What war the fierce Cantabrian intends,
To ask, Hirpinus Quinctius, forbear,
And what the Scyth, while Hadria's gulf defends
Our frontier; nor provide with anxious care

For life that little wants. Into the past
The comely sleekness of our youth recedes;
By wrinkled eld out of our reach are cast
Light loves and slumber that no wooing needs.

Not aye the glory of the spring in flowers
Abides, nor doth the blushing moon retain
One changeless face. Why task beyond its powers
By scheming for eternity thy brain?

Why not 'neath some tall plane, or 'neath yon pine
Here, without more, outstretched at ease the bloom
Of fragrant rose in our gray locks entwine,
And scented with Assyrian nard's perfume

Quaff while we may the wine-cup? Cares that gnaw
The heart-strings Bacchus from our breasts will shake.
Run, some one, to the brook, and water draw
The fire of our Falernian to slake.

Coax the frail Lyde from her shy retreat.
Go, bid her with her ivory-mounted lute
Speed hither, tying up her tresses neat
In knot that would Laconian maiden suit.