BOOK I. ODE XXII.
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The man, my friend, whose conscious heartWith virtue's sacred ardour glows,Nor taints with death the envenom'd dart,Nor needs the guard of Moorish bows: 2 Though Scythia's icy cliffs he treads,Or horrid Afric's faithless sands;Or where the famed Hydaspes spreadsHis liquid wealth o'er barbarous lands. 3 For while, by Chlöe's image charm'd,Too far in Sabine woods I stray'd;Me singing, careless and unarm'd,A grisly wolf surprised, and fled. 4 No savage more portentous stain'dApulia's spacious wilds with gore;None fiercer Juba's thirsty land,Dire nurse of raging lions, bore. 5 Place me where no soft summer galeAmong the quivering branches sighs;Where clouds condensed for ever veilWith horrid gloom the frowning skies: 6 Place me beneath the burning line,A clime denied to human race;I'll sing of Chlöe's charms divine,Her heavenly voice, and beauteous face. * * * * *
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