Classic Poem

Now spring's companion winds, from Thrace that blow
And calm the sea, press on the sails once more:
Nor meads are frozen, nor, with winter snow
Swollen, the rivers roar.

Now builds her nest, while Itys' dirge she sings,
The bird forlorn, eternal shame that brought
On Cecrops' house, when for brute lust of kings
Her ill revenge she wrought.

In the young grass the swain, reclining near
His well-fed sheep, notes on his reed-pipe trills,
And charms the god to whom all flocks are dear
And Arcady's dark hills.

The year has brought for thirst the season due.
If wine from Calene press your thoughts entice,
Vergilius, client of young nobles, you
With nard must pay the price.

A little box of nard will coax a jar
Forth from Sulpician wine-vaults where it rests,
Rich in new hopes, and strong to sweep afar
Cares that afflict our breasts.

If of these pleasures you to taste think good,
Speed hither with your wares. 'Tis not my mind
To dip you gratis in my cups, as would
Rich host in house well lined.

Quick then, of money-getting make an end:
The pyre's black fumes remembering, while you may,
With your shrewd plans a strain of folly blend.
Sweet at fit time is play.