HORATIUS, Quintus
Satire, 1, 1-3
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seu ratio dederit seu fors obiecerit, illa contentus vivat, laudet diversa sequentes?
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Satire II.VI
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hortus ubi et tecto vicinus iugis aquae fons et paulum silvae super his foret. Auctius atque di melius fecere. Bene est. Nil amplius oro, Maia nate, nisi ut propria haec mihi munera faxis.
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Epodes II, 1
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just as the ancient race of mortals, cultivates his father's farms with his ox, free from all debt, and, a soldier, is not stirred up by the wild trumpet, and, angry, does not shudder at the sea, and avoids the forum and arrogant thresholds
of powerful citizens.
Zoals het oeroude geslacht van stervelingen, Met eigen ossenspan zijn vaderlijke akkers bewerkt, Vrij van alle schulden; Die niet als soldaat wordt opgeschrikt door schel hoorngeschal, Noch bevreesd voor een vertoornde zee, Het openbare leven vermijdt en de trotse drempels
Van mannen machtiger als hij.
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aptantur enses conditi? parumne campis atque Neptuno super fusum est Latini sanguinis, non, ut superbas invidae Carthaginis Romanus arces ureret, intactus aut Britannus ut descenderet Sacra catenatus Via,
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Why are you drawing swords that have only just been sheathed? Has too little Latin blood been shed on land and sea —not to enable the Roman to burn the arrogant stronghold of jealous Carthage, or to make the Briton, so long beyond our reach, walk down the Sacred Way in chains,
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Odes I
TO VENUS
After a long cessation, O Venus, again are you stirring up tumults? Spare me, I beseech you, I beseech you. I am not the man I was under the dominion of good-natured Cynara. Forbear, O cruel mother of soft desires, to bend one bordering upon fifty, now too hardened for soft commands: go, whither the soothing prayers of youths, invoke you. More seasonably may you revel in the house of Paulus Maximus, flying thither with your splendid swans, if you seek to inflame a suitable breast. For he is both noble and comely, and by no means silent in the cause of distressed defendants, and a youth of a hundred accomplishments; he shall bear the ensigns of your warfare far and wide; and whenever, more prevailing than the ample presents of a rival, he shall laugh
[at his expense],
he shall erect thee in marble under a citron dome near the Alban lake. There you shall smell abundant frankincense, and shall be charmed with the mixed music of the lyre and Berecynthian pipe, not without the flageolet. There the youths, together with the tender maidens, twice a day celebrating your divinity, shall, Salian-like, with white foot thrice shake the ground. As for me, neither woman, nor youth, nor the fond hopes of mutual inclination, nor to contend in wine, nor to bind my temples with fresh flowers, delight me [any longer]. But why; ah! why, Ligurinus, does the tear every now and then trickle down my cheeks? Why does my fluent tongue falter between my words with an unseemly silence? Thee in my dreams by night I clasp, caught [in my arms]; thee flying across the turf of the Campus Martius; thee I pursue, O cruel one, through the rolling waters.
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….. Quis multa gracilis te puer in rosa perfusus liquidis urget odoribus grato, Pyrrha, sub antro?
cui flavam r
eligas comam
mutatosque deos flebit et aspera nigris aequora ventis
emirabitur insolens!
qui semper vacuam, semper amabilem sperat, nescius aurae
fallacis. Miseri, quibus
votiva paries indicat uvida suspendisse potenti
vestimenta maris deo.
Soracte nec iam sustineant onus silvae laborantes geluque
flumina constiterint acuto?
large reponens atque benignius deprome quadrimum Sabina,
o Thaliarche, merum diota.
strauere ventos aequore fervido deproeliantis, nec cupressi
nec veteres agitantur orni.
quem fors dierum cumque dabit, lucro adpone nec dulcis amores
sperne, puer, neque tu choreas,
morosa. Nunc et Campus et areae lenesque sub noctem susurri
composita repetantur hora,
gratus puellae risus ab angulo pignusque dereptum lacertis
aut digito male pertinaci.
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What slender youth, bedew'd with liquid odours, Courts thee on roses in some pleasant cave, Pyrrha? For whom bind'st thou
in wreaths thy golden hair,
On faith and changed gods complain, and seas Rough with black winds, and storms
Unwonted shall admire!
