Horace, Book II. Ode III

Be calm, my Delius, and serene, However Fortune change the scene! In thy most dejected state, Sink not underneath the weight; Nor yet, when happy days begin, And the full tide comes rolling in, Let a fierce unruly joy The settled quiet of thy mind destroy: However Fortune change the scene, Be calm, my Delius, and serene!

Be thy lot good, or be it ill, Life ebbs out at the same rate still: Whether, with busy cares opprest, You wear the sullen time away; Or whether to sweet ease or rest You sometimes give a day; Carelessly laid, Underneath a friendly shade, By pines and poplars mixt embraces made; Near a river's sliding stream, Fetter'd in sleep, bless'd with a golden dream.

Here, here, in this much-envy'd state, Let every blessing on thee wait; Bid the Syrian nard be brought, Bid the hidden wine be sought, And let the rose's short-liv'd flower, The smiling daughter of an hour, Flourish on thy brow: Enjoy the very, very now! While the good hand of life is in, While yet the fatal sisters spin.

A little hence, my friend, and thou Must into other hands resign Thy gardens and thy parks, and all that now Bears the pleasing name of thine! Thy meadows, by whose planted tides, Silver Tyber gently glides! Thy pleasant houses; all must go; The gold that 's hoarded in them too: A jolly heir shall set it free, And give th' imprison'd monarchs liberty.

Nor matters it, what figure here Thou dost among thy fellow-mortals bear; How thou wert born, or how begot; Impartial Death matters it not: With what titles thou dost shine, Or who was first of all thy line: Life's vain amusements! amidst which we dwell; Nor weigh'd, nor understood, by the grim god of hell!

In the same road, alas! all travel on! By all alike the same sad journey must be gone! Our blended lots together lie, Mingled in one common urn: Sooner or later out they fly; The fatal boat then wafts us to the shore, Whence we never shall return, Never!—never more!