You see how [Mount] Soracte stands out white
with deep snow, and the struggling trees can
no longer sustain the burden, and the rivers
are frozen with sharp ice.

Dispel the cold by liberally piling logs on
the fireplace, and draw out more generously,
o Thaliarchus, four-year-old unmixed wine
from the two-handled Sabine jar.

Entrust everything else to the gods; as soon as
they have stilled the winds battling on the heaving
sea, neither the cypress trees nor
the ancient ash trees are shaken.

Leave off asking what tomorrow will bring, and
whatever days fortune will give, count them
as profit, and while you're young don't scorn
sweet love affairs and dances,

so long as crabbed old age is far from
your vigor. Now let the playing field and the
public squares and soft whisperings at nightfall
(the appointed hour) be your pursuits;

now too the sweet laughter of a girl hiding
in a secret corner, which gives her away,
and a pledge snatched from her wrists
or her feebly resisting finger.

Vides ut alta stet nive candidum
Soracte nec iam sustineant onus
  silvae laborantes geluque
  flumina constiterint acuto?

Dissolve frigus ligna super foco
large reponens atque benignius
  deprome quadrimum Sabina,
  o Thaliarche, merum diota.

Permitte divis cetera, qui simul
stravere ventos aequore fervido
  deproeliantis, nec cupressi
  nec veteres agitantur orni.

Quid sit futurum cras, fuge quaerere, et
quem fors dierum cumque dabit, lucro
  adpone nec dulcis amores
  sperne, puer, neque tu choreas,

donec uirenti canities abest
morosa. Nunc et Campus et areae
  lenesque sub noctem susurri
  composita repetantur hora,

nunc et latentis proditor intumo
gratus puellae risus ab angulo
  pignusque dereptum lacertis
  aut digito male pertinaci.

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