Classic Poem

Here, Phyllis, I've a jar of Alban wine,
?Made of the choicest grapes that one can gather.
Vintage? I'll say its years are more than nine.
Inviting? … Rather.
And that's not all our well-known festive cheer—
?There's ivy in the yard, and heaps of parsley.
Come, twine some in your hair—and look, old dear,
Don't do it sparsely.
The flat's all ready for the sacrifice;
?In every corner handy to display it,
There's silver. Yes, the house looks extra nice,
If I do say it.
The flame has started trembling, and the smoke
?Goes whirling upward with an eager rustling;
The household's overrun with busy folk.
Just see them hustling!
What's that? You want to know the cause of this?
?Why, it's the birthday of old friend Maecenas;
And doubly dear because the season is
Sacred to Venus.
Some holiday? I'll tell the world that's right!
?And—well, my Latin heart and soul are in it.
Therefore I hope you'll, be on hand to-night.
Eh? … Just a minute.
Telephus? Pah! He isn't worth a thought.
?If Telly dares neglect you, dear, why, let him!
He's nothing but a giddy good-for-naught—
Come and forget him.
Come, and permit your grief to be assuaged;
Forsake this flirt on whom you have your heart set.
Besides, Dame Rumor hath it he's engaged—
(“One of our smart set.”)
From hopes that fly too high and reckless dreams,
?The doom of Phaëton's enough to scare you …
This is—ahem—my favorite of themes;
But, dear, I spare you.
Come then, so that the evening may not lack
?Your voice, that makes each heart a willing rover;
And, as we sing, black Care will grow less black—
Oh, come on over.