University of Virginia Library

Horace his second Epod Translated.

Happy's that Man that is from City-Care
Sequestred, as the Ancients were;
That with his own Oxe, ploughs his Father's Lands,
Untainted with usurious Bands:
That from Alarms of War in quiet sleeps;
Nor's frighted with the raging Deeps:
That shuns litigious Law, and the proud State
Of his more potent Neighbour's Gate.
Therefore, he either is imploy'd to joyn
The Poplar to the sprouting Vine,
Pruning luxurious Branches, grafting some
More hopeful Offspring in their room:
Or else, his sight in humble Valleys feasts,
With scatter'd troops of lowing Beasts:
Or refin'd Hony in fine Vessels keeps;
Or shears his snowy, tender Sheep:
Or, when Autumnus shews his fruitful head
I'th' mellow Fields with Apples covered,
How he delights to pluck the grafted Pear,
And Grapes, whose Cheeks do Purple wear!
Of which to thee, Priapus, Tythes abound,
And Silvan Patron of his Ground.
Now, where the aged Oak his green Arms spreads,
He lies; now in the flowry Meads:
Whilst through their deep-worn Banks the murmuring Flouds
Do glide, and Birds chant in the Woods:
And bubling Fountains slowing Streams do weep,
A gentle Summons unto Sleep.
But when cold Winter does the Storms prepare,
And Snow of thundering Jupiter:
Then with his Dogs the furious Boar he foils,
Compell'd into objected Toils:
Or, on the Forks extends his mashy Net,
For greedy Thrushes a deceit.
The fearful Hare too, and the Stranger Crane
With gins he takes, a pleasant gain.
Who but with such Diversions would remove
All the malignant Cares of Love?
But, if to these he have a modest Spouse,
To nurse his Children, keep his House,
Such, as the Sabin Women, or the tan'd
Wife o'th' painful Apulian,
To make a good Fire of dry Wood, when come
From his hard Labour weary home.
The wanton Cattle in their Booths to tye,
Stripping their stradling Udders dry,
Drawing the Must from forth the cleanly Fats,
To wash down their unpurchas'd Cates;
Mullet, or Thorn-back cannot please me more,
Nor Oysters from the Lucrine shore,
When by an Eastern Tempest they are tost,
Into the Sea, that sweeps this Coast.
The Turky fair of Africk shall not come,
Within the confines of my Womb:
As Olives from the fruitfull'st Branches got,
Ionian Snites so sweet are not.
Or Sorrel growing in the Meadow Ground,
Or Mallows for the Body sound.
The Lamb kill'd for the Terminalia;
Or Kid redeem'd from the Wolf's Prey.
Whilst thus we feed, what Joy 'tis to behold
The pastur'd Sheep haste to their Fold!
And th' wearied Ox with drooping Neck to come
Haling th' inverted Culter home;
And swarms of Servants from their Labour quit
About the shining Fire sit:
Thus when the Usurer Alphius had said,
Now purposing this Life to lead,
I'th' Ides call'd in his Mony; but for gain
I'th' Kalends put it forth again.