Horace: The Odes
Translated by A. S. Kline © Copyright 2003 All Rights Reserved
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Horace fully exploited the metrical possibilities offered to him by Greek lyric verse. I have followed the original Latin metre in all cases, giving a reasonably close English version of Horace’s strict forms. Rhythm not rhyme is the essence. Please try reading slowly to identify the rhythm of the first verse of each poem, before reading the whole poem through. Counting syllables, and noting the natural rhythm of individual phrases, may help. Those wishing to understand the precise scansion of Latin lyric verse should consult a specialist text. The Collins Latin Dictionary, for example, includes a good summary. The metres used by Horace in each of the Odes, giving the standard number of syllables per line only, are listed at the end of this text (see the Index below).
- Translator’s Note
- BkII:I To Pollio, Writing His History of the Civil Wars
- BkII:II Money
- BkII:III One Ending
- BkII:IV Loving A Servant Girl
- BkII:V Be Patient
- BkII:VI Tibur and Tarentum
- BkII:VII A Friend Home From the Wars
- BkII:VIII Faithless Barine
- BkII:IX Stop Weeping
- BkII:X The Golden Mean
- BkII:XI Don’t Ask
- BkII:XII Terentia’s Singing
- BkII:XIII Nearly, Tree
- BkII:XIV Eheu Fugaces
- BkII:XV Excess
- BkII:XVI Contentment
- BkII:XVII We’ll Go Together
- BkII:XVIII Vain Riches
- BkII:XIX To Bacchus
- BkII:XX Poetic Immortality
- Index of First Lines
- Metres Used in Book II.
BkII:I To Pollio, Writing His History of the Civil Wars
You’re handling the Civil Wars, since Metellus
was Consul, the causes, errors, and stages,
Fortune’s game, and the heavy friendships
of princes, and the un-expiated
stain of blood over various weapons,
a task that’s filled with dangerous pitfalls,
so that you’re walking over embers
hidden under the treacherous ashes.
Don’t let the Muse of dark actions be long away
from the theatre: soon, when you’ve finished writing
public events, reveal your great gifts
again in Athenian tragedy,
you famous defendant of troubled clients,
Pollio , support of the Senate’s councils,
whom the laurel gave lasting glory
in the form of your Dalmatian triumph.
Already you’re striking our ears with the sounds,
the menace of blaring horns, and the trumpets,
already the glitter of weapons
terrifies horses, and riders’ faces.
Now I seem to hear magnificent leaders,
heads darkened, but not with inglorious dust,
and all the lands of earth are subdued,
but not implacable Cato’s spirit.
Juno, and those gods friendly to Africa,
who, powerless to avenge the land, withdrew,
make funeral offerings to Jugurtha,
of the grandchildren of his conquerors.
What fields are not enriched with the blood of Rome,
to bear witness with their graves to this impious
struggle of ours, and the sound, even heard
by the Persians, of Italy’s ruin?
What river or pool is ignorant of these
wretched wars? What sea has Roman slaughter failed
to discolour, and show me the shores
that are, as yet, still unstained by our blood.
But Muse, lest you dare to leave happy themes,
and take up Simonides’ dirges again,
search out a lighter plectrum’s measures,
with me, in some deep cavern of Venus.
Crispus , silver concealed in the greedy earth
has no colour, and you are an enemy
to all such metal unless, indeed, it gleams
from sensible use.
Proculeius will be famous in distant
ages for his generous feelings towards
his brothers: enduring fame will carry him
on its tireless wings.
You may rule a wider kingdom by taming
a greedy spirit, than by joining Spain
to far-off Libya, while Carthaginians
on both sides, serve one.
A fatal dropsy grows worse with indulgence,
the patient can’t rid himself of thirst unless
his veins are free of illness, and his pale flesh
of watery languor.
Though Phraates is back on the Armenian
throne, Virtue, differing from the rabble, excludes
him from the blessed, and instructs the people
not to misuse words,
instead conferring power, and security
of rule, and lasting laurels, on him alone
who can pass by enormous piles of treasure
without looking back.
BkII:III One Ending
When things are troublesome, always remember,
keep an even mind, and in prosperity
be careful of too much happiness:
since my Dellius, you’re destined to die,
whether you live a life that’s always sad,
or reclining, privately, on distant lawns,
in one long holiday, take delight
in drinking your vintage Falernian.
Why do tall pines, and white poplars, love to merge
their branches in the hospitable shadows?
Why do the rushing waters labour
to hurry along down the winding rivers?
