The Art of Poetry: an Epistle to the Pisos. Гораций

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      _The Boy _who now his words can freely sound,

      And with a steadier footstep prints the ground,

      Places in playfellows his chief delight,

      Quarrels, shakes hands, and cares not wrong or right:

      Sway'd by each fav'rite bauble's short-liv'd pow'r,

      In smiles, in tears, all humours ev'ry hour.

      Imberbus juvenis, tandem custode remoto,

      Gaudet equis canibusque et aprici gramine campi;

      Cereus in vitium flecti, monitoribus asper,

      Utilium tardus provisor, prodigus aeris,

      Sublimis, cupidusque, et amata relinquere pernix.

      Conversis studiis, aetas animusque virilis

      Quaerit opes et amicitias, infervit honori;

      Conmisisse cavet quòd mox mutare laboret.

      Multa senem circumveniunt incommoda; vel quod

      Quaerit, et inventis miser abstinet, ac timet uti;

      Vel quòd res omnes timidè gelidèque ministrat,

      Dilator, spe lentus, iners, pavidusque futuri;

      The beardless Youth, at length from tutor free,

      Loves horses, hounds, the field, and liberty:

      Pliant as wax, to vice his easy soul,

      Marble to wholesome counsel and controul;

      Improvident of good, of wealth profuse;

      High; fond, yet fickle; generous, yet loose.

      To graver studies, new pursuits inclin'd,

      Manhood, with growing years, brings change of mind:

      Seeks riches, friends; with thirst of honour glows;

      And all the meanness of ambition knows;

      Prudent, and wary, on each deed intent,

      Fearful to act, and afterwards repent.

      Evil in various shapes _Old Age _surrounds;

      Riches his aim, in riches he abounds;

      Yet what he fear'd to gain, he dreads to lose;

      And what he sought as useful, dares not use.

      Timid and cold in all he undertakes,

      His hand from doubt, as well as weakness, shakes;

      Hope makes him tedious, fond of dull delay;

      Dup'd by to-morrow, tho' he dies to-day;

      Difficilis, querulus, laudator temporis acti

      Se puero, censor, castigatorque minorum.

      Multa ferunt anni venientes commoda secum,

      Multa recedentes adimunt: ne forte seniles

      Mandentur juveni partes, pueroque viriles.

      Semper in adjunctis aevoque morabimur aptis.

      Aut agitur res In scenis, aut acta refertur:

      Segnius irritant animos demissa per aurem,

      Quam quae sunt oculis subjecta fidelibus, et quae

      Ipse sibi tradit spectator: non tamen intus

      Digna geri promes in scenam: multaque tolles

      Ex oculis, quae mox narret facundia praesens:

      Ill-humour'd, querulous; yet loud in praise

      Of all the mighty deeds of former days;

      When he was young, good heavens, what glorious times!

      Unlike the present age, that teems with crimes!

      Thus years advancing many comforts bring,

      And, flying, bear off many on their wing:

      Confound not youth with age, nor age with youth,

      But mark their several characters with truth!

      Events are on the stage in act display'd,

      Or by narration, if unseen, convey'd.

      Cold is the tale distilling thro' the ear,

      Filling the soul with less dismay and fear,

      Than where spectators view, like standers-by,

      The deed submitted to the faithful eye.

      Yet force not on the stage, to wound the sight,

      Asks that should pass within, and shun the light!

      Many there are the eye should ne'er behold,

      But touching Eloquence in time unfold:

      Ne pueros coram populo Medea trucidet;

      Aut humana palam coquat exta nefarius Atreus;

      Aut in avem Procne vertatur, Cadmus in anguem.

      Quodcunque ostendis mihi sic, incredulus odi.