Odes

Horace

Horace. The Odes and Carmen Saeculare of Horace. Conington, John, translator. London: George Bell and Sons, 1882.

Shrinks, as maiden should, from strife:

But I'm for madness. What has dull'd the fire

Of the Berecyntian fife?

Why hangs the flute in silence with the lyre?

Out on niggard-handed boys!

Rain showers of roses; let old Lycus hear,

Envious churl, our senseless noise,

And she, our neighbour, his ill-sorted fere.

You with your bright clustering hair,

Your beauty, Telephus, like evening's sky,

Rhoda loves, as young, as fair;

I for my Glycera slowly, slowly die.