Tell them to bring us the wine, and the perfume,
and all-too-brief petals of lovely roses,
while the world, and the years, and the dark
threads of the three fatal sisters allow.
You’ll leave behind all those meadows you purchased,
your house, your estate, yellow Tiber washes,
you’ll leave them behind, your heir will own
those towering riches you’ve piled so high.
Whether you’re rich, of old Inachus’s line,
or live beneath the sky, a pauper, blessed with
humble birth, it makes no difference:
you’ll be pitiless Orcus’s victim.
We’re all being driven to a single end,
all our lots are tossed in the urn, and, sooner
or later, they’ll emerge, and seat us
in Charon’s boat for eternal exile.
BkII:IV Loving A Servant Girl
Phocian Xanthis, don’t be ashamed of love
for your serving-girl. Once before, Briseis
the Trojan slave with her snow-white skin stirred
and captive Tecmessa’s loveliness troubled
her master Ajax, the son of Telamon:
and Agamemnon, in his mid-triumph, burned
for a stolen girl,
while the barbarian armies, defeated
in Greek victory, and the loss of Hector,
handed Troy to the weary Thessalians,
an easier prey.
You don’t know your blond Phyllis hasn’t parents
who are wealthy, and might grace their son-in-law.
Surely she’s royally born, and grieves at her
cruel household gods.
Believe that the girl you love’s not one who comes
from the wicked masses, that one so faithful
so averse to gain, couldn’t be the child of
a shameful mother.
I’m unbiased in praising her arms and face,
and shapely ankles: reject all suspicion
of one whose swiftly vanishing life has known
its fortieth year.
BkII:V Be Patient
She’s not ready to bear a yoke on her bowed
neck yet, she’s not yet equal to the duty
of coupling, or bearing the heavy
weight of a charging bull in the mating act.
The thoughts of your heifer are on green pastures,
on easing her burning heat in the river,
and sporting with the eager calves
in the depths of moist willow plantations.
Forget this passion of yours for the unripe
grape: autumn, the season of many-colours,
will soon be dyeing bluish clusters
a darker purple, on the vine, for you.
Soon she’ll pursue you, since fierce time rushes on
and will add to her the years it takes from you,
soon Lalage herself will be eager
to search you out as a husband, Lalage,
beloved as shy Pholoë was not, nor your
Chloris , with shoulders gleaming white, like a clear
moon shining over a midnight sea,
nor Cnidian Gyges, that lovely boy,
whom you could insert in a choir of girls,
and the wisest of strangers would fail to tell
the difference, with him hidden behind
his flowing hair, and ambiguous looks.
BkII:VI Tibur and Tarentum
Septimus , you, who are prepared to visit
Cadiz with me, and its tribes (they’re not used
to bearing our yoke) and barbarous Syrtes,
by the Moors’ fierce Sea,
I’d rather Tibur, founded by men of Greece,
were my home when I’m old, let it be my goal,
when I’m tired of the seas, and the roads, and all
this endless fighting.
But if the cruel Fates deny me that place,
I’ll head for the river Galaesus, sweet
with its precious sheep, on Spartan fields, once ruled
by King Phalanthus.
That corner of earth is the brightest to me,
where the honey gives nothing away to that
of Hymettus, and its olives compete with
where Jupiter grants a lengthy spring, and mild
winters, and Aulon’s hill-slopes, dear to fertile
Bacchus, are filled with least envy for those rich
grapes of Falernum.
That place, and its lovely heights, call out to me,
to you: and there’ll you’ll scatter your debt of sad
tears, over the still-glowing ashes of this,
the poet, your friend.
BkII:VII A Friend Home From the Wars
O Pompey, often led, with me, by Brutus,
the head of our army, into great danger,
who’s sent you back, as a citizen,
to your country’s gods and Italy’s sky,
Pompey, the very dearest of my comrades,
with whom I’ve often drawn out the lingering
day in wine, my hair wreathed, and glistening
with perfumed balsam, of Syrian nard?
I was there at Philippi, with you, in that
headlong flight, sadly leaving my shield behind,
when shattered Virtue, and what threatened
from an ignoble purpose, fell to earth.
While in my fear Mercury dragged me, swiftly,
through the hostile ranks in a thickening cloud:
the wave was drawing you back to war,
carried once more by the troubled waters.
So grant Jupiter the feast he’s owed, and stretch
your limbs, wearied by long campaigning, under
my laurel boughs, and don’t spare the jars
that were destined to be opened by you.
