Complete Poems

Nor does he leap about lightly, nor is he touched by a mindful Ate.
And now the sharp-witted man is involved in uncertain counsels:
Now he aspires to work from them, as much as the matter requires,
Whether his own affairs demand support, or a friend entreats.
Having performed these, standing always with the same countenance,
Or one not much different, he turns himself toward those things
To which the Genius of heaven calls the happy man. He either reads
Threatening histories, so that he may form himself from them:
Or he shakes Helicon. Stirred by which movement, he
Pours forth flowing streams of honey from an unknown source.
From which my own Little Bee now draws for me: she who
Dares to invite you, light as she is, to noble liquors.
Unless you flee thin sounds and humble Muses,
Pursuing soft and earth-creeping words,
Yet not plebeian, nor empty of sweet nectar.
To bend, and the winged girls of Ceres, Brassacus,
Willingly admit to yourself. The crowd of the fresh
Honeycomb, having worked at the liquid drafts for you from a pure source,
Is busy wiping them from the highest flowers.
She flies to you even now. Do you see how with nimble wings
The swarms have deployed their line in full clouds,
And have encircled your august head with peaceful dances
In measure? Indeed, I shall sing the truth. Indeed, those bees bring you
No honey, but they flatter you, so that they might be able
To collect the sweet things which they may plunder from that lofty-speaking mouth,
Sipping calmly, fearing your nod and light,
So that they may bring back to me honey more precious than any metal.

Why he writes verses.

If my mind could have been moved by any reason
Not to write verses: whether sluggishly seeking soft
Leisure, or fearing critics and an unfavorable reputation,
I would have led my mind away, following dinners and courts,
So that I, a private citizen, might have rested at home in an expanded hide.