Amor’s the god of peace: and it’s peace we lovers worship: the hard fight I have with my lady’s enough for me. My heart’s not so taken with hateful gold; nor does my thirst drink from cut gems; nor is rich Campania ploughed for my gain by a thousand yokes; nor do I buy bronzes from your ruins, wretched Corinth.
O primal earth shaped badly by Prometheus! He set to work on the heart with too little care. He laid the body out with skill, but forgot the mind: the right road for the spirit should have been first.
Now we’re hurled by the wind over such seas, and seek out enemies, weaving new wars on wars. But you’ll take no wealth to the waters of Acheron: carried, naked fool, on the boat of Hell. Conquered and conqueror mingled one in the shadows: Captive Jugurtha, you sit by Marius the Consul: Croesus of Lydia not far from Dulichian Irus: that death’s best that comes the day our part is done.
It pleases me to have lived on Helicon when I was young, and entangled my hands in the Muses’s dance. It pleases me too to cloud my mind with wine, and always weave spring roses round my head. And when the weight of years obstructs Venus, and age flecks the dark hair with white, then let me discover the laws of nature, what god controls this bit of the world by his skill; how the moon rises and how it wanes, and how each month returns, horns merged, to the full; where the winds come from to rule the sea; where the East Wind gets to with his gales; where the unfailing water comes from in the clouds; whether some future day will burrow under the citadels of the world; why the rainbow drinks the rain; why the peaks of Perrhaebian Pindus trembled, and the sun’s orb mourned, his horses black; why Bootes is late to turn his oxen and wain; why the dance of the Pleiades is joined in a crowd of fires; why the deep ocean never leaves its bounds, and why the whole year has four seasons; whether, below ground, gods rule, Giants are tortured; if Tisiphone’s hair is plagued with black snakes, Alcmaeon by Furies, Phineus by hunger; and if there’s a wheel, and a rock to roll, and thirst beside the water; and Cerberus, triple-throated, guarding the cave of Hell, and Tityos’s scant nine acres; or whether an idle tale has come down to wretched mortals, and there’s no fear found beyond the fire.
This is the end of life that waits for me. You to whom war’s more pleasing: you bring Crassus’ standards home.
Now we’re hurled by the wind over such seas, and seek out enemies, weaving new wars on wars. But you’ll take no wealth to the waters of Acheron: carried, naked fool, on the boat of Hell. Conquered and conqueror mingled one in the shadows: Captive Jugurtha, you sit by Marius the Consul: Croesus of Lydia not far from Dulichian Irus: that death’s best that comes the day our part is done.
It pleases me to have lived on Helicon when I was young, and entangled my hands in the Muses’s dance. It pleases me too to cloud my mind with wine, and always weave spring roses round my head. And when the weight of years obstructs Venus, and age flecks the dark hair with white, then let me discover the laws of nature, what god controls this bit of the world by his skill; how the moon rises and how it wanes, and how each month returns, horns merged, to the full; where the winds come from to rule the sea; where the East Wind gets to with his gales; where the unfailing water comes from in the clouds; whether some future day will burrow under the citadels of the world; why the rainbow drinks the rain; why the peaks of Perrhaebian Pindus trembled, and the sun’s orb mourned, his horses black; why Bootes is late to turn his oxen and wain; why the dance of the Pleiades is joined in a crowd of fires; why the deep ocean never leaves its bounds, and why the whole year has four seasons; whether, below ground, gods rule, Giants are tortured; if Tisiphone’s hair is plagued with black snakes, Alcmaeon by Furies, Phineus by hunger; and if there’s a wheel, and a rock to roll, and thirst beside the water; and Cerberus, triple-throated, guarding the cave of Hell, and Tityos’s scant nine acres; or whether an idle tale has come down to wretched mortals, and there’s no fear found beyond the fire.
This is the end of life that waits for me. You to whom war’s more pleasing: you bring Crassus’ standards home.
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