Integer vi?tae scelerisque pu?rus

　　no?n eget Mauri?s iaculi?s neque arcu?

　　nec vene?na?ti?s gravida? sagitti?s,

　　Fusce, pharetra?,

　　si?ve per Syrti?s iter aestuosa?s

　　si?ve factu?rus per inhospita?lem

　　Caucasum vel quae loca fa?bulo?sus

　　lambit Hydaspe?s.

　　namque me? silva? lupus in Sabi?na?,

　　dum meam canto? Lalage?n et ultra?

　　terminum cu?ri?s vagor expedi?ti?s,

　　fu?git inermem;

　　qua?le portentum neque mi?lita?ris

　　Daunia?s la?ti?s alit aescule?ti?s

　　nec Iubae tellu?s generat, leo?num

　　a?rida nu?tri?x.

　　po?ne me? pigri?s ubi nu?lla campi?s

　　arbor aesti?va? recrea?tur aura?,

　　quod latus mundi? nebulae malusque

　　Iuppiter urget;

　　po?ne sub curru? nimium propinqui?

　　so?lis in terra? domibus nega?ta?:

　　dulce ri?dentem Lalage?n ama?bo?,

　　dulce loquentem.

　　The man of upright life and pure from wickedness, O Fuscus has no need of the Moorish javelins or bow, or quiver loaded with poisoned darts. Whether he is about to make his journey through the sultry Syrtes, or the inhospitable Caucasus, or those places which Hydaspes, celebrated in story, washes. For lately, as I was singing my Lalage, and wandered beyond my usual bounds, devoid of care, a wolf in the Sabine wood fled from me, though I was unarmed： such a monster, as neither the warlike Apulia nourishes in its extensive woods, nor the land of Juba, the dry nurse of the lions, produces. Place me in those barren plains, where no tree is refreshed by the genial air； at that part of the world, which clouds and an inclement atmosphere infest. Place me under the chariot of the too neighbouring sun, in a land deprived of habitations；[there] will I love my sweetly-smiling, sweetly-speaking Lalage.

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