Odes 2.11 (Martin): Quid Bellicosus

What the warlike Cantabrian or Scyth may design,
Dear Quintius Hirpinus, ne'er stay to divine,
With the broad Adriatic 'twixt them and yourself,
You surely may lay all your fears on the shelf.

And fret not your soul with uneasy desires
For the wants of a life, which but little requires;
Youth and beauty fade fast, and age, sapless and hoar.
Tastes of love and the sleep that comes lightly no more.

Spring flowers bloom not always fresh, fragrant, and bright,
The moon beams not always full-orb'd on the night;
Then wherefore should you, who are mortal, outwear
Your soul with a profitless burden of care?

Say, why should we not, flung at ease 'neath this pine,
Or a plane-tree's broad umbrage, quaff gayly our wine,
While the odours of Syrian nard, and the rose
Breathe sweet from locks tipp'd, and just tipp'd with Time's snows.

'Tis Bacchus, great Bacchus, alone has the art
To drive away cares, that are eating the heart.
What boy, then, shall best in the brook's deepest pool
Our cups of the fiery Falernian cool?

And who from her home shall fair Lyde seduce,
And bring to om' revel that charming recluse?
Bid her haste with her ivory lyre to the spot,
Tying up her brown hair in a plain Spartan knot.