For you Sicilian heifers low,Bleat countless flocks; for you are neighingProud coursers; Afric purples glowFor your arrayingWith double dyes; a small domain,The soul that breathed in Grecian harping,My portion these; and high disdainOf ribald carping.Why rend my heart with that sad sigh?It cannot please the gods or meThat you, Maecenas, first should die,My pillar of prosperity.Ah! should I lose one half my soulUntimely, can the other stayBehind it? Life that is not whole,Is that as sweet? The self-same dayShall crush us twain; no idle oathHas Horace sworn; whene'er you go,We both will travel, travel bothThe last dark journey down below.