Wednesday, February 24, 2010

Ding Dong! The Witch Is Dead :: Nunc Est Bibendum :: I:37

This ode brings us the news that Cleopatra and Mark Antony are no more.  The year is 30 BC, and Rome rejoices with the Augustus Caesar, who now reigns supreme. The year before, Cleopatra and Antony were defeated in the Battle of Actium off the west coast of Greece, when Anthony's ships caught fire and burned. Cleopatra's ships escaped the conflagration, and she and Antony sailed to the mouth of the Nile, where, near Alexandria, they suffered another defeat at the hands of Octavian's forces. With hope lost, Antony and Cleopatra committed suicide.

Because of the politics of the time, Horace could not mention Antony's name nor the naval battle. Rebellion and civil unrest were not to be glorified. As for Cleopatra, she was such a monster that she, too, is nameless. 

The poem, according to most scholars is in two parts: a vilification of Cleopatra followed by, according to Garrison in his 1991 book on Horace, "a moving tribute to [her] courageous spirit." (pg. 254) Let me represent this graphically with these two photos from Hollywood:






Does Horace really end with a moving tribute? I suppose, but what was the general feeling in Rome about suicide? Was it a noble, grand, last gesture of defiance? Or was it what was expected of a foreign queen defeated by the forces of mighty, Imperial Rome? In other words, perhaps Horace is not paying tribute to Cleopatra. Rather he is reinforcing Rome's view of itself as the dominant power in the world. After all, didn't the Romans enjoy the gladiator games when the doomed fighters bowed to the emperor and shouted, morituri te salutant?

Horace doesn't have us get out our wine to celebrate Cleopatra's death then ask us to consider her nobility. Somebody, drunk by the end of the poem, must have said, "And that's how all Rome's enemies should end–with an asp at their hearts–if I have anything to do with it!" Another might have added, "Yeah, and that hag from hell cheated us out of a right good parade!"

The parade, of course, was dragging the defeated Cleopatra and the rebel Antony through the streets of Rome to the jeers of the crowd. As it turned out, the Roman empire-machine had the parade anyway. How so? Antony and Cleopatra were present in effigy.

The two oldest commentaries by Pomponius Porphyrion and Helenius Acron merely state that: 

Hac ode laetitiam profitetur suam poeta ob uictoriam Actiacam Augusti, cum M. Antonium 
apud Actium promunturium nauali proelio superauit, ac deinde Alexandriam cepit.

They don't talk about paying tribute to Cleopatra. Another monster, Hitler, commited suicide as well. I haven't seen anyone glorify his death. Okay, maybe my comparison is a bit off. Cleopatra has mystique. Hitler does not.  

Cleopatra has captured the minds of men for centuries. Certainly Shakespeare was intrigued. Did he not have her say:

Shall they hoist me up and show me to the shouting varletry of censuring Rome?

Did not audiences thrill at seeing Theda Bara or Claudette Colbert or Elizabeth Taylor play Cleopatra in all her splendor?

So, maybe in Horace's time as well, there was a certain star quality about Cleopatra. She was terrifying, and she was glorious at the same time. 

Then there is the little matter of lines 17 to 20. Horace compares Augustus Caesar to a hawk after a dove, a hunter after a hare in the snows of Haemoniae [an old name for Thessaly, Greece]. Is Cleopatra the beautiful dove? Is she then the frightened winter-white hare? I am afraid so. But these are perhaps my connotations not Horace's. Doves and hares were simply prey. They were not symbols of peace, and beauty, God's grace, and cute-cuddliness—at least, I don't think so in this poem. Otherwise, this poem is more "messed up" than I had thought: Ding-dong the witch is dead. Not the ugly one, but the beautiful, dove-like seductress of emperors (for she did have an affair with Julius). Not the one who melted with a splash of water but the defiant one who went out on her own terms, bowing to no one, uttering perhaps "moritura te maledicit!"