Fill the smooth cups with Massic oblivion,
pour out the perfume from generous dishes,
Who’ll hurry to weave the wreathes for us
of dew-wet parsley or pliant myrtle?
Who’ll throw high Venus at dice and so become
the master of drink? I’ll rage as insanely
as any Thracian: It’s sweet to me
to revel when a friend is home again.
BkII:VIII Faithless Barine
If any punishment ever visited
you, Barine, for all your perjuries, if you
were ever harmed at all by a darkened tooth,
a spoilt fingernail,
I’d trust you. But no sooner have you bound your
faithless soul by promises, than you appear
much lovelier, and shine out, as everyone’s
dearest young thing.
It helps you to swear by your mother’s buried
ashes, by all night’s silent constellations,
by the heavens, and the gods, who are free from
the icy chill of death.
Venus herself smiles at it all, yes she does:
the artless Nymphs, smile too, and cruel Cupid,
who’s always sharpening his burning arrows
on a blood-stained stone.
Add that all our youths are being groomed for you,
groomed as fresh slaves, while none of your old lovers
leave the house of their impious mistress, as
they often threatened.
All the mothers fear you, because of their sons,
and the thrifty old fathers, and wretched brides,
who once were virgins, in case your radiance
makes husbands linger.
BkII:IX Stop Weeping
The rain doesn’t fall from the clouds forever
on the sodden fields, and capricious storm-winds
don’t always trouble the Caspian
waters, nor does the solid ice linger,
Valgius , dear friend of mine, through all twelve months,
and the oak woods of Garganus aren’t always
trembling, because of the northern gales,
or the ash trees stripped of their foliage:
But you’re always pursuing in tearful ways
the loss of your Mystes, and your endearments
don’t ebb with the evening star’s rising
or when it sinks before the swift sunrise.
Yet Nestor, who lived for three generations,
didn’t mourn his beloved Antilochus,
every moment, nor were the youthful
Troilus’s Trojan parents and sisters,
always weeping. Stop your unmanly grieving
now, and let’s sing about Augustus Caesar’s
new trophies instead, the ice-bound Mount
Niphates , and the Persian waters,
with its flow reduced, now the Medes are added
to the subject nations, and then the Thracians,
riding over their meagre landscape,
within the bounds that we’ve now set for them.
BkII:X The Golden Mean
You’ll live more virtuously, my Murena,
by not setting out to sea, while you’re in dread
of the storm, or hugging fatal shores
too closely, either.
Whoever takes delight in the golden mean,
safely avoids the squalor of a shabby house,
and, soberly, avoids the regal palace
that incites envy.
The tall pine’s more often shaken by the wind,
and it’s a high tower that falls with a louder
crash, while the mountainous summits are places
where lightning strikes.
The heart that is well prepared for any fate
hopes in adversity, fears prosperity.
Though Jupiter brings us all the unlovely
winters: he also
takes them away again. If there’s trouble now
it won’t always be so: sometimes Apollo
rouses the sleeping Muse with his lyre, when he’s
not flexing his bow.
Appear brave and resolute in difficult
times: and yet be wise and take in all your sails
when they’re swollen by too powerful
a following wind.
BkII:XI Don’t Ask
Don’t ask what the warlike Spaniards are plotting,
or those Scythians, Quinctius Hirpinus,
the intervening Adriatic
keeps off, don’t be anxious about the needs
of life: it asks little: sweet youth and beauty
are vanishing behind us, and dry old age
is driving away all our playful
affections, and all our untroubled sleep.
And the glory of spring flowers won’t last forever,
and the blushing moon won’t always shine, with that
selfsame face: why weary your little
mind with eternal deliberations?
Why not drink while we can, lying, thoughtlessly,
under this towering pine, or this plane-tree,
our greying hair scented with roses,
and perfumed with nard from Assyria?
Bacchus dispels all those cares that feed on us.
Where’s the boy now, who’ll swiftly dilute for us
these cups of fiery Falernian,
with clear water drawn from the passing stream?
Who’ll lure Lyde, that fickle jade, from the house?
Go, tell her to hurry, with her ivory lyre,
her hair done in an elegant knot,
tied up, as if she were a Spartan girl.
BkII:XII Terentia’s Singing
You’d not wish the theme of Numantia’s fierce wars
matched to the lyre’s soft tones, nor cruel Hannibal,
nor the Sicilian Sea turned to dark crimson
by the Carthaginians’ blood,
nor the savage Lapiths, and drunken Hylaeus
filled with excess wine, nor Hercules with his hand
taming the sons of earth, at the danger of which
ancient Saturn’s glittering house
was shaken: you’d be better yourself, Maecenas,
at writing prose histories of Caesar’s battles,
and telling us about all those menacing kings,
now led by the neck through the streets.
