Horace, Epodes 2, 3, 8, 11, 12, 14, and 15

Translation copyright 1997-1998 by John T. Quinn. All rights reserved.

Note: You can also read these translations with facing Latin texts, in the manner of the Loeb series.

"The fellow's worth a fortune who, far

    from commerce, cultivates his fathers'

farm with his own oxen & is free

    of usury -- like the folk of yore.

"No soldier, summoned to battle by the bugle

    or fearful of a fuming sea,

no plaintiff or haunter of the haughty portals

    of especially-powerful citizens

is the man who marries mature growths

    of grape to poplars he's pampered

OR watches over his wandering herd

    bellowing in lonely bottomlands

while he saws away worthless scions

    & engrafts the gainful

                   OR hoards

honey from the comb into clean containers

    OR shears his compliant sheep.

"As Autumn hoists its head, adorned with

    fleshy fruits, through fields,

he gloats, gathering prize pears

    & grapes purpler than the pigment

to pay you, Priapus, & you sir,

    Silvanus, protector of property.

The bliss of napping beneath an old oak

    OR on a luxuriant lawn

while water wends between wide banks

    & birds whine in the woods

& fountains fret with splashing spray --

    a summons to soft slumbers!

"When wintry weather threatens with thunder,

    storms & snow, he speeds

into snares (from all sides) boars

    battling a horde of hounds

OR suspends from slender staves the webbing

    widened to fool feeding

figpeckers and ropes the frightened rabbit

    & drifting crane (a delicacy!).

"Living that life, who wouldn't ignore

    the ills latent in love?

"Should a faithful wife do her fair share

    helping with the home & cherished

children (a Sabine, say, or the sunburned

    bride of an assiduous Apulian)

AND stack seasoned timber on the hearth

    for her tired husband's return

AND pen yielding ewes within pleachwork

    to drain their distended udders

AND, ladling a lively vintage from the vat,

    prepare an unpurchased repast --

"I'd freely forego the finest oyster

    OR flounder OR scaurfish forced

to these waters when winter blasts

    bolts on Eastern breakers.

African fowl & Greek game-hens hardly

    would settle into my stomach

happier than the odd olive, harvested

    from the orchard's oiliest offshoot

OR meadow-dwelling sourdock & mallows

    (medicine for a body's burdens)

OR a lamb slain for a farmers' festival

    OR a friskling whisked from a wolf.

"How felicitous at such feasts to see fattened

    flocks hurrying homeward,

bone-weary bulls with nodding necks

    pulling an upended plough,

& the worker-bees of a wealthy abode: slaves

    stationed near smiling cult-statues!"

So spoke Alfius, a financier,

    bent on becoming a bumpkin.

Midway through the month, he cashed his capital --

    to float it again on the first.

II

'Beatus ille qui procul negotiis,

     ut prisca gens mortalium,

paterna rura bubus exercet suis

     solutus omni faenore

neque excitatur classico miles truci

     neque horret iratum mare

forumque vitat et superba civium

     potentiorum limina.

ergo aut adulta vitium propagine

     altas maritat populos

aut in reducta valle mugientium

     prospectat errantis greges

inutilisque falce ramos amputans

     feliciores inserit

aut pressa puris mella condit amphoris

     aut tondet infirmas ovis.

vel cum decorum mitibus pomis caput

     Autumnus agris extulit,

ut gaudet insitiva decerpens pira

     certantem et uvam purpurae,

qua muneretur te, Priape, et te, pater

     Silvane, tutor finium.

libet iacere modo sub antiqua ilice,

     modo in tenaci gramine:

labuntur altis interim ripis aquae,

     queruntur in Silvis aves

frondesque lymphis obstrepunt manantibus,

     somnos quod invitet levis.

at cum tonantis annus hibernus Iovis

     imbris nivisque conparat,

aut trudit acris hinc et hinc multa cane

     apros in obstantis plagas

aut amite levi rara tendit retia

     turdis edacibus dolos

pavidumque leporem et advenam laqueo gruem

     iucunda captat praemia.

quis non malarum quas amor curas habet

     haec inter obliviscitur?

