During these few years Vergil seems to have written but little.  We have, however, a strange poem of thirty-eight lines, the Copa, which, to judge from its exclusion from the Catalepton, should perhaps be assigned to this period.  A study in tempered realism, not unlike the eighth Eclogue, it gives us the song of a Syrian tavern-maid inviting wayfarers into her inn from the hot and dusty road.  The spirit is admirably reproduced in Kirby Smith’s rollicking translation:[3]

[Footnote 3:  See Kirby Flower Smith, Marital, the Epigrammatist and, Other Essays, Johns Hopkins Press, 1920, p. 170.  The attribution of the poem to Vergil by the ancients as well as by the manuscripts, and the style of its fanciful realism so patent in much of Vergil’s work place the poem in the authentic list.  Rand, Young Virgil’s Poetry, Harvard Studies, 1919, p. 174, has well summed up the arguments regarding the authorship of the poem.]

’Twas at a smoke-stained tavern, and she, the hostess there—­
A wine-flushed Syrian damsel, a turban on her hair—­
Beat out a husky tempo from reeds in either hand,
And danced—­the dainty wanton—­an Ionian saraband. 
“’Tis hot,” she sang, “and dusty; nay, travelers, whither bound? 
Bide here and tip a beaker—­till all the world goes round;
Bide here and have for asking wine-pitchers, music, flowers,
Green pergolas, fair gardens, cool coverts, leafy bowers. 
In our Arcadian grotto we have someone to play
On Pan-pipes, shepherd fashion, sweet music all the day. 
We broached a cask but lately; our busy little stream
Will gurgle softly near you the while you drink and dream. 
Chaplets of yellow violets a-plenty you shall find,
And glorious crimson roses in garlands intertwined;
And baskets heaped with lilies the water nymph shall bring—­
White lilies that this morning were mirrored in her spring. 
Here’s cheese new pressed in rushes for everyone who comes,
And, lo, Pomona sends us her choicest golden plums. 
Red mulberries await you, late purple grapes withal,
Dark melons cased in rushes against the garden wall,
Brown chestnuts, ruddy apples.  Divinities bide here,
Fair Ceres, Cupid, Bacchus, those gods of all good cheer,
Priapus too—­quite harmless, though terrible to see—­
Our little hardwood warden with scythe of trusty tree.

“Ho, friar with the donkey, turn in and be our guest! 
Your donkey—­Vesta’s darling—­is weary; let him rest. 
In every tree the locusts their shrilling still renew,
And cool beneath the brambles the lizard lies perdu. 
So test our summer-tankards, deep draughts for thirsty men;
Then fill our crystal goblets, and souse yourself again. 
Come, handsome boy, you’re weary!  ’Twere best for you to twine
Your heavy head with roses and rest beneath our vine,
Where dainty arms expect you and fragrant lips invite;
Oh, hang the strait-laced model that plays the anchorite! 
Sweet garlands for cold ashes why should you care to save? 
Or would you rather keep them to lay upon your grave? 
Nay, drink and shake the dice-box.  Tomorrow’s care begone! 
Death plucks your sleeve and whispers:  ‘Live now, I come anon.’”