The Muse wishes me to speak of the sweet singing
of your lady Terentia, and speak of her bright
flashing eyes, and speak of that heart of hers, that is
so faithful in mutual love:
she to whom it’s not unbecoming to adopt
the lead among the dancers, or compete in wit,
or, that holy day that honours Diana, give
her arm in play to shining girls.
Would you exchange now, one hair of Terentia’s
for what rich Achaemenes owned, Mygdonian
wealth of fertile Phrygia, or
the Arabians’ well-stocked homes,
while she bends her neck for those passionate kisses,
or in gentle cruelty refuses to yield them,
more than he who asks likes having them taken: then
at times surprises by taking?
BkII:XIII Nearly, Tree
Tree, whoever planted you first it was done
on an evil day, and, with sacrilegious
hands, he raised you for utter ruin
of posterity, and this region’s shame.
He’ll have broken his father’s neck, I guess:
he’ll have sprinkled the blood of a guest around,
in an inner room, in deepest night:
he’ll have dabbled with Colchian poisons,
and whatever, wherever, evil’s conceived,
that man who one planted you there in my field,
you, sad trunk, who were destined to fall
on the head of your innocent master.
Men are never quite careful enough about
what they should avoid: the Carthaginian
sailor’s afraid of the Bosphorus,
but not the hidden dangers, beyond, elsewhere:
Soldiers fear the Persians’ arrows and rapid
flight, the Persians fear Italian power, and chains:
but they don’t expect the forces of death,
that have snatched away the races of men.
How close I was, now, to seeing the kingdom
of dark Proserpine, and Aeacus judging,
and the seats set aside for the good,
and Sappho still complaining about
the local girls, on her Aeolian lyre,
and you, Alcaeus, with a golden plectrum,
sounding more fully the sailor’s woe,
the woe of harsh exile, the woe of war.
The spirits wonder at both of them, singing,
they’re worth a reverent silence, but the crowd,
packed shoulder to shoulder, drinks deeper
of tales of warfare and banished tyrants.
No wonder that, lulled by the songs, the monster
with a hundred heads lowers his jet-black ears,
and the snakes that wriggle in the hair
of the Furies take time out for a rest.
Even Prometheus, even Tantalus,
are seduced in their torments by the sweet sound:
Orion doesn’t even bother
to chase the lions, or wary lynxes.
BkII:XIV Eheu Fugaces
Oh how the years fly, Postumus, Postumus,
they’re slipping away, virtue brings no respite
from the wrinkles that furrow our brow,
impending old age, Death the invincible:
not even, my friend, if with three hundred bulls
every day, you appease pitiless Pluto,
jailor of three-bodied Geryon,
who imprisons Tityos by the sad
stream, that every one of us must sail over,
whoever we are that enjoy earth’s riches,
whether we’re wealthy, or whether we are
the most destitute of humble farmers.
In vain we’ll escape from bloodiest warfare,
from the breakers’ roar in the Adriatic,
in vain, on the autumn seas, we’ll fear
the southerly that shatters our bodies:
We’re destined to gaze at Cocytus, winding,
dark languid river: the infamous daughters
of Danaus: and at Sisyphus,
son of Aeolus, condemned to long toil.
We’re destined to leave earth, home, our loving wife,
nor will a single tree, that you planted here,
follow you, it’s briefly-known master,
except for the much-detested cypress.
A worthier heir will drink your Caecuban,
that cellar a hundred keys are protecting,
and stain the street with a vintage wine,
finer than those at the Pontiff’s table.
Not long now and our princely buildings will leave
few acres under the plough, ornamental
waters appearing everywhere, spread
wider than the Lucrine Lake is, plane trees,
without vines, will drive out the elms: and violet
beds, and myrtles, and all the wealth of perfumes
will scatter their scent through olive groves
that gave their crops for a former owner.
Then thick laurel branches will shut out the sun’s
raging. It wasn’t the case under Romulus,
or long-haired Cato, it wasn’t the rule,
that our ancient predecessors ordained.
Private property was modest in their day,
the common lands vast: no private citizen
had a portico, measuring tens
of feet, laid out facing the shady north,
nor did the laws allow ordinary turf
to be scorned for altars, ordering cities
and the gods’ temples, to be adorned,
at public expense, with rarest marbles.
