COUNTRY LIVING
Beatus ille qui procul negotiis,
ut prisca gens mortalium,
paterna rura bubus exercet suis
solutus omni faenore
neque excitatur classico miles truci
neque horret iratum mare
forumque vitat et superba civium
potentiorum limina.
Blessed is he who far from business matters, like the ancient race of mortals,
works his ancestral land with his own oxen, free from all usury,
and is neither stirred, like a soldier, by the savage trumpet, or fears the angry sea,
and avoids the Forum and the proud thresholds of the city’s VIPs.
ergo aut adulta vitium propagine
altas maritat populos
aut in reducta valle mugientium
prospectat errantis greges
inutilisque falce ramos amputans
feliciores inserit
aut pressa puris mella condit amphoris
aut tondet infirmas ovis.
And so he either joins the vine by its adult shoots to the high poplars,
or watches in the remote valley his wandering herds of moo-cows,
or prunes the useless branches with a sickle and grafts in better ones,
or stores the pressed honey in clean jars, or shears his powerless sheep.
Work through this a few times. You will start to be conscious of reading the Latin, rather than translating every individual word. This is some achievement, and you should take a moment to be proud of how far you’ve come.
When you’re ready, carry on for a final note on the cunning ironies of Horace, and we’ll move on to a female contemporary, Sulpicia.