quodsi pudica mulier in partem iuvet

     domum atque dulcis liberos,

Sabina qualis aut perusta Solibus

     pernicis uxor Apuli,

sacrum vetustis exstruat lignis focum

     lassi Sub adventum viri

claudensque textis cratibus laetum pecus

     distenta siccet ubera

et horna dulci vina promens dolio

     dapes inemptas adparet:

non me Lucrina iuverint conchylia

     magisve rhombus aut scari,

siquos Eois intonata fluctibus

     hiems ad hoc vertat mare,

non Afra avis descendat in ventrem meum,

     non attagen Ionicus

iucundior quam lecta de pinguissimis

     oliva ramis arborum

aut herba lapathi prata amantis et gravi

     malvae salubres corpori

vel agna festis caesa Terminalibus

     vel haedus ereptus lupo.

has inter epulas ut iuvat pastas ovis

     videre properantis domum,

videre fessos vomerem inversum boves

     collo trahentis languido

positosque vernas, ditis examen domus,

     circum renidentis Laris.'

haec ubi locutus faenerator Alfius,

     iam iam futurus rusticus,

omnem redegit idibus pecuniam,

     quaerit kalendis ponere.

Whoever puts hands to his elderly parent's

   windpipe & (wicked!) snaps it,

make him munch garlic, more harmful than hemlock --

   how can hicks consume it?

This is the toxin tormenting my tummy.

   No viper's venom was slipped

into the vegetable soup. The crone Canidia

   didn't doctor our dinner.

When General Jason, alone of the Argonauts,

   attracted Medea, she massaged

his beauty with garlic to guard his bridling

   the fire-breathing bulls;

punishing his paramour with garlic-drenched gifts,

   she fled on a flying serpent.

Garlic: more muggy than the dog days

   of dry-assed Apulia,

hotter than the hexed shirt on the shoulders

   of our hero Hercules.

Try such a trick once more, too-merry

   Maecenas, and may the gods grant

that your sweetie slap away your smooches

   & bunk at the bed's far edge.

III

Parentis olim siquis inpia manu

      senile guttur fregerit,

edit cicutis alium nocentius.

      o dura messorum ilia.

quid hoc veneni saevit in praecordiis?

      num viperinus his cruor

incoctus herbis me fefellit? an malas

      Canidia tractavit dapes?

ut Argonautas praeter omnis candidum

      Medea mirata est ducem,

ignota tauris inligaturum iuga

      perunxit hoc Iasonem,

hoc delibutis ulta donis paelicem

      serpente fugit alite.

nec tantus umquam siderum insedit vapor

      siticulosae Apuliae

nec munus umeris efficacis Herculis

      inarsit aestuosius.

at siquid umquam tale concupiveris,

      iocose Maecenas, precor,

manum puella savio opponat tuo

      extrema et in sponda cubet.

You, stinking for a century or so,

   wonder what hamstrings my hard-on,

you & spotty teeth & seams of superannuated

   age furrowing the features

& an anus yawning between arid buttocks

   (compare: a constipated cow).

Certainly your bosom & sagging breasts

   (much like mare's mammaries)

thrill me. Plus your paunch & thighs

   (thin) on inflated forelegs.

Of social standing: ancestral awards,

   acquired in the army, will festoon your

funeral, and no wife now walks around

   weighted with plumper pearls.

Educated, even: editions of philosophy,

   fond of lying on silken sofas.

But don't dicks without degrees get taut?

   and professors peter out?

To challenge this reluctant learner, change

   your approach: accept oral assignments.

VIII

Rogare longo putidam te saeculo,

      viris quid enervet meas,

cum sit tibi dens ater et rugis vetus

      frontem senectus exaret

hietque turpis inter aridas natis

      podex velut crudae bovis.

sed incitat me pectus et mammae putres,

      equina quales ubera,

venterque mollis et femur tumentibus

      exile suris additum.

esto beata, funus atque imagines

      ducant triumphales tuum

nec sit marita quae rotundioribus

      onusta bacis ambulet.

quid, quod libelli Stoici inter Sericos

      iacere pulvillos amant:

inlitterati num minus nervi rigent

      minusve languet fascinum?

quod ut superbo provoces ab inguine,

      ore adlaborandum est tibi.

Pettius, it's pointless. Again. Attempting

    Poesie while Passion pummels me implacably --

Passion, whose sport is to single me out

     to burn at the glimpse of a glamour-boy or girl.

