Challenge to dalliance or to strife—in vain! Soon must the hope of the wild herd be slain, And those cold springs of thine With blood incarnadine. Fierce glows the Dog-star, but his fiery beam Toucheth not thee: still grateful thy cool stream To labour-wearied ox, Or wanderer from the flocks: And henceforth thou shalt be a royal fountain: My harp shall tell how from yon cavernous mountain, Topt by the brown oak-tree, Thou breakest babblingly. TO IBYCUS’S WIFE. OD. ii. 15. SPOUSE of penniless Ibycus, Thus late, bring to a close all thy delinquencies, All thy studious infamy:— Nearing swiftly the grave—(that not an early one)— Cease girls’ sport to participate, Blurring stars which were else cloudlessly brilliant. What suits her who is beautiful Suits not equally thee: rightly devastates Thy fair daughter the homes of men, Wild as Thyad, who wakes stirred by the kettle-drums. Nothus’ beauty constraining her, Like some kid at his play, holds she her revelry: Thy years stately Luceria’s Wools more fitly become—not din of harpsichords, Not pink-petallèd roseblossoms, Not casks drained by an old lip to the sediment. SORACTE. OD. i. 9. ONE dazzling mass of solid snow Soracte stands; the bent woods fret Beneath their load; and, sharpest-set With frost, the streams have ceased to flow. Pile on great faggots and break up The ice: let influence more benign Enter with four-years-treasured wine, Fetched in the ponderous Sabine cup: Leave to the Gods all else. When they Have once bid rest the winds that war Over the passionate seas, no more Grey ash and cypress rock and sway. Ask not what future suns shall bring, Count to-day gain, whate’er it chance To be: nor, young man, scorn the dance, Nor deem sweet Love an idle thing, Ere Time thy April youth hath changed To sourness. Park and public walk Attract thee now, and whispered talk At twilight meetings pre-arranged; Hear now the pretty laugh that tells In what dim corner lurks thy love; And snatch a bracelet or a glove From wrist or hand that scarce rebels. TO LEUCONÖE. OD. i. 11. SEEK not, for thou shalt not find it, what my end, what thine shall be; Ask not of Chaldæa’s science what God wills, Leuconöe: Better far, what comes, to bear it. Haply many a wintry blast Waits thee still; and this, it may be, Jove ordains to be thy last, Which flings now the flagging sea-wave on the obstinate sandstone-reef. Be thou wise: fill up the wine-cup; shortening, since the time is brief, Hopes that reach into the future. While I speak, hath stol’n away Jealous Time. Mistrust To-morrow, catch the blossom of To-day. JUNO’S SPEECH. OD. iii. 3.