The Odes of Horace: Translated Into English Verse with a Life and Notes

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Ticknor and Fields, 1861 - Latin poetry - 358 pages
 

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Page 300 - Mais elle était du monde où les plus belles choses Ont le pire destin ; Et rose elle a vécu ce que vivent les roses, L'espace d'un matin.
Page 290 - Must my heart still break ? (Love makes me write, what shame forbids to speak) Give me a kiss, and to that kiss a score ; Then to that twenty add a hundred more : A thousand to that hundred : so kiss on, To make that thousand up a million. Treble that million, and when that is done Let's kiss afresh, as when we first begun.
Page 336 - ART thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers ? O sweet content ! Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed ? O punishment ! Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed To add to golden numbers, golden numbers...
Page 299 - Now that the winter's gone, the earth hath lost Her snow-white robes, and now no more the frost Candies the grass, or casts an icy cream Upon the silver lake or crystal stream...
Page 340 - I can enjoy her while she's kind; But when she dances in the wind, And shakes her wings, and will not stay, I puff the prostitute away.
Page 300 - Le ipauvre en sa cabane, ou le chaume le couvre, Est sujet a ses lois ; Et la garde qui veille aux barrieres du Louvre N'en defend point nos rois.
Page 31 - Chorus ; it is impossible to represent in another language the melody of the versification; even the volatile strength and delicacy of the ideas escape in the crucible of translation, and the reader is surprised to find a caput mortuum.— Author's Note, My pathos certainly would make you laugh too, Had you not long since given over laughing.
Page 286 - I keep my couch till ten, then walk awhile, Or having read or writ what may beguile A quiet after-hour, anoint my limbs With oil — not such as filthy Natta skims From lamps defrauded of their unctuous fare. And when the sunbeams, grown too hot to bear, Warn me to quit the field and hand-ball play, The bath takes all my weariness away.
Page 351 - Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings the trailer from the crag ; Droops the heavy-blossom'd bower, hangs the heavy-fruited tree — Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres of sea. There methinks would be enjoyment more than in this march of mind, In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts that shake mankind. There the passions...
Page 164 - There can be no mistake as to the seriousness of this appeal. Horace's is a mere jeu-d'esprit : — " Though your drink were Tanais, chillest of rivers, And your lot with some conjugal savage were cast, You would pity, sweet Lyce, the poor soul that shivers Out here at your door in the merciless blast. " Only hark how the doorway goes straining and creaking, And the piercing wind pipes through the trees that surround The court of your villa, while black frost is streaking With ice the crisp snow...

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