A trio of Decembers has dashed from the trees

     their finery since my furor for Elsie ended.

The pain, the pangs of being the biggest

     story in the city! Soirees which saw (sorry!)

me mute & moping provided proof:

     guilty of love. And the groans low in my lungs.

"The unstained soul of a pauper is powerless

     compared with cash!" I'd complain, plead to you,

as brazen Bacchus' blazing booze

     summoned from me, already aflame, my secrets.

"If whines were to welter at will within me

     & heave these bromides (hackneyed banter, no help

for the bitter wound) onto the winds,

     my pride -- purged -- will bow out of mismatched bouts."

Such was my solemn flourish, & to your face.

     Warned to head home, I wandered, wobbling

to her doorframe (so unfriendly!) & doorsill

     (so staunch!). Banging on them busted my balls.

Lyciscus preens there's not a lady his peer

     in prissiness. Lust for the little wolf is worsting me,

& the ample advice of friends, or their frosty

     sarcasm, can't spring me -- only a fresh infatuation

for a girl agleam or a smooth-skinned

     boy braiding back his long locks.

XI

Petti, nihil me sicut antea iuvat

     scribere versiculos amore percussum gravi,

amore, qui me praeter omnis expetit

     mollibus in pueris aut in puellis urere.

hic tertius December, ex quo destiti

     Inachia furere, silvis honorem decutit.

heu me, per Vrbem (nam pudet tanti mali)

     fabula quanta fui, conviviorum et paenitet,

in quis amantem languor et silentium

     arguit et latere petitus imo spiritus.

'contrane lucrum nil valere candidum

     pauperis ingenium' querebar adplorans tibi,

simul calentis inverecundus deus

     fervidiore mero arcana promorat loco.

'quodsi meis inaestuet praecordiis

     libera bilis, ut haec ingrata ventis dividat

fomenta volnus nil malum levantia,

     desinet inparibus certare submotus pudor.'

ubi haec severus te palam laudaveram,

     iussus abire domum ferebar incerto pede

ad non amicos heu mihi postis et heu

     limina dura, quibus lumbos et infregi latus.

nunc gloriantis quamlibet mulierculam

     vincere mollitia amor Lycisci me tenet;

unde expedire non amicorum queant

     libera consilia nec contumeliae graves,

sed alius ardor aut puellae candidae

     aut teretis pueri longam renodantis comam.

What in the world! Why are you, a woman more meant

      for ebony elephants, mailing me largesse

& love letters? As if I'm a sturdy lad with a stuffed

      nose! No canny canine detects the den of a

boar better than I sniff out the stench of octopus

      or oppressive billy-goat bedded in bristly armpits.

The sweat & rancid smell arising all along

      her mummified members when a penis remains prone

and she races, regardless, to relieve her feral frenzy!

      The finale? a makeup meltdown (drenched foundation

& blush--colored in crocodile crap--blurring), capped

      by the bitch in heat bursting the bedsprings & headboard.

My disgust deepens under the volley of her vicious words:

      "You droop a lot less for Elsie, don't you?

For Elsie, a triple treat each evening; a solitary stunt

      forever flaccid for me. Curse the cocksucking

cow who sent me a steer instead of the bull I bargained for.

      And Amyntas once was mine, a salacious shepherd

whose crotch (never needing cultivation) flaunted a phallus

      that stood stiffer than a sapling clinging to a crag!

"Pelts of fleece double-dyed in Phoenician purple

      were sent express to no-one except--yes--

you, making you the best-dressed of your drinking buddies,

      the bachelor most doted upon by his darling.

"My good luck is gone! You shun me, like a sheep shying

      from wilful wolves, or antelope avoiding lions."

XII

Quid tibi vis, mulier nigris dignissima barris?

      munera quid mihi quidve tabellas

mittis nec firmo iuveni neque naris obesae?

      namque sagacius unus odoror,

polypus an gravis hirsutis cubet hircus in alis,

      quam canis acer ubi lateat sus.

qui sudor vietis et quam malus undique membris

      crescit odor, cum pene soluto

indomitam properat rabiem sedare neque illi

      iam manet umida creta colorque

stercore fucatus crocodili iamque subando

      tenta cubilia tectaque rumpit,

vel mea cum saevis agitat fastidia verbis:

      'Inachia langues minus ac me;

Inachiam ter nocte potes, mihi semper ad unum

      mollis opus. pereat male quae te

Lesbia quaerenti taurum monstravit inertem,

      cum mihi Cous adesset Amyntas,

cuius in indomito constantior inguine nervus

      quam nova collibus arbor inhaeret.

muricibus Tyriis iteratae vellera lanae

      cui properabantur? tibi nempe,

ne foret aequalis inter conviva, magis quem

      diligeret mulier sua quam te.

o ego non felix, quam tu fugis, ut pavet acris

      agna lupos capreaeque leones.'

