Odes 3.19 (Creech): Quantum Distat

HOw many years divide
Old Inachus and Codrus Reign
Who for his Country bravely dy'd,
You seek with mighty pain,
These are the idle Labors of thy Brain.

Old Aeacus you can derive from Jove,
And tell what mighty Kin he had above,
You all the Trojan Wars can write,
But never mind what Wine will cost,
Who make a Feast, and who invite,
And who a Fire prepares at Night
Now Winter spreads the Fields with hoary Frost.

A Glass! come fill me to the rising Moon,
To Midnight, and to Morning one;
Wee'l never part whilst Stars do shine;
Forget thy Books, those idle Dreams,
Fill round, Three Bowls or Nine
Are sober Jollity's extreams.

He that th' uneven Muses loves,
With Three times Three his heat improves,
A staring Poet, rais'd by every Bowl;
The sober Grace with th' naked two,
Afraid of Brawls, but Three allow,
And only cheer, but never heat the Soul:

I must be Mad, what means the Flute?
Why hangs the Pipe and silent Lute?
I hate a niggard, quickly spread
The sweetest Roses round my Head;
Let Lycus hear the roaring noise,
And she the Neighbouring Miss
That doth his feeble Love despise,
And let them pine, and envy at our joys:

Thee Beauteous with thy bushy Hair,
And like the brightest Evening Star
Ripe Chloë seeks with warm desires;
Whilst I a dull expecting Fop
Still linger on with lazy hope,
And slowly melt in Glycera's tormenting Fires.