Odes 4.12 (Martin): Jam Veris Comites

Now the soft gales of Thrace, that sing peace to the ocean,
Spring's handmaids, are wafting the barks from the shore,
There is life in the meads, in the groves there is motion,
And snow-swollen torrents are raving no more.

Now buildeth her nest, whilst for Itys still sadly
She mourns, the poor bird, who was fated to shame
The line of old Cecrops forever, by madly
Avenging the brutal barbarian's flame.

On the young grass reclined, near the murmur of fountains,
The shepherds are piping the songs of the plains,
And the god, who loves Arcady's purple-hued mountains,
The God of the Flocks, is entranced by their strains.

And thirst, O my Virgil, comes in with the season;
But if you'd have wine from the Calian press.
You must lure it from me by some nard, — and with reason, —
Thou favourite bard of our youthful noblesse.

Yes, a small box of nard from the stores of Sulpicius
A cask shall elicit, of potency rare
To endow with fresh hopes, dewy-bright and delicious,
And wash from our hearts every cobweb of care.

If you'd dip in such joys, come — the better, the quicker! —
But remember the fee — for it suits not my ends,
To let you make havoc, scot-free, with my liquor,,
As though I were one of your heavy-pursed friends.

To the winds with base lucre and pale melancholy! —
In the flames of the pyre these, alas! will be vain,
Mix your sage ruminations with glimpses of folly, —
'Tis delightful at times to be somewhat insane!