R.S.V.P.

AD PHYLLIDEM

Horace: Book IV Ode II

"_Est mihi nonum superantis annum_"


Phyllis, I've a keg of fine fermented grape juice,
Alban wine that's been nine years in the cellar.
Ivy chaplets? Sure. Also, in the garden,
Plenty of parsley.

See my little shack--why, you'd hardly know it.
All the rooms are swept, Sunday-like and shiny;
Flowers all around, altar simply famished--
Hungry for lamb stew.

Neighbours all are coming over to the party,
All the busy boys, all the giggling girlies,
Whiffs of certain things wafted from the kitchen--
Simply delicious.

Oh, of course. You ask why the fancy fireworks,
Why the awning out, why the stylish doings.
Well, I'll tell you why. It's Maecenas' birthday