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Titus Livius (Livy), History of Rome, books 1-10 (ed. Rev. Canon Roberts) 30 0 Browse Search
Titus Livius (Livy), History of Rome, books 1-10 (ed. Rev. Canon Roberts) 20 0 Browse Search
Titus Livius (Livy), History of Rome, books 1-10 (ed. Rev. Canon Roberts) 14 0 Browse Search
Q. Horatius Flaccus (Horace), Odes (ed. John Conington) 14 0 Browse Search
M. Annaeus Lucanus, Pharsalia (ed. Sir Edward Ridley) 8 0 Browse Search
C. Valerius Catullus, Carmina (ed. Leonard C. Smithers) 8 0 Browse Search
C. Valerius Catullus, Carmina (ed. Sir Richard Francis Burton) 6 0 Browse Search
P. Ovidius Naso, Metamorphoses (ed. Arthur Golding) 6 0 Browse Search
Harper's Encyclopedia of United States History (ed. Benson Lossing) 6 0 Browse Search
Southern Historical Society Papers, Volume 9. (ed. Reverend J. William Jones) 4 0 Browse Search
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Browsing named entities in Q. Horatius Flaccus (Horace), Odes (ed. John Conington). You can also browse the collection for Sabine (United States) or search for Sabine (United States) in all documents.

Your search returned 7 results in 7 document sections:

Q. Horatius Flaccus (Horace), Odes (ed. John Conington), Book 1, Poem 9 (search)
See, how it stands, one pile of snow, Soracte! 'neath the pressure yield Its groaning woods; the torrents' flow With clear sharp ice is all congeal'd. Heap high the logs, and melt the cold, Good Thaliarch; draw the wine we ask, That mellower vintage, four-year-old, From out the cellar'd Sabine cask. The future trust with Jove; when he Has still'd the warring tempests' roar On the vex'd deep, the cypress-tree And aged ash are rock'd no more. O, ask not what the morn will bring, But count as gain each day that chance May give you; sport in life's young spring, Nor scorn sweet love, nor merry dance, While years are green, while sullen eld Is distant. Now the walk, the game, The whisper'd talk at sunset held, Each in its hour, prefer their claim. Sweet too the laugh, whose feign'd alarm The hiding-place of beauty tells, The token, ravish'd from the arm Or finger, that but ill rebels.
Q. Horatius Flaccus (Horace), Odes (ed. John Conington), Book 1, Poem 20 (search)
Not large my cups, nor rich my cheer, This Sabine wine, which erst I seal'd, That day the applauding theatre Your welcome peal'd, Dear knight Maecenas! as 'twere fain That your paternal river's banks, And Vatican, in sportive strain, Should echo thanks. For you Calenian grapes are press'd, And Caecuban; these cups of mine Falernum's bounty ne'er has bless'd, Nor Formian vine.
Q. Horatius Flaccus (Horace), Odes (ed. John Conington), Book 1, Poem 22 (search)
No need of Moorish archer's craft To guard the pure and stainless liver; He wants not, Fuscus, poison'd shaft To store his quiver, Whether he traverse Libyan shoals, Or Caucasus, forlorn and horrent, Or lands where far Hydaspes rolls His fabled torrent. A wolf, while roaming trouble-free In Sabine wood, as fancy led me, Unarm'd I sang my Lalage, Beheld, and fled me. Dire monster! in her broad oak woods Fierce Daunia fosters none such other, Nor Juba's land, of lion broods The thirsty mother. Place me where on the ice-bound plain No tree is cheer'd by summer breezes, Where Jove descends in sleety rain Or sullen freezes; Place me where none can live for heat, 'Neath Phoebus' very chariot plant me, That smile so sweet, that voice so sweet, Shall still enchant me.
