You see how Soracte stands white
with deep snow, and the hard-pressed woods
  no longer support their burden and the rivers
    have seized up in the bitter cold.

Banish the chill by laying wood
generously on the fire, and draw out
  more liberally the four-year-old wine,
    O Thaliarchus, from its Sabine vessel.

Devote the rest to the gods, who together 
have scattered the winds that battle 
  on the raging sea, and the cypresses
    and ash trees are not stirred.

Refrain from asking what is to come tomorrow, and
whatever days Fortune will bestow, count
  as gain; do not scorn sweet love 
     or dances when you are young,

as long as querulous old age is far away 
from you in your vigor, now fields and courtyards
  and soft whisperings in the night
    should be sought at the appointed hour.

and now, from the remotest corner, the welcome
laughter that betrays a girl in hiding
  and a token snatched from her shoulders
    or from a weakly resisting finger.