Who, always vacant, always amiable Hopes thee, of flattering gales
Unmindful. Hapless they
Picture, the sacred wall declares to have hung My dank and dropping weeds
To the stern god of sea.
druipend-nat van geurig reukwerk liefkoost in het lommer van een grot, o Pyrrha?
Voor wie bind je zo eenvoudig
zijn trouw bewenen en goden verwensen zodra ’t veranderen zal! De woeste zee, zwellend
onder ’t hels geloei der winden
die zich baadt in je liefde, je nooit op iemand anders verliefd waant
en meent je voor eeuwig te bezitten!
een glans die de sukkelaars verblindt! Een ex-voto in de tempelmuur van de grote god der zee
getuigt dat
ik
me wist te redden …
and the labouring woods bend under the weight: see how the mountain streams are frozen, cased in the ice by the shuddering cold?
bury the hearthstones, and, with generous heart, out of the four-year old Sabine jars, O Thaliarchus, bring on the true wine.
that struggle, far away, over raging seas, you’ll see that neither the cypress trees nor the old ash will be able to stir.
whatever days Fortune gives, don’t spurn sweet love, my child, and don’t you be neglectful of the choir of love, or the dancing feet,
is far away with all its moroseness. Now, find the Campus again, and the squares, soft whispers at night, at the hour agreed,
who’s hiding away in the darkest corner, and the pledge that’s retrieved from her arm,
or from a lightly resisting finger.
de Soracte, en de last niet meer draaglijk is voor de kreunende wouden en door de vorst bijtend scherp de stroompjes stilstaan.
breed bij te stapelen, en nog royaler: haal vierjarige uit de Sabina, wijn, o Thaliarchus: een amfoor.
Geef de rest in handen van de goden. Zodra die de winden hebben doen liggen op het woeste zeeoppervlak vechtend op leven en dood, worden de cipressen noch de oude essen gegeseld.
welke het toeval ook zal geven van de dagen, moet je als winst boeken en zoete liefdesavontuurtjes mag je niet laten nu je jong bent, jij, en evenmin reidansen,
knorrigheid. Nu moeten én het Marsveld én de pleintjes met het zachte gefluister tegen het vallen van de nacht opgezocht worden op het afgesproken uur,
hoekje heerlijk gegiechel van een onzichtbaar meisje en een liefdespand afgepakt van een arm of een vinger die nauwelijks tegenwerkt.
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finem di dederint, Leuconoe, nec Babylonios temptaris numeros. Ut melius, quidquid erit, pati, seu pluris hiemes seu tribuit Iuppiter ultimam, quae nunc oppositis debilitat pumicibus mare Tyrrheneum. Sapias, vina liques, et spatio brevi spem longam reseces; dum loquimur, fugerit invida
aetas: carpe diem quam nimium credula postero.
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fluctus. o quid agis? fortiter occupa portum. nonne vides, ut
nudum remigio latus
antemnaeque gemant ac sine funibus vix durare carinae
possint imperiosius
non di, quos iterum pressa voces malo. quamvis Pontica pinus,
silvae filia nobilis,
nil pictis timidus navita puppibus fidit. tu nisi ventis
debes ludibrium, cave.
nunc desiderium curaque non levis, interfusa nitentis
vites aequora Cycladas.
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Where are you going! Quickly, run for harbour. Can’t you see how your sides
have been stripped bare of oars,
in the swift south-westerly, and bare of rigging, your hull can scarce tolerate
the overpowering waters?
no gods, that people call to when they’re in trouble. Though you’re built of Pontic pine,
a child of those famous forests,
the fearful sailor puts no faith in gaudy keels. You must beware of being
merely a plaything of the winds.
to me, and now are my passion and anxious care, avoid the glistening seas
between the shining Cyclades
voeren! Waar wil je heen? Blijf liever vast in de haven. Kijk toch, de riemen
zijn van je flanken weggerukt.
de scheepsra kreunt en je kiel is niet met kabeltouw gesjord; zij kan het geweld van
golven amper verduren!
voor de zoveelste maal door jou te vermurwen. Hoezeer jij, Pontische pijnboom,
dochter van het vermaarde woud,
een bange zeeman heeft geen vertrouwen in scheepslak. Als je niet oppast,
word je een speelbal der winden.
nu het pijnlijk gemis van een niet gering zorgenkind: mijd de zee die zich uitspreidt
om Cycladische schittering.
