Old men and youths in crowds are snatched away,
And none of Proserpine escape the sway.

Me, too, the South wind, on Orion's sign
Attendant, seized and plunged beneath the brine.
But thou, O sailor, show no wanton spite,
Heap up the sand and hide my bones from sight.
So when wild Eurus stirs the Hesperian sea,
May woods the tempest rue, but thou go free.
So may much lawful gain thy efforts crown,
From Jove and him who guards Tarentum's town.
But should thou heedless spurn me as I lie,
And sin against thy own posterity,

May'st thou incur meet punishment, and bow
Beneath stern fate one day as I do now;
No idle prayers are these I imprecate,
No penalties thy crime shall expiate.

So, then, whate'er thy haste, a moment stay, Thrice sprinkle me with dust-then go thy way.

XXIX.

TO ICCIUS.

You envy the treasure of Araby's shore,
And warfare prepare with all speed
Against kings of Sabæa, unconquered before,
And chains for the terrible Mede.

What barbarous maid will you choose for a slave

When her lover in battle is slain?

What boy with his sweet-scented locks will you have The cups at your feast to sustain ?

What boy who can shoot with his father's strong bow?

Who'll think it now out of their course,

If rivers should turn and up mountains swift flow,
And Tiber run back to his source?

Since you, whose first years with such promise were fraught,
Intend of performance to fail,

And to sell all the many rare books that you bought
For a suit of Iberian mail.

XXX.

TO VENUS.

O Venus, Knidos', Paphos' queen,
Neglect your Cyprus dear,
And in fair Glycera's shrine be seen,
Whose incense calls you here.

There bring your glowing boy, and bring
Your unzoned Graces three,

And bid the Nymphs to hasten too,
And Mercury, and Youth with you
A pleasant god to see.

XXXI.

TO APOLLO.

What seeks the poet at Apollo's shrine?

What prays he from the goblet pouring wine?

He asks not for Sardinia's fertile fields,

Nor for the flocks that scorched Calabria yields.
For gold or ivory he never pines,

Nor lands which silent Liris undermines.

Their vines let dressers prune with sharpened blade,
Let merchants quaff the wine they earn by trade
From cups of gold-sure heaven protects their gain,
Since thrice a year they safely cross the main.

To me, Apollo, grant, I pray, the wealth
To enjoy my stock, my olives, and good health,
And sober sense-'tis all that I require,
With fair old age, passed not without the lyre.

XXXII.

TO HIS LYRE.

They need us now, my lyre-if e'er
In shady ease we've sung an air,
That for this year or more shall last,
Now raise for once a Latin blast.

Alcæus tuned thee first, of old,
And though he was in battle bold,
E'en while his long campaigns he fought,
Or storm-tossed bark to anchor brought,

He sang of Liber and the Muse,
Nor did he Venus' praise refuse,
Nor Cupid clinging-close despise,
Nor Lycus's dark hair and eyes.

O pride of Phoebus, shell, the theme
Of praise at feasts of Jove supreme,
Solace of many a weary task,

Be kind whene'er thy aid I ask.

XXXIII.

CROSS PURPOSES.

Don't bother because she is harsh and untrue,
Don't write these sad sonnets and mourn,
Because she prefers some one younger than you,
And her honour and faith are forsworn.

Lycoris, the narrow-browed, shamelessly runs
After Cyrus, who cares not a straw ;
And Pholoe Cyrus' love angrily shuns,

For wolves shall transgress nature's law,

And be mated with ewes ere she'll yield to the man,
A profligate false as the weather.

Thus Venus delights aye in thwarting our plan,
And joining wrong people together.

For myself when a far nobler love had been mine,

I was fettered by Myrtale's gaze ;

Fair Myrtale, wilder than even the brine

That breaks on Calabrian bays.

XXXIV.

RECANTATION.

I've not troubled the gods with my prayers, I much

fear,

Of late, of my senses bereft ;

But now they compel me my vessel to veer
And sail o'er the course that I left.

For Jove, who I thought never flashes on high
His bolt with no storms in the heaven.
His thundering horses and car through a sky
That was perfectly cloudless has driven.

D

The earth all inert it was shaken with fright,
And so were the streams as they flowed,
And Styx and the horrible dwellings of Night,
And Atlas's distant abode.

The gods, if they please, can confound high and low,
Strike the great, and obscure bring to might;
From this man to take and on that to bestow,
Is Fortune's capricious delight.

XXXV.

TO FORTUNE.

Goddess, of pleasant Antium Queen,
Thou who canst raise the low,
And changest at thy will I ween,
Proud triumphs into woe.

To thee with strong entreaties flee

Poor tillers of the soil,

And all court thee, who rul'st the sea
When o'er the waves they toil.

Scythian and Dacian, towns and hordes,
All dread thy awful name,

And mothers stern of barbarous lords,

And purple chiefs of fame;

Lest by thy foot destructive spurned,
The stately column break,

And peaceful men to arms be turned,
And empires fall and shake.