Odes

Horace

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

  • This day, true holyday to me,
  • Shall banish care: I will not fear
  • Rude broils or bloody death to see,
  • While Caesar's here.
  • Quick, boy, the chaplets and the nard,
  • And wine, that knew the Marsian war,
  • If roving Spartacus have spared
  • A single jar.
  • And bid Neaera come and trill,
  • Her bright locks bound with careless art:
  • If her rough porter cross your will,
  • Why then depart.
  • Soon palls the taste for noise and fray,
  • When hair is white and leaves are sere:
  • How had I fired in life's warm May,
  • In Plancus' year!