I am Roman, alas, because Horace is Roman.
In recounting our woes, we often soothe them.
Here honor binds me, and I wish to satisfy it.
Doubt, but still hate!
I believe everything to be just when a king ordains it.
I would not like a king who could obey.
Your arm is unvanquished, but not invincible.
It is only blood that can wash away such an outrage; die or kill.
Ambition aspires to descend
To myself alone do I owe my fame.
It is the gift of heaven and not of reason.
Ah, though a Roman, I am not less a man.
Happiness is meant to be shared.
A good memory is needed once we have lied. [Fr., Il faut bonne memoire apres qu'on a menti.]
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