from Ode 29, Book 3,
paraphrased in Pindarique Verse
Fortune, that with malicious joy,
Does Man her slave oppress,
Proud of her Office to destroy,
Is seldome pleased to bless –
Still various and unconstant still;
But with an
inclination to be ill;
Promotes, degrades, delights in strife,
And makes a Lottery of life.
I
can enjoy her while she's kind;
But when she dances in the wind,
And shakes her wings, and will not stay,
I
puff the Prostitute away:
The little or the much she gave, is
quietly resigned:
Content with poverty,
my Soul I arm:
And Vertue, tho' in
rags, will keep me warm.
What is't to me,
Who never sail in her unfaithful Sea,
If Storms arise, and Clouds grow black;
If the Mast split and threaten wreck,
Then let the greedy Merchant fear
For his ill gotten gain;
And pray to Gods that will not hear,
While the debating winds and
billows bear
His Wealth into the Main.
For me secure from Fortune's blows
(Secure of what I cannot lose)
In
my small Pinnace I can sail,
Contemning all the blustring roar;
With friendly Stars my safety seek
Within some little winding Creek;
And see the storm ashore.
– Horace (65-8 BC), translated by John Dryden (1685)