Two words to know before reading the poem:  Mareoticum is a famous Egyptian wine of the period, and Liburnians are fast-moving galley-ships modeled after those used by pirates from Liburnia [modern Albania]. [Note added April 2, 2015: in lines 18 & 19 aut leporem citus vēnātor in campīs nivālis, the sense must be that the hunter is nivālis, cold with snow. Some translators logically conclude that the fields must be covered with snow and translate the line as Rudd did in the Loeb Series: "or a speedy hunter after a hare on the snowy plains."]

my translation:

Now we drink, my friends; now the earth rocks
with feet set free; now's the time to dress up
the couch of the gods for the Salii. 
Before this, it wasn't right to bring out 
the Caecubum from the old man's cellar, 
while the queen plotted craziness for 
the Capitol and death to the Empire
with her band of sicko eunuchs, out of 
control, hoping for whatever, she drunk 
on dumb luck. But one ship saved from the fire
could hardly lessen her rage; so Caesar
drove back the woman truly frightened, high 
on Mareoticum, pursuing her— 
hawk after gentle dove or swift hunter
after hare in the snows of Thessaly—
from Italy with her oars flying so 
that he might capture the fateful monster. 
She planned to perish with nobility,
not like a woman afraid of the sword,
not like one repairing with a swift fleet 
to hidden shores, but one gutsy enough 
to look upon her ruined palace with 
a serene face, strong enough to take out 
wild snakes and let death's poison sink into 
her body, fiercer when determined to die.
No longer a queen, this one proud woman
must have hated the wild Liburnians,
the thought of being paraded around
in a triumphal march of arrogance. 
translation© 2010 by James Rumford

In prose:
Nunc est bibendum. Nunc tellus pede libero pulsanda [est]. Nunc, [o] sodales, erat tempus pulvinar deorum dapibus Saliaribus ornare. 
Antehac [erat] nefas Caecubum [ex] cellis avitis depromere, dum regina dementis ‹cum grege virorum turpium morbo contaminato› ruinas Capitolio et funus imperio parabat—[illa] impotens [sui] quidlibet sperare fortunaque dulci ebria. Sed furorem [Cleopatrae] minuit; vix una navis ab ignibus sospes [fuit]. Caesarque mentem Mareotico lymphatam in timores veros redegit, ‹ab Ītalia volantem› remis adurgens, velut accipter columbas molles aut venator citus leporem in campis Haemoniae nivalis, ut monstrum fatale catenis daret. 
Quae, generosius perire quaerens, nec ensem muliebriter expavit, nec classe cita oras latentes reparavit. Et ausa [est] regiam iacentem vultu sereno visere, serpentes fortes et asperas tractare, ut corpore venenum atrum combiberet, morte ferocior deliberata. Liburnis saevis scilicet invidens [et], privata, triumpho superbo deduci [invidens], [illa erat] mulier non humilis. [revised April 2, 2015]

the ode:

Nunc est bibendum, nunc pede līberō
pulsanda tellūs, nunc Saliāribus
   ornāre pulvīnar deōrum
        tempus erat dapibus, sodālēs.
antehāc nefas dēprōmere Caecubum
cellīs avītīs, dum Capitōliō
   rēgīna dēmentis ruīnās
        fūnus et imperiō parābat
contāminātō cum grege turpium
morbō virōrum, quidlibet impotēns
   spērāre fortūnāque dulcī
        ēbria. sed minuit furōrem
vix ūna sospes nāvis ab ignibus,
mentemque lymphātam Mareōticō
   redēgit in vērōs timōrēs
        Caesar, ab Ītaliā volantem
rēmīs adurgēns, accipiter velut
mollıs columbās aut leporem citus
   vēnātor in campīs nivālis
        Haemōniae, dāret ut catēnīs
fātāle monstrum. quae generōsius
perīre quaerēns nec muliēbriter
   expāvit ensem nec latentıs
        clāsse citā reparāvit ōrās,
ausa et iacentem vīsere rēgiam
vultū serēnō, fortis et asperās
   tractāre serpentēs, ut ātrum
        corpore combiberet venēnum,
dēlīberātā morte ferōcior:
saevīs Liburnīs scīlicet invidēns
   prīvāta dēdūcī superbō,
        nōn humilis mulier, triūmphō.

