Horace Ode 1.22

One whole of life and pure of evil does not need Maurian spears nor a bow nor quiver heavy with poisoned arrows, Fuscus, whether he is about to make a journey through sweltering Syrtes or inhospitable Caucasus or which places the fabled Hydaspes laps. For a wolf fled me though unharmed in the Sabine forest while I sang (lit. sing) my Lalage and wandered (lit. wanders) beyond the boundary with cares disengaged, such a monster as neither warlike Daunia feeds in wide oak woods nor the land of Iuba begets, dry nurse of lions. Put me in dull fields where no tree is refreshed by summer breeze, which side of the world the clouds and evil Jupiter presses; put (me) under a chariot of too close a sun in a land refusing homes: I will love Lelage sweetly laughing, sweetly speaking.