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Document Max. Freq Min. Freq
John Conington, Commentary on Vergil's Aeneid, Volume 2 68 0 Browse Search
P. Vergilius Maro, Aeneid (ed. Theodore C. Williams) 54 0 Browse Search
P. Vergilius Maro, Aeneid (ed. John Dryden) 52 0 Browse Search
Titus Livius (Livy), History of Rome, books 1-10 (ed. Rev. Canon Roberts) 26 0 Browse Search
C. Suetonius Tranquillus, The Lives of the Caesars (ed. Alexander Thomson) 18 0 Browse Search
Titus Livius (Livy), History of Rome, books 1-10 (ed. Rev. Canon Roberts) 16 0 Browse Search
C. Suetonius Tranquillus, The Lives of the Caesars (ed. Alexander Thomson) 14 0 Browse Search
P. Ovidius Naso, Metamorphoses (ed. Brookes More) 12 0 Browse Search
Cornelius Tacitus, The History (ed. Alfred John Church, William Jackson Brodribb) 8 0 Browse Search
Q. Horatius Flaccus (Horace), The Works of Horace (ed. C. Smart, Theodore Alois Buckley) 8 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 Tiber (Italy) or search for Tiber (Italy) in all documents.

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Q. Horatius Flaccus (Horace), Odes (ed. John Conington), Book 1, Poem 2 (search)
Enough of snow and hail at last The sire has sent in vengeance down: His bolts, at his own temple cast, Appall'd the town, Appall'd the lands, lest Pyrrha's time Return, with all its monstrous sights, When Proteus led his flocks to climb The flatten'd heights, When fish were in the elm-tops caught, Where once the stock-dove wont to bide, And does were floating, all distraught, Adown the tide. Old Tiber, hurl'd in tumult back From mingling with the Etruscan main, Has threaten'd Numa's court with wrack And Vesta's fane. Roused by his Ilia's plaintive woes, He vows revenge for guiltless blood, And, spite of Jove, his banks o'erflows, Uxorious flood. Yes, Fame shall tell of civic steel That better Persian lives had spilt, To youths, whose minish'd numbers feel Their parents' guilt. What god shall Rome invoke to stay Her fall? Can suppliance overbear The ear of Vesta, turn'd away From chant and prayer? Who comes, commission'd to atone For crime like ours? at length appear, A cloud round t
Q. Horatius Flaccus (Horace), Odes (ed. John Conington), Book 1, Poem 8 (search)
Lydia, by all above, Why bear so hard on Sybaris, to ruin him with love? What change has made him shun The playing-ground, who once so well could bear the dust and sun? Why does he never sit On horseback in his company, nor with uneven bit His Gallic courser tame? Why dreads he yellow Tiber, as 'twould sully that fair frame? Like poison loathes the oil, His arms no longer black and blue with honourable toil, He who erewhile was known For quoit or javelin oft and oft beyond the limit thrown? Why skulks he, as they say Did Thetis' son before the dawn of Ilion's fatal day, For fear the manly dress Should fling him into danger's arms, amid the Lycian press?
Q. Horatius Flaccus (Horace), Odes (ed. John Conington), Book 1, Poem 29 (search)
Your heart on Arab wealth is set, Good Iccius: you would try your steel On Saba's kings, unconquerd yet, And make the Mede your fetters feel. Come, tell me what barbarian fair Will serve you now, her bridegroom slain? What page from court with essenced hair Will tender you the bowl you drain, Well skill'd to bend the Serian bow His father carried? Who shall say That rivers may not uphill flow, And Tiber's self return one day, If you would change Panaetius' works, That costly purchase, and the clan Of Socrates, for shields and dirks, Whom once we thought a saner man?
Q. Horatius Flaccus (Horace), Odes (ed. John Conington), Book 2, Poem 3 (search)
qual mind, when storms o'ercloud, Maintain, nor 'neath a brighter sky Let pleasure make your heart too proud, O Dellius, Dellius! sure te die, Whether in gloom you spend each year, Or through long holydays at ease In grassy nook your spirit cheer With old Falernian vintages, Where poplar pale, and pine-tree high Their hospitable shadows spread Entwined, and panting waters try To hurry down their zigzag bed. Bring wine and scents, and roses' bloom, Too brief, alas! to that sweet place; While life, and fortune, and the loom Of the Three Sisters yield you grace. Soon must you leave the woods you buy, Your villa, wash'd by Tiber's flow, Leave,—and your treasures, heap'd so high, Your reckless heir will level low. Whether from Argos' founder born In wealth you lived beneath the sun, Or nursed in beggary and scorn, You fall to Death, who pities none. One way all travel; the dark urn Shakes each man's lot, that soon or late Will force him, hopeless of return, On board the exile-ship of Fat