A man unstained, and pure from sin,
No quiver fraught with poisoned heads,
No Afric javelin needs,
He has a guard and arms within;
Whether o’er Syrtes’ wandring sands,
Or brutish Caucasus he goes,
Or where Hydaspes flows
And swiftly cuts the savage lands.
Of late, when cares forsook my head,
I strayed and sang ith' Sabine grove
My Lalage, my love,
A wolf saw me unarmed, and fled;
A beast so large did never roar
Ith' Daunian woods, and fright the Swains,
Nor in her burning plains
The lion’s dry-nurse Afric bore.
So place me where no sun appears,
Or wrapped in clouds or drowned in tears;
Where woods with whirling tempests tossed:
Where no relieving summer’s breeze
Does murmur through the trees,
But all lies bound and fixed in frost.
Or place me where the scorching sun
With beams too near, doth burn the zone,
Yet fearless there I'll gladly rove,
Let frowning, or let smiling fate
Or curse, or bless my state
Sweet smiling Lalage I'll always love.