A better life’s not always making for
The deeps, Licinius; nor is it found
Cringing with dread when tempests come around,
Clinging too near the shore.
Whoever loves the golden mean will shun
The squalors of the low, forgotten houses,
And also shun the palace that arouses
Envy in everyone.
The tall pine shakes most when the shrill winds shriek;
High towers come down with the loudest crash,
And frequently the lightning’s sudden flash
Strikes on the highest peak.
The well-made heart hopes on the bleakest day,
Fears on the brightest, that his fate somehow
May change. Jove brings back hideous winter now,
And now takes it away
Again. If things are bad now, they will not
Be bad forever: sometimes Apollo’s lyre
Wakes up the silent Muse, and his hand tires
Of stretching his bow taut.
Show yourself a man of spirit, hale
When times are hard, and when it’s billowing
And puffed out from the jolly winds that sing,
Wisely trim your sail.