Book IV, Ode 12
Yes, a small box of nard from the stores of Sulpicius[3]
A cask shall elicit, of potency rare To endow with fresh hopes, dewy-bright and delicious,
And wash from our hearts every cobweb of care. If you'd dip in such joys, come—the better the quicker!—
But remember the fee—for it suits not my ends, To let you make havoc, scot-free, 'with my liquor,
As though I were one of your heavy-pursed friends. To the winds with base lucre and pale melancholy!—
In the flames of the pyre these, alas! will be vain, Mix your sage ruminations with glimpses of folly,—
'Tis delightful at times to be somewhat insane. —Sir Theodore Martin

THE GOLDEN MEAN

Horace. Book II, Ode 10
Receive, dear friends, the truths I teach,
So shalt thou live beyond the reach Of adverse Fortune's power; Not always tempt the distant deep,
Nor always timorously creep Along the treacherous shore. He that holds fast the golden mean
And lives contentedly between The little and the great, Feels not the wants that pinch the poor,
Nor plagues that haunt the rich man's door, Imbittering all his state. The tallest pines feel most the power
Of wintry blasts; the loftiest tower Comes heaviest to the ground; The bolts that spare the mountain's side
His cloud-capt eminence divide, And spread the ruin round. The well-informed philosopher
Rejoices with a wholesome fear, And hopes in spite of pain; If winter bellow from the north,
Soon the sweet spring comes dancing forth, And nature laughs again. What if thine heaven be overcast?
The dark appearance will not last; Expect a brighter sky. The god that strings a silver bow
Awakes sometimes the Muses too, And lays his arrows by. If hindrances obstruct thy way,
Thy magnanimity display, And let thy strength be seen: But O! if Fortune fill thy sail
With more than a propitious gale, Take half thy canvas in. —William Cowper

[TO THE READER]

Martial
He unto whom thou art so partial,
O reader, is the well-known Martial,
The Epigrammatist: while living,
Give him the fame thou wouldst be giving
So shall he hear, and feel, and know it:
Post-obits rarely reach a poet. —Lord Byron

[ON PORTIA]