Download this episode (4 min)   

This reading of Horace is by Robert Sonkowsky, an acknowledged master of reading Latin aloud. Sonkowsky is involved in SORGLL, the Society for the Oral Reading of Greek and Latin Literature. This file was provided courtesy of Robert Sonkowsky, and has been edited for active learning.


Integer vītae scelerisque pūrus
nōn eget Maurīs iaculīs neque arcū
nec venēnātīs gravidā sagittīs,
Fusce, pharetrā,
sīve per Syrtīs iter aestuosās
sīve factūrus per inhospitālem
Caucasum vel quae loca fābulōsus
lambit Hydaspēs.
namque mē silvā lupus in Sabīnā,
dum meam cantō Lalagēn et ultrā
terminum cūrīs vagor expedītīs,
fūgit inermem;
quāle portentum neque mīlitāris
Dauniās lātīs alit aesculētīs
nec Iubae tellūs generat, leōnum
ārida nūtrīx.
pōne mē pigrīs ubi nūlla campīs
arbor aestīvā recreātur aurā,
quod latus mundī nebulae malusque
Iuppiter urget;
pōne sub currū nimium propinquī
sōlis in terrā domibus negātā:
dulce rīdentem Lalagēn amābō,
dulce loquentem.





The man of upright life and pure from wickedness, O Fuscus
has no need of the Moorish javelins or bow, or quiver loaded
with poisoned darts. Whether he is about to make his journey
through the sultry Syrtes, or the inhospitable Caucasus, or
those places which Hydaspes, celebrated in story, washes.
For lately, as I was singing my Lalage, and wandered beyond
my usual bounds, devoid of care, a wolf in the Sabine wood
fled from me, though I was unarmed: such a monster, as
neither the warlike Apulia nourishes in its extensive woods,
nor the land of Juba, the dry nurse of the lions, produces. Place
me in those barren plains, where no tree is refreshed by the
genial air; at that part of the world, which clouds and an inclement
atmosphere infest. Place me under the chariot of the
too neighbouring sun, in a land deprived of habitations;
[there] will I love my sweetly-smiling, sweetly-speaking
Lalage.