Odes 2.12 (Gladstone): Nolis Longa Ferae

Mate not my lyre, its tender strain,
With blood that wild Numantia shed
Or Hannibal, or Sikel main
With Punic slaughter crimson-red.

Hylaeus gorged with wine eschew,
Fierce Lapiths, and that earthborn race
The hand of great Alcides slew,
And shook old Saturn's dwelling-place,

That shining seat. Far better tell
Of Caesar's wars in simple prose,
Maecenas! and of kings who fell
By pride, and marched in Roman shows.

My Muse, Licymnia reigning, wills
I tell of her fast-flashing eyes,
Her honeyed songs, her breast that thrills
With mutual passion's ecstasies.

So apt in all; the dance to twine
In sportive game contending play,
Her arms with arms of maids combine,
And honour famous Dian's day.

For all that grows on Phrygian leas,
Or stores Arabian, wouldst thou spare,
Or hoards of rich Achaemenes,
The flood of thy Licymnia's hair?

Her neck, the fiery kiss to catch,
She bends: if coyly she deny,
Would have thee not to ask, but snatch;
Or snatches, lest the moment fly.