Fair craftsman, make for me a wine-cup for the Spring — mould the silver for me with Spring bearing the first delicate roses and make for me a delicious draught.
Mould on it nothing foreign, no dismal tale, but rather the son of Zeus, our Bacchus Euios!
Beat out the mystic Cyprian of the stream; make clear the unarmed Loves, the laughing Graces;
And below a lovely-leafed blooming vine with fair grape-clusters add beautiful boys if Phaebus will not play there.