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.