THE ODES OF HORACE
There are whose study is of smells,
Who to attentive schools rehearse
What 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 of wings,
Me, in whose breast no flame hath burned
Life long, save that by Pindar lit,
Such lore leaves cold; nor have I turned
Aside for it,