It’s peace the sailor asks of the gods, when he’s
caught out on the open Aegean, when dark clouds
have hidden the moon, and the constellations
It’s peace for Thrace, so furious in battle,
peace for the Parthians, adorned with quivers,
and, Grosphus, it can’t be purchased with jewels,
or purple or gold.
No treasure, no consular attendants,
can remove the miserable mind’s disorders,
and all of the cares that go flying around
our panelled ceilings.
He lives well on little, whose meagre table
gleams with his father’s salt-cellar, whose soft sleep
isn’t driven away by anxiety,
or by sordid greed
Why do we struggle so hard in our brief lives
for possessions? Why do we exchange our land
for a burning foreign soil? What exile flees
from himself as well?
Corrupting care climbs aboard the bronze-clad ship,
and never falls behind the troops of horses,
swifter than deer, swifter than easterly winds
that drive on the clouds.
Let the spirit be happy today, and hate
the worry of what’s beyond, let bitterness
be tempered by a gentle smile. Nothing is
Bright Achilles was snatched away by swift death,
Tithonus was wasted by lingering old age:
perhaps the passing hour will offer to me
what it denies you.
A hundred herds of Sicilian cattle
low around you, mares fit for the chariot
bring you their neighing, you’re dressed in wool:
has stained it twice: truthful Fates, ‘the Sparing Ones’,
the Parcae, gave me a little estate, and
the purified breath of Greek song, and my scorn
for the spiteful crowd.
BkII:XVII We’ll Go Together
Why do you stifle me with your complaining?
It’s neither the gods’ idea nor mine to die
before you, Maecenas, you’re the great
glory, and pillar of my existence.
Ah, if some premature blow snatches away
half of my spirit, why should the rest remain,
no longer as loved, nor surviving
entire? That day shall lead us to ruin
together. I’m not making some treacherous
promise: whenever you lead the way, let’s go,
let’s go, prepared as friends to set out,
you and I, to try the final journey.
No Chimaera’s fiery breath will ever tear
me from you, or if he should rise against me
hundred handed Gyas: that’s the will
of all-powerful Justice and the Fates.
Whether Libra or fearful Scorpio shone
more powerfully on me at my natal hour,
or Capricorn, which is the ruler
of the waters that flow round Italy,
our stars were mutually aspected in their
marvellous way. Jupiter’s protection shone,
brighter for you than baleful Saturn,
and rescued you, and held back the rapid
wings of Fate, that day when the people crowding
the theatre, three times broke into wild applause:
I’d have received the trunk of a tree
on my head, if Faunus, the guardian
of Mercurial poets, hadn’t warded off
the blow with his hand. So remember to make
due offering: you build a votive shrine:
I’ll come and sacrifice a humble lamb.
BkII:XVIII Vain Riches
There’s no ivory, there’s no
gilded panelling, gleaming here in my house,
no beams of Hymettian
marble rest on pillars quarried in deepest
Africa, I’ve not, as heir
to Attalus, become unwitting owner
of some palace, no noble
ladies trail robes of Spartan purple for me.
But I’ve honour, and a vein
of kindly wit, and though I’m poor the rich man
seeks me out: I don’t demand
anything more of the gods, or my powerful
friend, I’m contented enough
blessed with my one and only Sabine Farm.
Day treads on the heels of day,
and new moons still continue to wane away.
Yet you contract on the edge
of the grave itself for cut marble, forget
the tomb and raise a palace,
pushing hard to extend the shore of Baiae’s
roaring seas, not rich enough
in mainland coast. What’s the point of tearing down
every neighbouring boundary
edging your fields, leaping over, in your greed,
the limits of your tenants? Both the husband
and wife, and their miserable
children, are driven out, and they’re left clutching
their household gods to their breast.
Yet there’s no royal courtyard
that more surely waits for a wealthy owner,
than greedy Orcus’ fateful
limits. Why stretch for more? Earth’s equally open
to the poorest of men and
the sons of kings: and Orcus’s ferryman
couldn’t be seduced by gold
to row back and return crafty Prometheus.
Proud Tantalus, and Pelops
his son, he holds fast, and whether he’s summoned,
or whether he’s not, he lends
an ear, and frees the poor man, his labours done.
BkII:XIX To Bacchus
I saw Bacchus on distant cliffs - believe me,
O posterity - he was teaching songs there,
and the Nymphs were learning them, and all
the goat-footed Satyrs with pointed ears.
