Horace Book 1 Ode 22
The man, my friend, whose conscious
With virtue's sacred ardour glows,
Nor taints with death the envenom'd dart,
Nor needs the guard of Moorish bows:
Though Scythia's icy cliffs he treads,
Or horrid Afric's faithless sands;
Or where the fam'd Hydaspes
His liquid wealth o'er barbarous lands.
For while by Chloe's image charm'd,
Too far in Sabine woods I stray'd;
Me singing, careless and unarm'd,
A grisly wolf surprised, and fled.
No savage more portentous
Apulia's spacious wilds with gore;
None fiercer Juba's thirsty land,
Dire nurse of raging lions, bore.
Place me where no soft summer
Among the quivering branches sighs;
Where clouds condensed for ever
With horrid gloom the frowning skies;
Place me beneath the burning line,
A clime denied to human race;
I'll sing of Cloe's charms divine,
Her heavenly voice, and beauteous face.
Samuel Johnson
Другие работы автора
To Mrs Thrale on Her Completing Her Thirty-fifth Year
Oft in danger, yet alive, We are come to thirty-five; Long may better years arrive, Better years than thirty-five
To a Young Lady on Her Birthday
This tributary verse receive, my fair, Warm with an ardent lover's fondest prayer, May this returning day for ever Thy form more lovely, more adorn'd thy mind;
Gnothi Seauton
When Scaliger, whole years of labour past, Beheld his lexicon complete at And weary of his task, with wond'ring eyes, Saw, from words pil'd on words, a fabric rise,
Translation of a Speech of Aquileio in the Adriano of Metastasio
Grown old in courts, thou art not surely Who keeps the rigid rules of ancient honour; Well skill'd to soothe a foe with looks of kindness, To sink the fatal precipice before him,