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Ode 1.23
You avoid me like a deer, Chloe,
seeking its trembling mother in the remote mountains
not without an empty fear
of the winds and the forest.
For whether a bush quivered to the wind
with shifting leaves, or whether green lizards
have moved a bramble,
it trembles with both its heart and its knees.
Nevertheless I do not pursue you, as a cruel tiger
or as a Gaetulian lion, to break you:
Cease to follow your mother,
at last you are ready for a man.
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lusimus tecum, quod et hunc in annum vivat et pluris, age, dic Latinum, barbite, carmen,
qui, ferox bello, tamen inter arma, sive iactatam religarat udo litore navem,
semper haerentem puerum canebat et Lycum nigris oculis nigroque crine decorum.
grata testudo Iovis, o laborum dulce lenimen, mihi cumque salve
rite vocanti.
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idle things with you in the shade, that will live, for a year or more, come and utter a song now, of Italy:
a man daring in war, yet still, amongst arms, or after he’d moored his storm-driven boat on a watery shore,
that boy of hers, Cupid, that hangs around her, and that beautiful Lycus, with his dark eyes and lovely dark hair.
at the feasts of Jupiter, the almighty, O sweet comfort and balm of our troubles, heal,
if I call you true!
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Odes II.10
Licinius, trust a seaman's lore:
Steer not too boldly to the deep,
Nor, fearing storms, by treacherous shore
Too closely creep.
Who makes the golden mean his guide,
Shuns miser's cabin, foul and dark,
Shuns gilded roofs, where pomp and pride
Are envy's mark.
With fiercer blasts the pine's dim height
Is rock'd; proud towers with heavier fall
Crash to the ground; and thunders smite
The mountains tall.
In sadness hope, in gladness fear
'Gainst coming change will fortify
Your breast. The storms that Jupiter
Sweeps o'er the sky
He chases. Why should rain today
Bring rain tomorrow? Python's foe
Is pleased sometimes his lyre to play,
Nor bends his bow.
Be brave in trouble; meet distress
With dauntless front; but when the gale
Too prosperous blows, be wise no less,
And shorten sail.
(translation: John CONINGTON)
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labuntur anni, nec pietas moram rugis et instanti senectae
adferet indomitaeque morti;
amice, places illacrimabilem Plutona tauris, qui ter amplum
Geryonen Tityonque tristi
quicumque terrae munere vescimur, enaviganda, sive reges
sive inopes erimus coloni.
fractisque rauci fluctibus Hadriae, frustra per autumnos nocentem
corporibus metuemus Austrum.
Cocytos errans et Danai genus infame damnatusque longi
Sisyphus Aeolides laboris.
uxor, neque harum quas colis arborum te praeter invisas cupressos
ulla brevem dominum sequetur.
servata centum clavibus et mero tinguet pavimentum superbo
pontificum potiore cenis.
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slip away, nor does piety bring delay for wrinkles and looming old age
and fierce death;
you may appease pitiless Pluto with three hundred bulls at a time, he who restrains triply large
Geryon and Tityos with the gloomy
whoever of us enjoys a gift of earth, whether we will be kings
or poor farmers.
and the broken waves of the raucous Adriatic sea, in vain through autumn we will fear the
south wind harmful to our bodies.
stream must be visited and the notorious family of Danaus and Sisyphus Aeolides
condemned to a long labor.
wife must be abandoned, and nor will any of the these trees which you maintain follow you,
a short-lived master, except the hated cypresses.
guarded by a hundred keys and he will stain the pavement with arrogant wine, better
than the dinner of the high priests.
En vroomheid baat u, noch om de ouderdom die brede rimpels groeft in ’t voorhoofd,
noch om de sombere dood te weren!
driehonderd stieren Pluto, de harde god die Tituos en Geruones’ drie-
koppige monstergestalte temt in
ons voeden met de vruchten des bodems, eens ter helle varen – allen, of we
koningen zijn of gemene landliên.
de oever beukend, mijden we nutteloos; vergeefs beschutten we ons in ’t najaar
tegen de schaadlijke zuidenwinden:
Kokutos zien, Danaös’ vervloekt geslacht en ook de onder eeuwgen arbeid
Hijgende Sisufos, Aiolos’ zoon.
