Odes 2.7 (Martin): O Saepe Mecum

Dear comrade, in the days when thou and I
With Brutus took the field, his perils bore,
Who hath restored thee, freely as of yore,
To thy home gods, and loved Italian sky,

Pompey, who wert the first my heart to share;
With whom full oft I've sped the lingering day
Quaffing bright wine, as in our tents Ave lay,
With Syrian spikenard on our glistening hair?

With thee I shared Philippi's headlong flight,
My shield behind me left, which was not well,
When all that brave array was broke, and fell
In the vile dust full many a towering wight.

But me, poor trembler, swift Mercurius bore,
Wrapp'd in a cloud, through all the hostile din,
Whilst war's tumultuous eddies, closing in.
Swept thee away into the strife once more.

Then pay to Jove the feasts, that are his fee,
And stretch at ease these war-worn limbs of thine
Beneath my laurel's shade; nor spare the wine
Which I have treasured through long years for thee.

Pour till it touch the shining goblet's rim
Care-drowning Massic: let rich ointments flow
From amplest conchs! No measure we shall know!
What! shall we wreaths of oozy parsley trim,

Or simple myrtle? Whom will Venus send
To rule our revel? Wild my draughts shall be
As Thracian Bacchanals', for't is sweet to me,
To lose my wits, when I regain my friend.