:: Latin books by James Rumford ::



















For all 102 odes purchase Carpe Diem, Horace De-Poetized, for $11.50 at 

For a Latin translation of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer at $12, click here: 

To find out more about Carpe Diem go to the blog of March 26, 2015; 
for more about Pericla Thomae Sawyer, go to the blog of November 22, 2016.



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Friday, February 19, 2010

Let us pray :: Poscimus :: I:32

This is an ode to Latin poetry and to the lyre, or as Horace calls it, the barbiton. 

The barbiton or barbitos (βαρβιτον, βαρβιτος) is a stringed instrument with deep, rich tones. The Greeks apparently borrowed the word (barbud بربود) from the Persians, who are known to have used this instrument for at least 2800 years.



Incidentally, the author of the Wikipedic article on barbiton, quoting the notoriously error-filled 1911 edition of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, wrongly attributes the origin of the name to Barbud, a musician in the Sassanian court of Chosroes II(خسرو). Chosroes, unfortunately, ruled some six hundred after Horace! This is unfortunate for me as well, as I was about to quote a famous passage from Nezami's twelfth-century poem about Chosroes and Shirin(شیرین), in which there is a face-off between Barbud and another musician named Nakisa(نکیسا).

Today's ode is also about Alcaeus (Αλκαιος), an Ancient Greek lyric poet, who lived in the seventh century BC in Mytilene, the capital city of the island of Lesbos. He was a member of the aristocracy and part of the warrior class. While not fighting, he apparently found time to compose poetry and is supposed to have invented Alcaic verse. He was also, they say, Sappho's lover, and, fittingly enough, Horace wrote today's ode in a meter called Sapphic strophe.  

There are several grammatical "tricks" in this ode.  

The quod . . . vivat clause in the second and third lines is, according to grammar books, a relative clause of characteristic.  Consider these two sentences:

Est vir qui te amet.
He's a man who would love you.

Est vir qui te amat.
He's the man who loves you

The first is a relative clause of characteristic.  The second is just a plain 'ole relative clause. Why make such a distinction in Latin grammar? The answer lies in the noun. Latin nouns are not marked for definiteness.  Vir is either 'a man' or 'the man.' We use articles; the Romans had other ways to make a distinction between indefinite and definite nouns. One way was to use the subjunctive. Amet tells us that vir more than likely means 'a man' or 'the sort of man.' On the other hand, the indicative amat makes  vir definite: 'the man.'

Primum in line 5 looks like a noun with its -um ending, but it is an adverb meaning 'first.'

Lesbio primum modulate civi in line 5 and rite vocanti in the last line are both appositives. The first further defines the barbiton. The second tells us more about mihi. Here are two literal translations:

Age, dic Latinum, Barbite, carmen Lesbo primum modulate civi
Come, sing a Latin, Barbiton, song, by a Lesbian first tuned citizen
[Come, sing a Latin song, barbiton, first tuned by a citizen of Lesbos]

mihi cumque salve, rite vocanti
to me whenever greet duly calling
[greet me, duly calling you whenever]

What makes these appositives particularly difficult is the fact that they are separated from the noun they modify. Isn't this a contradiction in terms? Doesn't "appositive" mean "set next to"?  If grammarians have a special name for relative clauses of characteristic, they should also have a special name for these kinds of appositives. May I suggest "fractured appositives" or "orphaned appositives" or "appositivum interruptum"? 