Gij moeten afscheid nemen. En van ’t geboomt door u gekweekt, o korte meester,
volgt u maar de haatlijke grafcipres.
Thans achter honderd sloten bewaard, en kleurt de weidse marmervloer met beetre
wijn dan er komt op der priesters feestdis.
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Odes II.18
Not ivory or gilded panel gleams in my
home, nor do beams of Hymettian marble
rest on pillars quarried in farthest Africa, nor
have I, as heir of Attalus, become
unwittingly the owner of a palace, nor for me
do high-born dames trail robes of Laconian
purple.
But I have loyalty and a kindly vein of
genius, and me, though poor, the rich man
courts. I importune the gods for nothing
more, and of my friend in power
I crave no larger boon, happy enough in my
cherished Sabine farm. Day treads upon the
heel of day, and new moons hasten to wane;
yet thou on the grave's verge dost contract for
the cutting of marble slabs, and, forgetful of
the tomb, dost rear a palace, eager to build out
the coast of the sea that thunders by Baiae,
not rich enough in the mainland shore. What,
that thou tearest down each neighbouring
post that marks thy farm, and in thy greed
dost overleap the boundaries of thy tenants!
Man and wife are driven forth bearing in their
arms their household gods and ragged
children.
And yet no hall more certainly
awaits the wealthy lord than greedy Orcus'
destined bourne. Why strive for more and
more?
For all alike doth Earth unlock her
bosom--for the poor man and for princes'
sons. Nor could Orcus' minion be bribed by
gold to ferry back Prometheus, the crafty.
Proud Tantalus and the son of Tantalus he
holdeth fast, and, summoned or
unsummoned, lends an ear to free the poor
man when his toils are o'er.
Odes III.1
The man whose mind is self-possessed,
Who shuns the crowd and city’s din,
Who, with a few, can taste the best
Of life, nor pine for wealth to win—
The storms that shake the great and proud
Pass harmless o’er his humble head;
The thunder peals, the tempest loud,
He heeds them not, nor turns in dread.
Why do we aim at things too high,
And tempt the gods with impious prayer?
What’s given, take, and cast away
All vain desires and carking care.
translated by John Conington
Odes III.29
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He, who can call today his own: He, secure within, can say Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today.
The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine. Not Heaven itself upon the past has power;
But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.
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reglalique situ pyramidum altius, quod non imber edax, non aquilo impotens possit diruere aut innumerabilis annorum series et fuga tempoum. Non omnis moriar multaque pars mei vitabit Libitinam; usque ego postera crescam laude recens, dum Capitolium scandet cum tacita virgine pontifex. Dicar, qua violens obstrepit Aufidus et qua pauper aquae Daunus agrestium regnavit poplulorum, ex humili potens, princeps Aeolium carmen ad Italos deduxisse modos. Sume superbiam quaesitam meritis et mihi Delphica
lauro cinge volens, Melpomene, comam.
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and loftier than the royal structure of the pyramids, that which neither devouring rain, nor the unrestrained North Wind may be able to destroy nor the immeasurable succession of years and the flight of time. I shall not wholly die and a greater part of me will evade Libitina; continually I, newly arisen, may be strengthened with ensuing praise so long as the high priest climbs the Capitoline with the silent maiden. It may be said that where the raging Aufidus roars and where, short of water, Daunus ruled his rustic people, powerful from a humble birth, I first brought Aeolian verse to Italian measures. Assume the arrogance sought for by those who have a claim to recognition, and with the Delphian laurel,
Melpomene, willingly crown my head.
