Happy Birthday (for yesterday) Horace!

O fons Bandusiae, splendidior vitro,

dulci digne mero non sine floribus,

cras donaberis haedo,

cui frons turgida cornibus

primis et venerem et proelia destinat;

frustra: nam gelidos inficiet tibi

rubro sanguine riuos,

lascivi suboles gregis.

Te flagrantis atrox hora Caniculae

nescit tangere, tu frigus amabile

fessis vomere tauris

praebes et pecori vago.

Fies nobilium tu quoque fontium,

me dicente cavis impositam ilicem

saxis unde loquaces

lymphae desiliunt tuae.

O Bandusian fountain, brighter than crystal,

worthy of sweet wine, not lacking in flowers,

tomorrow we’ll honour you

with a kid, whose brow is budding

with those horns that are destined for love and battle.

All in vain: since this child of the playful herd will

darken your ice-cool waters,

with the stain of its crimson blood.

The implacable hour of the blazing dog-star

knows no way to touch you, you offer your lovely

coolness to bullocks, weary

of ploughing, and to wandering flocks.

And you too will be one of the famous fountains,

now I write of the holm oak that’s rooted above

the cave in the rock where your

clear babbling waters run down.

Horace (8 Dec 65 - 27 Nov 8BC)