Horace Odes 1.22

Integer uitae scelerisque purus
non eget Mauris iaculis neque arcu
nec uenenatis grauida sagittis,
     Fusce, pharetra,
siue per Syrtis iter aestuosas
siue facturus per inhospitalem
Caucasum uel quae loca fabulosus
     lambit Hydaspes.
Namque me silua lupus in Sabina,
dum meam canto Lalagem et ultra
terminum curis uagor expeditis,
     fugit inermem,
quale portentum neque militaris
Daunias latis alit aesculetis
nec Iubae tellus generat, leonum
     arida nutrix.
Pone me pigris ubi nulla campis
arbor aestiua recreatur aura,
quod latus mundi nebulae malusque
      Iuppiter urget;
pone sub curru nimium propinqui
solis in terra domibus negata:
dulce ridentem Lalagen amabo,
     dulce loquentem.

A man whose life is whole and without evil
Will never feel the need of Maghreb lances,
Nor of its bows and poison-heavy arrows,
Fuscus, my friend;
Whether to travel through the torrid Sirte
Or make it through Caucasus inhospitable
Or where Hydaspes, legend-laden, waters
The desert.
For I was singing, all cares left behind,
(All weapons too) well past the forest's limits,
With nothing but Lalage on my mind
Here in Sabina;
A wolf saw me unarmed – and ran away,
A monster large as any born from fighting
Daunia, or from Juba's ancient kingdom,
Mother of lions.
So place me where in workless fields no tree
Is ever recreated by soft summer,
That part of earth where mists and a malignant
Jupiter drive,
Or place me where the Sun rides far too close,
The soil denied to human habitation;
The sweetly smiling Lalage I'll still love,
The sweetly talking.

Horace Odes 1.22

Integer uitae scelerisque purus
non eget Mauris iaculis neque arcu
nec uenenatis grauida sagittis,
     Fusce, pharetra,
siue per Syrtis iter aestuosas
siue facturus per inhospitalem
Caucasum uel quae loca fabulosus
     lambit Hydaspes.
Namque me silua lupus in Sabina,
dum meam canto Lalagem et ultra
terminum curis uagor expeditis,
     fugit inermem,
quale portentum neque militaris
Daunias latis alit aesculetis
nec Iubae tellus generat, leonum
     arida nutrix.
Pone me pigris ubi nulla campis
arbor aestiua recreatur aura,
quod latus mundi nebulae malusque
      Iuppiter urget;
pone sub curru nimium propinqui
solis in terra domibus negata:
dulce ridentem Lalagen amabo,
     dulce loquentem.

A man whose life is whole and without evil
Will never feel the need of Maghreb lances,
Nor of its bows and poison-heavy arrows,
Fuscus, my friend;
Whether to travel through the torrid Sirte
Or make it through Caucasus inhospitable
Or where Hydaspes, legend-laden, waters
The desert.
For I was singing, all cares left behind,
(All weapons too) well past the forest's limits,
With nothing but Lalage on my mind
Here in Sabina;
A wolf saw me unarmed – and ran away,
A monster large as any born from fighting
Daunia, or from Juba's ancient kingdom,
Mother of lions.
So place me where in workless fields no tree
Is ever recreated by soft summer,
That part of earth where mists and a malignant
Jupiter drive,
Or place me where the Sun rides far too close,
The soil denied to human habitation;
The sweetly smiling Lalage I'll still love,
The sweetly talking.