Abstract
Two Odes HORACE (Translated by Parker Thomas) Ode 1.22 To go upright in life, while free of its evils, Fuscus, makes dead weight of your feathered bows And African spears, your quivers packed full of Poison-tipped arrows, Whether you venture over the scorched coasts Of Libya, or the flint-lined valleys Veining the Caucasus, or lands licked clean by Fabled Hydaspes. To the point: a wolf eyed me in a Sabine grove While I sang—forgetting all that I’d lost, or loathed— A song for Lalage. The wolf eyed me and Left me unscathed, A prodigious wolf which even Apulia’s forests, Throbbing with wars to their oak-strewn horizons, Couldn’t have dreamed of, nor Numidia, the sandblasted Nursery for lions. Let me be set amid barrenness—a field of husks Ungreened by summer breezes, or further— Some region beyond the reach of all but Ruin and weather, A place scraped by the sun’s coursing Close overhead, a place void of houses; Still I’ll love Lalage’s freshwater laughter, our Still-mingling voices. 50 two odes Ode 3.12 Neobule was a girl beset by misfortune on all sides: unfamiliar with the game of love given to sobriety and temperance never beyond the range of her father’s words but swift as an arrow the god of Desire flew off with her flower-basket, her privacy and domesticity, his wings in passing cast dust on her loom. She had caught sight of Hebrus bathing in the Tiber, the dragonfly-glimmer of water flowing over his shoulders and known him a second Bellerophon or better, unbested and able with equal finesse To crumple a stag as it flees or sniff out the boar that crouches and hides in the densest, innermost thicket. Horace 51 ...
Published Version
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