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XIX.
What the time from Inachus
To Codrus, who in patriot battle fell,
Who were sprung from Aeacus,
And how men fought at Ilion,--this you tell.
What the wines of Chios cost,
Who with due heat our water can allay,
What the hour, and who the host
To give us house-room,--this you will not say.
Ho, there! wine to moonrise, wine
To midnight, wine to our new augur too!
Nine to three or three to nine,
As each man pleases, makes proportion true.
Who the uneven Muses loves,
Will fire his dizzy brain with three times three;
Three once told the Grace approves;
She with her two bright sisters, gay and free,
Shrinks, as maiden should, from strife:
But I'm for madness. What has dull'd the fire
Of the Berecyntian fife?
Why hangs the flute in silence with the lyre?
Out on niggard-handed boys!
Eain showers of roses; let old Lycus hear,
Envious churl, our senseless noise,
And she, our neighbour, his ill-sorted fere.
You with your bright clustering hair,
Your beauty, Telephus, like evening's sky,
Rhoda loves, as young, as fair;
I for my Glycera slowly, slowly die.
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Quantum Distet.
Quantum distet ab Inacho
Codrus, pro patria non timidus mori,
narras, et genus Aeaci,
et pugnata sacro bella sub Ilio.
Quo Chium pretio cadum 5
mercemur, quis aquam temperet ignibus,
quo praebente domum et quota
Paelignis caream frigoribus, taces.
Da lunae propere nouae,
da noctis mediae, da, puer, auguris 10
Murenae. Tribus aut nouem
miscentur cyathis pocula commodis?
Qui Musas amat imparis,
ternos ter cyathos attonitus petet
uates, tris prohibet supra 15
rixarum metuens tangere Gratia
nudis iuncat sororibus.
Insanire iuuat... Cur Berecyntiae
cessant flamina tibiae?
Cur pendet tacita fistula cum lyra? 20
Parcentis ego dexteras
odi: sparge rosas; audiat inuidus
dementem strepitum Lycus,
et uicina seni non habilis Lyco.
Spissa te nitidum coma, 25
puro te similem, Telephe, Vespero
tempestiua petit Rhode:
me lentus Glycerae torret amor meae.
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