Odes

Horace

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

  • Fortune, who loves her cruel game,
  • Still bent upon some heartless whim,
  • Shifts her caresses, fickle dame,
  • Now kind to me, and now to him:
  • She stays; 'tis well: but let her shake
  • Those wings, her presents I resign,
  • Cloak me in native worth, and take
  • Chaste Poverty undower'd for mine.
  • Though storms around my vessel rave,
  • I will not fall to craven prayers,
  • Nor bargain by my vows to save
  • My Cyprian and Sidonian wares,
  • Else added to the insatiate main.
  • Then through the wild Aegean roar
  • The breezes and the Brethren Twain
  • Shall waft my little boat ashore.