Odes by Horace

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Our Hercules, they told us, Rome,

Had sought the laurel Death bestows:

Now Glory brings him conqueror home

From Spaniard foes.

Proud of her spouse, the imperial fair

Must thank the gods that shield from death;

His sister too:--let matrons wear

The suppliant wreath

For daughters and for sons restored:

Ye youths and damsels newly wed,

Let decent awe restrain each word

Best left unsaid.

This day, true holyday to me,

Shall banish care: I will not fear

Rude broils or bloody death to see,

While Caesar's here.

Quick, boy, the chaplets and the nard,

And wine, that knew the Marsian war,

If roving Spartacus have spared

A single jar.

And bid Nesera come and trill,

Her bright locks bound with careless art:

If her rough porter cross your will,

Why then depart.

Soon palls the taste for noise and fray,

When hair is white and leaves are sere:

How had I fired in life's warm May,

In Plancus' year!

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