Odes 3.21 (Martin): O Nate Mecum

O PRECIOUS crock, whose summers date,
Like mine, from Manlius' consulate,
I "wot not whether in your breast
Lie maudlin wail or merry jest,
Or sudden choler, or the fire
Of tipsy Love's insane desire,
Or fumes of soft caressing sleep,
Or what more potent charms you keep,
But this I know, your ripened power
Befits some choicely festive hour.
A cup peculiarly mellow
Corvinus asks; so come, old fellow,
From your time-honoured bin descend,
And let me Q;ratify my friend!
No churl is he, your charms to slight,
Though most intensely erudite:
And even old Cato's worth, we know.
Took from good wine a nobler glow.

Your magic power of wit can spread
The halo round a dullard's head,
Can make the sage forget his care,
His bosom's inmost thoughts unbare,
And drown his solemn-faced pretence
Beneath your blithesome influence.
Bright hope you bring and vigour back
To minds outworn upon the rack,
And put such courage in the brain,
As makes the poor be men again,
Whom neither tyrants' wrath affrights,
Nor all their bristling satellites.

Bacchus, and Venus, so that she
Bring only frank festivity,
With sister Graces in her train,
Entwining close in lovely chain,
And gladsome tapers' living light.
Shall spread your treasures o'er the night,
Till Phoebus the red East unbars,
And puts to rout the trembling stars.