truth, find any equal? He died
lamented by many good men, but more lamented by none than by you, my
Virgil. You, though pious, alas! in vain demand Quinctilius back from
the gods, who did not lend him to us on such terms. What, though you
could strike the lyre, listened to by the trees, with more sweetness
than the Thracian Orpheus; yet the blood can never return to the empty
shade, which Mercury, inexorable to reverse the fates, has with his
dreadful Caduceus once driven to the gloomy throng. This is hard: but
what it is out of our power to amend, becomes more supportable by
patience.

* * * * *

ODE XXV.

TO LYDIA.

The wanton youths less violently shake thy fastened windows with their
redoubled knocks, nor do they rob you of your rest; and your door, which
formerly moved its yielding hinges freely, now sticks lovingly to its
threshold. Less and less often do you now hear: "My Lydia, dost thou
sleep the live-long night, while I your lover am dying?" Now you are an
old woman, it will be your turn to bewail the insolence of rakes, when
you are neglected in a lonely alley, while the Thracian wind rages at
the Interlunium: when that hot desire and lust, which is wont to render
furious the dams of horses, shall rage about your ulcerous liver: not
without complaint, that sprightly youth rejoice rather in the verdant
ivy and growing myrtle, and dedicate sapless leaves to Eurus, the
companion of winter.

* * * * *

ODE XXVI.

TO AELIUS LAMIA.

A friend to the Muses, I will deliver up grief and fears to the wanton
winds, to waft into the Cretan Sea; singularly careless, what king of a
frozen region is dreaded under the pole, or what terrifies Tiridates. O
sweet muse, who art delighted with pure fountains, weave together the
sunny flowers, weave a chaplet for my Lamia. Without thee, my praises
profit nothing. To render him immortal by new strains, to render him
immortal by the Lesbian lyre, becomes both thee and thy sisters.

* * * * *

ODE XXVII.

TO HIS COMPANIONS.

To quarrel over your cups, which were made for joy, is downright
Thracian. Away with the barbarous custom, and protect modest Bacchus
from bloody frays. How immensely disagreeable to wine and candles is the
sabre of the Medes! O my companions, repress your wicked vociferations,
and rest quietly on bended elbow. Would you have me also take