Q. Horatius Flaccus (Horace), Odes (ed. John Conington), Book 2, Poem 18 (search)
Carven ivory have I none No golden cornice in my dwelling shines; Pillars choice of Libyan stone Upbear no architrave from Attic mines; 'Twas not mine to enter in To Attalus' broad realms, an unknown heir, Nor for me fair clients spin Laconian purples for their patron's wear. Truth is mine, and Genius mine; The rich man comes, and knocks at my low door: Favour'd thus, I ne'er repine, Nor weary out indulgent Heaven for more: In my Sabine homestead blest, Why should I further tax a generous friend? Suns are hurrying suns a-west, And newborn moons make speed to meet their end. You have hands to square and hew Vast marble-blocks, hard on your day of doom, Ever building mansions new, Nor thinking of the mansion of the tomb. Now you press on ocean's bound, Where waves on Baiae beat, as earth were scant; Now absorb your neighbour's ground, And tear his landmarks up, your own to plant. Hedges set round clients' farms Your avarice tramples; see, the outcasts fly, Wife and husband, in their arm
Q. Horatius Flaccus (Horace), Odes (ed. John Conington), Book 3, Poem 1 (search)
sleep. Sleep knows no pride; It scorns not cots of village hinds, Nor shadow-trembling river-side, Nor Tempe, stirr'd by western winds. Who, having competence, has all, The tumult of the sea defies, Nor fears Arcturus' angry fall, Nor fears the Kid-star's sullen rise, Though hail-storms on the vineyard beat, Though crops deceive, though trees complain, One while of showers, one while of heat, One while of winter's barbarous reign. Fish feel the narrowing of the main From sunken piles, while on the strand Contractors with their busy train Let down huge stones, and lords of land Affect the sea: but fierce Alarm Can clamber to the master's side: Black Cares can up ihe galley swarm, And close behind the horseman ride. If Phrygian marbles soothe not pain, Nor star-bright purple's costliest wear, Nor vines of true Falernian strain, Nor Achaemenian spices rare, Why with rich gate and pillard range Upbuild new mansions, twice as high, Or why my Sabine vale exchange For more laborious luxury?
Q. Horatius Flaccus (Horace), Odes (ed. John Conington), Book 3, Poem 4 (search)
les and purling streams. Me, as I lay on Vultur's steep, A truant past Apulia's bound, O'ertired, poor child, with play and sleep, With living green the stock-doves crown'd— A legend, nay, a miracle, By Acherontia's nestlings told, By all in Bantine glade that dwell, Or till the rich Forentan mould. “Bears, vipers, spared him as he lay, The sacred garland deck'd his hair, The myrtle blended with the bay: The child's inspired: the gods were there.” Your grace, sweet Muses, shields me still On Sabine heights, or lets me range Where cool Praeneste, Tibur's hill, Or liquid Baiae proffers change. Me to your springs, your dances true, Philippi bore not to the ground, Nor the doom'd tree in falling slew, Nor billowy Palinurus drown'd. Grant me your presence, blithe and fain Mad Bosporus shall my bark explore; My foot shall tread the sandy plain That glows beside Assyria's shore; 'Mid Briton tribes, the stranger's foe, And Spaniards, drunk with horses' blood, And quiver'd Scythians, will I go <
Q. Horatius Flaccus (Horace), Odes (ed. John Conington), Book 3, Poem 6 (search)
lian ill. Now Pacorus and Monaeses twice Have given our unblest arms the foil; Their necklaces, of mean device; Smiling they deck with Roman spoil. Our city, torn by faction's throes, Dacian and Ethiop well-nigh razed, These with their dreadful navy, those For archer-prowess rather praised. An evil age erewhile debased The marriage-bed, the race, the home; Thence rose the flood whose waters waste The nation and the name of Rome. Not such their birth, who stain'd for us The sea with Punic carnage red, Smote Pyrrhus, smote Antiochus, And Hannibal, the Roman's dread. Theirs was a hardy soldier-brood, Inured all day the land to till With Sabine spade, then shoulder wood Hewn at a stern old mother's will, When sunset lengthen'd from each height The shadows, and unyoked the steer, Restoring in its westward flight The hour to toilworn travail dear. What has not cankering Time made worse? Viler than grandsires, sires beget Ourselves, yet baser, soon to curse The world with offspring baser yet.