Horace: Book 1, Ode 22

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