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

  • O ask not what those sons of war,
  • Cantabrian, Scythian, each intend,
  • Disjoin'd from us by Hadria's bar,
  • Nor puzzle, Quintius, how to spend
  • A life so simple. Youth removes,
  • And Beauty too; and hoar Decay
  • Drives out the wanton tribe of Loves
  • And Sleep, that came or night or day.
  • The sweet spring-flowers not always keep
  • Their bloom, nor moonlight shines the same
  • Each evening. Why with thoughts too deep
  • O'ertask a mind of mortal frame?
  • Why not, just thrown at careless ease
  • 'Neath plane or pine, our locks of grey
  • Perfumed with Syrian essences
  • And wreathed with roses, while we may,
  • Lie drinking? Bacchus puts to shame
  • The cares that waste us. Where's the slave
  • To quench the fierce Falernian's flame
  • With water from the passing wave?