Odes 3.14 (Martin): Herculis Ritu

Caesar, O people, who of late,
Like Hercules defying fate,
Was said the laurel to have sought
Which only may by death be bought,
To his home-gods returns again,
Victorious, from the shores of Spain!

To the just gods to pay their rites,
Now let the matron, who delights
In him her peerless lord, repair,
And our great leader's sister fair;
And with them go the mothers chaste.
Their brows with suppliant fillets graced,
Of our fresh maids, and of the brave
Young men, who late have 'scaped the grave!
And O ye boys, and new-made brides,
Hush every word that ill betides!

From me this truly festal day
Shall drive each cloud of care away;
Nor shall I draw in fear my breath
For civil broil or bloody death,
While Caesar sway o'er earth shall bear.
Away, then, boy, bring chaplets fair.
Bring unguents, and with these a jar,
That recollects the Marsian war,
If aught that held the juice of grape
Might roving Spartacus escape!

Neaera, too, that singer rare,
Go, bid her quickly bind her hair,
Her myrrhy hair, in simple knot,
And haste to join me on the spot!
But if her porter say thee nay,
The hateful churl! then come away.
Time-silvered locks the passions school,
And make the testiest brawler cool;
I had not brook'd his saucy prate,
When young, in Plancus' consulate.