immortal by the Lesbian lyre, becomes both thee and thy sisters.

* * * * *



ODE XXVII.

TO HIS COMPANIONS.


To quarrel over your cups, which were made for joy, is downright
Thracian. Away with the barbarous custom, and protect modest Bacchus
from bloody frays. How immensely disagreeable to wine and candles is the
sabre of the Medes! O my companions, repress your wicked vociferations,
and rest quietly on bended elbow. Would you have me also take my share
of stout Falernian? Let the brother of Opuntian Megilla then declare,
with what wound he is blessed, with what dart he is dying.--What, do you
refuse? I will not drink upon any other condition. Whatever kind of
passion rules you, it scorches you with the flames you need not be
ashamed of, and you always indulge in an honorable, an ingenuous love.
Come, whatever is your case, trust it to faithful ears. Ah, unhappy! in
what a Charybdis art thou struggling, O youth, worthy of a better flame!
What witch, what magician, with his Thessalian incantations, what deity
can free you? Pegasus himself will scarcely deliver you, so entangled,
from this three-fold chimera.

* * * * *