Finally there is the poetic, shortened formed of the past perfect. Religarat in line 7 would normally be religaverat.  I suppose that this shortening occurred because v was once pronounced w, producing a mouthful, just waiting for some poet to make more palatable:

religawerat — religarat.

my translation:

Humbly now we pray— if ever idle we 
play on you in the shade what may live into
this year and many beyond, come, sing a Latin
song, barbiton, first 
played upon by a citizen from Lesbos, 
who, though fierce in battle, even between wars, 
even if he had tied up his storm-tossed ship
to the sea-washed shore,
would sing of Liber Bacchus and the Muses, 
of Venus and of the lad always clinging 
to her, and of beautiful Lycus with his 
black eyes and black hair.
Ah, glory of the sun Phoebus, and honored 
tortoise shell at the feasts of the supreme Jove.
Ah, sweet balm to labor: welcome, favor me,
solemnly calling.

in prose:
Poscimus, si [nos] vacui sub umbra ‹[ali]quid quod et in hunc annum et plurıs vivat› tecum lusimus, age, dic carmen Latinum, [o] barbite, [o] primum [a] civi Lesbio modulate. Qui, bello ferox, tamen inter arma, sive navim iactatam [in] litore udo religarat, ‹Liberum et musas Veneremque et puerum illi haerentem et Lycum oculis nigris crineque nigro decorum› semper canebat. 
O decus Phoebi et testudo grata dapibus Iovis supremi, o lenimen dulce medicumque laborum, salve rite vocanti.
 [revised April 2, 2015]

original ode:

The words bracketed and in superscript are variants. The blog was written with 'mihi cumque' as the accepted text.

Poscimus[poscimur], sī quid vacuī sub umbrā
lūsimus tēcum, quod et hunc in annum
vīvat et plūrıs, age, dīc Latīnum,
   barbite, carmen,
Lesbiō prīmum modulāte cīvī,
quī, ferox bellō, tamen inter arma,
sīve iactātam religārat ūdō
   lītore nāvim,
Līberum et Mūsās Veneremque et illī
semper haerentem puerum canēbat
et Lycum nigrīs oculīs nigrōque
   crīne decōrum.
ō decus Phoebi et dapibus suprēmī
grāta testūdō Iovis, ō labōrum
dulce lēnīmen, medicumque [mihi cumque], salvē        

   rīte vocantī.

:: Latin books by James Rumford ::



















For all 102 odes purchase Carpe Diem, Horace De-Poetized, for $11.50 at 

For a Latin translation of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer at $12, click here: 

To find out more about Carpe Diem go to the blog of March 26, 2015; 
for more about Pericla Thomae Sawyer, go to the blog of November 22, 2016.



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Friday, February 12, 2010

Really? :: Non Ebur :: II:18

This poem like the one in the last blog is about money. Horace praises his own modest lifestyle and pokes fun at the greedy rich, who when they are not oppressing the unwashed masses, have the sense to come by in their purple robes to pay him homage. I don't know who Horace thinks he's kidding in this ode. Perhaps he's having a good time playing poor and living in his villa.

I will concede that the poem takes on an Omar-Khayyamic tone: death, the great leveler, calls on the rich and poor alike, and the dust of the earth will embrace us all. Still I am amazed at Horace. Could he have been so unaware of the poor? No. He often talks about them. Was it more a matter of 'duty' and 'restraint'? Duty to take care of the poor by restraining one's greedy inclinations? I do not know enough about the Roman mind to answer these questions.

Apart from the message of the poem, one other thing has struck me: Horace's frequent use of enjambment. His thoughts spill over the end of the line into the next, then the next, until the mind is so filled with unfinished sentences that it has to stride over (enjamber) vast amounts of the poem to compute the meaning. Below I have colored the enjambment of the first few lines of the poem in red. 

This type of enjambment doesn't take into account the Trollope-like sentences of mind-boggling length. The first sentence in today's ode ends at line 8, but the thought is not really finished until you get to line 14 because what Horace wants to say is this: I don't have a rich house but I am talented and I am modest. 

Enjambment, they say, gives a hurried, worried tone to the poem. If this is so, perhaps he's rushing before anyone notices what a phony he is.

