Classic Poem

The years from Inachus you tell
Till Codrus for his country fell.
You trace the course of Aeacus' line,
And the wars of Troy divine.
What Chian costs, whose fire shall heat
Our water, in whose house we meet,
And when with festive cheer allay
Pelignian cold, no word you say.
Fill thrice, the new moon, boy, to fête,
Midnight, Murena's augurate.
As each may please the wine will be
Three parts to nine, or nine to three.
Who loves the tuneful nine will choose,
Rapt bard, one part for every Muse.
'Gainst more than three aye sets her face
For fear of brawls the gentle Grace,
Linked aye with her nude sisters twain.
Let mirth run wild. Why halts the strain
Of Berecynthian flute? And why
Are pipe and lyre laid silent by?
Fling roses with no niggard will.
Let the glad noise with envy fill
Lycus, and reach our neighbour fair,
Too sweet with Lycus old to pair.
Your flowing locks, your beauty bright,
Pure, Telephus, as Hesper's light,
Are charms that match young Rhode's taste.
I for my Glycera pine and waste.