Book II. Ode XII. Translated.

THE wars of Numantia and Hannibal dire,
On land, or on ocean the fighting,
Maecenas, ne'er suited my peaceable lyre,
In subjects much softer delighting.

You love not of centaurs embattled to hear,
Nor of giants, a tale of such wonder,
Who shook all the skies, made Jupiter fear,
'Till drove by Alcides and thunder.

In prose, my good patron, more nobly you write,
As your topic than these is much better,
How Caesar with glory can govern and fight,
And lead haughty kings in his fetter.

Alone my gay Muse of Licinnia would sing,
The constant, good-natur'd, and pretty,
So graceful to dance with the maids in a ring,
So sparkling, so merry, and witty.

While you play with her hair that is carelessly curl'd,
While this way, now that way she twitches,
Of your teazing so kindly complaining, no world
Could bribe for one lock with its riches.

Thus blest with the nymph, how transporting the joy!
Who whimsical, wanton, amuses;
Who pleasingly forward, or prettily coy,
Oft snatches the kiss she refuses.