Book II, Elegy 2: To Cornutus on his Birthday (Postgate)

Let naught but good words pass our lips : the Birth-sprite cometh to the altar. Whoso art with us, man or woman, peace ! Let its fire burn the holy incense, burn the spices which the soft Arabian sends us from his wealthy land. Let the Genius come to view the offering to himself. Soft garlands must deck his hallowed locks ; his temples must drop with spikenard pure ; he must be filled with honey-cake and tipsy with neat wine. And to whatsoever thou askest, Cornutus, must he bow assent. See, quick ! Why laggest thou ? He bows, and thou must ask. I divine that thou wilt pray for thy wife's true love : by now methinks the gods have learnt this well. Thou wouldst not have rather for thine own all the fields in the whole world that stout ycomen plough with sturdy steers, nor for thine own all pearls soever that grow for India the blest by the red waters of the Eastern sea.

'Tis done as thou dost pray. See, on rustling wings Love flies to thy side with yellow bands to bind thy spouse — bands never to be loosed till dragging age bring wrinkles to her brow and bleach her hair. May the sign come true, Birth-spirit, and bring them offspring, and may a troop of younglings play before thy feet.