæcenas, thou of royalty's descent, Both my protector and dear ornament, Among humanity's conditions are Those who take pleasure in the flying car, Whirling Olympian dust, as on they roll, And shunning with the glowing wheel the goal; While the ennobling palm, the prize of worth, Exalts them to the gods, the lords of earth. Here one is happy if the fickle crowd His name the threefold honor has allowed; And there another, if into his stores Comes what is swept from Libyan threshing-floors. He who delights to till his father's lands, And grasps the delving-hoe with willing hands, Can never to Attalic offers hark, Or cut the Myrtoan Sea with Cyprian bark. The merchant, timorous of Afric's breeze, When fiercely struggling with Icarian seas Praises the restful quiet of his home, Nor wishes from the peaceful fields to roam; Ah, speedily his shattered ships he mends,— To poverty his lesson ne'er extends. One there may be who never scorns to fill His cups with mellow draughts from Massic's hill, Nor from the busy day an hour to wean, Now stretched at length beneath the arbute green, Now at the softly whispering spring, to dream Of the fair nymphs who haunt the sacred stream. For camp and trump and clarion some have zest,— The cruel wars the mothers so detest. 'Neath the cold sky the hunter spends his life, Unmindful of his home and tender wife, Whether the doe is seen by faithful hounds Or Marsian boar through the fine meshes bounds. But as for me, the ivy-wreaths, the prize Of learned brows, exalt me to the skies; The shady grove, the nymphs and satyrs there, Draw me away from people everywhere; If it may be, Euterpe's flute inspires, Or Polyhymnia strikes the Lesbian lyres; And if you place me where no bard debars, With head exalted I shall strike the stars! |