A little trial balloon:

Listen! The Spear-Danes in olden times:
we've heard about the glories of those kings,
princes that did deeds of valour then.
Scyld of the Sheaf line – often from enemy warbands,
many nations of them, he tore away their mead benches,
terrorized their fighters, from the time he was first found,
a helpless child. Fortune made it up to him,
he grew up beneath the skies, earned honours,
to the point that every one of the peoples settled round about,
across the whales' roads, was obliged to obey him,
yield tribute – that was a good king for you!

Horace, Odes 1, 22

A man who's pure in thought and deed
Of dangers, Fuscus, takes no heed,
No poisoned arrows will he need,
No bow or quiver.

Whether by Syrtis' surging shore
His way should take him, or the roar
Of torrents that from Caucasus pour:
Hydaspes' river.

In Sabine woods I wandered free
And warbled about Lalage:
A grey wolf took one glance at me
And ducked for cover.

As fierce as any lion you'd meet
That sucked on Libya's barren teat,
It cowered in abashed retreat
Before a lover.

Stuck on some treeless northern plain
If Fate should tell me to remain
While sad-sack Jove pours down the rain
Forever after,

Or in the land where Phoebus' car
Swoops down too low, and houses char,
I'll love her still, however far -
Her voice and laughter.