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That long had slumber'd! Spare me, Venus, spare! Trust me, I am not the same As in the reign of Cinara, kind and fair. Cease thy softening spells to prove On this old heart, by fifty years made hard, Cruel Mother of sweet Love! Haste, where gay youth solicits thy regard. With thy purple cygnets fly To Paullus' door, a seasonable guest; There within hold revelry, There light thy flame in that congenial breast. He, with birth and beauty graced, The trembling client's champion, ne'er tongue-tied, Master of each manly taste, Shall bear thy conquering banners far and wide. Let him smile in triumph gay, True heart, victorious over lavish hand, By the Alban lake that day 'Neath citron roof all marble shalt thou stand: Incense there and fragrant spice With odorous fumes thy nostrils shall salute; Blended notes thine ear entice, The lyre, the pipe, the Berecyntine flute: Graceful youths and maidens bright Shall twice a day thy tuneful praise resound, While their feet, so fair and white, In Salian measure three times beat the ground. I can relish love no more, Nor flattering hopes that tell me hearts are true, Nor the revel's loud uproar, Nor fresh-wreathed flowerets, bathed in vernal dew. Ah! but why, my Ligurine, Steal trickling tear-drops down my wasted cheek? Wherefore halts this tongue of mine, So eloquent once, so faltering now and weak? Now I hold you in my chain, And clasp you close, all in a nightly dream; Now, still dreaming, o'er the plain
I chase you; now, ah cruel! down the stream.
arboribusque comae; mutat terra vices et decrescentia ripas
flumina praetereunt;
ducere nuda choros. immortalia ne speres, monet annus et almum
quae rapit hora diem.
interitura simul pomifer autumnus fruges effuderit, et mox
bruma recurrit iners.
nos ubi decidimus,
quo pius Aeneas, quo Tullus dives et Ancus, pulvis et umbra sumus.
tempora di superi? cuncta manus avidas fugient heredis, amico
quae dederis animo.
fecerit arbitria, non, Torquate, genus, non te facundia, non te
restituet pietas;
liberat Hippolytum, nec Lethaea valet Theseus abrumpere caro
vincula Pirithoo.
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And grasses in the mead renew their birth, The river to the river-bed withdraws,
And altered is the fashion of the earth.
And unapparelled in the woodland play. The swift hour and the brief prime of the year
Say to the soul, Thou wast not born for aye.
Treads summer sure to die, for hard on hers Comes autumn, with his apples scattering;
Then back to wintertide, when nothing stirs.
Moon upon moon rebuilds it with her beams: Come we where Tullus and where Ancus are,
And good Aeneas, we are dust and dreams.
The morrow to the day, what tongue has told? Feast then thy heart, for what thy heart has had
The fingers of no heir will ever hold.
The stern assize and equal judgment o'er, Not thy long lineage nor thy golden tongue,
No, nor thy righteousness, shall friend thee more.
Diana steads him nothing, he must stay; And Theseus leaves Pirithöus in the chain
The love of comrades cannot take away.
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Nec clari lapides tempora, quae semel Notis condita fastis, Inclusit volucris dies. Quo fugit Venus heu ? quove color decens, Quo motus ? quid habes illius, illius ? Quae spirabat amores. Quae me surpuerat mihi. Felix post Cynaram, notaque et artium Gratarum facies : sed Cynarae breves Annos fata dederunt : Servatura diu parem. Cornicis vetulae temporibus Lycen, Possent ut iuvenes visere feruidi Multo non sine risu,
Delapsam in cineres facem.
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jewels, won’t bring back time, that the passage of days has shut away, and buried, a matter of public record. Where’s Venus fled, alas, and beauty? And where now are your graceful gestures? What is left of that girl, that girl who once breathed of love, who stole me away from myself, happy when Cinara had vanished, and famous for your looks and your charming ways? The Fates granted Cinara the briefest years, preserving Lyce, endlessly, to suffer as long a life as an ancient crow, so that the burning youths with many a ripple of laughter, are here to gaze
at a fire that’s fallen to ashes.
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Epistles
(to Albius Tibullus)
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Quo me cumque rapit tempestas, deferor hospes.
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Omnem crede diem tibi diluxisse supremum, grata superveniet, quae non sperabitur hora. Me pinguem et nitidum bene curata cute vises, cum ridere voles, Epicuri de grege porcum.
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Wherever the wind takes me I travel as a visitor.
believe that every day has risen as your last, welcome the arrival of the hour not expected. As for me, when you want a good laugh, you will find me in a fine state, fat and sleek, a hog of Epicurus' herd.
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beschouw elke dag die voor je aanbreekt als de laatste, het onverhoopte uur zal een welkome verrassing zijn. Als je eens wil lachen, bezoek dan je dikke, welgedane, welverzorgde vriend, een varkentje uit de stal van Epicurus.
