The cruel mother of the Cupids, and the son of the Theban Gemele, and
lascivious ease, command me to give back my mind to its deserted loves.
The splendor of Glycera, shining brighter than the Parian marble,
inflames me: her agreeable petulance, and her countenance, too unsteady
to be beheld, inflame me. Venus, rushing on me with her whole force, has
quitted Cyprus; and suffers me not to sing of the Scythians, and the
Parthian, furious when his horse is turned for flight, or any subject
which is not to the present purpose. Here, slaves, place me a live turf;
here, place me vervains and frankincense, with a flagon of two-year-old
wine. She will approach more propitious, after a victim has been
sacrificed.

* * * * *



ODE XX.

TO MAECENAS.


My dear knight Maecenas, you shall drink [at my house] ignoble Sabine
wine in sober cups, which I myself sealed up in the Grecian cask, stored
at the time, when so loud an applause was given to you in the
amphitheatre, that the banks of your ancestral river, together with the
cheerful echo of the Vatican mountain, returned your praises. You [when
you are at home] will drink the Caecuban, and the grape which is
squeezed in the Calenian press; but neither the Falernian vines, nor the
Formian hills, season my cups.