The man of pure and blameless life
Needs no stout armour in the strife,
Nor poisoned arrow-head, nor knife
Of Moorish fashion.

Whether o'er stormy seas he goes,
Or through the inhospitable snows
Of Caucasus, or yet where flows
Fabled Hydaspes.

For while afar in Sabine glade
Singing of Lalage I strayed,
From me unarmed a wolf, dismayed.
Fled in confusion :

A monster, such as roams in bands
O'er Daunia's war-swept forest lands.
Or breeds in Libya's burning sands,
The nurse of lions.

Set me where no soft breezes blow,
Nor any flowers or trees may grow,
Where is perpetual rain and snow,
And mist eternal.

Or where the car of Heaven's bright King
Brings death to every living thing :
Still Lalage's sweet voice I'll sing.
And her sweet laughter.