TRANSLATION.
ODES OF HORACE. BOOK I. ODE XXIII.
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BY D. R. K.
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Like frightened fawn, when on the mountain air
The crashing hunt comes sweeping near its lair,
Trembling it stands, uncertain which to fly,
The rustling leaves, or stag-hounds dreadful cry,
So thou, my Chloe, when thy swain appears,