Odes 1.18 (Creech): Nullam, Vare

DEar Varus urge thy wise design,
And chiefly plant the noble Vine
In Tibur's fertile shade,
Or round Catilles Wall,
The sober Dotards Cares invade,
And numerous mischiefs wait on all.

Pale Cares are rude,
And must intrude
Untill forgetful Cups go round;
And who in drink doth prate of Wars,
Of Want, or State affairs?
Each head is free, and busie thoughts are drown'd;
But Mirth, and Women, Sport, and Play
Is all the trouble of the Day.

But lest thy growing Mirth surpass
The moderate freedom of a merry glass;
Think on the Centaurs blood,
Think how those Beasts did fight,
With Wine and G,ore their Tables flow'd;
And then command thy Appetite.

What wild desires,
What Madness fires
The Thracian Bruits; how fierce a God,
When Drunken They all Right and Just
Do measure by their Lust,
And eagerly rush on to brawls and blood?
Attending Death strikes every Guest,
And none survive the fatal Feast.

Submitting to thy easie yoke
I'le freely use, but ne'r provoke
Thy rage, obliging God;
Nor shall my Tongue reveal
To the prophane and common Crowd
The mysteries thy boughs conceal:

Preserve my Age
From drunken Rage
Which blind Self-love does still attend,
With Vanity which loves to spread
Her Plumes, and raise her Head
Above the Common level of her Friend;
With these with an uneven pace
Walks broaken Faith which lets all Secrets pass,
Much more transparent than a glass.