Horace, Odes 2.11
What the ferocious Spaniard or Scythian
Quinctius, may be plotting, divided
from us by the sundering sea, stop worrying;
and don’t be anxious for all the needs
of life, which asks of us little; so fleeting
are smooth-cheeked youth and beauty; and dried-up
age and grey hairs will soon deprive us
of sweet love-making and easy sleep.
Spring flowers do not preserve for ever
their glory, nor does the moon glow always
in the same phase; why with endless planning
do you tire your mind, too weak for that task?
Why not instead beneath this tall plane-tree
or pine, lie careless, wreathing with roses
our greying heads, and using the perfume,
while we yet may, of Assyrian nard,
get down to drinking? Bacchus disperses
all gnawing worries. What servant will quickly
temper our bowls of fiery Falernian
with water drawn from the passing stream?
Who’ll lure from her house that shy, sly courtesan
Lyde? Oh say, with her ivory lyre
let her come soon, her hair knotted neatly
in the sweet style of a Spartan girl.
Horatian Ode for 2007
What the ferocious suicide bomber
divided from us by no streets may be plotting,
Drina my friend, and Ann, stop worrying;
and don’t be anxious about the small needs
of life, which asks of us little; so fleeting
are smooth-cheeked youth and beauty; our dry-skinned
age and grey hairs will soon deprive us
of sexy love-making and easy sleep.
Spring flowers do not preserve for ever
their glory, nor does the moon glow always
in the same phase; why with endless planning
do we tire our brains, too weak for the task?
Why not instead upon the veranda
or in the garden, under the gum trees,
deck our grey hairs with sweet frangipani
while we yet may, and with white or red
get down to drinking? Good wine disperses
all gnawing worries. Who’ll uncork the Merlot
or the Chardonnay, cold but unwatered,
or the champagne, or pour out the Scotch?
I don’t think we need to call upon call-girls.
You yourselves can provide the music.
Let’s get down to the lovely business
of wine, my dears, you women, and song.
based on Horace, Odes 2.11
by D.J. Lake