Horace, Carmina 1.2

Now the Father has set sufficient snow
And horrid hail on earth, and overturning temples,
Sacred, with his bloody hand, has terrified
Our city,

Terrified our people; return not, grievous
Century, sad Pyrrhus' monstrosities,
When Proteus drove his whole flock
To see mountains,

And in the highest elms, place worthy
Of doves, the race of fish drank,
And on the rising waters the trembling
Does swam.

For we have seen the yellow Tiber, waves
Angrily resisting 'Truscan shores,
Do violence to the monuments of kings
And Vesta's temples

When he hurled himself for Ilia,
Excessively avenger, and that drifting river,
Wifely in turn, o'erflowed the leftmost bank,
And Jove did not approve.

What god will a people of ruination call
To lord their ills? By what prayers
Will the sacred Virgins plead to a Vesta
Less than hearing songs?

To whom will Jupiter give the part of expiating
Sin? Still come, we pray you,
Your gleaming shoulders bathed in cloud,
Augur Apollo;

Or if you wish, laughing Erycina,
Around whom fly Iocus and Cupid,
Come; but if you look on a neglected race,
Your grandsons, sire

Come -- alas too sated with drawn out games --
Whom clamor and bright helmets joy
And the angry gaze of the Marsyan militia
Turned on a bloody host;

Or if in form guised you imitate a youth,
Already on earth, winged progeny of Maia,
Deigning to be called Caesar's
Avenger,

Return only late to the skies, and long
And shining stay among Quirinus'
People, lest offended by our sins
A precipitous breeze

Should lift you; rather here love to be called
Father, princeps, and your triumphs, great;
Nor let the Medes vengeless ride,
In your reign, Caesar.