Tuesday, July 19, 2016


Horace, Odes, I.5.

Say, which delicate lad, wreathed in such teeming flowers,
Streaming sweet with perfume, presses himself on you,
     In that beautiful grotto?
          Why have you braided your flaxen hair,

Pyrrha, goodly and neat? Ah, he will sob for faith,
And for gods who have changed, and for the wild sea;
     Wondering how it has happened
          That its waves are gone dark with wind.

He enjoys you for now, trusting in fairy-gold;
Hopes you’ll ever be gay, ever a pleasant sprite,
     Little knowing how breezes
          Fail one! Miserable lads are they

Whom you dazzle untried. I for my part have hung
All my watery clothes (sayeth the sacred wall)
     Up to Neptune the mighty
          Who delivered me from the deep.

Horace Od. I.5

Quis multa gracilis te puer in rosa
Perfusus liquidis urget odoribus
     Grato, Pyrrha, sub antro?
          Cui flavam religas comam,

Simplex munditiis? Heu quotiens fidem
Mutatosque deos flebit et aspera
     Nigris æquora ventis
          Emirabitur insolens,

Qui nunc te fruitur credulus aurea,
Qui semper vacuam, semper amabilem
     Sperat, nescius auræ
          Fallacis. Miseri, quibus

Intemptata nites. Me tabula sacer
Votiva paries indicat uvida
     Suspendisse potenti
          Vestimenta maris deo.

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