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ODE XVII.

To Tyndaris.

The nimble Faunus often exchanges the Lycaean mountain for the pleasant Lucretilis, and always defends my she-goats from the scorching summer, and the rainy winds.  The wandering wives of the unsavory husband seek the hidden strawberry-trees and thyme with security through the safe grove:  nor do the kids dread the green lizards, or the wolves sacred to Mars; whenever, my Tyndaris, the vales and the smooth rocks of the sloping Ustica have resounded with his melodious pipe.  The gods are my protectors.  My piety and my muse are agreeable to the gods.  Here plenty, rich with rural honors, shall flow to you, with her generous horn filled to the brim.  Here, in a sequestered vale, you shall avoid the heat of the dog-star; and, on your Anacreontic harp, sing of Penelope and the frail Circe striving for one lover; here you shall quaff, under the shade, cups of unintoxicating Lesbian.  Nor shall the raging son of Semele enter the combat with Mars; and unsuspected you shall not fear the insolent Cyrus, lest he should savagely lay his intemperate hands on you, who are by no means a match for him; and should rend the chaplet that is platted in your hair, and your inoffensive garment.

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ODE XVIII.

To varus.

O Varus, you can plant no tree preferable to the sacred vine, about the mellow soil of Tibur, and the walls of Catilus.  For God hath rendered every thing cross to the sober; nor do biting cares disperse any otherwise [than by the use of wine].  Who, after wine, complains of the hardships of war or of poverty?  Who does not rather [celebrate] thee, Father Bacchus, and thee, comely Venus?  Nevertheless, the battle of the Centaurs with the Lapithae, which was fought in their cups, admonishes us not to exceed a moderate use of the gifts of Bacchus.  And Bacchus himself admonishes us in his severity to the Thracians; when greedy to satisfy their lusts, they make little distinction between right and wrong.  O beauteous Bacchus, I will not rouse thee against thy will, nor will I hurry abroad thy [mysteries, which are] covered with various leaves.  Cease your dire cymbals, together with your Phrygian horn, whose followers are blind Self-love and Arrogance, holding up too high her empty head, and the Faith communicative of secrets, and more transparent than glass.

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ODE XIX.

To Glycera.