Classic Poem

Come, bustle, Lyde, to the board
(How keep more fitly Neptune's day?)
Bring up the Caecuban long stored,
And siege to wisdom's fortress lay.
You see noon's downward course begin,
Yet spare, as though swift time's career
Had stopped, to ravish from its bin
That laggard jar of Bibulus' year.
We'll sing by turns—of Neptune I,
And of the Nereids' tresses green;
Your lyre Latona in reply
Shall praise, and Cynthia's arrows keen.
Last Cnidos' dame we'll celebrate,
Queen of the shining Cyclads, who
To Paphos drives her swans in state;
Nor shall Night lack her tribute due.