Odes 4.11 (Martin): Est Mihi Nonum

I have laid in a cask of Albanian wine,
Which nine mellow summers have ripened and more;
In my garden, dear Phyllis, thy brows to entwine,
Grows the brightest of parsley in plentiful store.
There is ivy to gleam on thy dark glossy hair;
My plate, newly burnish'd, enlivens my rooms;
And the altar, athirst for its victim, is there,
Enwreath'd with chaste vervain, and choicest of blooms.

Every hand in the household is busily toiling,
And hither and thither boys bustle and girls;
Whilst, up from the hearth-fires careering and coiling.
The smoke round the rafter-beams languidly cm-Is.
Let the joys of the revel be parted between us!
'Tis the Ides of young April, the day which divides
The month, dearest Phyllis, of ocean-sprung Venus,
A day to me dearer than any besides.

And well may I prize it, and hail its returning —
My own natal day not more hallowed nor dear —
For Maecenas, my friend, dates from this happy morning
The life which has swell'd to a lustrous career.
Yon sigh for young Telephus: better forget him!
His rank is not yours, and the gaudier charms
Of a girl that's both wealthy and wanton benet him,
And hold him the fondest of slaves in her arms.

Remember fond Phaethon's fiery sequel,
And heavenward-aspiring Bellerophon's fate;
And pine not for one who would ne'er be your equal,
But level your hopes to a lowlier mate,
So, come, my own Phyllis, my heart's latest treasure, —
Ah, ne'er for another this bosom shall long, —
And I'll teach, while your loved voice re-echoes the measure.
How to lighten fell care with the cadence of song.