Anger will face the sharpest sword
And dare the stormiest sea-
Anger which neither raging flame
Nor Jupiter himself can tame,
Fierce though his thunder be.

They say Prometheus, making man,
Was forced from all the rest
Of living things his clay to take,
And chose the lion's gall to make
Wrath for the human breast.

'Twas wrath Thyestes overthrew,
Wrath was the cause of all
Her woes to many a mighty town,
Enabling foes to pull her down

And plough where stood her wall.

Then ever angry tempers rule-
E'en I in youth was curst
With passion, and with fire I glowed,
My breast was Satire's own abode,
And into rhyme I burst.

But now I wish for gentler moods
To exchange this bitter vein;
Here all my libels I'll unsay,
If thou thy kindness wilt display,
And be my friend again.

XVII.

TO TYNDARIS.

Fleet-footed Faunus loves to change
His dwelling in the plain,

And guards my goats as wild they range
From heat, and wind, and rain.

Safe thro' the grove they careless stray,
On thyme and berries feed ;

The kids, too, cross the adder's way
And tremble not, nor heed,

E'en if a warlike wolf appear ;

Soon as his notes resound,
And rock and valley far and near

The strain re-echo round.

The gods protect me, they who mind

My piety and songs.

Here, Tyndaris, all the wealth you'll find

That to my farm belongs.

Here in a lowly vale you'll flee

The dog-star's heat, and tell us

Of Circe and Penelope,

Both for one lover jealous.

Here cups of Lesbian wine you'll drain

Beneath a shady tree :

Bacchus and Mars shall rage restrain,

Nor break our harmony.

Nor need you wanton Cyrus fear,
He shall his spite repress,

Nor garlands from your tresses tear,
Nor rend your harmless dress.

XVIII.

TO QUINTILIUS VARUS.

O Varus! plant the sacred vine before all other toil
Around the walls of Catilus and Tibur's tender soil.

All things come hard to sober wights-'tis thus the gods decree

And bitter cares that plague us so thro' drink alone will flee.

Who in his glass of poverty or warfare dares repine?

Who does not rather dwell on you, O gods of love and wine?

Don't quaff too much, though, when you feast-remember and be taught,

The Centaurs and the Lapithæ, how o'er their cups they fought.

E'en Bacchus preaches this, and views displeased the Thracian throng,

Whose drunken passions oft confuse the bounds of right and wrong.

I'll never shake thy thyrsus, nor without thy will reveal, O Bacchus, to the daylight what a thousand leaves conceal.

Cease, then, your Berecynthian horn and savage trump to sound,

Which blind Self-love still follows, despising all around;

Next Arrogance, with empty head too high erect, will

pass,

And Faith betraying secrets, more transparent than the

glass.

XIX.

OF GLYCERA.

I am bidden by Semele's child

And the mother of Cupid the stern,

And also by wantonness wild,

Το my old loves again to return.

To Glycera's charms am I true,
Shining clearer than Parian stone;
I love her sweet petulance too,

And her eyes that so dazzle my own.

'Tis me Venus seeks, Cyprus leaving ;
No strain of wild tribes may I raise,
Nor of Parthian, by flight foes deceiving,
Nor of aught that regards not her praise.

Here place the green sod, boys, and here
Bring vervain and frankincense lay,
And wine two years old; for my dear
I'll a lamb as a peace-offering slay.

XX.

TO MÆCENAS.

Dear knight, Mæcenas, when with me,
Poor Sabine stuff your drink will be.
In Grecian casks I put it by

The day they praised you publicly;

So loud your own paternal banks
Resounded with the people's thanks,
And laughing echo spread the sound
The heights of Vatican around.

Rich Cæcuban you quaff, and wine
From Cales when at home you dine ;
No Formian grapes my humble board,
Nor sweet Falernian, can afford.

XXI.

OF DIANA AND APOLLO.

Ye maids, a hymn to soft Diana raise;
And ye, O youths, unshorn Apollo praise,
And sing Latona's fame,

Whom ardent Jove o'ercame.

Ye maids, sing her in rivers who delights,
And groves that stretch from Algidus' cool heights,
In gloomy woods who's seen,

Or sunny bowers and green.

Tempe, ye youths, with equal praise adorn;

And Delos, where Apollo erst was born,

Armed with his quiver dire,

Or else his brother's lyre.

From famine, grievous war, and pestilence,
To us and Cæsar he shall bring defence—
Your prayers shall drive these woes
Away against our foes.