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.