Odes 3.19 (Gladstone): Quantum Distat

The years from Inachus you count
To Codrus, keen for Greece to die,
And then to Aeacus remount,
And sacred Ilion's captive cry.

But how to purchase Chian old,
And how to make my water hot,
Where, at what rent, to bar the cold
In winter time, thou tellest not.

A cup to Midnight I design,
Quick, boy! to this new moon a cup,
And to Muraena: three, or nine,
Our ladles serve us; mix them up.

The bard, that loves the Muses nine,
Will still his thrice three draughts obtain,
Though Graces three undraped combine,
And would our cups to three restrain

For fear of brawls. The hour is ripe:
To madness for a moment fall,
Strike up the Berecynthian pipe,
Fetch lyre and fife from off the wall.

Go, scatter roses; I detest
The stingy hand. See, Lycus hears
With spite our orgies; and the guest
Too fair for his decrepit years.

Thee Telephus, as Vesper fair,
The ripening Rhoda pants to win,
Thee gleaming with the clustered hair;
For Glycera's love I burn within.