tedious war, under my laurel, and spare not the casks reserved for you.
Fill up the polished bowls with care-dispelling Massic: pour out the
perfumed ointments from the capacious shells. Who takes care to quickly
weave the chaplets of fresh parsely or myrtle? Whom shall the Venus
pronounce to be master of the revel? In wild carouse I will become
frantic as the Bacchanalians. 'Tis delightful to me to play the madman,
on the reception of my friends.

* * * * *



ODE VIII.

TO BARINE.


If any punishment, Barine, for your violated oath had ever been of
prejudice to you: if you had become less agreeable by the blackness of a
single tooth or nail, I might believe you. But you no sooner have bound
your perfidious head with vows, but you shine out more charming by far,
and come forth the public care of our youth. It is of advantage to you
to deceive the buried ashes of your mother, and the silent
constellations of the night, together with all heaven, and the gods free
from chill death. Venus herself, I profess, laughs at this; the
good-natured nymphs laugh, and cruel Cupid, who is perpetually
sharpening his burning darts on a bloody whetstone. Add to this, that
all our boys are growing up for you; a new herd of slaves is growing up;
nor do the former ones quit the house of their impious mistress,
notwithstanding they often have threatened it. The matrons are in dread