ODE IX. TO THALIARCHUS.
The greater the violence of the winter, the more we should indulge in festivity.
See high Soracte, white with snow,
Still more and more a mountain grow,
Nor can the lab'ring woods their weight sustain,
And motionless with frost the sharpen'd streams remain.
Dissolve the cold, a rousing fire
Upon the social hearth aspire,
And four years old with bountiful design
Bring in the Sabine jar the long-expected wine.
Leave to th'immortal Gods the rest,
For when they shall have once supprest
The winds, that on the boiling surge contend,
Nor cypress shakes a leaf, nor yon old ash-trees bend.
Enquire not of to-morrow's fate,
And whatsoever chance await,
Turn to account, nor fly from sweet amours,
Nor let the dance be shunn'd by such address as
yours.
While yet your vig'rous years are green,
Nor peevish age brings on the spleen,
By turns the field, the tenis-court repeat,
And whispers soft at night for assignations meet.
Now glad to hear the damsel raise
The laugh, that her retreat betrays,
Steal from her arm the pledge for theft dispos'd,
Or from her finger force, with sham-resistance clos'd,
