Come, for they call on us, my lyre, if aught
We two together in the shade not quite
Ephemeral at idle hour have wrought,
A Latin ode recite.

On thee the Lesbian burgess first did play.
Keen fighter he, yet even in midst of war,
Or when his wave-tost bark at moorings lay
Fast to the briny shore,

Of Liber and the Muses to thy string,
Of Venus and the boy from Venus ne'er
Apart, and the dark beauty would he sing
Of Lycus' eyes and hair.

O shell, the pride of Phoebus, at the board
Where great Jove banquets welcome, solace true
Of toil, O! aye to me thy grace accord
When in meet wise I sue!