Peace, asks the man from heaven in prayer, Caught in the broad seas, unaware, When a black cloud the moon doth veil, And no sure stars shine as they sail.

Peace, thraced to war by furies born, Peace, meads whom quiver doth adorn, Tis not for gems, tis not for gold, Tis not for purple, Grosfuss so.

Nor wealth, nor counsels, as men may, Drive those tumultuous stirs away, Which vex the soul, and cares whose flight Is round the fretted ceiling’s height.

That man lives well of scanty hoard, For whom upon a humble board A salt-cellar gleams splendidly, The heirloom of his ancestry.

Nor fair nor sordid avarice Takes gentle slumbers from his eyes.

Wherefore do we in our short day Aim at so much with bold assay?

Why seek lands warmed with other ray, Who from his country banished, Hath also from his own self fled?

Caroning care climbs ships of brass, Nor lets the troops of horsemen pass, More swift than antelopes, more swift than winds, Which chase the stormy drift.

If joyful be our present state, The mind far distant cares should hate, And temper with a careless laugh The bitter cup it hath to quaff.

Nothing exists which doth possess On every side true happiness.

Quick death cuts short Achilles' fame, Long age diminished Tithon’s name, And peradventure time to me Will stretch what it denies to thee.

A hundred flocks and lowing kind Of true Sicilian breed are thine.

The mare lifts high her neigh for thee, Fit for the car of victory.

Twice steeped in Africa’s purple dye, The wolves which are thy vesture, Ay, a little country farm received From destiny, who ne’er deceived.

And the soft breath of Grecian song, Ay, and to spurn the spiteful throng.