And there on that threshold of beauty and scorn, Heigho! my poor bones lay and ached till the

morn.

Now I'm all for Lycisca — more mincing than she
Can no little woman in daintiness be

A love, neither counsel can cure, nor abuse,
Though I feel, that with me it is playing the deuce,
But which a new fancy for some pretty face,
Or tresses of loose-flowing amber may chase.

EPODE XIII.

TO HIS FRIENDS.

WITH storm and wrack the sky is black, and sleet and dashing rain

With all the gather'd streams of heaven are deluging the plain;

Now roars the sea, the forests roar with the shrill north-wind of Thrace,

Then let us snatch the hour, my friends, the hour that flies apace,

Whilst yet the bloom is on our cheeks, and rightfully we may

With song and jest and jollity keep wrinkled age at bay!

Bring forth a jar of lordly wine, whose years my

own can mate,

Its ruby juices stain'd the vats in Torquatus' consu

late!

No word of anything that's sad; whate'er may be amiss

The Gods belike will change to some vicissitude of bliss!

With Achæmenian nard bedew our locks, and troubles dire

Subdue to rest in every breast with the Cyllenian lyre!

So to his peerless pupil once the noble Centaur

sang:

"Invincible, yet mortal, who from Goddess Thetis sprang,

Thee waits Assaracus's realm, where arrowy Simois glides,

That realm which chill Scamander's rill with scanty stream divides,

Whence never more shalt thou return, the Parcæ

so decree,

Nor shall thy blue-eyed mother home again e'er carry thee.

Then chase with wine and song divine each grief and trouble there,

The sweetest, surest antidotes of beauty-marring

care!"

EPODE XIV.

TO MECENAS.

WHY to the core of my inmost sense
Doth this soul-palsying torpor creep,
As though I had quaffed to the lees a draught
Charged with the fumes of Lethean sleep?
O gentle Mæcenas! you kill me, when

For the poem I've promised so long you dun me;
I have tried to complete it again and again,
But in vain, for the ban of the god is on me.

So Bathyllus of Samos fired, they tell,

The breast of the Teian bard, who often His passion bewail'd on the hollow shell, In measures he stay'd not to mould and soften, You, too, are on fire; but if fair thy flame

As she who caused Ilion its fateful leaguer, Rejoice in thy lot; I am pining, O shame! For Phryné, that profligate little intriguer.

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EPODE XV.

TO NEERA.

'TWAS night! let me recall to thee that night!
The moon, slow-climbing the unclouded sky,
Amid the lesser stars was shining bright,
When in the words I did adjure thee by,
Thou with thy clinging arms, more tightly knit
Around me than the ivy clasps the oak,

Didst breathe a vow-mock the great gods with it—
A vow which, false one, thou hast foully broke;
That while the raven'd wolf should hunt the flocks,
The shipman's foe, Orion, vex the sea,

And Zephyrs lift the unshorn Apollo's locks,
So long wouldst thou be fond, be true to me!

Yet shall thy heart, Næera, bleed for this,
For if in Flaccus aught of man remain,
Give thou another joys that once were his,
Some other maid more true shall soothe his pain;
Nor think again to lure him to thy heart!
The pang once felt, his love is past recall;
And thou, more favour'd youth, whoe'er thou art,
Who revell'st now in triumph o'er his fall,
Though thou be rich in land and golden store,
In fore a sage, with shape framed to beguile,
Thy heart shall ache when, this brief fancy o'er,
She seeks a new love, and I calmly smile.