TO VIRGIL.

The Thracian breezes, attendants on the spring, which moderate the deep,

now fill the sails; now neither are the meadows stiff [with frost], nor

roar the rivers swollen with winter's snow. The unhappy bird, that

piteotisly bemoans Itys, and is the eternal disgrace of the house of

Cecrops (because she wickedly revenged the brutal lusts of kings), now

builds her nest. The keepers of the sheep play tunes upon the pipe amid

the tendar herbage, and delight that god, whom flocks and the shady

hills of Arcadia delight. The time of year, O Virgil, has brought on a

drought: but if you desire to quaff wine from the Calenian press, you,

that are a constant companion of young noblemen, must earn your liquor

by [bringing some] spikenard: a small box of spikenard shall draw out a

cask, which now lies in the Sulpician store-house, bounteous in the

indulgence of fresh hopes and efficacious in washing away the

bitterness of cares. To which joys if you hasten, come instantly with

your merchandize: I do not intend to dip you in my cups scot-free, like

a man of wealth, in a house abounding with plenty. But lay aside delay,

and the desire of gain; and, mindful of the gloomy [funeral] flames,

intermix, while you may, your grave studies with a little light gayety:

it is delightful to give a loose on a proper occasion.

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The Works of Horace · 第 209 / 322 题