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

  • 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?
  • Who'll coax coy Lyde from her home?
  • Go, bid her take her ivory lyre,
  • The runaway, and haste to come,
  • Her wild hair bound with Spartan tire.