Copa (The Hostess)

Syrisca, the innkeeper, her head bound with Greek kerchief, trained as she is to sway her tremulous limbs to the notes of her castanets, within her smoky tavern tipsily dances in wanton wise, shaking against her elbow her noisy reeds: "What boots it to stay outside, when aweary with the summer's dust, rather than to recline on the thirsty couch of grass? There are garden nooks and arbours, mixing-cups, roses, flutes, lyres, and cool bowers with shady canes. Lo! too, the pipe, which twitters sweetly within a Maenalian grotto, sounds its rustic strain in a shepherd's mouth. There is fresh wine, too, just drawn from the pitched jar, and a water-brook running noisily with hoarse murmur; there are also chaplets of violet blossoms mixed with saffron, and yellow garlands blended with crimson roses; and lilies bedewed by a virgin stream, which a nymph has brought in osier-baskets. There are little cheeses, too, dried in a basket of rushes; there are waxen plums of autumn's season, and chestnuts and sweetly blushing apples; there is Ceres' pure gift, with Love and Bacchus; there are blood red mulberries with grapes in heavy clusters, and from its stalk hangs the blue-grey melon. There is the cot's guardian, armed with sickle of willow, but not to be feared is he, for all his huge groin.

"Come hither, priest of Cybele! Now thy wearied ass is sweating; spare him: the ass is Vesta's delight. Now with constant song the cicalas rend the thickets; now the spotted lizard lurks in her cool retreat: if thou art wise, lay thee down now and steep thyself in a bowl of summer-time, or in fresh crystal cups, if thou wishest them brought. Come; rest here thy wearied frame beneath the shade of vines, and entwine thy heavy head in a garland of roses, sweetly snatching kisses from a tender maiden's lips. Ah! away with him that has the sternness of early days! Why keepest the fragrant wreaths for thankless ashes? Wouldst have those limbs covered with a crowned tombstone?"

"Set forth the wine and dice! Away with him who heeds the morrow! Death, plucking the ear, cries: Live; I come!"