Fuscus, whoso to good inclines-- br And is a faultless liver-- br Nor moorish spear nor bow need fear, br Nor poison-arrowed quiver. br br Ay, though through desert wastes he roams, br Or scales the rugged mountains, br Or rests beside the murmuring tide br Of weird Hydaspan fountains! br br Lo, on a time, I gayly paced br The Sabine confines shady, br And sung in glee of Lalage, br My own and dearest lady.