The Odes/Book II/16

Book II, 15: Excess

The Odes Book II, 16: Contentment written by Horace

Book II, 17: We’ll Go Together

Translated by A. S. Kline Latin original text - French Ulysse de Séguier's translation

Contentment         It’s peace the sailor asks of the gods, when he’s caught out on the open Aegean, when dark clouds have hidden the moon, and the constellations shine uncertainly:   It’s peace for Thrace, so furious in battle, peace for the Parthians, adorned with quivers, and, Grosphus, it can’t be purchased with jewels, or purple or gold.   No treasure, no consular attendants, can remove the miserable mind’s disorders, and all of the cares that go flying around our panelled ceilings.   He lives well on little, whose meagre table gleams with his father’s salt-cellar, whose soft sleep isn’t driven away by anxiety, or by sordid greed   Why do we struggle so hard in our brief lives for possessions? Why do we exchange our land for a burning foreign soil? What exile flees from himself as well?   Corrupting care climbs aboard the bronze-clad ship, and never falls behind the troops of horses, swifter than deer, swifter than easterly winds that drive on the clouds.   Let the spirit be happy today, and hate the worry of what’s beyond, let bitterness be tempered by a gentle smile. Nothing is altogether blessed.   Bright Achilles was snatched away by swift death, Tithonus was wasted by lingering old age: perhaps the passing hour will offer to me what it denies you.   A hundred herds of Sicilian cattle low around you, mares fit for the chariot bring you their neighing, you’re dressed in wool: African purple   has stained it twice: truthful Fates, ‘the Sparing Ones’, the Parcae, gave me a little estate, and the purified breath of Greek song, and my scorn for the spiteful crowd.   ...