Classic Poem

Now the breezes fresh from Thrace,
Those attendants on the spring,
Still the sea, yet urge the race
Of the ships upon the wing:
No more the meadow lands are froze,
Nor roar the streams o'ercharg'd with snows.

Now the bird with mournful scream,
Aye for Itys wont to pine,
Builds her nest, disgrace extreme
Of the great Cecropian line
E'er since that most horrid treat
She forc'd the lustful king to eat.

Swains the thriving sheep that tend,
Thrown upon the mossy sod;
With the pipe their verses blend,
To divert the rural god:
Whom that sweet scene of flocks and hills,
In Arcady, with rapture fills.

'Tis the time of drinking hard,
But Calenean would you take,
You must bring a box of nard,
For your entertainment's sake:
No less can wealthy Virgil frank,
As tutor to our youths of rank.

E'en an ounce of that perfume,
Shall a special cask intice;
Which in the Sulpician room
Now sleeps clear of noise and vice:
Fraught with new hopes of cleansing pow'r,
Against the bitter and the sour.

To these pleasures if you haste,
You must enter with your fee;
You shall not my goblets taste,
By my inclination, free:
As in the rich man's house you fare,
Without contributing your share.

But, my Virgil, lay aside
All delay and thirst of gain;
While 'tis lawful to provide,
'Gainst the seats of death and pain:
Let mirth relieve each grave concern,
For folly's pleasant in its turn.