In the ode, Attalus [Ατταλος] was probably Attalus III of Pergamos, who discovered how to weave cloth into gold and made the Roman people his heir. The blue-veined marble came from a mountain called Hymettus in Attica. The yellow marble came from Ancient Numidia, somewhere below modern Algeria or Tunisia. Laconia, today a prefecture of Sparta, produced beautifully dyed purple cloth.  Orcus is a bearded giant of a god who lives in the underworld. I have decided to translate him as 'ogre.' Why not? Our word 'ogre,' some say, is a corruption of the god's name. Finally, Baia was a famous Roman resort on the Bay of Pozzuoli near Naples. Today it is a small, unpretentious town, with most of the Roman villas resting quietly at the bottom of the sea—a fitting end, given what Horace says in this ode, to the greedy, arrogant people who once played there. Horace, of course, doesn't count himself among these people, even though he must have visited there often. Once he even wrote: nullus in orbe sinus Bais praelucet amoenis . . .nowhere in the world is more agreeable than Baia.

my translation: 

No ebony wood or gold 
in my house makes the paneled ceiling gleam, no
blue-veined marble beams bear down
on yellow columns quarried in Africa's
outback, nor have I, long lost 
heir, occupied the palace of Attalus,
nor do upper-crust matrons 
come by trailing Laconic purple. But there's 
trust, a rich vein of talent; 
so the rich want un-rich me; I don't pester 
the gods nor hound powerful 
friends for even larger gifts, for I'm happy 
enough with my Sabine farm.
Day after day pushes forward, and a new moon 
rushes onward to vanish. 
You hire marble slabs to be set, with your own 
funeral near, and heedless 
of the grave, you construct houses, making them 
go beyond the crashing shore
into the sea at Baia, poor rich thing hemmed 
in by beachfront property.
What's this? You rip out the stone markers of your 
neighbors and, greedy, leap past 
the tenants' boundaries; man and wife are forced 
out clutching their household gods, 
their ragged kids in their arms. No destiny's more 
certain than the ogre's hall, 
rapacious and awaiting the rich lord. What 
more do you want? To the poor, 
to the sons of kings alike, the earth opens;
the Ogre's minion, having 
seized clever Promethius, does not bring him 
back for gold. He keeps control
of Tantalus, even of his tribe. Whether
he has been called on or not  
to relieve the poor man of his work, he hears.

translation © 2010 by James Rumford

in prose:
In domo mea, lacunar non ebur neque aureum renidet. Trabes Hymettiae ‹columnas Africa ultima recisas› non premunt, neque heres ignotus Attali regiam occupavi, nec clientae honestae purpuras Laconicas mihi trahunt. 
At [mihi] est fides et vena benigna ingeni, divesque me pauperem petit. Nihil supra deos lacesso, nec amicum potentem largiora flagito. Satis beatus [sum] unicis Sabinis. 
Dies die truditur lunaeque novae pergunt interire. Tu marmora secanda locas—sub ipsum funus—et, sepulcri immemor, domos struis urgesque ‹litora maris Bais obstrepentis› submovere, parum locuples, ripa continente.
 Quid quod terminos proximos agri usque [tu] revellis, et, avarus, ultra limites clientum [tu] salis? Et uxor et vir natosque sordidos ‹deos paternos in sinu ferens› pell[un]tur. 
Nulla aula tamen certior ‹fine destinata Orci rapacis› erum divitem manet. Quid ultra tendis? 
Tellus aequa pauperi puerisque regum recluditur, nec satelles Orci ‹Promethea callidum captus› auro revinxit. Hic Tantalum superbum atque genus Tantali coercet. Hic audit, vocatus atque non vocatus, ‹pauperem laboribus functum› levare. [revised March 27, 2015]

original ode:

