Odes 3.8 (Creech): Martiis Coelebs

WHat I, a Batchelor, intend
My learned Lord, and noble Friend,
In Mars his Calends you admire;
What mean those Flowers that Crown my Head,
The Coals on green-turf Altars laid
Where in small Censures thankful sweets expire:

To Bacchus pleasing Feasts I vow'd,
And a White Goat's attoning Blood,
When I had scap't the falling Oak:
This day, as years run round, a Feast,
Shall pierce my Casks; and claim the best,
That long stor'd up hath drank digesting Smoak:

Drink, drink, let numerous Cups extend
The Life of thy deliver'd Friend,
Cups large as thy extensive joys:
Let watching Tapers chase the Night,
Till rising Morn restore the light;
Let mirth attend, and banish Strife and Noise.

Forget, forget thy publick Cares,
And take no thought for state Affairs,
We hear the German Troops o're thrown;
The Medes now hate their Former Lords,
They fight, nor yet expect our Swords;
But sadly conquer for us with their own:

Our ancient Foe the Pride of Spain
The fierce Cantabrian takes the Chain,
Tho late, at last He's forc't to yield:
The Parthians fly, the Scythians now
Their Arrows break, unstring their Bow,
And are resolv'd to quit the fatal Field:

Neglect the various turns of State,
The sports of Chance, or nods of Fate,
Grown private watch not o're Affairs;
But smile, and eagerly receive
The Goods the present time can give;
And leave behind the Grave Fatigue of Cares.