Odes 4.7 (Horace)

Diffugere nives, redeunt iam gramina campis 
arboribusque comae; 
mutat terra vices et decrescentia ripas 
flumina praetereunt; 

Gratia cum Nymphis geminisque sororibus audet 
ducere nuda choros. 
immortalia ne speres, monet annus et almum 
quae rapit hora diem. 

frigora mitescunt zephyris, ver proterit aestas 
interitura, simul 
pomifer autumnus fruges effuderit, et mox 
bruma recurrit iners. 

damna tamen celeres reparant caelestia lunae; 
nos ubi decidimus, 
quo pius Aeneas, quo Tullus dives et Ancus, 
pulvis et umbra sumus. 

quis scit an adiciant hodiernae crastina summae 
tempora di superi? 
cuncta manus avidas fugient heredis, amico 
quae dederis animo. 

cum semel occideris et de te splendida Minos 
fecerit arbitria, 
non, Torquate, genus, non te facundia, non te 
restituet pietas; 

infernis neque enim tenebris Diana pudicum 
liberat Hippolytum, 
nec Lethaea valet Theseus abrumpere caro 
vincula Pirithoo.


The snows have fled, and now the grass returns
To fields and leaves to trees;
The earth is changing seasons, and the rivers
Flow ebbing past their banks;

The sister Graces and the Nymphs now dare
Naked to lead the dance.
"Hope not to cheat death," warn the year and hour
That steals the kindly day.

 The frosts melt with the west winds, summer drives
The spring away, to die
When fruitful autumn pours its harvest out;
Soon sluggish cold returns.

Yet the swift moons repair their heavenly hurts;
But when we have gone down
Where good Aeneas, Tullus, Ancus are,
We are but dust and shadow.

 Who knows if the gods above will add tomorrow
To the total of your days?
All gifts will slip from your heir's greedy hands
That you gave to your own dear soul.

 When once you die and Minos has declared
His noble judgement on you,
Not birth, nor eloquence, nor faith, Torquatus,
Will ever bring you back.

Diana has not freed from Hades' shades
The chaste Hippolytus,
And Theseus cannot tear the chains of Lethe
From dear Pirithoos.

Odes 1.5 (Horace)

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 aequora ventis 
  emirabitur insolens, 

qui nunc te fruitur credulus aurea, 
qui semper vacuam, semper amabilem 
 sperat, nescius aurae 
 fallacis! miseri, quibus 

intemptata nites! me tabula sacer 
votiva paries indicat uvida 
 suspendisse potenti 
 vestimenta maris deo.

Who woos you on a bed of roses?

What slim boy bathed in perfumes, Pyrrha,

In a delightful cave? For whom

Do you bind up your flaxen hair,

Artfully artless? Ah, how often

Will he bewail the faithless gods

And marvel at the seas all harsh

With black winds, unaccustomed sight;

The boy who now so trustingly

Enjoys you, golden, hopes you will

Be ever clear and lovable,

Pays no mind to the fickle breeze!

Unhappy those for whom you shine

Unproved! The sacred wall attests:

A shipwrecked sailor, I hung up

My sodden clothes for the sea-god.

Odes 4.11 (Horace)

Est mihi nonum superantis annum
plenus Albani cadus, est in horto,
Phylli, nectendis apium coronis,
est hederae uis

multa, qua crinis religata fulges,
ridet argento domus, ara castis
uincta uerbenis auet immolato
spargier agno;

cuncta festinat manus, huc et illuc
cursitant mixtae pueris puellae,
sordidum flammae trepidant rotantes
uertice fumum.

Vt tamen noris quibus aduoceris
gaudiis, Idus tibi sunt agendae,
qui dies mensem Veneris marinae
findit Aprilem,

iure sollemnis mihi sanctiorque
paene natali proprio, quod ex hac
luce Maecenas meus affluentis
ordinat annos.

Telephum, quem tu petis, occupauit
non tuae sortis iuuenem puella
diues et lasciua tenetque grata
compede uinctum.

Terret ambustus Phaethon auaras
spes et exemplum graue praebet ales
Pegasus terrenum equitem grauatus
Bellerophontem,

semper ut te digna sequare et ultra
quam licet sperare nefas putando
disparem uites. Age iam, meorum
finis amorum

(non enim posthac alia calebo
femina), condisce modos, amanda
uoce quos reddas; minuentur atrae
carmine curae.


There is in my cellar a jug of Alban--
more than nine years aging--and in the garden,
Phyllis, there is parsley for weaving garlands,
there are abundant

ivy leaves to bind back your shining hair; the
whole house laughs with silver, and the blest altar
bound with sacred greenery begs the touch of
sacrificed lamb's blood.

All the household's running about in tumult
here and there, the lads and the maidens mingled,
and the dancing flames to the heights are shaking
soot-blackened smoke plumes.

But so you might know the occasion for this
call to joys: we herald the Ides of April,
happy day that cuts into halves the month of
ocean-born Venus;

day I hold in rightful regard, more sacred
almost than my own natal day, for from this
morning my Maecenas adds up his flowing
years as they pass by.

Telephus, whom you are pursuing--that boy
far above your station--is in the clutches
of a lusty rich girl who holds him bound in
pleasure's glad shackles.

Burning Phaethon warns against greedy hopes, and
Pegasus, who balked at Bellerophon, his
earthbound rider, offers to us a weighty
lesson in this vein:

that you always follow the fitting path, and
think it wrong to hope more than is permitted;
shun unequal matches. But come now, lovely
last of my lovers

(after this no woman shall heat my blood), and
learn a verse or two, then with your enchanting
voice recite them; so dark and gloomy cares in
song will diminish.