Of Phoebus on his dedication day
What asks the poet, when the chalice yields
His meed of vintage new? He will not pray
For rich Sardinia's teeming harvest fields,

Nor for sleek herds warmed by Calabrian sky,
Nor gold, nor ivory from Ind, nor soil
Which Liris' quiet waters gliding by
Of many a morsel silently despoil.

Let them so blest by fortune prune the vine
At Cales grown; let the rich merchant drain
His golden goblets of the precious wine
That bartered Syrian wares for him obtain,

The gods own favourite he, who in one year
Can thrice and four times to the Atlantic sail,
And safe return. On olives, frugal cheer,
On endive and light mallows I regale.

Health to enjoy such goods, Apollo, give,
As to my lot may fall, and grant my suit,
That my mind fail not, and that I may live
Honoured in age nor parted from my lute.