O, Ask not what those sons of war, Cantabrian, Scythian, each intend, Disjoin'd from us by Hadria's bar, Nor puzzle, Quintius, how to spend A life so simple. Youth removes, And Beauty too; and hoar Decay Drives out the wanton tribe of Loves And Sleep, that came or night or day. The sweet spring-flowers not always keep Their bloom, nor moonlight shines the same Each evening. Why with thoughts too deep O'ertask a mind of mortal frame? Why not, just thrown at careless ease 'Neath plane or pine, our locks of grey Perfumed with Syrian essences And wreathed with roses, while we may, Lie drinking? Bacchus puts to shame The cares that waste us. Where's the slave To quench the fierce Falernian's flame With water from the passing wave? Who'll coax coy Lyde from her home? Go, bid her take her ivory lyre, The runaway, and haste to come, Her wild hair bound with Spartan tire. XII. NOLIS LONGA FERAE. The weary war where fierce Numantia bled, Fell Hannibal, the swoln Sicilian main Purpled with Punic blood--not mine to wed These to the lyre's soft strain, Nor cruel Lapithae, nor, mad with wine, Centaurs, nor, by Herculean arm o'ercome, The earth-born youth, whose terrors dimm'd the shine Of the resplendent dome Of ancient Saturn. You, Maecenas, best In pictured prose of Caesar's warrior feats Will tell, and captive kings with haughty crest Led through the Roman streets. On me the Muse has laid her charge to tell Of your Licymnia's voice, the lustrous hue Of her bright eye, her heart that beats so well To mutual passion true: How nought she does but lends her added grace, Whether she dance, or join in bantering play, Or with soft arms the maiden choir embrace On great Diana's day. Say, would you change for all the wealth possest By rich Achaemenes or Phrygia's heir, Or the full stores of Araby the blest, One lock of her dear hair, While to your burning lips she bends her neck, Or with kind cruelty denies the due She means you not to beg for, but to take, Or snatches it from you? XIII. ILLE ET NEFASTO.