The man, my friend, whose conscious heart <br />With virtue's sacred ardour glows, <br />Nor taints with death the envenom'd dart, <br />Nor needs the guard of Moorish bows: <br /> <br />Though Scythia's icy cliffs he treads, <br />Or horrid Afric's faithless sands; <br />Or where the fam'd Hydaspes spreads <br />His liquid wealth o'er barbarous lands. <br /> <br />For while by Chloe's image charm'd, <br />Too far in Sabine woods I stray'd; <br />Me singing, careless and unarm'd, <br />A grisly wolf surprised, and fled. <br /> <br />No savage more portentous stain'd <br />Apulia's spacious wilds with gore; <br />None fiercer Juba's thirsty land, <br />Dire nurse of raging lions, bore. <br /> <br />Place me where no soft summer gale <br />Among the quivering branches sighs; <br />Where clouds condensed for ever veil <br />With horrid gloom the frowning skies; <br /> <br />Place me beneath the burning line, <br />A clime denied to human race; <br />I'll sing of Cloe's charms divine, <br />Her heavenly voice, and beauteous face.<br /><br />Samuel Johnson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/horace-book-1-ode-22/
