Sunday, April 17, 2011

Horace, Ode 4.1

Intermissa, Venus, diu
rursus bella moves? Parce, precor, precor.
Non sum qualis eram bonae
sub regno Cinarae. Desine, dulcium

mater saeva Cupidinum,
circa lustra decem flectere mollibus
iam durum imperiis: abi,
quo blandae iuvenum te revocant preces.

Tempestivius in domum
Pauli, purpureis ales oloribus,
comissabere Maximi,
si torrere iecur quaeris idoneum.

Namque et nobilis et decens
et pro sollicitis non tacitus reis
et centum puer artium
late signa feret militiae tuae;

et quandoque potentior
largi muneribus riserit aemuli,
Albanos prope te lacus
ponet marmoream sub trabe citrea.

Illic plurima naribus
duces tura, lyraeque et Berecyntiae
delectabere tibiae
mixtis carminibus non sine fistula;

illic bis pueri die
numen cum teneris virginibus tuum
laudantes pede candido
in morem Salium ter quatient humum.

Me nec femina nec puer
iam nec spes animi credula mutui
nec certare iuvat mero
nec vincire novis tempora floribus.

Sed cur heu, Ligurine, cur
manat rara meas lacrima per genas?
Cur facunda parum decoro
inter verba cadit lingua silentio?

Nocturnis ego somniis
iam captum teneo, iam volucrem sequor
te per gramina Martii
campi, te per aquas, dure, volubilis.

Venus, are you again moving
the wars stopped for a long time? Spare me, I pray, I pray.
I am not the kind which I was
under the rule of good Cinara. Cease, savage

mother of sweet Cupids,
to now soften the hard one about fifty
to your gentle commands: go forth
to where the gentle prayers of youths call you back.

You will more timely carouse,
winged by purple swans, to the
house of Paulus Maximus,
if you seek a suitable liver to burn.

For a boy noble and pleasant
and not silent on behalf of worried defendants
and of one hundred skills
will bear your military standard far;

and at whatever time he, more powerful,
laughs at the gifts of a lavish rival,
he will put a marble you (or statue of you)
under a citrus-wood roof near the Alban lake.

There, you will lead to your nostrils
the greatest frankincenses, and you will delight in the
songs mixed with the Phrygian pipe
and the flute not without the pan-pipe;

There the boys with the
tender virgins praising your divinity twice a day
will shake the earth
three times in the Salian custom.

Now, neither a woman nor a boy
nor the trusting hope of a mutual spirit
nor to struggle with wine
nor to bind the times with fresh flowers is pleasing to me.

But alas, why, Ligurinus, why
does a rare tear flow down my cheeks?
Why does my elegant speech
fall to an unbecoming silence among words ?

Now I hold you, unfeeling,
caught in my dreams at night, now I follow you
flying through the grassy
Martius field, through rolling seas.

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