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ODE VII.

To Pompeius varus.

O thou, often reduced with me to the last extremity in the war which Brutus carried on, who has restored thee as a Roman citizen, to the gods of thy country and the Italian air, Pompey, thou first of my companions; with whom I have frequently broken the tedious day in drinking, having my hair, shining with the Syrian maiobathrum, crowned [with flowers]!  Together with thee did I experience the [battle of] Phillippi and a precipitate flight, having shamefully enough left my shield; when valor was broken, and the most daring smote the squalid earth with their faces.  But Mercury swift conveyed me away, terrified as I was, in a thick cloud through the midst of the enemy.  Thee the reciprocating sea, with his tempestuous waves, bore back again to war.  Wherefore render to Jupiter the offering that is due, and deposit your limbs, wearied with a tedious war, under my laurel, and spare not the casks reserved for you.  Fill up the polished bowls with care-dispelling Massic:  pour out the perfumed ointments from the capacious shells.  Who takes care to quickly weave the chaplets of fresh parsely or myrtle?  Whom shall the Venus pronounce to be master of the revel?  In wild carouse I will become frantic as the Bacchanalians.  ’Tis delightful to me to play the madman, on the reception of my friends.

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ODE VIII.

To Barine.

If any punishment, Barine, for your violated oath had ever been of prejudice to you:  if you had become less agreeable by the blackness of a single tooth or nail, I might believe you.  But you no sooner have bound your perfidious head with vows, but you shine out more charming by far, and come forth the public care of our youth.  It is of advantage to you to deceive the buried ashes of your mother, and the silent constellations of the night, together with all heaven, and the gods free from chill death.  Venus herself, I profess, laughs at this; the good-natured nymphs laugh, and cruel Cupid, who is perpetually sharpening his burning darts on a bloody whetstone.  Add to this, that all our boys are growing up for you; a new herd of slaves is growing up; nor do the former ones quit the house of their impious mistress, notwithstanding they often have threatened it.  The matrons are in dread of you on account of their young ones; the thrifty old men are in dread of you; and the girls but just married are in distress, lest your beauty should slacken [the affections of] their husbands.

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ODE IX.

To Titus Valgius.