There's Dædalus, who sailed, they tell,

On false wings thro' the air;

There's Hercules, who plunged through hellWhat will not mortals dare?

'Gainst heaven itself our foolish pride
Is aimed: our crimes are great ;
And Jove will never lay aside
The thunderbolts of fate.

IV.

TO L. SEXTIUS.

The bitter winter melts, we feel
The pleasing change; once more
Spring's balmy breezes o'er us steal,
The ships are hauled from shore,,

The ploughman can't in fires delight,
Nor cattle in their shed,

No meadows now are robed in white,
The snow and frost have fled.

Venus leads dances as of yore,

While Luna shines on high;

The Nymphs and Graces shake the floor
In footing merrily.

While gloomy Vulcan works away,

His fiery forge still plying,

We should the myrtle's verdant spray
Upon our brows be tying,

Or some fair flower which earth now yields;

"Tis fitting, too, to-day,

To Faunus in the shady fields

A lamb or kid to slay.

In poor men's huts, in great men's halls,

Pale Death's no partial guest:

O Sextius, care not what befalls,

For life is short at best.

You'll soon to Night and spectres go,
And Pluto's shadowy hosts;

And there you'll find no dice to show
Who's master of the toasts.

There Lycidas you'll cease to admire,
Him who so finely made is,

For whom now every youth's on fire,
As soon will be the ladies.

V.

TO PYRRHA.

Who is the slender youth bedewed

With perfumes, decked with roses, Who last fair Pyrrha's charms has wooed, And in some grot reposes?

For whom dost bind thy yellow hair

So simply and so neatly?

How oft at fickle faith he'll swear,

And curse his gods completely!

How oft he'll see-unwonted sight—

His ocean all o'ercast,

Who for a while basks in thy light,
And thinks that light will last.

He deems thou ever wilt be dear,
Thy favours aye the same,
Forgetting how the wind may veer-
Poor moth, unused to flame !

For me, I've shipwreck 'scaped; the wall
And votive brass declare,

I've hung my dripping garments all
In Neptune's honour there.

VI.

TO AGRIPPA.

Varius your valorous actions will rehearse
And laud the victor in Homeric verse,
And all the deeds by land and sea
Your soldiers did triumphantly.

Your praise, Agrippa, ne'er will suit my lyre,
I cannot sing Achilles' stubborn ire,

Nor false Ulysses' wandering course,
Nor Pelops' house of cruel force.

For me such themes are all too great, I say, And soon my lack of genius would betray; My timid Muse is far too weak

Of yours and Cæsar's fame to speak.

Who can describe Mars clad in adamant?
Who's fit on dust-stained Merion to descant?
Or who of Diomede to write,

Whom Pallas matched with gods in fight?

Of feasts I sing, and girls who war with males,
Fierce girls whose weapons are their finger-nails.
Alike in love or free from passion,
I'm wont to trifle in my fashion.

VII.

TO MUNATIUS PLANCUS.

Famed Rhodes or Mitylene some will please,
Or Ephesus, or Corinth on two seas;
Thebes dear to Bacchus, or the Delphic shrine,
Or Tempe's valleys, others deem divine.

Some sing the towers of virgin Pallas fair,
And think no wreath with olive can compare.

Mycenae many, Juno's grace to gain,

Will praise, and Argos, that horse-breeding plain.
But Lacedæmon has few charms for me,

And e'en Larissa's fertile fields I'd flee.

My heart on loud Albunea's fount is set;

Anio and Tibur's groves and orchards wet

With rushing streams I love. The south-wind's blast Will clear the sky and cease its showers at last.

So, too, remember, Plancus, to be wise,

And drown in cups the trouble life supplies;

Then fill your glass, though camps and arms delight you, Or your own Tibur's shady groves invite you.

From Salamis and sire when Teucer fled,

They say he crowned with poplar moist his head. And thus the chief addrest his weeping friends : 'Where Fortune, kinder than a father, sends, Comrades, we'll go-sure none will courage need 'Neath Teucer's auspices and Teucer's lead.

Apollo swore and we can trust the god―

Another Salamis should rise abroad.

Then let us drink, brave hearts, who've known worse

pain;

To-morrow o'er the sea we'll sail again.'

VIII.

TO LYDIA.

Lydia, by all the gods besought,

What is it you are doing?

Why has your love so quickly brought

Young Sybaris to ruin?

Why shuns he now the sunny field

Who ne'er to dust or heat would yield?

Why rides he not a soldier bold

Among the warlike train ?

Nor cares his Gallic steed to hold

With bit and bridle rein?

Why fears he Tiber's yellow flood,

And oil dreads worse than viper's blood?

His arm is black with no exploit,

Though he would ever win,