Nōn ebur neque aureum
meā renīdet in domō lacūnar;
   nōn trabēs Hymettiae
premunt columnās ultimā recīsās
   Āfricā, neque Attalī
ignotus hērēs rēgiam occupāvī,
   nec Lacōnicās mihi
trahunt honestae purpurās clientae.
   at fidēs et ingenī
benigna vēna est pauperemque dīves       
   mē petit; nihil suprā
deōs lacessō nec potentem amīcum
   largiōra flāgitō,
satis beātus ūnicīs Sabīnīs.
  trūditur diēs diē
novaeque pergunt interīre lūnae;
   tū secanda marmora
locās sub ipsum fūnus et sepulcrī
   immemor struis domōs
marisque Bāīs obstrepentis urgēs
   sūmmovēre lītora,
parum locūples continente rīpā.
   quid quod usque proximōs
revellis agrī terminōs et ultrā
   līmitēs clientium
salis avārus? pellitur paternōs
   in sinū ferēns deōs
et uxor et vir sordidōsque nātōs.
   nūlla certior tamen
rapācis Orcī fīne destinātā
   aula dīvitem manet
erum. quid ultrā tendis? aequa tellūs
   pauperī reclūditur
rēgumque puerīs, nec satelles Orcī
   callidum Promēthea
revinxit [revexit] aurō captus. hīc superbum
   Tantalum atque Tantalī
genus coercet, hīc levāre functum
   pauperem labōribus
vocātus atque nōn vocātus audit.


:: Latin books by James Rumford ::



















For all 102 odes purchase Carpe Diem, Horace De-Poetized, for $11.50 at 

For a Latin translation of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer at $12, click here: 

To find out more about Carpe Diem go to the blog of March 26, 2015; 
for more about Pericla Thomae Sawyer, go to the blog of November 22, 2016.


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Friday, February 5, 2010

With Twisted Eyes :: Nullus argento :: II:2

In today's ode, Horace talks money—not how to get more but how to temper its use by being less greedy, for in so doing you temper all things and gain immeasurable benefit. The poem, if translated into Confucianese would easily sound as though it belonged in the great analects of the master:

无光地下银，用之必庸，庸为有利，etc., etc.

Horace creates a famous but odd analogy in this poem between dropsy, known today as edema, and greed. The May 15, 1950 issue of Time quoted Horace, something I suppose would never happen today—

The dreadful dropsy grows apace, Nor can the sufferer banish thirst, 
Unless the cause of the malady has first Departed from the veins.
— Horace, Odes II:2

Horace used dropsy (most commonly, a swelling of the feet and ankles) as a figure of speech for greed. But modern medical science has found truth as well as poetry in his lines. The cause of the malady, doctors now believe, is not water, but sodium, which prompts the body to hoard water in abnormal amounts — usually as the result of a heart or kidney ailment.

Thirty-four years earlier, a reader of the British Journal of Medicine queried the editior about Horace's dropsy and an answer was published—


My question is: was dropsy so common a thing that Horace's audience would immediately understand the analogy? The idea of the greedy pig is common enough. The idea of a person bloated from dropsy, sweating profusely with an insatiable thirst is not. Perhaps dropsy was la maladie du jour then as Alzheimer's or autism is today.

Or perhaps, this entire ode is a put-on, a satire. No scholar has ever said so, but maybe the analogy between dropsy and greed is purposely far-fetched. Maybe Proculeius, mentioned in the poem and a contemporary of Horace's, was overly proud being a paragon of generosity. Hadn't Proculeius bailed his brothers out when they lost everything in the civil war? Why did Horace mention the Punic people? Hadn't the Punic Wars been over for centuries? And why bring up King Farhad IV of Persia (فرهاد), known as Phraates to the Romans? Wasn't he a paragon of cruelty? Forgive the oxymoron, but hadn't Farhad murdered his thirty brothers and his father? Who could be crueler?  No one.  And there he was back on the throne of the great Cyrus (خروش), having survived an uprising of the people (with a little help from the Scythians, sworn enemies of the Romans). And finally, Horace claims, like some Roman Lao-Tsu, that one can rule justly only by irretorting the eyeballs when one passes piles of money. Of course, irretorting is not an English word, neither was it a Latin one, but Horace invented it just the same, adding a tinge of wit, I believe, to this ode.  

