Laudator Temporis Acti

Horace, Odes 2.11 (tr. James Mitchie):

'Is warlike Spain hatching a plot?'
You ask me anxiously. 'And what
Of Scythia?' My dear Quinctius,
There's a whole ocean guarding us.

Stop fretting: life has simple needs.
Behind us smooth-cheeked youth recedes,
Good looks go too, and in our beds
Dry wizened skins and grizzled heads

Wait to put easy sleep to rout
And drive love's sensuous pleasures out.
Buds lose their springtime gloss, and soon
The full becomes the thin-faced moon.

Futurity is infinite:
Why tax the brain with plans for it?
Better by this tall plane or pine
To sprawl and, while we may, drink wine

And grace with Syrian balsam drops
And roses these fast-greying tops.
Bacchus shoos off the wolves of worry.
Ho, slaves! Which one of you will hurry

Down to the nearby brook to tame
The heat of this Falernian's flame?
Who'll coax from home to join our feast
Lyde, of easy girls the least

Easy to get? Bid her bestir
Herself and bring along with her
The ivory lyre, wearing her curls
Neat, braided like a Spartan girl's.

---

Quid bellicosus Cantaber et Scythes,
Hirpine Quincti, cogitet Hadria
    divisus obiecto, remittas
        quaerere, nec trepides in usum

poscentis aevi pauca: fugit retro
levis iuventas et decor, arida
    pellente lascivos amores
        canitie facilemque somnum.

non semper idem floribus est honor
vernis, neque uno Luna rubens nitet
    vultu: quid aeternis minorem
        consiliis animum fatigas?

cur non sub alta vel platano vel hac
pinu iacentes sic temere et rosa
    canos odorati capillos,
        dum licet, Assyriaque nardo

potamus uncti? dissipat Euhius
curas edacis. quis puer ocius
    restinguet ardentis Falerni
        pocula praetereunte lympha?

quis devium scortum eliciet domo
Lyden? eburna dic, age, cum lyra
    maturet, in comptum Lacaenae
        more comas religata nodum.