Odes 1.22 (Martin): Integer Vitae

Fuscus, the man of life upright and pure
Needeth nor javelin nor bow of Moor,
Nor arrows tipp'd with venom deadly-sure,
Loading his quiver;

Whether o'er Afric's burning sands he rides,
Or frosty Caucasus' bleak mountain-sides,
Or wanders lonely, where Hydaspes glides,
That storied river.

For as I stray'd along the Sabine wood,
Singing my Lalage in careless mood,
Lo, all at once a wolf before me stood,
Then turn'd and fled:

Creature so huge did warlike Daunia ne'er
Engender in her forests' wildest lair,
Not Juba's land, parch'd nurse of lions, e'er
Such monster bred.

Place me, where no life-laden summer breeze
Freshens the meads, or murmurs 'mongst the trees,
Where clouds, and blighting tempests ever freeze
From year to year;

Place me, where neighbouring sunbeams fiercely broil,
A weary waste of scorch'd and homeless soil,
To me my Lalage's sweet voice and smile
Would still be dear!