Licinius, stray thou not so high
That fear of heaven you forget,
But slip not down where cowards lie,
Not thus low yet;
Do thou the shining middle keep,
Not envying the envied throne,
Thou shalt not as a pauper sleep,
The tallest pine is oft blown down,
The tower from its proud height drops,
And crashing lighting strikes upon
The ready heart prepares for ill,
Braced to receive the evil lot;
But Jove blows back the same snow's chill
His winds have brought.
Though fortune favor thee not now,
Why must the future thee misuse?
Apollo oft unbends his bow
To court the muse.
Take spirit in the narrow strait,
But wisely navigate the gail,
And 'till the blasting wind abate,
Keep short thy sail.
-Translated from the Latin by Thomas Banks-