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 Roam, Or Scale The Rugged Mountains, Or Rest 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!