Ode IV.1 (Latin)

Intermissa, Venus, diu
rursus bella moves? parce precor, precor.
non sum qualis eram bonae
sub regno Cinarae.

Desine, dulcium
mater saeva Cupidinum,
circa lustra decem flectere mollibus
iam durum imperiis: abi,
quo blandae iuvenum te revocant preces.

Tempestivius in domum
Pauli purpureis ales oloribus
comissabere Maximi,
si torrere iecur quaeris idoneum.

Namque et nobilis et decens
et pro sollicitis non tacitus reis
et centum puer artium
late signa feret militiae tuae.

Et quandoque potentior
largi muneribus riserit aemuli,
Albanos prope te lacus
ponet marmoream sub trabe citrea.

Illic plurima naribus
duces tura, lyraeque et Berecyntiae
delectabere tibiae
mixtis carminibus non sine fistula;

illic bis pueri die
numen cum teneris virginibus tuum
laudantes pede candido
in morem Salium ter quatient humum.

Me nec femina nec puer
iam nec spes animi credula mutui
nec certare iuvat mero
nec vincire novis tempora floribus.

Sed cur heu, Ligurine, cur
manat rara meas lacrima per genas?
cur facunda parum decoro
inter verba cadit lingua silentio?

Nocturnis ego somniis
iam captum teneo, iam volucrem sequor
te per gramina Martii
campi, te per aquas, dure, volubilis.

Venus, long abstaining,
Do you stir battles again? Spare me, I pray, I pray!
I am not as I was under the reign
Of good Cinara.

Cease, cruel mother of sweet loves,
To bend one hardened by ten lustra
With your soft commands. Depart,
Where the flattering prayers of youths recall you.

More fittingly, you will revel
In the house of Paulus Maximus, borne
On your purple swans,
If you seek a liver fit to burn.

For he is noble and fair,
And eloquent on behalf of anxious clients,
A boy of a hundred talents,
Who will bear far the banners of your campaigns.

And when someday, more powerful,
He smiles, enriched by his gifts,
He will place you near the Alban lakes,
Under a marble roof of yellow citrus-wood.

There, you will draw in much incense
With delight, and you will take joy
In lyres, Berecynthian pipes,
And songs mingled with flutes.

There, twice a day, boys with tender girls,
Praising your divinity with white feet,
Will thrice strike the ground
In a Salii's dance.

But as for me, neither woman nor boy,
Nor hope of mutual love stirs me anymore,
Nor does it please me to strive with wine
Or bind my temples with fresh flowers.

But why, alas, Ligurinus, why
Does a rare tear course down my cheeks?
Why does my eloquent tongue falter,
And fall into unseemly silence mid-speech?

In dreams by night,
I now hold you, now pursue
You, fleeting, through the grasses
Of the Field of Mars, through the flowing river, unyielding one.