HORACE I, 22.
Reading edition
Fuscus, whoso to good inclines— And is a faultless liver— Nor moorish spear nor bow need fear, Nor poison-arrowed quiver.
Ay, though through desert wastes he roams, Or scales the rugged mountains, Or rests beside the murmuring tide Of weird Hydaspan fountains!
Lo, on a time, I gayly paced The Sabine confines shady, And sung in glee of Lalage, My own and dearest lady.
And, as I sung, a monster wolf Slunk through the thicket from me—- But for that song, as I strolled along He would have overcome me!
Set me amid those poison mists Which no fair gale dispelleth, Or in the plains where silence reigns And no thing human dwelleth;
Still shall I love my Lalage— Still sing her tender graces; And, while I sing my theme shall bring Heaven to those desert places!