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Sermones
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In short: whether a peaceful old age waits for me
or death circles with black wings,
rich, poor, at Rome, or if thus chance bids, an exile,
whatever the complexion of my life, I will write.
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Carmen Saeculare
O Phoebus, Diana queen of the woodlands,
Bright heavenly glories, both worshipped forever
And cherished forever, now grant what we pray for
At this sacred time,
When Sybilline verses have issued their warning
To innocent boys, and the virgins we’ve chosen,
To sing out their song to the gods, who have shown their
Love for the Seven Hills.
O kindly Sun, in your shining chariot, who
Herald the day, then hide it, to be born again
New yet the same, you will never know anything
Mightier than Rome!
O gentle Ilithyia, duly revealing
The child at full term, now protect gentle mothers,
Whether you’d rather be known as Lucina,
Or Genitalis.
Goddess, nurture our offspring, bring to fruition
The Senate’s decrees concerning the wedlock
Of women who’ll bear us more of our children,
The laws of marriage,
So the fixed cycle of years, ten times eleven,
Will bring back the singing again, bring back the games
We crowd to three times by daylight, as often,
By beautiful night.
And you, the Fates, who are truthful in prophecy,
Link happy destinies, as has once been ordained
And let the certain course of events confirm it,
To those that are past.
Let Earth that is fruitful in crops, and in cattle,
Adorn our Ceres with garlands of wheat-ears:
And may Jupiter’s life-giving rain and breezes
Ripen the harvest.
Gentle and peaceful Apollo, lay down your arms,
And listen now to the young lads’ supplications:
Luna, crescent-horned queen of the constellations,
Give ear to the girls.
If Rome is your doing, and if from far Ilium
Came that band of people who reached the Tuscan shore,
Those commanded to change their home and their city,
On a lucky course,
Those for whom pious Aeneas, the survivor,
Who passed without injury through the flames of Troy,
Prepared a path to freedom, destined to grant him
Much more than he’d lost:
Then, you divinities, show our receptive youth
Virtue, grant peace and quiet to the old, and give
Children and wealth to the people of Romulus,
And every glory.
Whatever a noble descendant of Venus
And Anchises, asks, with a white steer’s sacrifice,
Let him obtain: a winner in war, merciful
To our fallen foe.
Now the Parthians fear our forces, powerful
On land, and on sea: they fear the Alban axes,
Now the once proud Indians, now the Scythians
Beg for an answer.
Now Faith and Peace, Honour, and ancient Modesty,
Dare to return once more, with neglected Virtue,
And blessed Plenty dares to appear again, now,
With her flowing horn.
May Phoebus, the augur, decked with the shining bow,
Phoebus who’s dear to the Nine Muses, that Phoebus
Who can offer relief to a weary body
With his healing art,
May he, if he favours the Palatine altars,
Extend Rome’s power, and Latium’s good-fortune,
Through the fresh ages, show, always, improvement,
Lustra
ever new.
And may Diana, to whom is the Aventine,
And Mount Algidus, accept the entreaties
Of the Fifteen, and attend, and lend a fond ear,
To these children’s prayers.
We bear to our home the fine hope, and certain,
That such is Jupiter’s, and all the gods’ purpose:
We’re taught, we, the chorus, to sing praise of Phoebus,
Praise of Diana.
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A measure; now before each shrine With Salian feasts the table spread;
The time invites us, comrades mine.
The Caecuban, while Egypt's dame Threaten'd our power in dust to lay
And wrap the Capitol in flame,
By Fortune's sweet new wine befool'd, In hope's ungovern'd weakness strong
To hope for all; but soon she cool'd,
Great Caesar taught her dizzy brain, Made mad by Mareotic grape,
To feel the sobering truth of pain,
As after doves fierce falcons speed, As hunters 'neath Haemonia's sky
Chase the tired hare, so might he lead
More nobly, nor with woman's dread Quail'd at the steel, nor timorously
In her fleet ships to covert fled.
Unblench'd, and fearless to the end Grasp'd the fell snakes, that all her blood
Might with the cold black venom blend,
Nor to our ships the glory gave, That she, no vulgar dame, should grace
A triumph, crownless, and a slave.
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