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Horace, Bk. V. Ode 3

There are whose study is of smells,
   And to attentive schools rehearse
How something mixed with something else
   Makes something worse.

Some cultivate in broths impure
   The clients of our body—these,
Increasing without Venus, cure,
   Or cause, disease.

Others the heated wheel extol,
   And all its offspring, whose concern
Is how to make it farthest roll
   And fastest turn.

Me, much incurious if the hour
   Present, or to be paid for, brings
Me to Brundusium by the power
   Of wheels or wings;


Me, in whose breast no flame hath burned
   Life-long, save that by Pindar lit,
Such lore leaves cold: I am not turned
   Aside to it

More than when, sunk in thought profound
   Of what the unaltering Gods require,
My steward (friend but slave) brings round
   Logs for my fire.

This work was published before January 1, 1924, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.