You shun me like a fawn that’s seeking through trackless hills her mother peeking,       ill with fear of the woods and breeze; When pliant leaves the spring winds rustle or lizards through the bushes bustle       she trembles in her heart and knees. But not I like the tiger savage or wild lion seek to ravage: [...]

Come here to me from Crete, to your holy temple, Where your lovely grove of apple stands, Where the altars smoke with frankincense; Here cold water sounds through apple branches, The ground is all carpeted with roses, Enchanted sleep falls from shimmering leaves; Here the horse-grazed field Is lush with spring flowers And the winds [...]

You will dine well at my house, my Fabullus, in a few days (if the gods favor you), and if you bring with you a great and good dinner, not without a pretty girl and wine and wit and laughs for all. I say: if you bring these, our charming one, you will dine well—for [...]

It’s better to live, Licinius, neither always pressing out on the deep nor, trembling and cautious, hugging overly close to the    dangerous shoreline. Whosoever cherishes the golden mean safely avoids the squalor of a hovel and discreetly keeps away from a palace    that excites envy. Most often it’s the huge pine that is shaken by [...]

Why don’t I send you my books? Pontilianus, lest you send me yours.

I hate and I love. Why I do this, perhaps you ask. I do not know, but I sense that it is happening and I am tortured.

Tongilianus, you paid two hundred for your house; An accident much common in this city destroyed it. You collected ten times more. Doesn’t it seem, I pray, That you set fire to your own house, Tongilianus?

To your shades Fronto, and Flacilla, this child I commend: she was my sweet and my delight. Little Erotion shall not fear the darkened shades nor the vast mouths of the Tartarean hound. She’d have completed her sixth chill winter, if she’d not lived a mere six days too few. Now let her frisk and [...]

The gleaming stars all about the shining moon Hide their bright faces, when full-orbed and splendid In the sky she floats, flooding the shadowed earth with clear silver light.

Far from my land, Italy, I stay, from my home-town, Tarentum. That is more bitter than death, the wanderer’s vain life. But the Muses have loved me and in return of my suffering have given me honey sweetness. Leonidas’ name is not dead. The Muses’ gifts hand it down forever.