Nature gave horns to the bull and hoofs to horses, fleetness to hares and a wide mouth of teeth to the lion, swimming to fish, flight to birds, and wisdom to men, but to women nothing.
Nothing? Beauty is a gift beyond all shields and swords and she who is beautiful conquers steel and fire.

The dark earth drinks and the trees drink the earth; the sea drinks the winds and the sun drinks the sea and the moon drinks the sun.
Why, O friends, do you quarrel with me for drinking as I wish?

Sweet the singing of Anacreon, ah! sweet the songs of Sappho; the mingled song of Pindar pours into me.
And it seems to me that Dionysus and Aphrodite of the sleek body and Eros himself would drink of these three.

The Muses bound Love in garlands and gave him to Beauty.
And now the Cytherean brings a ransom to have Love set free.
If any one does free him he will not leave but stay; he has learned to be a slave.

" Beautiful pigeon, whence do you fly? How is it that you are scented and drip with such sweet perfumes as you fly through the air? What are you? What is it you want? "

Set me free to drink, to drink at a draught — by the gods! I will, I will be mad drunk!
Alkmaion was mad and white-foot Orestes, who slew his mother; but I kill no one, drinking red wine — I will, I will be mad drunk!
Heracles was made once, distracted by the terrible quiver and the Iphiteian bow; Ajax also was mad, shaking the sword and shield of Hector.
But I have a wine-cup and this garland for my long hair, no dagger or bow — I will, I will be mad drunk!

When with Wine my soul is arm'd,
All my grief and tears are charm'd;
Life in toils why should we wast,
When we're sure to dye at last?
Drink we then, nor Bacchus spare;
Wine's the Antidote of Care.

I am sprung of humane seed,
For a lives short race decree'd;
Though I know the way I've gone,
That which is to come's unknown;
Busie thoughts do not disturb me;
What have you to do to curb me?
Come, some Wine and Musick give;
Ere we dye, 'tis fit we live.

Hephaestus, graver-of-silver, make for me no panoply of war — what have I to do with battle? — but carve out for me a hollow wine-cup.
And fashion upon it for me no stars, neither the Waggon nor gloomy Orion. What are the Pleiades to me, what lovely Bootes?
But carve vines upon it for me and grape-clusters and the Maenads plucking them; grave upon it a wine-press and those that tread out the grapes, and laughing Pans, the golden Loves, the smiling Cytherean, and with fair Lyaeus, Eros and Aphrodite.

Give me the lyre of Homer, far from the note of war; bring me, ah, bring me the sacred drinking cup.
I will mix my songs — I will be drunk and dance! In hatred of temperance I will call to the mad wine-bibber with a music of lyres.
Give me the lyre of Homer, far from the note of war.