Charon take Hobsons ghost and let it passe
By land, the same, it it by water was.
Thy cozen ghost, a spright to poets deare
To Elisium waft, a jocund Mariner
Hee'le pay the royall fare, deny this paine
And he shall ride to heaven in his owne wayne.

I will make wild music on the lyre, not in any contest but for practice by which alone comes the choice flower of skill. As I strike shrill music from the ivory plectrum I will cry out in the Phrygian measure, like the swan of Kaustros singing on the wing in unison with the wind.
Muse, dance also, for the cithara of Phaebus is holy and the laurel tripod.

Men with girls bear on their shoulders the black-skinned grape-clusters in baskets and throw them into a wine-press where men tread the grapes to set free the must, and beat out the great God with vintage-songs and watch Dionysus seething to lovely youth in the wine-jars.
When an old man drinks it he reels as he dances with wide-swung grey hair.

Gold, the runaway, flies from me — always, always it eludes me! — flies on swift wind-swept wings. But I do not pursue it. Who pursues hatred?
Gold the runaway has gone; I cast my sorrows to the wind and sing love songs to the lyre. Yet when my soul seems to have learned disdain the runaway suddenly calls to me, bringing a draught of worry, and I lose my delight in the exquisite lyre.
Faithless, faithless gold! You cheat me with your treacheries. But listen! The lyre strings murmur rather of desire than of you.

This bull can be none other than Zeus himself for he carries the Sidonian girl on his back over the wide sea and cleaves the waves with his hoofs.
And no other bull of the herd swims the sea save only this one.

When I drink wine my heart is aflame ... and begins to murmur of the Muse.
When I drink, I cast anxiety and good advice to the winds that blow over the sea.
When I drink wine, Bacchus, the freer-from-pain, the bright with wine, leads me into flower-scented air.
When I drink wine, I weave a flower-crown for my head and I sing the laughter of life.
When I drink wine, my body drips with myrrh and I call upon love and sing gaily of a girl.
When I drink wine and my head is a little dizzy from many wine-cups, I am happy with a throng of girls.

When the son of Zeus, the liberator, the wine-giver, Bacchus, enters me, he inspires me to dance.
And I, the wine-lover, have this pleasure also — Aphrodite applauds me with clapping of hands, with song.
And once more I am inspired to dance.

When it is the will of Bacchus my troubles vanish; I seem to have the wealth of Craesus and I long to sing.
I lie crowned with ivy and in imagination I am lord of all things. Prepare, and I will drink!
Slave, bring me a wine-cup. It is better to lie here drunk than dead.

I am old and I drink more than the young men; if I want to dance I will imitate Silenus in public and dance with a wine-jar for a staff — a reed is useless.
And if I want to fight I will fight and win too! Slave, bring me a cup filled with sweet honey-coloured wine.
I am old and I drink more than the young men.

We will scatter the rose of the Loves on the wine, we will bind the lovely-petalled rose on our brows and laugh and drink gaily.
Rose, O loveliest flower, rose, glory of the Spring, rose, beloved of the gods, rose, with whom Love garlands the clear hair of those who dance with the Graces — crown me! I will sing the shrines of Dionysus and dance beside a deep-breasted girl, garlanded with little roses.