my translation:

No color has silver hidden in the earth 
by misers, C. Sallustius, enemy
of money, unless it gleams with tempered use.
Proculeius
will live a long life, for he is famous for
the fatherly way he treated his brothers.
Lasting fame will carry him on tireless wings.
You'll rule more widely,
once you've tamed your greedy spirit, than if you
joined Libya to distant Cadiz and made 
the Punic citizens of each serve but one 
master. Horrible 
dropsy grows indulging itself. You can't chase 
thirst away unless the cause of the disease
flees the veins and drives the aqueous languor
from the paling frame.
Virtue, even when it goes against the crowd, 
removes Farhad, back on the Throne of Cyrus,
from among the Blessèd Ones, and teaches us 
to avoid speaking
falsely. A secure kingdom, the diadem, 
and the laurels that last will fall to the one 
who looks at immense wealth without twisting up 
his eyes to look back.

translation © 2010 by James Rumford

An excellent translation, which maintains the original rhythm of the poem was done in 2003 by A. S. Kline [Tony Kline, born 1947]: http://www.poetryintranslation.com/PITBR/Latin/HoraceOdesBkII.htm#_Toc39742776

I might add here that in all the translations, the phrase avaris abdito terris, is translated as 'hidden in the greedy earth.' Although avaris does modify terris, I thought it might make more sense to turn avaris into a noun, 'by the greedy ones.' My point is that misers hide their wealth in the earth for safekeeping, but perhaps Horace's point is that the earth hoards its wealth.

 in prose:
Argento ‹terris avaris abdito› nullus color est, [o] Sallusti Crispe lamnae inimice, nisi usu temperato splendeat. 
Proculeius ‹in fratres animi paterni notus› aevo extento vivet. Fama superstes illum penna solvi metuente aget. 
[Tu], spiritum avidum domando, regnes Latius quam si Libyam Gadibus remotis iungas et Poenus uterque uni serviat. 
Hydrops dirus sibi indulgens crescit nec sitim pellas, nisi causa morbi [ex] venis et languor aquosus corpore albo fugeri[n]t. 
Virtus, plebi dissidens, Praaten ‹solio Cyri redditum› numero beatorum eximit, populumque ‹vocibus falsis uti› dedocet, regnum tutum et diadema laurum propriamque uni deferens. 

Quisquis acervos ingentes spectat, oculo irretorto [praeterit].

[revised March 27, 2015]

original ode:

Nūllus argentō color est avārīs
abditō terrīs, inimīce lamnae
Crispe Sallustī, nisi temperātō
   splendeat ūsū.
vīvet extentō Proculēius aevō,
nōtus in frātrēs animī paternī;
illum aget pinnā metuente solvī
   Fāma superstes.
Lātius regnēs avidum domandō
spīritum quam sī Libyam remōtīs
Gādibus iungās et uterque Poenus
   serviat ūnī.
crescit indulgēns sibi dīrus hydrops
nec sitim pellās[pellit], nisi causa morbī
fūgerit vēnīs et aquōsus albō
   corpore languor.
Redditum Cȳrī soliō Prǎāten
dissidēns plēbī numerō beātōrum
eximit Virtus populumque falsīs
   dēdocet ūtī
vōcibus, regnum et diadēma tūtum
dēferēns ūnī propriamque laurum,
quisquis ingentıs oculō irretortō

   spectat acervōs.


:: Latin books by James Rumford ::



















For all 102 odes purchase Carpe Diem, Horace De-Poetized, for $11.50 at 

For a Latin translation of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer at $12, click here: 

To find out more about Carpe Diem go to the blog of March 26, 2015; 
for more about Pericla Thomae Sawyer, go to the blog of November 22, 2016.


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