Evoe ! My mind fills with fresh fear, my heart
filled with Bacchus, is troubled, and violently
rejoices. Evoe! Spare me, Liber,
dreaded for your mighty thyrsus, spare me.
It’s right to sing of the wilful Bacchantes,
the fountain of wine, and the rivers of milk,
to sing of the honey that’s welling,
and sliding down from the hollow tree-trunks:
It’s right to sing of your bride turned goddess, your
Ariadne, crowned among stars: the palace
of Pentheus, shattered in ruins,
and the ending of Thracian Lycurgus.
You direct the streams, and the barbarous sea,
and on distant summits, you drunkenly tie
the hair of the Bistonian women,
with harmless knots made of venomous snakes.
When the impious army of Giants tried
to climb through the sky to Jupiter’s kingdom,
you hurled back Rhoetus, with the claws
and teeth of the terrifying lion.
Though you’re said to be more suited to dancing,
laughter, and games, and not equipped to suffer
the fighting, nevertheless you shared
the thick of battle as well as the peace.
Cerberus saw you, unharmed, and adorned
with your golden horn, and, stroking you gently,
with his tail, as you departed, licked
your ankles and feet with his triple tongue.
BkII:XX Poetic Immortality
A poet of dual form, I won’t be carried
through the flowing air on weak or mundane wings,
nor will I linger down here on earth,
for any length of time: beyond envy,
I’ll leave the cities behind. It’s not I, born
of poor parents, it’s not I, who hear your voice,
beloved Maecenas, I who’ll die,
or be encircled by Stygian waters.
Even now the rough skin is settling around
my ankles, and now above them I’ve become
a snow-white swan, and soft feathers are
emerging over my arms and shoulders.
Soon, a melodious bird, and more famous
than Icarus, Daedalus’ son, I’ll visit
Bosphorus’ loud shores, Gaetulian
Syrtes, and the Hyperborean plains.
Colchis will know me, so will the Scythians,
who pretend to show no fear of Italian
troops, and the Geloni: Spain will learn
from me, the expert, and those who drink Rhone.
No dirges at my insubstantial funeral,
no elegies, and no unseemly grieving:
suppress all the clamour, not for me
the superfluous honour of a tomb.
Index of First Lines
- You’re handling the Civil Wars, since Metellus
- Crispus, silver concealed in the greedy earth
- When things are troublesome, always remember,
- Phocian Xanthis, don’t be ashamed of love
- She’s not ready to bear a yoke on her bowed
- Septimus, you, who are prepared to visit
- O Pompey, often led, with me, by Brutus,
- If any punishment ever visited
- The rain doesn’t fall from the clouds forever
- You’ll live more virtuously, my Murena,
- Don’t ask what the warlike Spaniards are plotting,
- You’d not wish the theme of Numantia’s fierce wars
- Tree, whoever planted you first it was done
- Oh how the years fly, Postumus, Postumus,
- Not long now and our princely buildings will leave
- It’s peace the sailor asks of the gods, when he’s
- Why do you stifle me with your complaining?
- There’s no ivory, there’s no
- I saw Bacchus on distant cliffs - believe me,
- A poet of dual form, I won’t be carried
Metres Used in Book II.
The number of syllables most commonly employed in each standard line of the verse is given. This may vary slightly for effect (two beats substituted for three etc.) in a given line.
Alcaic Strophe : 11 (5+6) twice, 9, 10
used in Odes: 1,3,5,7,9,11,13,14,15,17,19, 20
Sapphic and Adonic : 11(5+6) three times, 5
First Asclepiadean : 12 (6+6) all lines
Odes: None in Book II
Second Asclepiadean: 8, 12 (6+6), alternating
Odes: None in Book II
Third Asclepiadean : 12 (6+6) three times, 8
Fourth Asclepiadean : 12 (6+6) twice, 7, 8
Odes: None in Book II
Fifth Asclepiadean : 16 (6+4+6) all lines
Odes: None in Book II
Alcmanic Strophe : 17 (7+10) or less, 11 or less, alternating
Odes: None in Book II
First Archilochian : 17 (7+10) or less, 7 alternating
Odes: None in Book II
Fourth Archilochian Strophe : 18 (7+11) or less, 11 (5+6) alternating
Odes: None in Book II
Second Sapphic Strophe : 7, 15 (5+10) alternating
Odes: None in Book II
Trochaic Strophe : 7,11 alternating
Ionic a Minore : 16 twice, 8
Odes: None in Book II