Fuscus, Whoso To Good Inclines-- And Is A Faultless Liver-- Nor Moorish Spear Nor Bow Need Fear, Nor Poison-Arrowed Quiver. Ay, Though Through Desert Wastes He Roams, Or Scales The Rugged Mountains, Or Rests Beside The Murmuring Tide Of Weird Hydaspan Fountains! Lo, On A Time, I Gayly Paced The Sabine Confines Shady, And Sung In Glee Of Lalage, My Own And Dearest Lady. And, As I Sung, A Monster Wolf Slunk Through The Thicket From Me--- But For That Song, As I Strolled Along He Would Have Overcome Me! Set Me Amid Those Poison Mists Which No Fair Gale Dispelleth, Or In The Plains Where Silence Reigns And No Thing Human Dwelleth; Still Shall I Love My Lalage-- Still Sing Her Tender Graces; And, While I Sing My Theme Shall Bring Heaven To Those Desert Places!