Odes

Horace

Horace, creator; Conington, John, 1825-1869, editor

  • What if, as auburn Phyllis' mate,
  • You graft yourself on regal stem?
  • Oh yes! be sure her sires were great;
  • She weeps for them.
  • Believe me, from no rascal scum
  • Your charmer sprang; so true a flame,
  • Such hate of greed, could never come
  • From vulgar dame.
  • With honest fervour I commend
  • Those lips, those eyes; you need not fear
  • A rival, hurrying on to end
  • His fortieth year.
  • Septimius, who with me would brave
  • Far Gades, and Cantabrian land
  • Untamed by Rome, and Moorish wave
  • That whirls the sand;
  • Fair Tibur, town of Argive kings,
  • There would I end my days serene,
  • At rest from seas and travellings,
  • And service seen.