TO SEXTIUS.
Horace
Severe winter is melted away beneath the agreeable change of spring and
the western breeze; and engines haul down the dry ships. And neither
does the cattle any longer delight in the stalls, nor the ploughman in
the fireside; nor are the meadows whitened by hoary frosts. Now
Cytherean Venus leads off the dance by moonlight; and the comely Graces,
in conjunction with the Nymphs, shake the ground with alternate feet;
while glowing Vulcan kindles the laborious forges of the Cyclops. Now it
is fitting to encircle the shining head either with verdant myrtle, or
with such flowers as the relaxed earth produces. Now likewise it is
fitting to sacrifice to Faunus in the shady groves, whether he demand a
lamb, or be more pleased with a kid. Pale death knocks at the cottages
of the poor, and the palaces of kings, with an impartial foot. O happy
Sextius! The short sum total of life forbids us to form remote
expectations. Presently shall darkness, and the unreal ghosts, and the
shadowy mansion of Pluto oppress you; where, when you shall have once
arrived, you shall neither decide the dominion of the bottle by dice,
nor shall you admire the tender Lycidas, with whom now all the youth is
inflamed, and for whom ere long the maidens will grow warm.
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