"How did it happen? Limp languor imbuing your inmost

       senses with the sort of amnesia

attained by thirsty throats that pound back potions

       delivering death-dreams!"

You murder me, candid Maecenas, with your constant question.

       A god, a god begrudges me

bringing to birth the book of poetry I promised to publish,

       the Epodes started long since.

Suchwise, they say, Anacreon was ablaze for Bathyllus, a boy

       from Samos (offshore his city),

& sang, repeatedly, of love's sorrows on his resounding lyre,

       reckless of regular rhythm.

You feel the flame. Unfortunate. But if a spark less splendid

       torched trapped Troy,

delight in your doom. I'm scalloped by Phryne, a freed slavegirl

       warm for more than one man.

XIV

Mollis inertia cur tantam diffuderit imis

     oblivionem sensibus,

pocula Lethaeos ut si ducentia somnos

     arente fauce traxerim,

candide Maecenas, occidis Saepe rogando:

     deus, deus nam me vetat

inceptos, olim promissum carmen, iambos

     ad umbilicum adducere.

non aliter Samio dicunt arsisse Bathyllo

     Anacreonta Teium,

qui persaepe cava testudine flevit amorem

     non elaboratum ad pedem.

ureris ipse miser: quodsi non pulcrior ignis

     accendit obsessam Ilion,

gaude sorte tua; me libertina, nec uno

     contenta, Phryne macerat.

The setting: midnight; serene sky; moon scintillating,

       surrounded by (smaller) stars.

Soon to gall the grandeur of the glorious gods, you swore --

       more tenaciously than a tall holm-oak

is hemmed inside of ivy, clinging to compliant limbs --

       the formula I'd furnished: "Whilst

the wolf is the flock's foe & Orion, warlike to old salts,

       worries the wintry waters

& the breeze billows Apollo's tresses (untouched by a barber),

       so long I lend you my love."

You'll know, Neaera, plenty of pain. My pecker's up.

       A hint of a hero in Horace

won't allow your awarding nonstop nights to some swell.

       I'll spite you & seek a soulmate.

Wronged once, I'm rigid & won't waver before your beauty,

       despite signs of distress.

And you, whoever the hell you are, lucky & lordly

       today as you trample on my travail --

though flush in flocks & a lot of land, though rivers rush

       to give you globules of gold

& the puzzles of reincarnated Pythagoras can't rattle you

       & pretty-boys, in comparison, are plain --

disaster! Her desire will settle on someone else, & your sobbing

       move me to mirth.

XV

Nox erat et caelo fulgebat Luna sereno

     inter minora sidera,

cum tu, magnorum numen laesura deorum,

     in verba iurabas mea,

artius atque hedera procera adstringitur ilex

     lentis adhaerens bracchiis;

dum pecori lupus et nautis infestus Orion

     turbaret hibernum mare

intonsosque agitaret Apollinis aura capillos,

     fore hunc amorem mutuom,

o dolitura mea multum virtute Neaera:

     nam siquid in Flacco viri est,

non feret adsiduas potiori te dare noctes

     et quaeret iratus parem

nec semel offensi cedet constantia formae,

     si certus intrarit dolor.

et tu, quicumque es felicior atque meo nunc

     superbus incedis malo,

sis pecore et multa dives tellure licebit

     tibique Pactolus fluat

nec te Pythagorae fallant arcana renati

     formaque vincas Nirea,

heu heu, translatos alio maerebis amores,

     ast ego vicissim risero.

Permission is hereby granted to distribute for classroom use, provided that both the translator and Diotima are identified in any such use. Other uses not authorized in writing by the translator or in accord with fair use policy are expressly prohibited.

www.stoa.org/diotima