Odes

Horace

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

  • With you I shared Philippi's rout,
  • Unseemly parted from my shield,
  • When Valour fell, and warriors stout
  • Were tumbled on the inglorious field:
  • But I was saved by Mercury,
  • Wrapp'd in thick mist, yet trembling sore,
  • While you to that tempestuous sea
  • Were swept by battle's tide once more.
  • Come, pay to Jove the feast you owe;
  • Lay down those limbs, with warfare spent,
  • Beneath my laurel; nor be slow
  • To drain my cask; for you 'twas meant.
  • Lethe's true draught is Massic wine;
  • Fill high the goblet; pour out free
  • Rich streams of unguent. Who will twine
  • The hasty wreath from myrtle-tree
  • Or parsley? Whom will Venus seat
  • Chairman of cups? Are Bacchants sane?
  • Then I'll be sober. O, 'tis sweet
  • To fool, when friends come home again!