Aha, ’t is fine,—­this mellow wine
  With which our host would dope us! 
Now let us hear what pretty dear
  Entangles him of Opus.

I see you blush,—­nay, comrades, hush! 
  Come, friend, though they despise you,
Tell me the name of that fair dame,—­
  Perchance I may advise you.

O wretched youth! and is it truth
  You love that fickle lady? 
I, doting dunce, courted her once;
  Since when, she’s reckoned shady!

TO QUINTUS DELLIUS

Be tranquil, Dellius, I pray;
For though you pine your life away
  With dull complaining breath,
Or speed with song and wine each day,
  Still, still your doom is death.

Where the white poplar and the pine
In glorious arching shade combine,
  And the brook singing goes,
Bid them bring store of nard and wine
  And garlands of the rose.

Let’s live while chance and youth obtain;
Soon shall you quit this fair domain
  Kissed by the Tiber’s gold,
And all your earthly pride and gain
  Some heedless heir shall hold.

One ghostly boat shall some time bear
From scenes of mirthfulness or care
  Each fated human soul,—­
Shall waft and leave its burden where
  The waves of Lethe roll.

So come, I prithee, Dellius mine;
Let’s sing our songs and drink our wine
  In that sequestered nook
Where the white poplar and the pine
  Stand listening to the brook.

POKING FUN AT XANTHIAS

Of your love for your handmaid you need feel no shame. 
  Don’t apologize, Xanthias, pray;
Remember, Achilles the proud felt a flame
  For Brissy, his slave, as they say. 
Old Telamon’s son, fiery Ajax, was moved
  By the captive Tecmessa’s ripe charms;
And Atrides, suspending the feast, it behooved
  To gather a girl to his arms.

Now, how do you know that this yellow-haired maid
  (This Phyllis you fain would enjoy)
Hasn’t parents whose wealth would cast you in the shade,—­
  Who would ornament you, Xan, my boy? 
Very likely the poor chick sheds copious tears,
  And is bitterly thinking the while
Of the royal good times of her earlier years,
  When her folks regulated the style!

It won’t do at all, my dear boy, to believe
  That she of whose charms you are proud
Is beautiful only as means to deceive,—­
  Merely one of the horrible crowd. 
So constant a sweetheart, so loving a wife,
  So averse to all notions of greed
Was surely not born of a mother whose life
  Is a chapter you’d better not read.

As an unbiased party I feel it my place
  (For I don’t like to do things by halves)
To compliment Phyllis,—­her arms and her face
  And (excuse me!) her delicate calves. 
Tut, tut! don’t get angry, my boy, or suspect
  You have any occasion to fear
A man whose deportment is always correct,
  And is now in his forty-first year!