Classic Poem

O born with me in Consul Manlius' year,
Whether you sad complainings bring, or jest,
Or quarrel and love's rage to madness near,
Or, gentle jar, untroubled slumber's rest,

To whatso end the Massic, that within
You store, was culled, fit are you to be stirred
On festal day. Come down then from your bin.
For mellower wine Corvinus gives the word.

No man is he, though steeped in all the lore
Of Socrates, you churlishly to slight.
Men say not stern old Cato's self forbore
To warm his heart with liquor many a night.

You to wit slow of utterance apply
A painless rack. You free the wise from care
With your gay influence, discretion's tie
Unloosing, and their secret thoughts lay bare.

You into anxious minds new hope inspire.
With horns of strength the poor man you endow;
Whom, when from you he rises, nor the ire
Of crowned monarchs nor armed hosts can cow.

Liber and, her glad presence if she lend,
Venus, the Graces linked in fast embrace,
And night-long lamps the revel shall extend,
Till Phoebus comes again the stars to chase.