Beauty

Horns to bulls wise Nature lends;

Horses she with hoofs defends;

Hares with nimble feet relieves;

Dreadful teeth to lions gives;

Fishes learn through streams to slide;

Birds through yielding air to glide;

Men with courage she supplies;

But to women these denies.

What then gives she? Beauty, this

Both their arms and armor is:

She, that can this weapon use,

Fire and sword with ease subdues.

Translation Thomas STANLEY

De natuur schonk aan de stieren horens

en aan de haas zijn snelle schuil.

Het paard kreeg harde hoeven

en de leeuw een wrede muil.

De vissen gaf zij vinnen

en snelle vleugels aan het vogelheer;

de man ontving een scherpe geest

en de vrouw …? Er was niets meer!

Wat nu? Zij kreeg wat tegen wapens opweegt

wat elke dreiging wegveegt,

wat mens en dier verslaat:

één enkel schoon gelaat.

Vertaling Herman VERBRUGGEN


Natuur schonk ieder dier

verweer: zijn hoorn de stier,

zijn hoef het paard; en baas

in ’t lopen werd de haas.

De leeuw gaf zij een tand

die mens en dier vermant.

Zij schonk de vissen vinnen,

de vogels kregen zwingen.

Zij gaf de man verstand.

En wat schonk zij de vrouw?

Haar bood zij schoonheid aan

in plaats van schild of degen

van piek of pertizaan;

want vuur of staal zijn tegen

de schoonheid niet bestaan

van een charmante vrouw.

Vertaling Paul VERBRUGGEN

Ode VIII

I care not for the idle state

Of Persia's king, the rich, the great!

I envy not the monarch's throne,

Nor wish the treasured gold my own.
But oh! be mine the rosy braid,

The fervor of my brows to shade;

Be mine the odors, richly sighing,

Amid my hoary tresses flying.

To-day I'll haste to quaff my wine,
As if to-morrow ne'er should shine;

But if to-morrow comes, why then--

I'll haste to quaff my wine again.

And thus while all our days are bright,

Nor time has dimmed their bloomy light,

Let us the festal hours beguile

With mantling cup and cordial smile;

And shed from every bowl of wine

The richest drop on Bacchus's shrine!

For Death may come, with brow unpleasant,

May come when least we wish him present,

And beckon to the sable shore,

And grimly bid us--drink no more!

Translation: Thomas MOORE

Pluk de dag

Wat geef ik om schatten van vorsten,

wat geef ik om ’t Aziatische goud?

Afgunst kwelt mij nimmer

en koningsmacht laat mij koud.

Welriekende olie op mijn haren

en rozen die mijn hoofd omkransen:

de dag van heden, niet de komende jaren.

Wat morgen is … Wie zegt het mij?
…..

Drinking
…..
The thirsty earth soaks up the rain,

And drinks and gapes for drink again;

The plants suck in the earth, and are

With constant drinking fresh and fair;

The sea itself (which one would think

Should have but little need of drink)

Drinks twice ten thousand rivers up,

So fill'd that they o'erflow the cup.

The busy Sun (and one would guess

By 's drunken fiery face no less)

Drinks up the sea, and when he's done,

The Moon and Stars drink up the Sun:

They drink and dance by their own light,

They drink and revel all the night:

Nothing in Nature 's sober found,

But an eternal health goes round.

Fill up the bowl, then, fill it high,

Fill all the glasses there—for why

Should every creature drink but I?

Why, man of morals, tell me why


Translation: Abraham COWLEY

Alles drinkt

De donkere aarde drinkt de regen

en de boom zuigt zich zat aan dit vocht.

Zo drinkt dan weer de zee gezwollen stromen,

de zonnegloed de dampen van de zee,

en de maan slurpt van het zonnelicht.

En wie, mijn vrienden, wie durft mij dan

mijn drinken te verwijten!


Vertaling : H. VERBRUGGEN

Age

Oft am I by the women told,

Poor Anacreon, thou grow'st old!

Look how thy hairs are falling all;

Poor Anacreon, how they fall!

Whether I grow old or no,

By th' effects I do not know;

This I know, without being told,

'Tis time to live, if I grow old;

'Tis time short pleasures now to take,

Of little life the best to make,

And manage wisely the last stake.

Translation Abraham COWLEY.

The women tell me every day

The women tell me every day
That all my bloom has passed away.
'Behold,' the pretty wantons cry,
'Behold this mirror with a sigh;
The locks upon thy brow are few,
And, like the rest, they're withering too!'
Whether decline has thinn'd my hair,
I'm sure I neither know nor care;
But this I know, and this I feel,
As onward to the tomb I steal,
That still as death approaches nearer,
The joys of life are sweeter, dearer;
And had I but an hour to live,
That little hour to bliss I'd give!

Translation Thomas MOORE